When the situation appeared at its height and tragedy inevitable, a feeling of bewilderment spread among all living creatures. A penetrating song with ancient words rang through the minds of Kings, soldiers and even the small retrograde Orcs. A warm wind ran through the trees, followed by a shock wave so strong that men and Orcs as well as some plants collapsed on the ground. The voice in their heads rang with sounds similar to the chants, heard in the monasteries, preventing any movement and depriving everyone of their will.
The Orcs moved like lifeless, silent and orderly puppets and returned from where they had come. The knights got up and immediately realized that they were once again the masters of their bodies, but shocked they looked around without saying a word. The only one moving was the third Master of War. He was busy removing the heavy plates of armour from the body of the unconscious King.
"Don't even think about it, Majesty, we haven't done all this just to deliver you to the Gods right now, at the most difficult moment, when your advice is vital," he grumbled nervously and absorbed, so involved in removing armour that he didn't realize he was in front of the Inquisitor Cyfer.
Cyfer was one of five followers of Belial, Lord of Denethor. Many attributed superhuman powers to these six beings, and judging by the entrance of the Inquisitor, these affirmations could well have been true. The powerful Inquisitor approached floating two meters above the ground, surrounded by an intense and warm turquoise aura, just like the wind that came before the shock wave. This being, radiating light, landed near the Dragon and gently placed itself next to him. The radiant light faded away as the being landed. Cyfer put a hand on the third Nordic rune’s shoulder, without meaning anything by his gesture, but involuntarily he had an air of superiority, common to all the followers of King Belial.
The Inquisitor was covered by translucent ruby red armour, totally covered in screaming faces and skulls, barely visible, on the surface of the steel. These decorations looked as though they had been imprisoned between the layers of polished lacquer and metal. As he imposed his hands on the poor King Holaf, who had almost bled dry, Cyfer began to recite a song with sounds similar to the litany that rang in the heads of all just earlier. Words flowed incomprehensibly one after the other, first whispering and then being spoken out loud. All the faces and skulls covering his armour began to shiver showing signs of unthinkable and improbable sensations of pain. From each mouth and decorated eye sprang a beam of white light, more intense than a thousand suns, irradiating everything with a white light, forcing men to turn around.
"Damn you! What have you done to my Lord, you monster?" shouted the Dragon Head covering the sight with his arm and staggering towards his King not able to see anything, reduced to a black shadow, in contrast with the clear light of the Inquisitor.
When the light fell in intensity, the blood from the wounds suffered by the Lord of the North began to boil and incredibly stopped flowing. However, despite the inhuman intervention, King Holaf remained immobile on the ground. Cyfer collapsed on his knees next to the wounded man. His incandescent armour sizzled on contact with the damp and muddy soil boiling and evaporating the puddle where he knelt.
The faces on the armour returned solid steel and no light escaped. The pot-shaped helmet had two large black horns, long and sharp, decorating its sides. A heavy reinforcing plate blocked the eye slit making it solid and impenetrable. The protection for the eye slits gave it the look of a devil, escaped from the Sacred Book. From Cyfer's gorget considerable amount of blood overflowed, dripping down his body, attracted by gravity.
"Are you all right, whoever you are?" asked the Dragon, who calmed down after seeing the bleeding that had afflicted the Lord of the North cease.
But the mystical warrior made no answer, perhaps because of the considerable amount of energy required by his action. His weight was on his unstable knees, and he pushed himself up with difficulty. A long line of blood continued to flow from underneath the strange and disturbing helmet.
"Can we help you, repay you for what you have done for our Sovereign?" asked the knight of the third rune again.
The panting Cyfer shook his head and indicated that the warrior should follow him. He simply grabbed two long, sturdy branches separating them with two other shorter branches. Then he tied them with stalks he found there, creating a rudimentary stretcher for King Holaf. As they loaded the wounded man, the Inquisitor made his way through the bush, damaged by the red waters. The presence of that silent and inhuman warrior seemed to freeze the blood in the veins of the watching men in his wake.
Among the vegetation there arose a request for help, dim and whispered, near a rock behind a ruined bush lay a companion, thrown there by the Commander Orc. The deformations on the body plates of the armour, due to the strong grip, were evident and a sentence of future death for the man. The soldier had serious and incurable wounds, his abdomen torn apart, perhaps by a claw or the will of the branches. A large section of intestine was hanging, a macabre ornament tied like festoons to the branches of the bush. The blood bubbled with every word and breath. His head appeared to be in an unnatural position. Cyfer unsheathed his sword and placed its tip right between eyes of the man begging for help. He did it coldly and without any feeling. Even as he planted the steel he did not slow his pace. The Dragon looked at King High, upset and lowering his head to cover his face with his long hair.
"My Lord, do not fall now. With King Holaf wounded, we badly need your judgement and wisdom," incited the always faithful and courageous third Master of War.
"We don't even know if Holaf will recover," God-Slayer cried in a sad whisper.
Cyfer turned his head one hundred and eighty degrees opening his eyes wide to those who could see. With a distant voice, as if it came from the underworld, he replied:
"The mighty Holaf will regain command with renewed vigour. Millions of souls are awaiting his wrath and his sword."
"So, he'll be back at the helm with us again!" exclaimed the third rune of Trondheim with satisfaction, exulting.
"You are Cyfer, Denethor's Inquisitor. Am I right, knight?" asked King High.
"So you humans, continue to call me," replied the very taciturn disturbing being.
"Who sends you, powerful warrior?" asked the Dragon intrigued by so much strength.
"Belial Cerno sent me to protect you, but the timing was not of the best." was the limited answer of the red warrior. He turned his head round in a complete circle to face the direction they were going and putting an end to the questions.
"Of course, it's easy to understand why they don't come out of Denethor, unless it is a case of absolute necessity," High spoke in a low voice referring to the disturbing and shy nature of their guide.
They continued fast for a long time, tired and tested by the tough battle against the Orcs. The northern runes carried their Lord on their shoulders, still unconscious, in silence, being careful not to shake the precious load too much. Behind them followed the three unhappy archers of the Black Portal. They had no more arrows or darts, as they had all been used in the fight and not recovered because of their haste to depart. Second last in the column marched the soldiers of Vyborg, reduced in number to only twenty, among whom there were the wounded and bruised. The last ones closing the group were the talented knights of Tulsky, now reduced to sixteen spears with two wounded. Arian and Evghenij marched next to the sleeping King, both without words having seen the strength of the much-vaunted Demon of Trondheim, master of such an immense vigour as to make the stories of the court minstrels seem limited.
Chapter 25
Transfer of responsibility
The air became light and fresh, slipping pleasantly into the lungs of warriors. The rotting forest began to thin out, opening up on a wide expanse of moorland in front of them. In the midst of dry and putrescent grass, typical of the late winter, Boris and the three ladies with all their horses were waited seated on a large boulder, sticking out of the bare earth. Boris seemed remorseful, as were the two young beauties
and the Lady Elisabet. They all stared at the ground as if they did not want to raise their heads. The four courtiers had been cared for and protected by another knight, a master of demonic appearance. As they saw the improvised bier, on which the Lord of the North apparently lay dead, they ran towards their fellow travellers.
"What happened," Boris shouted with his heart in his throat.
Tyra burst into tears reaching conclusions too quickly and believing her King had fallen in battle. In the midst of such feelings of grief and mourning, Sersy could barely conceal her joy at seeing her Dragon alive. Boris fell to his knees next to the God-Slayer, who prostrating himself encouraged him, saying:
"My dear Prince, do not fear for our Holaf, he is a long way from a place at the divine table."
"Will he come back the same man as before?" asked the young man worried, with red eyes.
"Yes, don't worry, young Prince, we'll get the King of the North back!" the Lord of the East reassured him.
"King Holaf is alive and he will recover in a short time. But when he opens his eyes, we are not given to know with certainty, which Holaf will answer our voices," said the deep Cyfer in a voice from hell, contradicting the God-Slayer.
The statement from the Inquisitor in red armour did not seem clear even to the cultured High, who asked for an explanation, but only got a shrug of his shoulders from that being.
The second knight approached the God-Slayer. The second knight’s shiny armour reflected the faces of all those who passed by, but giving rotten horrendous distorted reflections, which became more corrupt and putrefied if their souls were hidden. He held a halberd with a long black pole, as dark as night, which was illuminated by flames, covering his whole head. The typical shield of the city of Denethor was a red cross with forked arms and the background all covered in white skulls on a black field. The helmet with its narrow slit was simple without a crest, but the visor was noticeable, smooth and mirrored, creating the impression that the person speaking to him was talking to his own worn-out image.
"Are you the Lord of the East?" he questioned in a vibrant voice, at times echoed giving the misleading idea that there were two entities inside the armour.
"Yes, I am," replied the God-Slayer distracted by the armour of his questioner.
The reflection showed a dignified soul, not many wrinkles and a few age spots altered the handsome face of the Lord of the East.
"What sort of evil lies behind this metal," slowly asked King High, instinctively stretching out to touch his reflection.
"My congratulations, God-Slayer, yours is the best reflection given by an adult man!" exclaimed the halberd warrior his voice doubled, wrapped in flames.
"I don’t understand, is it really me?" asked High incredulously looking at the face reflected in the knight's helmet with big unbelieving eyes.
"Do not be afraid, powerful Lord of the East! Everything revealed to your eyes is nothing more than a reflection of your soul. If I were you, I would be proud," was the knight's echoing response as he approached King Holaf.
The strange armour of the Inquisitor offered Holaf the usual depraved and corrupt reflection, common more or less to all men, who had spent their lives on the battlefields. But it was not the one that attracted his attention. What really caught the interest of the Inquisitor was the reflection of the third Nordic rune. The knight dismounted gracefully from his horse revealing his imposing height and massive breadth making the Dragon look like a pretty boy. The Inquisitor came close walking rapidly. He bent his back and neck, like a strange animal and coming closer to understand better.
"Are you Kaarn?" asked Bear's Head, just behind the Northern warrior attracting his interest.
"Yes," he answered with multiple voices sealed in his helmet.
"What do you want from me, have you never seen burnished armour?" asked the Dragon irritated and feeling uncomfortable.
"I do not understand your soul, knight. No one ever, in centuries of life, has eluded the reflection in my steel," Kaarn replied dismayed bringing his face closer to the Dragon’s Head, covered by the black helmet, without getting any image.
"If I approach any of you, covered by your armour or not, I get a portrait of what makes you human, but he escapes me," Kaarn exclaimed, calling the attention of Cyfer, who asked his companion:
"Are you afraid of failure, are you drowning in the occult power of this warrior?"
"Maybe a failure, or of an arcane dark and dangerous force, a will that can seal his soul," Kaarn answered with his distressing multitude of voices.
"Do not touch that warrior! He is too precious a part of our mission, he has saved us all," the Lord of the East warned raising his voice.
The two Inquisitors were not accustomed to taking orders and arrived rapidly and threateningly next to the God-Slayer.
"Now he has saved you and tomorrow he will condemn you," whispered Cyfer.
"Nothing good can come of a fugitive soul, do not trust him, and be on your guard, Majesty," Kaarn whispered in his ear with at least seven simultaneous voices.
The two turned away remounting their steeds, which were so powerful that they didn't even look like horses, but mythological beasts.
Cyfer turned to High and spoke categorically:
"Now you should hasten your steps. The horses have rested and, given the number of dead, you have plenty of horses. The road to reach South Winter awaiting for your steps is still long. I must warn King Grigor Radzyvil of your imminent arrival. The Whites of South Winter will ride southwards to bring you the necessary help, because the Kingdom is full of Greens and Browns."
He stopped for a moment, staring at the Nordic Dragon for a while, then turned his gaze to the God-Slayer and spoke again: "Our presence is required elsewhere. There are not only Orcs invading this world, now it is nightfall. Hidden in the darkness ungodly creatures carry out plans and pull the strings to bring about human defeat. What Belial can see in your miserable souls is beyond me, but my heart is not so proud as to expect to understand and see how Belial disentangles in the mists of the future."
Having said these words, the two agitated and disturbing and beings set out on their way south, leaving behind minds, especially High's, totally crowded with doubts and unanswered questions.
"My King, but who were those monstrous creatures?" Tyra asked, slightly shaken by their presence.
"Sweet Princess, dry your tears, for now you have no need of them!" gently encouraged the God-Slayer, wiping a tear from her cheek and unwittingly leaving a mark of black blood on her regal face. "I am sorry, Princess. I wanted to make a kind gesture and I have caused an unpleasant inconvenience!" exclaimed the embarrassed King of the East.
The blond maiden wasn’t upset in the least. She cleaned her cheek rubbing it with the sleeve of her dress, but not before she spat on it.
"I'm a woman from the north, almost nothing disgusts me. I adapt my ways to the needs of the moment better than all those geese gathered at the court of Kitan!" She commented with pride, but with red eyes and a beautiful smile.
The Princess of South Winter wanted to know the identity of the two mysterious strangers so she asked the God-Slayer again as he climbed into his saddle ready for the ride. High looked at the blonde and ordered:
"On horseback! We have to go, I'll share the little knowledge I have, as we set off for your home!"
All men took to the saddle. There had never been so many extra horses before, but they were not allowed to go free, given the weaknesses of their services in adverse times. Holaf was lying down well secured to a stretcher, which had been placed crosswise between two horses. The roads in that part of the Kingdom were wider and smoother, but always not paved and maintained only occasionally.
The powerful Nordic steed without his King did not allow any knight to ride him, puffing and blowing unequivocally at anyone who approached him. After trying several times to take the reins, an annoyed knight of Tulsky shouted at him:
"Idiot of a horse, I didn't want to ride you, but ju
st take your reins to lead you!"
"Don't worry, don't be worried, the Dawn Reflection doesn't need you or anyone else. He will follow only King Holaf!"
The horse walked behind the stretcher and did not move away from his master even for a moment.
After many hours of walking, at a cold and windy nightfall, they passed through a thick growth of bare hedges and sparse trees. The majority of the trees were pines or firs, growing here and there in copses of five or six, giving small hints of the Nordic landscape like dry brushstrokes on an artist's canvas.
Boris broke the silence exclaiming:
"Dawn Reflection, but then it's not a stallion but a mare!"
The God-Slayer looked at him with a half a smile and asked him:
"Prince, what upsets you so much?"
"Heroes always ride stallions! It is more appropriate, the right thing! A warrior is male and his horse cannot be female!"
The young Boris continued his foolish but very lively expressive speech, but no one was involved apart from himself.
Everyone burst into happy laughter, and for once the laughter stemming from the Prince‘s words was sincere, not malicious or derisive. It was a welcome outburst after so much anxiety and effort. Boris at first thought he was a victim of ridicule, but realized he had misunderstood at first, so he let himself go and joined in the laughter.
The God-Slayer whispered as he approached the prince:
"The Dawn Reflection is very cantankerous. If I were you, I would wait before I went too close, especially behind her. The Nordic Free race, to which she belongs, cannot be broken in. The horse is the one to choose the knight, and no sane warrior would ever refuse such an honour just because the horse is female!"
TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering Page 44