TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  "What's so special about this breed?" Boris asked behaving less and less like Boris, the brothel manager, and growing more and more clearly Boris, Prince of Vyborg.

  "They are horses of unparalleled endurance, strong, intrepid and very powerful you can see for yourself! They become one with their master, and even more jealous than if they were his wife. If their knights fall from the saddle, instead of fleeing they remain at his side, kicking and defending their fallen master with every means they can. This is the reason why every lucky knight with such a horse, places armour on the chest and legs of his faithful friend to avoid injury while he fights to save his knight," King High explained in detail.

  "But aren’t the most resistant horses of the same race as the one belonging to King Godwin?" the very well informed blond prince asked again.

  "If you ask the question of the Lord of the South, certainly he will say so! "The Durkana is a very valid breed and in hot climates it is unbeatable, but considering everything, the Nordic Free breed in my humble opinion is superior, except for the fact that it is impossible to break them, as I explained before; if they accept you as their knight, it is one thing, otherwise..."

  "A Durkana will wait for you," concluded the blond prince keeping in mind an imaginary and epic struggle to earn the affections of a Nordic Free horse.

  "Dear Boris, if in your imagination, a mare isn't strong enough to be a hero's horse, I'm sure, you'll find it to your taste to be led into battle by the Queen of Trondheim!"

  "Which race of horse does the Nordic Queen have?" Boris asked curiously.

  "You'll see, my Prince, you'll see," replied the cryptic God-Slayer.

  The blond prince kept insisting, trying to satisfy his curiosity, but the Lord of the East did not offer any further details.

  "If you won’t tell much, taking into account the difference in size between wife and husband, the Queen will ride a pony, but one of the Nordic Free race!"

  It was getting late now and the road did not permit them to continue, given the dark and sad sky. The men, caressed by the icy wind, clung to each other in a small circle under the black vault of the sky. It was another night of patrol for the knights, but Dragon's Head was exempted from this burden. Exhausted by the battle, he fell effortlessly into the arms of Morpheus as he lay down next to the Bear.

  Among the rotting trees and the humid ground partially covered by snow, small rodents were running, looking for food. In the air, the usually active nocturnal birds of prey, had almost completely disappeared, and had not been heard for a long time. Rarely was their call heard and even then only from the thick of the trees, where not even a small bird would have been able to pass. The fourth Master of the War woke up suddenly waving a long dagger he had quickly pulled out of his shin guard.

  "What the...!" the Bear stopped, cleared his throat and continued in a whisper: "My Lady Sersy, never wake up that way again, please!"

  "Yes, excuse me, fourth Master," the beautiful black-haired girl stopped, as if she wasn't able to say what she meant.

  The Bear got up and relieved her of embarrassment:

  "Please, Milady, I will not hide my joy at seeing you coming to be near my brother!"

  In fact the Bear's Head would have liked to lie next to Tyra, but the Lady Elisabet was holding her, as a child does her teddy bear. Only her hand moved in a greeting, when the warrior came near. Very happy the Bear offered a beautiful bow and ended up lying not far away.

  The night passed quietly. The men took their turn as lookouts, without ever awakening their companions not even because of a lengthy shadow or for a boar passing by. In the morning soldiers were blessed with yet another rainstorm totally out of season. Thunder rang through the air, starting far away then flying through the sky and finally bursting over the company. Between one cloud and another, the lightning flashes moved long and slender, rapidly like snakes. They were an unusual orange colour, highlighting clearly the dark body of clouds. The wind threw iridescent gusts in their faces. The rain struck the bare parts of the unfortunates, frozen by the icy cold, making the poor wayfarers feel stabbed where the rain fell. The pain was so great that High was decided to cover the head of his dear wounded friend with his demon helmet. The Dragon woke up rested and happy to find Sersy next to him. He offered his helmet to her with loving care. However, the dark beauty with as much loving care refused saying:

  "If I wore it, you would be at the mercy of the ice. You keep it, my knight, I'll cover myself with my padded hood!"

  The two lovers rode together at the head of the group creating the illusion of a company of friends visiting for pleasure and not a column of warriors, survivors of hard battles, now fleeing for salvation. The only thing that betrayed them was the haste of their passage, sometimes even moving at a gallop.

  Discontent was spreading among the tired and hungry men, shown by small gestures like their eyes turning continuously to the horizon, seen in all of the group. This movement seemed mechanical, violent and involuntary, almost a soldier’s tic, a nervous sign of fear, hidden in the hearts of all. The small group travelled on the main road. It was not an advisable choice, but it was considerably shorter, and chosen because of the troubling need for haste. However this decision was rewarded by a lonely ride. It was as if they were travelling in a desert of ice. No one else had been seen for many days. The last living human beings they met with were the knights of Tulsky, and after the Mouth of the Dead not a single plume of smoke could be admired proudly standing out against the sky.

  The villages, which they had been avoiding for a long time so as not to expose the inhabitants to the hordes of their enemies, now seemed a slim memory. In the northern territories scattered solitary huts with only one family did not exist. Families gathered together help each other to survive the rigours of winter, which was particularly harsh in those lands. The population as a whole moved to the large and well-protected cities during the cold season, leaving the small towns at the mercy of the weather and as a place for animals in search of shelter for the winter.

  They came across some dwellings and a couple of inns all temporarily abandoned. They looked well-kept, with very low entrance doors and tiny windows. They looked inviting to the weary travellers' eyes. The high stone fireplaces brought the idea of fires to mind, and with fires, warmth and perhaps, Kings permitting, hot well cooked food. The dreams of the men faded brutally, when they saw the Lord of the East look at the building, then scrutinize the sky in search of some sign of the hour indicating the time, without success and finally ride on past, like the water under a bridge, saying goodbye to temptation.

  The Dragon at the head of the queue turned around to understand why so much chatter was going on behind him. The third rune of the north could do nothing but give a slight gesture of approval towards the God-Slayer for his correct and wise decision not to indulge in such time wasting pauses

  "We could have had a break, a hot breakfast and maybe a bath," Sersy moaned in a low voice looking at his filthy hands and broken dirty fingernails.

  "I don't think there were bathtubs, spas or anything like that in such a structure. At best there would be a big dented tub, my adored one," the great Nordic warrior of the third symbol pointed out to her.

  "You are always so certain, maybe for once you are wrong. I could have washed myself and even I could lain with you without smelling of dead goat," replied the black beauty making a disgusted face then giving a smile to one ready note it.

  "But you do not give off such a stink, Milady!" responded the Dragon, displaying a rare level of delicacy for him.

  "Please, do not try and say that I smell of peach blossom and snowdrops! I appreciate flattery as much as any woman. But I could come to the conclusion that you suffered a violent blow to your head during the last battle," replied Sersy unaware that she continued offering smiles and serenity.

  "When I behave like a Nordic man, that's not right, I have to be delicate! But if I am delicate, then you say I’m silly and besides, what the hell are
snowdrops?" commented the slightly annoyed Dragon's Head. He turned around and shaking his fist, shouted to the fourth warrior of Trondheim: "Bear, as a fighter you are a fury, my brother, but your advice regarding love hasn’t worked for me!"

  King High couldn’t help smiling, and nor could Sersy, who, wrapping herself around her Dragon, whispered sweet soothing words into his ear, making the powerful third Nordic rune forget all his worries.

  The King of the North lay motionless without any visible sign of life. Only the light breathing filling his lungs showed in small movements of the breastplate of his decorated armour. This movement, though imperceptible, reassured the gaze of his friend, the King of the East, who was very worried despite the guarantees given by Cyfer on the speedy recovery of the Sovereign. The rain, beating frozen onto the armour of the supine King, made a macabre pattering sound, like the grains of sand in the vital hourglass that was Holaf’s life, intent on making the last inexorable passage through the narrow glass tube.

  "My King, perhaps we should stop for a moment, just enough time to check the wounds of the Northern King," suggested Elisabet, who was the only one able to medicate such wounds having had long experience in such matters.

  High was tempted to say no, but the fear that the wound may suppurate was too strong in him. He had experienced first hand the terrible evolution of ill-fated injuries.

  "Fine, as soon as we find a place that is sheltered from the elements, we'll take a short break, but only to provide medical care to those of us who need it!" exclaimed the Lord of the East.

  King High was restless and uncertain because Cyfer's warning about the enemies scattered throughout the Kingdom still echoed loudly in his mind. It did not take long to come across an abandoned house. Its silhouette was noted on the horizon next to a small group of firs, covered by a light covering of snow about to melt. The house was on the road taken by the company, so it was ideal as it meant not wasting a single minute in detours. It was only necessary to verify the suitability of the structure and if it was in fact abandoned. The brave Dragon's Head offered himself for this task, brave and almost indifferent to any danger. As always he cared little for self-preservation, preferring a battle to being at the mercy of doubts and inactivity.

  "Knight, are you sure? There are so few of us. Using your skills for the most difficult tasks does not have to be the rule," commented High.

  "I certainly would not have offered myself, my King, if I had not wanted to. In addition, the situation seems quiet. There is no smoke from the chimney and as it is covered in snow the fire has not been lit recently. Even the windows are covered in ice, which would be unlikely if it was heated inside," the brave Nordic man explained his reasons for feeling so sure before slipping quickly over a hibernating hedge.

  The old house was made of pine logs seemed lifeless, but well kept. The fence was just under a metre high and had a fine entrance gate that had been closed with a deadbolt, as if the owners were away from home just to go fishing in the ice of the river. In the small front courtyard among piles of snow and icy puddles emerged tiles that had been carefully placed in a narrow path, connecting the gate to the small wooden door, also locked. The door was engraved with a motto ‘Good fortune is found within’, a very strange inscription, especially judging recent events.

  The Dragon, with a strong hammer blow, broke the lock on the gate and, without any evidence of an existential crisis or of guilt. He then also broke through the door and into the main room of the house. In the middle, a large imposing table filled almost all the space, forcing the third War Master to shuffle around it and to bend down to search among the chairs for anything that might be hidden in the darkness. The dim light came from four small windows, under the eaves of the roof, which were wide, projecting and maternal, protecting the windows from cold winds.

  It was clear to the Dragon that he had chosen the right dwelling, because nothing was out of place or dirty. The dishes were well stacked on a wooden cabinet next to the large fireplace and peeped out from underneath a cloth designed to protect it from dust. Hanging from the ceiling were long plaits of tobacco leaves adorning the roof beams to repel insects on summer days.

  Next to the fireplace, a second small door led the third symbol of Trondheim into a large storeroom well stocked with miraculously dry straw, and the perfume of some large salami spread their superb scent through the room. As well there were various other delicacies stored in the room and an addition small door. Quickly the Dragon's Head also broke through that, finding himself in the rear courtyard with a muddy scruffy appearance, strongly in contrast with the rest of the house. In a remote corner of the property, stood the bathroom and next to it, there was a large shed with a worn roof and an open door. Rotting carcasses, almost totally stripped of flesh, lay sadly on the piles of snow near the shelter. As the Dragon approached, there were clearly visible traces of an enormous biped.

  Lying among old rags and a lot of straw was the barely visible black undulating silhouette of a big animal at rest. Its chest swelled powerfully and then fell to the sound of strong snoring. The Dragon decided not to bother over the surely shy occupant of the hut. When the third rune emerged from the side of the house behind the hedge in front of it, Boris' blonde head appeared with a lost gaze and a half-open mouth.

  "Are there any enemies?" the blond prince asked stupidly without thinking.

  The War Master did not respond immediately, but waited to come closer to him to mess up his hair with one hand and ask him:

  "What do you think Killer of Beasts?"

  The blond Boris immediately tried to fix his untidy hair, responding:

  "Going by your calm face I would say no!"

  "Exactly, Prince, excellent intuition," mocked the friendly warrior.

  King High waited for news just beyond the hedge, but at the sight of the returning warrior’s, his quiet steps, he relaxed.

  "So the house is accessible!" exclaimed the smiling God-Slayer.

  "The house, my King, is free of souls and if you want it could even refresh us," the Dragon calmly reported.

  "Everything that is contained in the house is not our property, it would be an act of scoundrels depriving poor farmers of their goods," replied the Lord of the East shaking his head.

  "My Lord, forgive me, if I correct you, but peasants may be many things, but never poor. Also they are now spending the winter elsewhere leaving abandoned food. In times of war the people are called to support the war machine. Regardless of whether they believe in it or not, now the war has arrived," the third Master of the War strongly argued his convictions as a raider.

  The Lord of the East considered the idea of forbidding the stealing the food at the expense of the innocent, but hearing the mumbling of discontent, coming from his exhausted company, he resigned himself:

  "You're right, my valiant Dragon, let's go, let's look after your Sovereign and requisition all the food, but I will not tolerate unnecessary damage," ordered King High seriously with a gloomy glance scrutinizing the face of every man and woman present.

  "One last thing, my King, the house and the warehouse are clear and welcoming, but the hut in the back yard, next to the black pit, houses a nice big bear. We will have to try to be careful in our use of the house and not give away our presence," the third Master of the War reported, giving little weight to the danger of the bear.

  The news slowed down the impetuous and tired soldiers, eager to make merry. They changed their attitude and were no longer so keen to move for any reason. The disappointed immobility of the warriors ended, when the God-Slayer, pulling the horses carrying King Holaf on the stretcher, began to walk towards the fortuitous shelter.

  While all the knights of Tulsky pawed through every corner of the house, the rest of the troop sat down and stretched out where there was room. Only two unlucky men were ordered to stay out to look after the horses, and three others had to perform the ungrateful task of lookouts in the pouring rain. No danger could be underestimated and nothing was cer
tain as the enemy were more numerous, more powerful and had already spread their fighters well throughout the Kingdom. All the while, the human race still covered their eyes or thought selfishly of hiding behind mighty stone walls.

  Removing Cyfer's bandages from the poor tortured body of King Holaf, Elisabet was overwhelmed with dismay, as the bandages had been transformed into something like spider's webs.

  "What a strange enchantment this is!" exclaimed the Lady continuing her work.

  The bandages were thin and worn. They appeared almost corroded, soaked in a sticky yellowish liquid, giving a vile impression. Also the colour of the King’s body was very different from his usual Nordic pallor. Red patches spread their alarming colour as far as his chest, becoming darker closer to the wounded arm. There it reached a deep red, dotted with green swellings surrounded by black circles. The veins were close to the skin, so much so that they seemed to be fleeing, violet and swollen pulsing visibly, drawing a spider's web of death.

  The skin of the arm once uncovered, proved to be covered with lesions, like the dry soil of the south. A multitude of cuts, so close together that they looked like the cracked paint on a millennial altarpiece. Observed very closely, they bubbled and fermented like mead in the barrels of the north. The yellow liquid, born of corruption, ran down copiously from the red flesh, showing the bare and vulnerable cuts. The skin between the web of charcoal coloured infected grazes mocked the astonished eyes of War Masters and his friend High.

  "My King, I never saw such a wound," the old Lady whispered sorrowfully.

  "A drastic intervention is urgently needed," the Leopard exclaimed, observing his companions, who were shocked into silence looking at the wounds.

  "Should we amputate?" asked the unconvinced Bear brutally.

  "Certainly, before it is too late," the second Master answered coldly.

  "No one here has studied as a healer so no one is chopping the arm of my King off!" exclaimed the Dragon not at all inclined towards such a proposal.