TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  "Then tell me what you intend to do," demanded the Wolf excitedly.

  "Why are you all so eager to remove a limb from the Nordic Sovereign," the third Master of War snarled.

  "Let's try to reason: either his arm, or his life. I would like the King of Trondheim to remain on the throne for a thousand years," the Leopard shouted, pulling out a big knife from under his mantle.

  "Put your weapon away, do you want to chop him piece by piece?" the Bear ordered seriously.

  "You are the fourth number, in order so you can't tell me to anything, because I am the second in order!"

  "Given that you understand less than an Orc when approached with good manners, I guarantee that I will smash the skull of any person trying to get closer to King Holaf with the intention of harming him!" exclaimed the third Nordic rune, lowering his head between his shoulders and holding his sadistic hammer in one hand and his axe in the other.

  "Just try it you loser!" was the angry response of the Leopard's Head moving towards the Dragon with his big knife.

  The action of the second rune died before it began, as the two Masters not involved in the fight put themselves between the other two, immobilizing the second Nordic symbol. The stoic and granite-like Dragon, stationed in defence of his King, watched his target with icy coldness, trying to choose the moment to vent the fury of his war hammer. At the same time King High approached the third rune and with concern asked:

  "Are you sure of what you believe? To amputate would seem logical, given the progress of necrosis in those wounds."

  "My King, I am a warrior, not a damned healer! If a being with clear unearthly powers able to defeat a horde of Orcs only with the power of his mind, ordered us to wait for the healing of the King of the North, I will carry out his orders and all of you will do the same! Who are we think we know better than a Denethor Inquisitor!" the Dragon answered without caring about protocols or measuring his words, giving witness to his boundless loyalty to King Holaf.

  "Dear Elisabet, do you have bandages to bind the wounds?" asked the God-Slayer overwhelmed by doubts.

  "Certainly yes, my Lord, but..." the Lady was interrupted by the determination of the Lord of the East, who spoke in a peremptory manner:

  "Bandage him as God commands!" King High turned nervously to the three still quarrelsome Masters and shaking his head, reprimanding them harshly: "What are you, dogs or warriors? Get yourselves back in order, soon we must be moving again!"

  No one had ever dared to address the Order of War Masters in Trondheim with such bold words. The Lord of the East, did not stop to think as he was in an angry state of mind, having reproved the overly undisciplined knights, the noisy men of Tulsky and finally lost his temper because of a piece of furniture, torn away and smashed by Vyborg's soldiers in the store-room. King High with strength and vigour, holding back his anger with difficulty, without imposing his own rank on anyone, showed with class how he directed his crude Lords in battle leading them to triumph. The Dragon's Head admired the King of the East's ability to impose himself and understood how it was possible for his Vassals to become attached to and support a King coming from the hated West.

  The slender hopes of Tyra and Sersy were dashed. They were exhausted and hoped silently but from the bottom of their hearts that they would be able to stop and rest and in dry comfort. This dream vanished with the noisy quarrel of the War Masters. The tussle took place in the complete indifference of their companions. Each man was in a precarious physical condition; pains and bruises tormented their bodies, so no one wanted to meddle and risk being crushed or worse.

  Chapter 26

  Revealing flames

  The mood of the group, not helped by the dark climate, remained subdued. The riders knew perfectly well that they had suffered a defeat and were still alive only thanks to the prompt intervention of Cyfer the Inquisitor.

  Boris rode alongside Dawn Reflection with the same thoughts and the same sad gaze. The boy had become fond of the Kings, because only High and Holaf had been able to listen to him, correct him and give him confidence. For the blond prince seeing King Holaf lying on a stretcher, totally defenceless, seemed like a heresy. The young man’s emotions, brought on by who knows what suffocating anxieties, caused innocent tears appear on his cheeks. They were immediately hidden by the icy rain, which still fell insistently, as thick and unfeeling as a mantle.

  No one saw the gesture of sincere affection shown by Boris towards the Nordic King, except for the wild horse of the north, which approached the soaking wet blond lad and touched him with her muzzle, just pushing him slightly. Boris stretched out his hand and caressed the thick hair on the head of the proud horse. It was so resistant to water that it was dry underneath. Dawn Reflection was not displeased by the pampering and, with a whinny she nodded her head slightly, asking him to repeat the gesture.

  The rain gave travellers respite, soaked in body and soul, after endless hours of violent storms: a hurricane, rather than a simple downpour. The streets had turned into soft, winding lines of an unpleasant brown colour, part of a disgusting landscape that was also exhausted by the bizarre climate. The poor horses, at the last stop fed only with poor dry straw, struggled to move ahead because of the unstable road surface. It became a trap, grasping the hooves of the tired animals in a sticky vice. The snow had completely vanished, melted by the brutality of the rainfall that dominated the Empire of the United Men. There was no trace of the white calm mantle. Almost all of the natural grassland that made up the moorland was bent, crushed or flattened, offering a desolate picture for travellers' eyes.

  "We are almost at home, dear Elisabet! I can't wait to show you the Castle Warm of Ice and the city of South Winter," the blonde princess forced herself to be cheerful, drowning the fears of the long journey in the sweet domestic memories.

  The old Lady smiled and, as always, listened to the fairy tales and dreams of her protected pet. Even the fourth rune following in the wake of the princess watched with amused eyes full of love as an accomplice of the contagious joy shown by Tyra.

  "You know, Bear, I also have a big sword, my father gave it to me some time ago," revealed the young blond Lady to the warrior, arousing curiosity and questions.

  "Tell me, Princess, how can anyone ever give such a gift to a Lady of the court?"

  Tyra took a big breath and, smiling, replied:

  "I remember well when some time ago my father came into the room, as always, without knocking and looking me straight in the eyes told me he was hiding a secret behind his back. The beautiful princess stopped for an instant and with a hoarse voice imitating the voice of her father she continued: "My little girl, you're too big now to play with dolls. The time has come to start fencing with a Nordic sword, as befits a son of the north," Tyra burst to happy laughter attracting the dark looks of tired soldiers, disinclined to hear any noise or hilarious sound.

  "Really, Milady, he said "as befits a son of the North to you?" the warrior of the fourth rune asked.

  "Certainly, my knight, and my objections were of no use. I tried to point out to my father that this caused confusion, since, if anything, I am a daughter of the North. In any case, my father, the King, gave me a great sword that was very heavy for me," said the young woman with noble blood.

  "Tell me, have you ever tried your blade, Princess, or have you just put it away in a cupboard among your dresses and tiaras?" The Bear's Head did not mean to provoke his favourite. He expected a proud response, but was disillusioned by what Tyra said, embarrassed, hunching her shoulders and lowering her head.

  "To tell the truth, I don't think I have ever unsheathed it, but I keep it on the fireplace. The black leather sheath is beautiful. It has embossed floral decorations and the inscription "He who loves me, owns me" as well as the arms of South Winter and another small mark unknown to me. Perhaps it is the sign of the maker."

  "Princess, do you remember what this symbol looks like?" the Devil of Vilniar asked, curiously interfering clumsily between the two lover
s without realizing it.

  "Yes, a set of three flowers," Tyra answered without much precision.

  "Three flowers or three lilies?" the Bear asked for clarification.

  "My Lords, may be a woman but I don't know the difference between plants, I can’t tell which is a camellia and which an elder," replied the Princess of South Winter, slightly annoyed, for whom feminine stereotypes did not fit.

  The number four rune pulled the huge sword of Holaf out of its scabbard slightly, with both hands, just far enough to show three flowers.

  "My Lady, does your sword bear this mark?" asked the curious Master of War of the beautiful princess. She looked at it distractedly, immediately recognizing its shape.

  "Yes, it's identical to mine!"

  The Devil of Vilniar exclaimed quite annoyed:

  "So that is where almost all the best weapons end up, decorating fireplaces!"

  Tyra was slightly bewildered and looking at the emblem, asked her warrior:

  "I don't understand, what is this strange mark?"

  The Bear's Head returned the royal weapon to its scabbard and came back to the young girl with a smile, to tell her what he knew:

  "The three lilies are the mark on all weapons from the island of Volcano, dominion of the city of Rostorov, under the command of the greatest Commander ever born, Wolfmar Volsun called the Immense. Many legends surround his lineage, and for each of these myths more than hundreds of versions survive. How much truth there is in them, I do not know, but in any case I will not speak about it now, because soldiers fear such stories. Returning to the weapons, no more excellent weapon was ever produced by any living being, except for the military relics that have arcane powers."

  Tyra interrupted him, all excited by such a compelling story:

  "My knight, are you trying to say that supernatural powers are hidden in the steel of my sword?"

  The patient warrior shook his smiling head and resumed the story:

  "No, my Princess, if by special powers you mean flames that lick the steel without blackening its appearance, like Kaarn's halberd, or the power to defraud the souls of the defeated, like the broken axe of the evil Lord of Old Mound. But believe it, your sword has the quality of never needing to be sharpened, thanks to the unimaginable inherent strength of Rostorov's steel!"

  "Fantastic! How is their steel be better than that of the Hell Hole mine?" asked the princess greedy for information.

  "What a strange feeling, discussing weapons, sharp blades and steel with you, my Lady!" exclaimed the Bear's Head, pleased to discover an attentive listener in young Tyra, moved by curiosity and not limited to the empty chatter that was typical of courts.

  "Please don't make me beg for information," she insisted with supplicating eyes. The fourth Nordic rune could do nothing but obey.

  "You see, my dear Princess, there are rumours about the inhabitants of Volcano. Their origins are said to be mythical. They are thought to be the offspring of Titans and a human King. They seem to be able to do things that are beyond the reach of any man who does not come from their island. That said, do not ask me how they do the things am going to tell you about now."

  "Their steel is created with iron and carbon, mined from the bottom of the Sea without End. These beings have gone into the black abyss so far that they can hear the beating of our earth. The result of such a union is steel that is so hard and resistant to working and casting that it takes the magma of the volcano to forge it. From this the island takes its name. Those are singular weapons, the dream of every knight or boy. Only they are no longer produced, except for use by their own invincible army of mercenaries."

  "Now I understand why Sire Evghenij was annoyed when he discovered my sword is above the fireplace," commented the beautiful Tyra.

  The hours passed uncomfortably, marked by the unpleasant noise of the muddied hooves of the horses. The men were soaked, mocked by the wind and did not speak, closed in their troubled thoughts, angry with their companions and with the whole world, their souls slowly rotting. The black ship of discontent with its holds overflowing with complaints soared in the air, despite the fact that King High had been a strong and judicious guide. The continuous accumulation of evil events was the genesis of a thought that spread among the less educated knights. They blamed everything, the decisions - wrong, in their opinion - of the Nordic King, paid for at a high price, and not far behind the choices of the Lord of the East, as the cause of present and future misfortunes.

  The malevolent lament moved from mouth to mouth. But it did not come to the ears of the King and his faithful escorts. Horrific words were thought of and whispered behind those who worked to bring all the men to safety. But this base chatter did not entirely escape the ears of the Sovereign, despite the many precautions of the conspirators. He was very quiet, but never stupid. When this ribaldry had boiled from the dirty lips of the soldiers for long enough, the God-Slayer turned, interrupted the march and dismounted from his horse, facing them with his considerable force as a speaker.

  "Ignorant, wretched creatures, incapable of seeing daylight even at noon. I was never so disgusted by hellish shameful beings in my all life as I am now by your foolish attempts to conspire behind me and my companions!"

  No one dared to open his mouth, while the High King beside himself, walked beside the horses. The furious Lord of the East morally slapped the soldiers with his raging soul: "Reveal your rotten thoughts and free us from your presence. The south is free of enemies. Those who want to go will not be branded as traitors. But we already have many conspirators, traitors and slimy creatures in front of us to blocking our way and do not need to carry any serpents in our bosom!"

  "King of the East, what is the purpose of this trip? What are you seeking in the South Winter and beyond, among the runes of an old madman, that has not yet clearly been revealed by life?" asked a young knight of Vyborg.

  "How do you dare, a simple soldier, raise your voice in such a way against one of the King of Kings," Boris vigorously warned.

  "Just because you defeated a terrible beast, that doesn’t make you superior to anyone. You are and you will remain a whore-mongering brothel accountant," the knight with the green armour and a poisoned heart answered with total disrespect.

  The Dragon approached King Demitry's second son and, standing behind his shoulders, whispered to him:

  "Prince, very good reaction, but you have offended him, be on your guard!"

  The blond Boris moved out of the way. The knight of Vyborg, with an arrogant air, moved towards the High King and placed himself next to the horses that were carrying the wounded Sovereign. He took the reins and spoke:

  "Now we're heading for Vyborg. We will take the maidens and the corpse of the King with us as proof of the failed attempt to save you all. We'll tell of the overwhelming number of enemies and of our brave and extreme attempt to oppose them. The story is credible and no one will check on it!"

  "An excellent plan, but you forgot one detail: to get to Vyborg alive you'll have to kill all of us!" shouted the God-Slayer pulling out his sword, followed by the screaming Masters of War.

  The fate was playing with the instigator of the betrayal, deceived by his own hurried judgement. The end of the madness came straight from beyond the tomb with the long sword of Holaf, brandished by the King himself. He had returned to the living in time to give a death sentence. The blade pierced the body of the traitor from the side of the neck to the belly. As the cold weapon descended rapidly and violently, sparks burst like small stars caused by friction between the steels. Blood flowed in large quantities, escaping from the corrupt body along the back of the horse, which became frightened and unsaddled his now dead master.

  King Holaf, weakened and out of breath, showed evident signs of discomfort on his waxy face. He remained kneeling on his own stretcher, leaning on the tip of his long weapon stuck in the ground; he could not let it go, he clung to it as if it were the staff need to sustain his life. After seeing the vital light go out in the eyes o
f the disgusting betrayer, he turned to a Vyborg soldier and, gathering his last strength, hit him with the flat of his sword in a circular movement, drawing a semicircle of thin drops of mud in the air, and ended up knocking the man down.

  "Idiot of a man, I will not kill you but only because you are in the same Viking drakkar as us and we all need your sword. But I also struck you, because for some time you have been listening to the delusions of that hateful object without rebelling." Short of breath and lacking in words, the Lord of the North stopped to the general amazement of the company. But before lying down again, he decided to offer the fruit of his meditations to his soldiers: "Knights, you must be aware of deep gravity of conspiring against a King. It leads to immediate death for high treason. But to conspire against brothers in arms, as I thought we had become, as we have refused to feast with the Gods so many times, is a heresy of the lowest and most horrible kind imaginable by the human mind, like a brother harming his brother in blood for envy, hatred or anger!"

  Immediately High, overwhelmed by the need to offer help, rushed to the exhausted Sovereign, to give him a hand:

  "What can I do, my brother, to alleviate your suffering?"

  Holaf gave a half-smile and responded with difficulty:

  "Put my sword back in its scabbard and make sure you bring us all to safety. The leadership yours by right and you deserve my full confidence!"

  The Dragon and the War Masters approached the King. They had all had kept a small and feeble spark of hope alive, but now their expectations were fed by this unambiguous sign of recovery, given by the Sovereign.

  King Holaf closed his eyes and fell asleep, exhausted by the unexpected effort, while the third rune of Trondheim tied him to the stretcher him with a rope, muttering:

  "You are not at all predictable, for a long time you have been battling secretly with the ropes that I tied with all my skill, waiting for the exact moment to resurrect!"

  The Lord of the North opened his eyes, surrounded by a heavy purple halo tinged with red, and rapidly blinked his eyes, showing totally different irises: one colour of ice and the second, dark as night, with flaming stripes. The bulb looked at is if it was a turbine of the fire, like that above the magma of the volcano, causing the mighty Dragon to shudder, so he commanded: