"Stay here and don't move, now I‘ll go and get Tyra!"
But the Princess of South Winter had not even come close to the mighty enemy. The Bear’s Head had immediately removed her. She was lying next to the fire shedding tears near a couple of restless horses. The beast saw King High again, and immediately turned against him like a lion attacking an antelope. The Lord of the East could do nothing, the troll collapsed in front of him after stumbling over a knight of Vyborg. The troll found the time and the way however to grab the God-Slayer making him shout from the beast’s strong grip.
Cruel tusks craved the taste of royal meat, strings of slime gathered between one tooth and another waiting for their revenge. The spiky black outline of the Dragon appeared behind the troll, still lying on the ground. With his arms high up above his head, the Dragon brandished his devilish war hammer, ready to carry out the macabre task fate had assigned him. The third War Master arched his back in the midst of the noise of the battle and struck the blow aiming the steel between the beast’s eyes, just where the triangular nasal hole made the skeleton weaker. The thunderous sound was dry and decisive. The bones collapsed, releasing blood in abundance. High was released to allow the beast to throw the Dragon heavily to the ground. The enormous mass of muscles arose exhausted but calling the last weak strength it began to blindly give powerful blows.
The being, with its sight veiled by its own blood and its second eye torn out and smashed by the Nordic hammer, had totally lost its ability to strike. Its fists thundered and descended vertically like lightning and struck the ground just where the Dragon lay, forcing him to dodge first one and then a second, rolling on the ground. Unable to get up, the third Master of War remained at the mercy of the beast, and it was only a matter of time before he reached Valhalla. Boris rescued him by distracting the troll, allowing the third Nordic rune to rise from the mud, hidden from view by the size of the troll, the Dragon's Head changed his skin turning himself into a monster.
"You know my secret. You have seen what I did to Andor, the Lord of the North may be able to discover it by reading inside you with his eye," whispered the third Master of the War into the ear of the young man, who came to his assistance. The blond prince did not even have time to reply before he was shut into a coffin by a slight shove on his knee. Silent and resigned, Boris was crushed horribly by the troll, while the Dragon moved far enough away to avoid being involved. Given the end of the only witness, custodian of his unspeakable secret, with his heart now black and rotten, the warrior did his best in a final assault on the enemy, who had been speared from behind by Tulsky's lancers. The Dragon took Boris' sword and, having dodged the very slow blows of the enemy, stuck the blade into the fracture that had just been inflicted, and hit the sword like a carpenter would do with a nail. The sound of the metal against the steel was heard above the grunting several times, until the roar of the struggle vanished, leaving the roar of the Dragon's Head as the only sound. The Nordic warrior with his soul consumed, extinguished the monstrous creature and brought it to the ground. The quivering of the conquered enemy was shown no mercy by the sadistic rage of the third rune of Trondheim, who was governed by an insatiable wrath.
The Leopard's Head ran anxiously to discover the state of health of the High King, still on the ground after the beast’s mighty grip, and saw with relief he was alive so he shouted:
"The God-Slayer is alive! The northern steel of his bodice has preserved his chest, denying his soul to his God."
The third Master of War stopped giving wicked blows to the corpse of the troll at such a revelation. He approached to see if the King was awake and alert, as King High was the only one able to catch sight the horrific tragedy staged by the Nordic Dragon. Amid the cries of joy at the unexpected news and the screams of pain of the wounded, the third rune noticed the vital spark still burning in the chest of the Lord of the East, who lay only bruised and unconscious.
The rotten warrior worked to recover the body of poor Boris in shreds, a hero who had been lost to the cravings of a lunatic. He gathered what could be recognized in a modest bag of jute, which was immediately dyed blood red. He also slipped in the crumpled helmet, because it served as a grave for the face of the prince. Pretending sorrow in an acceptable manner, the Dragon brought the poor body before the Nordic King anxiously in search of his young friend.
"Boris! Boris! Where are you hiding yourself, idiot," shouted Holaf, walking clinging to his long sword as if it were a crutch.
"Well, you're safe and sound, my warrior!" exclaimed raised the Lord of the North observing the Dragon’s Head with only his ice-coloured eye.
"I am pleased to see you are physically in one piece my King! But I bring you such news that it can only be accepted through the support of many friends. With a heavy heart and fire in my bowels for having seen a hero die," the lying warrior collapsed on his knees holding the improvised coffin in two hands.
Holaf saw the little bag of jute with its small load dripping blood and shook his head. He didn't have the courage in those strong hands to take the sack and look at its contents. The King of the North took one step back, looking in the yellow half-light of the fire for the blond hair and the dull gaze that had entertained him throughout the journey.
"My Lord, the one you seek is not where you desire to see him, but rather in the place your hand and gaze are avoiding," the rotten warrior falsely exclaimed.
Long Sword felt faint and sat on the ground in the mud and blood. It was more like a mountain crashing down than a wish to repose. The Lord of the North filled by a wave of anger shaking his head and his right hand began to show tremors.
"How did this happen, my Master? Speak, so that I know what news to send to his father, Sovereign of Vyborg," Holaf asked, stopping the trembling of his hand with the other.
The Dragon, placing the body on the ground with delicacy, began to tell the story:
"Boris was supporting me, the beast would have soon achieved an easy victory over me, since I could not get up. The blond fearless prince came to my aid holding my shoulder to lift me up, but he did not stop there. The heroic Boris diverted the attention distracting the furious beast, giving me the time to get away. In an attempt to win the arduous struggle he stuck his sword in the wound on the enemy's snout. With that gesture he found a glorious, rapid and painless death. Only one crushing blow and nothing more, but it allowed my war hammer to force his weapon down into the brain of the troll, putting an end to the massacre."
The survivors of Vyborg had all gathered to hear how their prince had died. The spears of Tulsky also listened to the moving story full of lies disguised as pure truth, narrated by the third symbol of Trondheim.
Holaf took his head in his hands, but only a few moments, since he was the King of the North and much would depend on his deeds. He lifted himself up with all strength he still had in his body, using his sword to raise himself to his full height in front of the men, and extended his open hand to the sky as if holding a jug of cider between his fingers, shouting:
"We drink the heroic Boris, who fell in a duel fighting for us, despite the fact that the enemy was far above his strength. From now on Boris, son of Demitry, Prince of Vyborg, will be remembered as the Brave! We will meet him again in the banquet hall with the Warrior Gods where he will ask stupid questions and amaze everyone with brilliant answers!" After giving a Nordic funeral speech, he pretended to drink then to dry his long beard, but in reality he was hiding the flowing tears of sorrow, which ploughed his tired cheeks.
The body was placed onto the stretcher with its shield and sword, which had been hammered so far into cranium of the Mountainshatterer that it was necessary to attack the body once more smashing the skull of the troll to extract the blade. King High was checked by the elderly Lady who was only able to diagnose a slight crack in his ribs: luck blessed him with no broken bones, so the God-slayer was not in critical waters. The body armour of the Lord of the East had been badly bent, in spite of the robust workmanship in Nordic stee
l, which is more resistant than any other, with the exception of steel forged in the flames of Volcano Island.
Of the few knights who survived, only eight of Tulsky's companions remained, one of whom had a leg injured so badly that there was the risk of amputation. Thirteen of the green men of the hills remained. They were, tired and disorientated having lost their Commander and having been helpless witnesses of the fall of their prince. The survivors looked at each other not knowing what to say or what to do, like young recruits at their first battle.
The Wolf came to his senses painfully, but the Gods only inflicted the large swellings on the first northern rune, but no serious damage. He was told of events by the Bear's Head, who was tired of not being able to end a sentence without running out of oxygen. The first warrior of the north expressed his condolences to the knights of Vyborg and let a shy tear escape. It was not the right moment to indulge in memories and funeral honours, since the sky would not have shown the only the first signs of dawn for much longer, and the terrible beasts, who ran away the sight of the Mountainshatterer, would soon return to attack.
"Take courage, my soldiers, time is our enemy, as are the terrible beasts eager to feast on our flesh! We'll get back on the road, even though it's night, so that we don't have to face a new battle," ordered the proud King Holaf, wounded both in bodily and spiritually.
They placed the wounded and the unconscious warriors onto the extra horses, of which they had so many that they could think of using a couple of them as living supplies. A torch was given to every man able to carry one. This was the only way to avoid being swallowed by the insidious, black night. The darkness was full of greedy and subtle beings. Growls and gurgling soon returned to break through the silence of the company as it moved quietly, more like a funeral procession. Tears and sobs were the only sounds coming from travellers, tired and afraid at the thought of having face new battles with old enemies.
Chapter 28
Kingdom of the North
The Lord of the Dark and Silent North reflected, distancing himself from the rest; many doubts were aroused, and even more so were his fears and questions. For the Nordic King, in addition to thoughts, after the slightest effort his wounded arm constantly pained him. The bandages carefully arranged by Elisabet showed slight traces of blood coming to the surface.
The Dragon's Head next to his weeping brunette did not feel any echo of remorse. He had been subjected to battlefields from an early age and trained by his rough father, also a War Master. The third Master never thought about what was already done, but only about what was waiting to be fulfilled. The Dragon had a simple yet terrible code: obey and defend the Lord of Trondheim in every way, not leave anything alive that could cause any offence. To do so the War Master did not mind paying any necessary price. Holaf, blameless and unaware had acquired a gift which seemed more like an ancient curse, which decreed the death of Boris, since the young man, simple and sincere, could never have hidden the heavy burden from the inquisitive power of Holaf’s burning eye.
The sky turned pink and the dark became luminous. A sweet delicate dew covered the long hair of the manes of the galloping steeds. The terrible dog-like beasts retreated with their shadows to the foot of the heights, which, gloomy and imposing, served as a theatrical backdrop. Looking northwest over the Goat-Horn Mountains, looming over the icy Morgul banks the black storm clouds gathered with blood-red flashes of lightning. Hour by hour they spread themselves more widely, and growing taller like evil black towers.
The wish to stop to have the usual breakfast did not manifest itself, because none of the knights felt at all hungry. The ladies had fallen asleep on their horses, watched over by their respective knights, attentive and careful to avoid any possible fall. However, the day did not start badly. High, aroused from his faint, sat down holding his ribs in his arms and blinking his eyelids quickly as if he didn't see well.
"My brother, how are you? Is the pain bearable?" attentive King Holaf asked immediately.
The God-Slayer passed a hand over his head and then inspected his body. Satisfied that he could count all his limbs and that he was not covered in his own blood, he asked:
"My brother, what has happened to the devil? I just remember taking Boris away from that troll and then trying to help the men, but I can’t remember anything else!"
"My friend, as you can deduce for yourself, the beast is dead and we are not, but the price we have paid is unimaginable," the King of the North replied with in simple words.
The Lord of the East, looking around in amazement, allowed a bitter comment to escape from his mouth:
"So few?"
Long Sword nodded his head, contrite and furious with himself, accusing himself of not having done enough. The Lord of the North held back bitter words of blame for not having saved Boris, but the self-inflicted reproaches crowded the King's mind, not forgiving him for showing himself to be weak, bowed by wounds. High pulled Holaf away from the introspection he had been lost in, asking him a question:
"My brother, how do you feel? You don't seem fit either!"
Hinting at a smile, the Lord of the North answered:
"My body is in pain but my spirit is at the end of its life! If only I had had more strength, I could have saved Boris, or at least tried to save his life!"
"King of the Nordic Kings, do not be foolish! You have motivated people with your speech and supported them with your actions. Don't forget that you saved the life of the mighty Wolf’s Head, and even poor Boris, if he were still among us, would have flooded you with gratitude for having snatched him from the deadly grip of the troll."
The God-Slayer did not minimise the influence of his friend by showing him how much he depended on his actions. Not death and condolences, but life and smiles. The Lord of the East had immediately realized when he awakened that at the side of his bed was the body of the blond prince. He had seen the destroyed blade and shield, placed on a small and inadequate coffin. The Dragon, as cunning as a fox, approached the Lord of the East, making sure of his condition:
"How do you feel, my King? We feared the worst!"
"Nice to see you, warrior, stoic as usual! I'm too old to take on monsters and demons, arthritis has started to slow me down," The God-Slayer joked in an attempt to lighten the unpleasant situation.
It wasn’t that High cared little about Boris, the exact opposite was true in fact. But looking for fun with a smile was the way for an experienced King to mourn. Not only did the Prince of Vyborg fall last night, but many others followed or preceded him, and still others would come weeping, as the war loomed hungry and never satiated by each death.
The Lord of the East wanted to know how young Boris lost his life, being overwhelmed and admiring by the contempt and dedication shown. He was happy to learn of the funeral praise and congratulated Holaf on the fitting nickname he had bestowed. At the end of the speech, with his eyes, the Lord of the East offered a toast, exclaiming:
"To Boris, the Brave, may you live for a long time in the heavens of the One God!"
All the survivors joined again in this small manifestation of affection. Tyra, hinting at a smile, commented:
"Indeed, I believe that the paradise of the One God is more suitable for Boris than the Valhalla of the Warrior Gods. Can you see Boris throwing himself into battle killing more and more enemies and then dying with glory every night to rise again at the table with the Gods warriors?"
"You're right, maybe he’d be better off in a calm place studying military history, surprising everyone with brilliant insights," answered Long Sword, his face softened by a candid memory.
The journey continued under the respectful cloak of condolences for a few hours until that hood was torn from their backs by the incomprehensible snarls of enemy troops rapidly moving on the eastern horizon. The lookout threw himself in a wild gallop to reach the Kings, both of whom were once again vigilant, to tell them what was happening among chaos and agitation:
"Orcs! There, they converge on us!"
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The two Sovereigns looked at each other with three eyes, for Holaf kept the eyelid of the gift inflicted on him as tight as the gates of Trondheim.
"Calm yourself, knight, nothing can be understood from your chatter!" exclaimed King High sadly.
The soldier took a breath and more calmly repeated:
"My Lords, there are Orcs on the horizon to the east, converging on our position. We can’t tell how many, but I can say with certainty that there are more of them and they are bolder."
"Well, now we know the reason for such a hurry," commented proud Holaf, dissatisfied, while rising as high as possible in the saddle of Dawn Reflection, he shouted in a thunderous voice: "Knights! Let us show these ignorant beasts the true meaning of the word haste!" He sat down and spurred his beloved horse whispering in her ear: "Beauty, let's see that we don't end up in the nets of those disgusting beings, set the road on fire!"
All the knights incited their steeds abandoning the more tired horses to their fate. The raging sky decided to make its contribution to the difficulties of the Sovereigns and their retinue, unleashing an abundant snowfall on the tormented Kingdom. So many candid white flakes were falling that they couldn’t see clearly enough to make out their way. It was concealed from their eyes by a white and infinite floating curtain.
"Take heart, my men! By now little separates us from the walls of South Winter, do not give in!" the Lord of the North did not stop for a moment while encouraging his men shouting at the top of his voice.
After a long gallop the worn horses began to slow down, tired and malnourished from time immemorial like their riders.
"Knights, do not give in to despair, salvation is at hand!" the great Nordic King persevered in his work of encouragement, but the first whistles and thumps of enemy arrows flew around the last in the column for a short time.
TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering Page 50