TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  With every metre that passed under the hooves of the horses, the archery shot by the enemy became closer and more threatening. Arrows mixed with the snow fell like lightning over their heads, protected by the many shields, so many extra shields after the battles. Deep thumping sounds onto the wood were a macabre reminder of the good aim of the enemies, so precise as to induce the God-Slayer to comment:

  "These are black Orcs. They are too precise and quick with their shots to be fired by other scum of the earth!"

  King Holaf rode gripping with his legs only, feeling a lot of pain in one arm and having to hold the round shield with the bicephalous dragon with the other to cover his head. The Lord of the North did not wear the helmet on his head or body the armour, as it was too heavy and damaged for a suffering man.

  The noisy chatter of Orcs was heard clearly but incomprehensible coming from behind the company. Turning around, the Devil of Vilniar saw in the screaming horde two big beasts soar much higher than the curved backs of the front rows.

  "Two Orcs Commanders, big and worrying," Evghenij told King High, who turned around and squinting recognized the shiny black skin of the beasts, commanded by the tyrant Krator of Durgundrut. These beings came from the most remote and eastern land, never seen before by human eye.

  "My brother, they are the Black Orcs, cursed be all their offspring!" exclaimed the God-Slayer, adding a dose of words not suitable for such a cultured King.

  The outburst hit Holaf snatching a smile and a joke from him, "But then you too are human, Lord of the East!"

  "Yes, but I would like to be a God to sweep those horrors away from my Kingdom," answered High, turning back to his enemies.

  "I've never faced the Blacks, but in the north they're said to be fearsome like the Orcs of Winter!" commented Long Sword annoyed at the thought of seeing salvation vanish should they be forced into a duel.

  The God-Slayer shook his head as a sign of approval, but he specified:

  "Winter Orcs are strongest if tackled individually, but in a pack they don't know how to fight. They're just a mass of single fighters side by side, while those black beasts help each other applying tactics and deceit. Usually they don't mix happily with the Green Skins and take advantage of the Wrinkled Browns using them as meat for slaughter," High stopped for a moment to check on the enemy. "Behind us I can see Browns in the front line, greenish in the second led by a Commander, and finally I noticed a Black Captain in full armour, but I can't see everything. The arrows are too precise, I'm afraid it’s the Black Archers!"

  The analysis of the Lord of the East convinced Long Sword worried him quite a bit. Moreover the enemy arrows were hitting their targets on the shields with insistence. The perfidious metallic darts tormented not only the shields but unfortunately also the horses, slowing down their desperate gallop. The knights were helped by changing quickly to two on a horse, abandoning the wounded animal. The horse was unable to continue leading to a certain death. This tactic only prolonged the moment before the battle that was now clearly inevitable. With the last remaining energy left in the legs of the quadrupeds, they went over a small rise that led into an awkward depression, before rising again to the horizon.

  "Better to stop and face them on a higher position than to place ourselves into such a deadly corner!" exclaimed the powerful Nordic Dragon, not willing to approach death while fleeing.

  "My Champion, do not give in to the easy call of glory, South Winter is not far away! Night falls quickly, and the strong towers of the north will be in sight at dusk," optimistic King Holaf encouraged him to continue.

  "My Lord, we will never reach dusk, fangs and arrows breathe fetid gusts at the nape of my neck," Arian intervened, agreeing with the request of the Dragon.

  But Holaf knew more than all of them put together regarding strategy and avoided answering, intent as he was on riding without hands.

  The Bear's Head added his voice to the chorus of supplications. He was usually less enthusiastic than his brothers in arms about launching themselves into battle:

  "Sire, we might not reach the next hill, the high ground would give more strength to our fists!"

  It was the Lord of the East who responded in a precise and unshakable way:

  "All of you fear an end unworthy of your Valhalla, but if we accept battle now, we will have neither songs nor poems written about us. The Kings of the East must be awoken and led in unison against the enemy. But I will be dead with all of you, and the beasts will overwhelm every city one after the other. If we remain separate we will have no hope of continuing the human race!" High drew a long breath and checked the distance of the enemy who were coming closer and closer, then began again: "You, great warriors, forget the words of Cyfer, who told us that he had informed the Kings of South Winter about our imminent visit, alerting them to prepare a safe road. So, King Grigor of South Winter will not retreat from his duties!

  "Let's hope he was not frightened like many others, and end up shutting himself up within the walls of his city," bitterly commented Arian, left alone to fight for a long time with his few men in the lands of the Victory Valley.

  "You don't know my father! He will certainly help us, if he puts himself at the head of his army," Tyra was annoyed by the undeserving insinuations of the burnt Tulsky knight.

  While at the head of the column the escape was being discussed, the tail was barely able to survive with the arrows now almost within range. They quickly rode towards the gorge, a critical and insidious point. The soil at the bottom of the valley, narrow and confined, more like a crevasse, had turned marshy, yielding and viscous, similar to black pitch, having absorbed every drop of water flowing down the slopes. The horses slowed down abruptly and forced men to dismount moving into that trap now covered with white flakes.

  "You don't give up, my knights, still little further!" urged King Holaf, but his men had by now allowed themselves to fall into the icy arms of discouragement.

  "Archers of the East, climb to the top and fire everything in your possession towards whatever disgusting tusked snout comes into the valley," ordered Long Sword, hoping to gain time.

  The Orcs had stopped shooting, hampered by the increasingly thick snow, which obscured the targets at the bottom of the slope. Their roars were heard coming from the high ground behind the Kings, who were intent on lightening the horses' steps. All the superfluous goods were thrown away. Even the litter was torn from the backs of the horses, but the living were not abandoned, nor even the dead. Whistling arrows from the east flew against the first Orcs, descending to the bottom of the depression. Precise and incredibly skilled at shooting, the archers shot down with perfectly aimed shots some Brown and a Green Skins who were too bold. The devastating cries coming from the jaws of the wounded Orcs caused a halt in the rush of their brethren leaving the despicable creatures to linger on the high ground. Their battle line poorly formed with grunts was raised and visible. These stupid enemies had enormous force but were limited by their fearful hearts. However the human arrows could not reach them over the great distance and a difficult target from below. The monstrous archers, still well covered by their brown comrades in the front line, shot one arrow after another, dropping countless arrows at random into the snowy curtain. Many lost themselves in the snow; a few lucky ones stuck their teeth into the shields and into the poor horses.

  Under the sharp deluge, well hidden and protected by the shield of Trondheim, the Bear's Head helped anyone who was delayed by enemy arrows to climb up the slope.

  "Move, knight," he shouted with all the voice he had in his body at a green man from Vyborg, standing next to a bogged down horse, whose frightened neighs magnetically called to the Orcs.

  As the green knight came towards the fourth Nordic rune, he was under constant fire from the enemy. The fourth rune shook him violently insulting him, but the green warrior fell to the ground in the mud. From his helmet sprouted, like flowers from the ground, three arrows with big red plumage. His body armour bore signs of large blood flow
without a doubt. The Bear's Head recovered the shield and moved away with difficulty in that quagmire, the last of the men.

  A strong roar shook the fugitives. King Holaf turning halfway up the slope saw in the snow a large black irascible silhouette lifting one of the beings under his command above his head to the sky and then launch it with little effort and even less concern on the slope of the hill. A second Orc suffered the same fate between the barely articulated screams and grunts, of those animals. The fury of the roaring Captain forcefully pushed the troops into action and in a few moments all the units moved ruinously into the valley like an avalanche of stones.

  When all the arrows of their crossbows had been used, the three archers of Black Portal finally passed to the war hunting bows which were less effective but well managed.

  "Enough, archers! Climb as soon as possible, now we are on the high ground!" commanded the Lord of the North satisfied with his tactical decision.

  As Tyra managed to reach the summit, followed as usual by Elisabet and Sersy. Her heart melted at the sight of the entire South Winter army marching towards them. The blonde turned and with as much voice as possible and shouted joyfully:

  "South Winter is here! My father is at the head of the army!"

  The news, which reached men with the sweet voice of the princess, rekindled the ardour in their tired hearts.

  "Courage, soldiers, victory will be ours," King Holaf shouted receiving the long-awaited news enthusiastically.

  The smiling Dragon, shaking his head, exclaimed:

  "Now I understand the reluctance to go into battle! You knew you only had to gain time, Majesty, you can teach us a lot even about tactics!"

  "You see, my mighty warrior, death in battle is what I aspire to more than anything like every man in the north worthy of the name. But there are still many enemies that I want to send to hell before I go! Before our fate overtakes us many sagas will be written, my Champion!" replied the Lord of the North hastening to climb the muddy slope.

  "Does your eye show you the future, my King?" the black Nordic Dragon asked amazed and worried.

  "I wish it could show the future. We could win every battle without even fighting it! The truth about the eye at the moment is very disappointing. It shows more flaws than any benefit it brings," answered Long Sword not wasting time as the enemy arrows still flew around their bodies.

  At the top, tired and covered in mud, they hurried to reach the ranks of South Winter. The allies nearby were ready to withstand the impact of the Orcs, being well protected by a wall of long almond-shaped shields.

  "Notch your arrows," ordered King Grigor, Sovereign of the southernmost city of the Kingdoms of the North.

  The King sat on a magnificent white horse and was protected in his armour of white lacquered plates, each one bearing the typical circular glyph in gold of the Radzyvil family. The sturdy ribbed body armour was in the shape of a shell, and engraved on top of each rib were runic alphabet phrases citing human virtues. From the bearded helmet, decorated with a pair of ram horns on the sides, emerged a long and proud blonde beard, collected in two ribbed braids of blue and white. The same decoration adorned the long flowing moustaches under his nose, which was marked by a big scar, just close to the blue eyes. These eyes were of such a vivid blue that they stood out in spite of the shadow of the helmet. His long blond hair flowed down covering his shoulders and gorget, which was gilded and engraved with wisdom and ability. There were twisted and complex geometric motifs framing the motto of the Sovereign and his men "Never tamed." Lifting his arm to the horizon with his sword in his hand, King Grigor gave the second order:

  "Pull!"

  The command was repeated by the Commanders until it reached the last archer. The company exhausted, found refuge among the friendly hosts, who thundered a cry as the Lord of Trondheim arrived:

  "For the King of the North!"

  Such a shout arose from every man, of whatever rank, in that present moment, showing their pride in belonging to the talented Nordic armies.

  As the first enemy units came into view, the shields tightened and a multitude of long pikes were pushed over the barrier making it difficult to break through.

  "Crossbowmen, prepare to fire on the first of the lurid beasts," ordered Geir, eldest son of South Winter.

  Upon hearing the order, a large group of men jumped into position, placing themselves among the knights in heavy armour who were holding the shields. The soldiers were wearing light chain mail with only a thick steel mask to protect their faces and large cuisse protecting their thighs linked to solid looking shin guards. The crossbowmen knelt where the almond shields left a space, opening loopholes perfect for a tight shot.

  As the first warrior shot his arrow, he stood up to leaving his place for the companion behind him, who could shoot through the legs of those who preceded him. The first crossbowman, his bow ready again, repositioned himself on his knees, protecting those who followed him with his shin guards and so he could fire another arrow.

  The Orcs tired by the climb, at first threw themselves against the army of the north dying pierced by the arrows of the crossbowmen. Later, more fearful, the enemy waited for reinforcements at the edge of the descent, hoping to reach a good number and break through the wall of shields.

  "Fire!" was the last order was given by the Lord of South Winter, lowering his sword.

  Each archer released his arrows to fly through the sky, drawing a perfect parabola, ending up covering the area of the attacking Orcs causing havoc. A new volley of sharp wooden pikes was thrown deeper in the hope of surprising the enemy troops still hidden by the depression. Only one Orc from the first wave reached the opposing army, but was impaled by long pike. The screaming being, still filled with furious intentions, approached the shields sliding on the pole of the weapon dyed black with his blood. The creature randomly brandished a rough sword shaking the knight intent on holding a shield. A companion at the knight’s side immediately finished the Orc. The sword of South Winter pierced the monstrous side unprotected by any armour causing copious blood to flow out. The sword and the pike were withdrawn from the corpse, hanging against the line of shields. Immediately the soldiers repositioned their defence trampling on the enemy to be ready again for another wave.

  The green skinned Orcs Commander cursed angrily and took the lead of the assault, imposing its shadow on to the white knights. The archers, however well managed, did not have any effect against its great size, inflicting only annoying insect bites. In attack and already anticipating the sweet taste of the raw meat of the King of Trondheim, the huge enemy gave impetus and courage to its warriors, waving its arms awkwardly and sprinkling drops of drool on those grunting next to it.

  The Lord of the North at the side of his trusted Vassal observed the calm of the army with satisfaction. The warriors were composed and regulated without any quivering or murmurs. At the appropriate time, King Grigor cried out furiously, "Cavalry!"

  Each cavalry unit moved into one of two compact wings, however, not to crash against the enemies, but moving parallel to the battlefield. Each horse had a rope tied to it with a steel chain covered with large spikes and sharp blades attached, stretched out in a line in front of the wall of shields in secrecy so the stupid Orcs didn’t notice it. The chain, carried by the cavalry at a gallop, jumped about and lashed encircling and inexorably tearing apart, amputating and gutting every beast found inside its coils. Even the strong legs of the great Green Commander succumbed to the violence of tension of the chains causing him to fall to the ground among the amputated bits and the black blood of his soldiers. The two cavalry lines, once the chain stretched out, turned left and right on a collision course with the enemy. Trampling on corpses and dying they lay into the enemy with blades and maces, while setting the deadly noose again in a precise high-speed crossover.

  Seeing the Nordic superiority, the gigantic black despot aimed his big axe at the Kings and then threw it to the ground with roars and growls. It was certainly a brief s
peech, incomprehensible to the human ear, but certainly comprehensible as an insulting threat wishing death upon them. King Grigor looked at the Long Sword asking for orders, but the Lord of the North replied to his Vassal with a bow of his head and the simple words:

  "It is your decision, my Sovereign, I have nothing to complain about so far."

  The regent of South Winter shouted forcefully, spitting as he yelled:

  "Let's break those ugly barbarian asses totally."

  The wall of shields moved quickly stabbing every beast lying on the ground. The men paid attention not to miss any remains: better a corpse violated a second time, rather than finding an enemy ready to attack from behind. The archers followed the heavy infantry by positioning themselves close to the steep slope, and it was left to the discretion of each man to choose his target. The archers pulled their bows quickly and efficiently, offering many bull’s eyes to the greedy metal. At the end of the rain of sharp steel only the Commander Orc, all black skin, armour and anger, arrived with about twenty of its followers on the high ground opposite the depression, transformed into a horrific game bag. The men gave a shout of victory with the motto of South Winter and a second shout of exaltation to the King of the Nordic Kings.

  The black beast stuck its blade into the skull of the only surviving Green skin Orc, dividing its body in two. It took the entrails and threw them with all the force it had against human battle lines, managing to hit the white and blue shields with fetid bowels and dripping black Orc blood.

  King Grigor, seeing what had happened and fearing large stones could be thrown, was preparing to order the retreat with the sole aim of preserving the lives of his soldiers. The mighty enemy, left alone by its few warriors, did not thrown anything else. Then it too embarked on the road of defeat.

  "What do you suggest, my Sovereign? Should we inspect corpses for news or treasures?"

  "No, my dear Grigor, only death lies at the foot of these slopes," the Lord of Trondheim replied painfully.