TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  "My Sovereign, a few miles away from us and the comfortable rooms of the fortress of Warm Ice. I insist that you treat it like your home, sitting where you belong!" proposed the blond Grigor, but the Lord of the North immediately shook his head and specified:

  "I will be your guest and I will ask you for many services, including healers for me and my soldiers, food, baths and warm blankets, but I will never take advantage of your loyalty usurping the throne, granted to you and your family," Holaf stopped to fight against a sharp sudden pain in his arm, which arrived surprising him, and turning his face into a mask of pain.

  "My King of Kings, I see you are in trouble, would you like us to slow down?" the friendly Sovereign asked.

  "No, thank you, don't be afraid for me, I've seen worse days. It is a miracle that I am alive. I do not dare to complain, because many have died so that we may reach you alive," the Lord of the North answered modestly, straightening up as much as a man in his condition could do. "I owe you my life and that of my entourage. You've been providential and incredibly skilful. The chain was a real touch of class! Those Orcs would never have expected such a trick," commented Long Sword with satisfaction, without hiding his great pride. The company had been saved by the Whites of South Winter, not the forces of the Citadel nor of the Ring of Steel, but men of the North.

  High now joined him relaxed, quiet and smiling as he was, attracting Holaf's curiosity and making him exclaim:

  "I have been greatly amiss, my mind is distracted. My good Grigor, I do not know if you have had the honour of meeting the Lord of the East, High Marshal. His presence has been a gift from on high!"

  King Grigor came forward and touching his helmet with two fingers, exclaimed:

  "It's a real honour! Up to now I've only heard stories of your deeds. They are the subject of many epics that have reached my ears!"

  The God-Slayer bowed deeply and, as usual, kindly replied:

  "We owe a great deal to you, King Grigor, and I hope that one day I will be able to share my experiences with you."

  "I'm afraid we won't have a long time to wait. With so many monsters on the doorstep the opportunity will come soon. See you don't miss it!" the Sovereign of South Winter answered solid and rough, as was his not so neat appearance.

  Chapter 29

  Return home

  Not far from the high-ranking Kings who were busy catching up on news, the Princess of South Winter galloped shyly, embarrassed or frightened, consoling herself in the attentive care of her Lady.

  "My dear, what is worrying you? What is stopping you from embracing your father?" asked Elisabet with her usual delicacy.

  The princess hung her head down, hidden by her hood, almost hissed in fear of being recognized:

  "My father doesn’t know the meaning of the word embrace. I fear his judgment and his reaction, as soon as King Holaf reveals the story of the rape."

  "Don't talk nonsense, princess! You are not to blame for that disaster," the elderly Lady burst out.

  The young blond princess did not move, her head bent, her shoulders shaking followed by crystal clear drops of innocence, falling on her knees gave weak sobbing breaths. The fear of her father's inflexible judgment filled Tyra’s being, making her regret she had not died. The young woman was convinced that she had not fought worthily, bringing shame on all warriors of northern origin.

  The Bear's Head following after them, came close to the beautiful girl in tears and taking her hand tried to lift her from despair:

  "If you allow me, I'll ask to speak to your father and intercede for you. I‘m not afraid of blame or trouble. I would willingly support any pain or fatigue, but what I don't want to see and can't bear is sadness in your eyes, my sweet Princess."

  Hearing these words Tyra wiped her tears shyly and, still weeping, exclaimed:

  "You look like a bear but you are an angel at heart. I’m lucky you revealed yourself to my blind eyes!"

  The Dragon, always on guard, as if war never abandoned his soul, hearing the problems of the princess and his brother Bear decided that if someone was obliged to intercede, that duty should fall to the powers of the Lords of the North. He approached the three crowned personages and explained himself:

  "My King, may I introduce myself. I am the third Master of the Trondheim War. I thank you for your help and your splendid tactical moves. I would like to speak, if it is not inappropriate, with the Lord of the North only for a moment."

  King Holaf immediately slowed down without too much ceremony, which King Grigor seemed not to mind.

  "Tell me, my Champion, what is bothering you?" the Nordic King asked, thinking already of who knows what strange mystery.

  "My Lord, the princess does not show herself for fear of being criticised over the painful events in her past. My brother would like to intercede, but in what capacity, is something of a difficulty. Only you can clear the way and remove the difficulties that do not in fact exist," the Dragon's Head stated clearly.

  "My dear warrior, I was expecting to hear of serious trouble from your lips. I'm glad to hear that it is that simple. Now we'll fix it all immediately," he answered visibly relaxing. The Lord of the North was tired but serene, as he hadn't been for weeks.

  On the horizon, the low and mighty circular towers of South Winter could be seen. At first little more than a dark spot in the sunset covered by clouds, but in the eyes of those who had been dreaming of them since time immemorial, they seemed beautiful beyond all words, a vision of with certainty and salvation.

  "My King of the Nordic Kings, here are the towers of my home! A hot bath will soon bring you back to life," proudly exclaimed Grigor of the North.

  "My faithful King, during this journey I learned of a tragedy," King Holaf stopped in his vain attempt to find appropriate words.

  "Tragedy? Tell me what it is! What could there ever be that is worse than these disgusting Orcs!" asked the King of South Winter.

  Long Sword resigned himself to telling the simple truth. Given the Nordic blood of Grigor, any other method would not be taken well, so he began:

  "I found your daughter Tyra at Kitan..." but King Holaf was interrupted by Grigor, worried and agitated just at the mention of his daughter:

  "Tyra! What happened to my sweet little girl?"

  Holaf looked at him with his only cold eye and icily stated:

  "Your daughter was raped by Prince Horos, to whom she was betrothed."

  The King of South Winter, overwhelmed by Nordic wrath, raised his arms to the sky and screamed:

  "The head of that cursed Horos will rot in my rooms, so that every morning I can see the putrefaction consume his face!"

  "Calm yourself, Sovereign of South Winter! Your daughter no longer lives within those walls, nor is Horos in good health," the Lord of the North told him, quietening his fury.

  "And where? Please tell me where is Tyra to be found? The world outside the walls of a castle is too dark and dangerous for a delicate young girl," stated Grigor wisely.

  The answer was not given by Long Sword, but blossomed from his daughter's slender lips. Tyra, moved by her father's love, never so clear or evident, revealed her presence by shouting:

  "Here I am, father!"

  King Grigor slowed down his horse to join his long absent child, while her brother Geir cried:

  "Princess Tyra is home again! My sister is back!"

  All the men of the East gave a loud cry of joy, making a barbarous clamour and hitting their shields with their blades to celebrate.

  After an embrace, balancing on his horse, the happy King Grigor turned to his Lord:

  "My King, and what has become of that damned prince?"

  "Horos dared to offend the north, but even worse, he had the audacity to repeat his rudeness during his visit to the Sepulchre of the Gods. Godwin, Lord of the South, did not forgive such misdeeds and reduced the life expectancy of the young man after permission from the greatly disturbed King Armillus, Lord of Kitan. The latest news that has come to our ears about H
oros was that his condition was so bad that they doubted he would get through the night," said King Holaf, in a satisfied manner.

  "I should send a hawk to the south to thank Sire Godwin," King Grigor exclaimed with pleasure at the news of his revenge.

  The Lord of the North corrected him smiling:

  "My good Vassal, when King High and I have finished sending our necessary hawks, you will no longer have any left in your cages!"

  The blond King of South Winter stared at his Lord for a moment and thundered a question:

  "So, we go to war?"

  "We will gather the Vassals of the North, East and South and create the most imposing army in human history," commented King Holaf, moved and slightly excited.

  "Who will lead the force," Grigor asked, afraid that his fellow countrymen wouldn’t be named.

  A question was resolved by the Lord of the East himself:

  "My King, the West doesn't count! I would give the overall command to the Lord of the North, who is more skilled and experienced than me. Godwin, too, will have no objection to this appointment. Only King Holaf can save us from such enemies!"

  As they discussing this, the sky turned black and no star could be seen. The only lights came from the torches on the walls of South Winter, visible beyond the bridges, which controlled the city. The river, thunderous and tumultuous, flowed through the darkness of the late evening; from the watchtower came the sound of a short, light blast on a horn. The long procession of men stopped on the opposite bank, while a soldier shouted to the guards:

  "It's us, lower the bridge!

  "Who? Do you think I am crazy enough to let all those announced by an anonymous ‘us’ through?" a voice answered from the tower.

  "We are the Whites in the following of King Grigor of South Winter, we are returning from war!"

  "Give some light, and show my Lord King Grigor, only then will I lower the bridge," said the observer from the walls.

  "That’s a good soldier of yours!" commented King High satisfied with his capability.

  "Truly a good guardian!" the Lord of the city was pleased.

  "Are the bridges standing up to the red water?" asked the Lord of Trondheim, well recalling the unpleasant event.

  Grigor waited a moment collecting his thoughts and then responded:

  "Yes, my Lord, our stone bridges are not corroded, but I have news of wooden bridges which have been swallowed up by the water!"

  "It will be necessary to have information about the situation of the various bridges. A vast army has to have solid bridges as its priority," commented the God-Slayer.

  Having verified the royal presence, no further doubt barred the steps of the Kings. Now they could see the cheerful fires crackling along the walls of South Winter, built in large blocks of grey stone. The defences were not too high, but very thick and sloping. They went around the city in a sturdy embrace watched over by countless circular towers with typical straw roofs. They gave rise to particular memories, perched as they were on the heights characterizing the hilly landscape. The bands at the top of the walls were filled in with wooden panels that had archer’s slits. Holes where boiling water and pitch could be poured were mercilessly visible at the foot of each battlement. The mighty drawbridge awaited the return of their Lord, and the large, low, purely military passage welcomed the column with pride. Nothing decorative spoiled the impression of an austere fortress, appreciated by the Lord of the city.

  On the return of the Kings cries of jubilation broke out within the city. The people rushed to welcome their dear friends and family who had left with the idea of dying. But to the great relief of all, no White lost his life in the action. The military rigour of the soldiers of South Winter was lost as soon as their wives, promised brides and anxious mothers claimed loved ones. The crowd mixed with the soldiers draped in blue and white creating a kaleidoscope of colours because of the vivid hues of the clothes used by the noisy and festive civilians. Screams of joy and loud kisses did not hide the spontaneous acclamation for the crowned heads. First of all in gratitude for having safeguarded all lives, the shouts praised King Grigor, Lord of the city, then the King of the Nordic Sovereigns, always welcome, and finally the pleasing ally of the East.

  The handful of survivors was taken by the local Sovereign through the festive streets of the city. Despite the rigid temperature, it seemed that there was no man, woman or child in the shelter of the houses. They moved along a wide street the route chosen by the Sovereign for his guests. The well-cared for and beaten earth pavement was pleasantly solid under their feet, after sinking through a light layer of snow. The way was lined with a long series of small burning wooden pyres, positioned on both sides of the road in to give a scenic effect to the streets of the fortress.

  The buildings in the background were mostly simple one-storey houses, except for rare constructions soaring to a second level. All the architecture used large, solid white stones and featured wooden jambs and architraves, used as frames for small doors and tiny windows with multi-coloured leaded glass. The low, disproportionately wide doors, almost more like squares than traditional rectangles, were made like this for practical reasons. In fact, the unusual form limited the entry of the cold, and also concealed a pagan religious dogma. The Nordic creed believed that within the domestic walls, spirits linked to their ancestors were always present. The low entrance was built to force those who crossed the threshold to bow so there was never any lack respect or forgetfulness in greetings for the dead.

  There was no particular craftsmanship or decorative paintings to add beauty to the minimal essence of the residences. The main outlet for flair was shown in the handling of the materials. The positioning of the stones lead to evident vertical working scratches, alternated with scratches for the horizontal position. The stratagem created a curious pattern of lines, similar to the texture of some floors in precious woods, used by the wealthiest classes of the west.

  The usual material for the roof was swamp rushes and straw, pitched very steeply to make the snow slide off. These covered the top of every building and had solid smoking chimneys emerging from the inclines, giving off not only the typical acrid smell of wood combustion. From these openings spread sophisticated fragrances that reached the worn-out but ravenous nostrils of the knights. The smell of spices, meats and other delicacies saturated the air along the way, leading to watering mouths among the knights.

  The festive population, unaware of the events, which would also shortly be descending on their heads, came close to the King and his guests, offering welcome delicacies. After passing the main road full of jubilation and playful uproar, a large square opened up in front of their path. At the centre of the square on top of a monolithic stone pedestal stood a tall and simple statue, depicting the father of King Grigor. The mighty stone warrior with a long thick beard and shaved hair was called Geir the First. The statue in his memory had been designed in a magnificently dynamic pose. The warrior, arched backwards with one foot off the ground, was about to end the life of a barbarian chief, who was lying in front of him, with one stroke of his sword. The magnificent stone sculpture with its bronze details was illuminated by a flaming brazier, which was cleverly positioned giving an extraordinary sensation of life. No detail was overlooked. There was even mother of pearl set in the eyes of bronze in order to give the statue a penetrating look.

  The Lord of the North felt distant among all these festive activities. The first thought in his mind was the desire to give an appropriate burial to young Boris.

  "My kind host, I must ask you for an additional favour. I carry with me the remains of Boris Morozov, the second prince born of Vyborg, who fell valiantly in battle." Long Sword was interrupted by King Grigor who gave him a disconcerted look:

  "My Lord, are you talking about the same Boris? His father tells very different stories about him, a long way from honour and battles."

  "That's right, my host. His father Demitry never made such a great mistake in his life as he did on his young son
's account. Valiant and honest to the point of convincing me to offer him the chance to meet my beloved Sigrid," the judgment was as frank and sincere as King Holaf himself, to which the Sovereign of South Winter commented:

  "My King, if you wanted to make him a member of your family, then certainly those who boasted of knowing salacious details about the young prince were simply malicious evil gossip mongers. I suppose you want to bury him in a place suitable for a warrior?"

  "If it is possible I have heard about your Heroes Garden, kept within the walls of the fortress!" exclaimed Long Sword directly, catching King Grigor unawares. He was so surprised by the daring request that he shook his head before reflecting.

  "Please, father, Boris was a good friend to me too, during the long and tiring journey," interceded Tyra with affection, offering a nice smile in the hope of bribing her father.

  "But only the great heroes of South Winter can rest in that garden," the Sovereign of the city objected.

  Geir also expressed his thoughts:

  "My Father, I don't think a really brave young man would annoy our uncle, your father, nor the fathers of your fathers, let alone all the other heroic spirits. Grant this honour to King Holaf!"

  The Lord of the North did not insist further, aware that he had asked for a great deal. If it had been possible, he would have taken the poor coffin to Trondheim to rest in the catacombs of the Nordic capital, among the greatest and most powerful heroes of humanity, but time was neither favourable nor friendly and did not permit long detours.

  "My King of the Arctic Lands, I can't help but support your request! I live to serve you, and please forgive me for taking so long to decide," replied King Grigor with his eyes gleaming at the sight of his sweet daughter.

  Brave Holaf, bowing his head, exclaimed with a joyful heart:

  "You are offering me a great gift, my King, I will be forever grateful!"

  They finally arrived in front of the keep of the fortress of Warm Ice, majestic like a mountain covered with white ice. The construction made of pure white stone dropped its drawbridge. As the procession passed across, armigers on its towers gave a cry "The King is back! Lower the drawbridge!" A solid thud like the roar of thunder echoed into the night darkness, warning of the opening of the gates. King Grigor ordered his eldest son: