TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering
Page 53
"Geir, find the runic priest and give orders to prepare the ceremony! I think the King wants to take this weight from his mind, even more than removing the blood and the mud."
Rapidly the Prince moved away from the small procession, vanishing into the tiny parade square beyond the second boundary wall. The fortress had many pictorial decorations inside the walls showing epic struggles against dragons and giants, sea voyages on waves lapping Viking drakkars. Curious rural scenes were mixed eccentrically and out of place with the heroes. They had obviously been painted rapidly and carelessly. Noting the interest aroused in the God-Slayer by such strange subjects, Tyra competently explained them to him:
"My King, those poorly crafted paintings were ordered by my father's ancestor to cancel the deeds of his predecessor from history. There was neither affection nor esteem between them. Certainly these works could have been better integrated into the pictorial cycle, if only the artist responsible for work had been worthy of such a task."
The Lord of the East was still attracted to the paintings and then commented:
"I couldn't have had a better guide to understand such a pictorial oddity, thank you, my Princess!"
The master of the house led the group across the parade square, crossing a second drawbridge over a large moat, full of stagnant water. Leaves of unknown plants covered the surface, looking like solid earth to a less experienced eye. Abandoning the horses to the skilful hands of the grooms and the knight of Vyborg with his badly injured leg to the court healers, they crossed the threshold of the central area of the castle.
The group found itself immersed in a splendid garden with winding and undulating paved paths, surrounded by lush vegetation. An enormous centuries-old fir tree rose to the sky right in the middle of the green space; its long, dense branches cast a relaxing shadow, under which a most refined white marble temple with a very pronounced rooftop was placed. The white spiral columns, three for each corner, twelve in all, created a whirling movement repeated at the top, where magnificent marble sculptures with gilded details illustrated the most important warrior deities. Two rows of three stone thrones, seats reserved for the royal family, worked with intricate fretwork, were placed safely under the white vault. A little further on, a low, barely noticeable building was half buried in the ground. It was covered with shrubs and lichens; a long, wide staircase led deeply into the earth until it reached a metal grille in front of a wooden door, decorated with bronze bas-reliefs.
King Grigor of the north went into the dark shadows first, followed by his two Lords, and only after seeing the three Kings go through the heavy door, decorated with glorious scenes of struggle, the rest of the survivors also dared to do so. The narrow tunnel where the body of Boris was carried and the procession followed was narrow and not at all welcoming. Large cobwebs covered the passage and there was a persistent dank smell of closed rooms, mixed with wet and mould, which brutally struck the nostrils of the living. Along the dark stone wall there was a strip of white rock about a hand’s span in height, along the whole gallery. On this white stone, written in gold letters, decorated with silver creepers, were carved the following words: "Here dwells a race of heroes, here lies those who brought glory to the banner, here will arise those who are remembered warmly."
After passing through the tunnel and mounting each step, the Garden of Heroes of South Winter was hidden by an identical door with a twin grille. The light of the torches warmly enveloped them. In the large quadrangular space there were nine columns, engraved and carved with typical Nordic braids. At the top of the columns dominated semi-circular lintel, descending from which was the winter skeleton of the largest vine ever seen. Between the columns there were eight statues, all ancient but from diverse eras, when men were not well versed in the sculptural arts, so the statues had rough and squared forms giving anthropomorphic representations of the first heroes of South Winter. On the walls, a large number of niches dug into the stone acted as resting places for the venerated remains. Many of the burial recesses were black and empty, others showed the bones or rusted helmets of the dead buried there.
An elderly sleepy looking runic priest appeared. He was rude, wearing long black pointed hood with only his lips and eyes visible. His tunic, also of the colour of the underworld, fell to the ground. He was wearing a wide semi-rigid vestment on his shoulders, which fell to his knees. This stole made of gold thread showed the entire runic alphabet, clearly visible, embroidered in a precious orange silk. One thin hand wearing fine gloves carried a torch, while the second, held the golden band at his waist, as he waited for the Prince's arrival.
"Priest, what are you waiting for, a Royal invitation?" said Grigor irritated. He wanted to get the burial over with, an unwelcome ritual to the Nordic warriors.
"My King, I am waiting for your son Geir as he ordered me!" the religious authority replied, annoyed.
The wait did not last long, as the Crown prince reached the breathless funeral group. Their tears had long been exhausted, not because of anger but out of exhaustion.
"Here I am, my Sovereign!" exclaimed Geir, kneeling down in front of the Lord of the North, offering him a precious box of dark wood, inlaid with fantastic technical ability.
King Holaf immediately noticed that the size was right for the horrid sack containing the remains of the young Boris, and was moved:
"I thank you, young heir, for your kind gesture. I am sure I can speak on behalf of Prince Boris. He was an able student of tactics and he would have certainly liked the decorations of his coffin!"
The third Master of the War came forward and took the body from the hands of King Holaf and the worthy coffin from those of the prince. In this way Long Sword was not forced to look at the destruction hidden within the sack. Piously placing each part in the coffin, the Dragon gave it back to the Sovereigns and the runic priest. The third Nordic rune looked neither his King nor anyone else in the face. With his head low to conceal himself from everyone, he embraced the beautiful Sersy pretending emotion.
The Queen of South Winter arrived. She had been brutally snatched from her prayers, which were no longer needed, seeing her husband had returned. All of Tyra’s brothers and sisters escorted her, full of joy, an emotion that was not very appropriate to the dark function with which they had no connection. The priest lit a brazier in the middle of the circle of columns, beginning the ancient ritual. Northern funeral ceremonies were rare, as the continuing search for the glorious death left corpses on the battlefield in a crude and military manner, but the young Boris had entered so much into the heart of the Nordic Lord that he received treatment worthy of a hero. The ceremony was short but intense, illuminated by the warm light of long tongues of silent fire, raising the soul of the hero to heaven. At the end of the ritual the coffin was placed in a niche right next to Geir first. Not having the helmet to identify the blond prince as it had been wrecked, the Bear's Head pulled out a dagger and carefully engraved on the unadorned base of the box "Here lies Boris Morozov, Prince of Vyborg, called the Brave." All those present walked away without a sound leaving doors and gates closed behind them. The contrast between the festive atmosphere of the city and the weeping hearts of the companions of the deceased prince seemed so marked that even rough King Grigor noticed:
"My Ladies and Gentlemen, in view of the late hour, I suggest that any discussions be postponed until tomorrow. A warm bath and good rest will restore your tried and tested bodies. I will have food brought to the rooms assigned to you in case hunger bites you during the night."
"Thank you, my King, your care and attention move us and strengthen us," answered the Lord of the East emerging from has reverie.
The way to the guest rooms in the fortress of Warm Ice did not pass through the throne room, but through a multitude of other small rooms with varied and singular decorative styles. King High was very impressed by a room with white and blue ceramics, a small chamber, with walls covered with dark wood panelling and magnificent silks in refined shades of blue, depicting
exotic countries far away. Hundreds of small white vases with cobalt decorations were placed on tiny shelves jutting out from the walls. At his feet a floor of dark and light wood created an optical illusion repeated on the coffered ceiling. It was so well made that it looked like a large mirror. Next to the right wall was a splendid gigantic stove, also covered with white ceramics with decorations in the same colour, representing the emblem of South Winter. It was all too imposing, reducing the space of the room and becoming the main attraction.
Other similar aristocratic rooms were visited as the royal family and their entourage passed through. Splendid tapestries of bright red or vigorous green welcomed guests, surprising them with the refined choice of furniture. Huge cherry wood sideboards in which sets of ceramic plates, hundreds of pieces, were safely stored. A whole wall of precious goblets with shimmering gold stems winked cheerfully at the amazed warriors in the tableware room. Carpets and sofas with a soft and comfortable look called to the passers in front of an immense fireplace of fine white marble, in a room called the Colloquium.
Of all these extraordinary treasures, it was the private armoury of King Grigor that aroused wonder in the Lord of Trondheim and in the King of the Kings of the East. As soon as they came through the double doors, visitors were welcomed into the large room by two huge sets of armour of large Orcs Commanders, curved and ready to attack. One of the two had an enormous sword, while the second had a colossal prismatic hammer full of spikes, typical of the Black Orcs. The rough helmets with their threatening shapes adorned with childish paintings and long manes were made of cold worked iron of unthinkable thickness. The two menacing statues almost touched each other creating an arch under which visitors were forced to linger in dismay.
"Monstrously heavy these plates of armour!" exclaimed the Wolf's Head in admiration.
"Yes, but made of weak and soft scrap metal!" the Leopard said contemptuously
"My brothers, you need an entire army or a God to take down these enemies," added the fourth warrior of the north to the chorus of commentary.
The young page, hearing the words of the knights, explained:
"My Lords, these two pieces of armour belonged to a Black Orc and a Nordic Rock Head. My King bought them from the mercenaries of the Volcano Island. Their Commander was the force that brought about the defeat of these enemies!"
The Dragon looked at the immense size of the armour and commented incredulously:
"A man alone cannot shoot down such beasts. They will have been many or had the help of catapults!"
But the young page, turning with his eyes full of admiration, replied:
"My valiant warrior, it was actually Rjurik Volsun, pretender to the throne of Rostorov, the killer of such beasts!"
Not even the proud third Master of War dared reply to this revelation, having heard stories and tales praising the deeds of Prince Volsungo. There were many armours of every era and workmanship in good order along the sides of the large space: among these stood the valuable armour that had belonged to the penultimate Emperor. It was distorted by opulence and aesthetic variations and flaunted its function of representation rather than strength for defence, covered as it was with precious stones and floral display making it almost unusable.
King Holaf was greatly impressed by the striking armour owned by the late Prince of Red Ice, Olghered Swenson, who died under the fury of a titan who descended to ravage the Citadel, the brave brother of today's King Skoll Swenson. This martial work of art was bright red in colour, typical of the Red Devils, the army of the city of Red Ice, and was incomplete and damaged following the brutal battle that led to the death of the great leader. The mighty plates of the shoulder straps were covered with four hundred small golden studs, one for each enemy killed. The body armour, ruined and marked by evident signs of struggle, showed gold inscriptions, depicting winged demons armed with swords and spears, with which they ran through poor naked humans, equipped only with clubs. On the vanbrace before the gauntlets, the motto "Not a step back" was evidence of the stubbornness of such violent and skilled Nordic warriors. The helmet covered the head totally and had two long golden horns and an eye right in the middle of the forehead with the colours of fire, similar to Holaf’s new gift, which gave rise to a mountain of questions.
The splendid collection ended with the armour of a giant from the Overland at the back wall. It was so tall that it had to be put together as if the knight was on his knees waiting to be dubbed as a knight, with a sword and an immense shield at his side. Despite its size, the armour had many large holes. Long Sword gave a slight nudge to High and pointing to the enormous armour he boasted:
"My brother, the holes on the shield and in the breast plate of that giant were made during last winter by the defences of the Arkantorre. This is more important than the criticism levelled by the stingy King of the West at my enormous military expenses. These are the results of that spending.
The God-Slayer admired, was amazed and favourably surprised. He commented:
"You have to tell me where to get weapons that can cause such damage!"
"Simple, from the mercenaries of Rostorov, only they possess such technologies," Holaf answered, diminishing the exceptionality of the affirmation.
"It's a shame, they don't sell anything to anyone anymore! How did you convince them?" asked the Lord of the East, intrigued.
"By making a covenant with the devil," Long Sword answered, whispering,.
"My brother, you can't make such statements without explaining what they mean or I won't sleep tonight," he pushed High clarify without getting any results.
Chapter 30
The least suitable not to cause harm
They finally arrived in the wing of the fortress dedicated to guests and the Kings were shown into bright rooms, full of every luxury and delicacy. The same thing happened to young Sersy, whose private rooms were of equal splendour to those of the Kings, while the unfortunate knights were crammed into the much more modest dormitories, usually used by the guards of the guests. The Masters of War and Duke Evghenij, with great politeness, chose to stay in the dormitories so as not to offend the men, who had been their equals for a long time according to the law of the battlefield.
Although they were unadorned dormitories with bare stone on the walls, a large fireplace guaranteed pleasant warmth. Food and drink arranged on long tables with simple benches positioned in the centre of the room, awaited the hungry. The bunk beds made of sturdy wood did not disappoint the tired knights. Many of them with no energy left were unable to resist their weariness, calling for lengthy repose. They collapsed helpless still dirty and dressed in high uniforms. Others took mugs of excellent well made Nordic cider, but lost the fight against their closing eyes. The men sitting on the benches gave in one after the other, with the glasses still full, to the sweetness of Morpheus.
The War Masters freed themselves, for the first time in weeks, from the heavy armour encrusted with mud and blood. On their bodies purple bruises caused by the battles pulsed insistently, clearly showing the violence of the blows suffered.
"I feel naked without steel," commented the bitter Dragon's Head.
The Wolf did not miss the opportunity to tease his companion immediately commented:
"Brother, if you like, I'll help you into your armour again, and you can go and have your bath well dressed."
The third smiling Master answered:
"With my armour I wouldn't fit in the bath, and besides I don't like rust!"
But the Dragon was wrong: in the bathrooms of the dormitory large stone bathtubs awaited them. They were so large that they look like spas or fountains, steaming with pleasant hot water. The warriors of Trondheim plunged into the water with joy, followed by a few knights of Vyborg and a soldier of Tulsky, all so weary that they had lost their usual noisiness. The Bear's Head stayed near the restorative baths, waiting on the threshold to greet the princess. She lingered a long time before leaving her companions and lingered even more with her knight.
"My Bear, I wish you a good rest!"
"My beloved Princess, you sleep well too, I will soon find you in my dreams," replied the romantic fourth Master of the War with a docile smile.
Tyra looked down and whispered reddening:
"I would like to have you by my side like last night, when the only certainty was you. I longed for a bed, walls, a roof and now that desire has been fulfilled I will no longer have you next to me and that scares me."
The Bear's Head moved closer to whisper in the ear of the royal blond Lady and in a gentle tone promised:
"Princess, it's only a few hours. Tomorrow I'll be next to you not only in my thoughts. Therefore, sleep well, for there are many things to show me in your city!"
Tyra after a deep bow reciprocated by the Bear retreated to the bottom of the corridor, followed by a muttering Elisabet:
"What a waste of time! Surely your rude warrior, my beloved Princess, is not dying!"
The crowned heads greeted each other with a hug and then quickly disappeared behind the solid wood doors. The twin rooms were spacious, furnished in excellent taste. Richly decorated furniture and sculptural frills adorned the already remarkable golden fabric covering the walls. The glossy black stone floor reflected the deep, dark wood coffered ceiling with floral motifs with many details picked out in gold. A lovely fireplace made of the same stone as the flooring radiated heat and a vibrant yellow light into the room.
A large bed visually dominated the space surmounted by the most decorated canopy ever seen by the spartan Nordic Lord. Each of the four columns of the canopy depicted a mythological reptilian creature, whirling up to heaven, where the jaws spread out trying to grasp a multitude of small chaotically animated cherubs. Arches of swollen clouds emerged, which were so well made that they seemed soft, behind the gathering of angels.