TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  King Holaf emerged, like a rock hit by the waves, between the wall of shields. The demon of Trondheim, with no respect for the size of the enemy, shouted with determination giving a blow to the mighty beast, causing it to lose balance. The big black Orc between the repeated blows of the Dragon and those of the Demon still had the strength to stay upright. It stretched out an arm, grabbed a White who was intent on striking him. The Orc, showing no sign of horror, threw the man back behind it, among his fellow Orcs. The cries of the man were lost beneath the roar of stones and steel. The Dragon's Head was victorious striking the enemy’s knee, sinking the sharp peen of his war hammer into the heavy muscles and then pulling it down with such force that it furrowed the flesh like a farmer’s ploughshare tears through the earth. The black Orc screaming in pain, during the tumultuous wake of events, dealt powerful blows to the shields and warriors, who were distracted by other enemies.

  A soldier's head was torn from his body. It rolled to the ground with the eyes and mouth wide open, drawing a macabre line of blood on the paving. The tragic course of that poor man’s head ended between the legs of King Holaf, who almost tripped over it. The Dragon's Head was unable to escape from the green Orcs that came in attack, forcing the fourth Master of the War and the Wolf to face the limping Black Orc. The great swords of the north were driven deeply into the sides of the enemy’s armour, just there where the armour opened on the enemy's evil-smelling armpits. The great beast fell to his knees with a harrowing scream, trying to hit the first northern rune with its blade. The Wolf skilfully escaped, extracting the steel from its side gleaming with filthy black blood.

  From the walls the Lord of the East tried to guide the archers, who were blindly shooting the their whistling arrows into the dark, relying only on the hope of hitting enemies.

  "Archers, set fire to your arrows," ordered the God-Slayer in an intuition that could have been useful earlier.

  "Notch your arrows!" Prince Geir shouted with all the breath he had in his body. Then he took a moment to watch, attracted by the fiery light illuminating the walls.

  "Fire!" ordered High King not very prone to time wasting, calculating the situation.

  An incalculable number of luminous arrows flew into the sky, tracing trajectories that confused because of their splendid resemblance to ancient magic lost for centuries. The fiery arrows on fire fell onto the enemies, chasing the darkness away. Many sank into the ground, but others wet their points in black blood.

  The God-Slayer cried out from the battlements sure he was safe, because the arrows of the Orcs didn't reach that height:

  "Archers, the target is visible, fire at will!"

  A second rain of arrows, this time not burning bright, swooped to the ground. Among the metallic banging and rustling, the Orcs no longer shouted in bellicose delight, but the sound, coming from beyond the barrier of the eastern gate, seemed more like the deep groans of the dying. Holaf, holding his great sword with two hands, gave blows to an Orc just arrived to the assault that were so vigorous that the Orc was thrown a good way beyond the arch of the entrance. The body was cut right at the abdomen, overcoming the resistance of the weak chain mail of the body armour. Intestines fell out as the Orc flew, moving in the air like whips but too weak to do damage, the only result of being that the soldiers were covered with the black brand of enemy blood.

  The shiny rain of deadly falling stars caused many wounded among the ranks of the Orcs. Perhaps even more corpses were scattered between the doors, illuminated by the burning arrows, and the total blackness that extended beyond without apparent boundaries. The morale of the enemy was broken. The rapidity of their successive assaults failed, and the ranks of the knights of South Winter had the necessary time to reorganise and reposition the wall of shields.

  However, line of defence was forced to retreat by a mighty Black Orc. Taking advantage of his numerous soldiers, the Northern Lord decided for a change on the front line, moving the first three exhausted rows of warriors to the rear and placing fresh troops in the front line. King Holaf was offered an easy target, killing several wrinkled Brown Orcs who were intent on climbing between the broken pieces of the grating.

  The Dragon quenched the thirst of his hammer by stopping the hearts of two aggressive Green skins, who jumping in attack, landed on the pikes. The two beasts still tried to push themselves forward, trying to get within striking distance to smash and kill some human beings.

  An unexpected and appreciated breath of calm arrived tricking most of the knights. The silence beyond the walls seemed all too deafening. Nothing seemed to move or shine in the light of the now customary arrows. Only an expanse of Orcs, dead or about to die, could be seen beyond the twisted, barricade of steel.

  A whistling hiss followed by a strong thud as it hit the shields of South Winter, scattering the soldiers. Stones were thrown by the arms of the muscular enemies. First a few, then many and finally they became a torrent, which was almost unbearable for the little men. Orcs Commanders offered a very unwelcome test of strength by hurling huge boulders able to break down defences, spreading death.

  A boulder, falling over the shields, fell right in the middle of the formation and brought down the men as if they were leaves in autumn. A strong splash of blood was thrown on the surrounding knights, who could do nothing but watch a comrade being crushed under the big stone. They tried to help him, but his whole abdomen had turned into a paste; the sacred liquids and the contents were red and smelly on the edge of the rock. Further barrages came bouncing off the walls of the large atrium, with equally harmful effects. The men filled with panic, began to retreat disorganized and chaotic, pushing and screaming at the lines of companions still incapable of reason. The Lord of the North skilfully dodged a stone destined for him and cried out in his full and invigorating voice:

  "Men, the direction in which you have to move is not to the west, but to the east! If I really have to meet my death, I'd like it to happen with my face stained with enemy blood, like a real man from the north!"

  Behind Holaf, intent on encouraging their army, three big enemy Commanders emerged from the darkness, one for each breed of Orcs that infested the external lands of the East. Protected from stones by the bleeding corpses of their dead, carried on their shoulders and heads, in total violation of the idea of respectful consideration for the dead, those beasts pushed themselves right up to the doors. They grabbed the grate snarling with rage while suffering under a constant rain of boulders and arrows. The enemy Commanders gave force to their muscles. Pulling like bulls on a chain, they made the metal jump and shake but it did not give way only because it had been cleverly staked. The South Winter spears pierced the Orcs flesh repeatedly, but the beasts did not stop and wildly shook grate again weakening the bars, now trembling in their settings.

  A boulder pushed over the parapet by Fyodor, who had seen the three enemies, made a gap among the corpses protecting the head of wrinkled Brown. The rock reached its target with such force that went right through the skin and bones right to chest of the enemy, exploding it into a macabre flower of black flesh and skin and terrible stench.

  The indomitable Demon of Trondheim launched himself against the enemy in an attempt stop them from opening the way. The two remaining Commanders, soiled by the black blood flowing down their shoulders along their bodies, growled loudly, inflicting powerful blows on the grate that had caused them so many problems. They broke it down it with a great shove, even pulling some stones from the wall. Long Sword fell to the ground, while the beasts, trying to cross the threshold, bumped into each other, driven by frenzy for battle and the hope of being able to savour the King’s flesh. The misunderstanding between the two quarrelsome beasts lasted the time it took for the second War Master to arrive at Holaf's side and pull him away from their shadows.

  The two inhuman Commanders attacked furiously their backs wounded by many arrows, laying about them among the ranks of the soldiers like an avalanche among mountain chalets. The knights bravely fought back,
dodging the enemy blows and stabbing with their sharp pikes, where the metal of the Orcs did not cover their skin.

  Evghenij, with his sword, ran into attack, twisting his body, giving as much force as possible to his blade. The blow he inflicted was so strong that he cut off an arm of the giant green Commander. With its limb amputated and stuck in the midst of the chaotic movement of the warriors, the beast sought to retreat. The Orc broke as many pikes as he could, managing to bite the head of a man including his helmet, creating a large spurt of blood that should have ensured his escape, but Leopard denied him this opportunity. The second War Master, blocking the way, dodged a blow from the enemy’s sword that was so strong that it drove the blade into the ground, jamming it and making the Green Skin weapon unusable. Leopard's Head dodged the whipping claws of the only surviving arm, and swirling his weapon, he lightly placed the tip on the throat of the green Orc just under its helmet. The icy steel cut through the flesh, spurting copious jets of disgusting effluent on the War Master, who had already turned around to face other Orcs assailants.

  While the green Commander collapsed to the ground suffocating in its own blood, the gurgling was a background to human cries. The knights returned to fight vigorously against the dying creature though very little glory remained for them. The Commander of the Black Orcs proved to be a fearsome enemy laying about with a series of precise unstoppable blows that smashed the all of the shields that came near causing the loss of vital fluids in many knights.

  The Dragon's Head, his pride challenged, attacked the black Orc alone. Quick and powerful, he dodged the long enemy blade, then struck his opponent with inhuman force. The Orc shield did its job, without sending any message to the owner. The Black Commander responded quickly to the attack of the third symbol of Trondheim, hitting out with extreme violence. The Dragon was thrown heavily to the opposite side of the room against a solid wall. The man with his disquieting helmet collapsed like a rag and there he remained apparently lifeless. From his ruined shoulder strap, a rapid red flow of blood rapid escaped along his arm, creating a vermilion puddle next to it.

  The Lord of the North managed to disengage from his enemy, sticking his sword straight into the centre of the rough and brutal iron helmet. A cascade of blood began to flow from the eye slits, and the Green fell to the ground shaking. Other enemies came forward and chose King Holaf as their rival, preventing him from helping his friend in trouble.

  The Black Orc stood unstoppable above all the heads, at least twice as tall as the tallest of the men. Aware of its own power, the beastly creature was claiming victims in the most horrific ways. Once the adversaries were stunned by sword strokes, if not divided in two, the preys were trampled underfoot with great force, just to see how far the splash of blood would fly. Other poor soldiers were thrown across the front line to the Orcs rear guard to feed the soldiers.

  The Orcs were impatient to kill men, seen as useless and weak creatures. The beasts rejoiced disrespectfully over every new death. The Bear's Head, with great courage, moved ahead by striking one enemy after another, without ever checking that he had killed them. This haste was because of a menacing beast in heavy armour that was about to finish the helpless Dragon.

  Having lifted its sword to the sky, the beast lowered it rapidly like a guillotine towards the Dragon’s neck, screaming meaninglessly in the certainty of dividing the Dragon's Head into two parts. Like a providential angel the fourth Master arrived just in time to move his heavy friend the few hand spans that were necessary to save his life. The Wolf, also launched himself into battle to help his brother, but was disconcerted to see the Bear’s Head move the Dragon with relative ease. The first northern rune had not managed to move even one arm with the help of Fyodor.

  The black beast bent his back and spread his arms, roaring powerfully in a metallic tone. His helmet revealed nothing. It had only a small eyehole, which reduced the hope of breaking through such a barrier. The Bear's Head instinctively struck the helmet of the screaming beast, using the flat of his sword, since in no way could it have even scratched such protection.

  The intention of the fourth Master was only to provoke an attack, a desire that was promptly satisfied by the angry response of the huge adversary. With all his strength the Black Orc brandished his sword, which was far too beautiful to belong to any Orc Commander. The uncontrolled anger of the beast caused the blow to miss its target , first hitting the ground and then a courageous knight, who came to the Bear's aid.

  The fourth Master's blade managed to penetrate the perfidious eyehole of the helmet, exploiting the low position of the enemy, bent over to give more power to the impact of his weapon. The warrior of Trondheim was able to strike at the beastly eye causing ruin and terror to the wretched creature. The Commander, shaken by the pain and grinding its teeth, returned the attack by striking the valiant Bear with his sword. Fortunately for him the corpse of the last knight killed was still stuck on the sword, covering the edge of the blade and giving only a strong blow that hurled him to the ground.

  As the battle continued, the rush of Orcs never seemed to end: when one was knocked down, others showed their filthy muzzles furrowed by scars over the edge of the walls. King Grigor, exhausted and bruised, was still fighting magnificently, despite having killed many Orcs warriors. However, now tiredness made his movements slower and his blows less incisive. The Lord of the North, in an instant of pause given to him by Prince Gunnar, noticed the exhaustion of the allied Sovereign and ordered him:

  "King Grigor, withdraw from the first line, I will not accept discussion!"

  Eivind offered his shoulder to his father and escorted him past the soldiers of the white and blue shields, who opened to allow him to pass, and then closed behind them immediately. The battle was as furious as the souls of both armies. A new rain of red-hot lava was thrown from the top of the walls together with numerous stones. The large stones were immediately replaced by others using pulleys. The soldiers to hoisted them from the west side using long ropes and metal baskets.

  The first Master of the War, trampling on the corpses of friends and enemies that by now covered the pavement near the door, came in defence of his brothers. He faced the angry Orc, blinded in its left eye, intent on releasing its sword from the corpse, shaking it violently. The body finally detached itself from the steel, flying away like a tunic blown by northern winds, releasing a macabre rain on the knights below.

  The Wolf’s Head immediately understood the arduous task of defending both his sword brothers. They lay fainted but distant from each other. The first northern rune called for battle, shouting dreadful words blackening the honour of the enemy in all sorts of ways, but the insults did not have the desired effect. The Wolf ran quickly behind the enemy, who yearned to put an end to the Bear's Head’s efforts. The skilful warrior from Trondheim struck a blow to the beast’s leg of taking advantage of a crack in the shin guard but the sturdy chain mail did not allow the hoped for damage. The Black Commander, well-protected by its shield, turned suddenly keeping its sword open and low, landing blows on some Whites intent on duelling nearby. The trick cost two men, condemning them to suffer the penetration of cold steel in their warm guts. The first War Master turned to the left of the enemy to exploit its blind side, but the corpses on the ground prevented rapid movement, making steps uncertain for light men.

  The black beast could count on its greater weight sinking into the corpses every step of its way, flattening out bones, metal and meat into a single repugnant broth. The heroic steel of the first Master was not lucky and wasted its energy against the enemy shield, which did not hesitate to push the little man firmly to the ground. The Wolf’s Head found himself among the bodies of the fallen knights was not able to rise immediately.

  Arian with his horse, blindfolded for the occasion, burst onto the scene, jumping incredibly over the front line of fighters. He crashed down on the great enemy, sticking his sturdy cavalry lance into the monster’s shoulder, slamming it against the wall. Arian fell heavily
with half a spear still in his hand, broken in the body of the beast, obtaining however a precious chance: the Wolf’s life was saved.

  "Thank you, knight of Tulsky, that was worthy of a God," shouted the first Master of War, receiving as an answer a simple salute of his hand to his forehead by the brave Arian, not yet satiated with glory, throwing himself into battle with his sword at the ready to assault the fierce Commander.

  The Black Orc certainly did not wait and quickly repositioned himself with the horse held tight between his enormous hands. The beast looked at Arian lowering his head and turning to use its undamaged eye. The Commander's wrath led him to twist the poor animal, which neighed, terrified. The monster twisted its body until its hind legs had turned a complete circle. Only when the horse stopped wiggling and neighing did it tear the poor animal into two parts as if it were parchment. At the sight of such destruction Arian felt his heart shattered and, driven by blind anger, he faced the murderer of his four-footed friend, despite the cries of the Wolf's Head ordering him to retreat.

  The mountain of muscles covered in steel opened its arms with the two halves of the animal held tightly in its fists, throwing a half circle of blood around it. As Arian came too close, unable to assess the situation because of his anger, the Commander Orc closed his arms as if he was crushing a mosquito. Tulsky's knight was grasped in an equine grip, covered in a cloud of blood. As the beast hit the target, it dropped its improvised hammers. Finding himself leaning too far forward and unbalanced, he continued his offensive action by placing his hands among the mush and then giving a leap with his legs. The huge creature, given its overwhelming mass and muscle strength beyond imagination, hovered in the air making a complete circle before collapsing with a horrendous noise on top of poor dying Arian and his massacred steed.