Driven by anger and inertia, the Black Orc did not lie for a moment on the bed of others who had died but jumping up, grabbed the unbelieving Wolf by one leg. The first rune of Trondheim saw his end coming again fast and inexorable. The man was lifted to the unadorned vault by the Orc, about to crush his bones and whatever else by throwing him to the ground.
A wild roar sounded over the screaming hordes, the crash of the metals and the supplication of the dying. A scream from other times, as black as the depths of creation, resounded among the warriors of both sides. A strong sound of steel against steel followed by a strong sizzle and a smell of burnt meat spread into the hall of the gates. The Orcs stopped fighting incredulous and frightened, then retreated chaotically trampling on everything and climbing on each other, screaming desperately.
The Wolf's Head fell to the ground, but his fall was broken a moment before impact with the ground by three knights of South Winter, who came to his rescue. The Dragon, surrounded by red smoke, had been able to penetrate the enemy armour and tear its flesh as easily as a hot knife to sinks into butter. The war hammer pulled out of the immense wound caused by the third Master of the War, gave a sentence without appeal of the end of the reign of terror of the great Black Commander. The enemy had been opened from the chest to the belly. There was a huge incandescent hole, like the circles of hell with embers and stink, full of muck and cauterized blood. The sadistic war hammer was light red turning to incandescent white at the ends, so bright that it hurt the eyes. The hammer drew a scythe of orange-red light in the half-light, hitting the opponent’s side again and again.
Stronger than the tremendous gurgling made by the inhuman warrior grasped by death, he aimed a further blow, smashing his target in an immense, flameless explosion. Tiny shreds of burnt meat and entrails were scattered everywhere, covering everything that stood around the Dragon. The empty pieces of armour bounced off each other with the sound of large pans discarded by a cook. On the body armour there were evident signs of fusion that were disturbing, revealing again a macabre testimony of the divine anger unleashed by the war hammer. Sharp bone fragments were fused to metal and now imprisoned halfway between freedom and the steel. The third Master of the War threw himself into the black of the night, growling like being of ancient times.
From the walls they saw the luminous hammer drawing magnificent designs in the darkness. They heard the roars and gurgling, clearly noting the bitter smell of burnt flesh. King Holaf set out to chase his Champion to calm his anger and lead him back to more friendly ranks, but he was unable to follow him. With his sword the Trondheim demon knocked down some Brown Orcs hiding in the shadows behind the stone menhirs, shouting:
"My friend, I beg you not to continue your vengeful hunt, but come back here!"
The Dragon's Head, recognizable only by his incandescent hammer, returned to his Nordic Lord. Holaf was so tired that he collapsed to his knees leaning against his sword, barely able to see his own warrior. A dark shadow presented itself in the heavy and neurotic atmosphere of the night. It looked like the Dragon and had the ability, typical of arcane creatures, to arouse fear.
"My Champion, my brother of the sword! Help me return to where my friends can protect us," Holaf exclaimed visibly fatigued.
The third rune of the north rescued him, carrying him as if he were a child of a few months, making his way among the brown Orcs, who were so stupid that they were the only race not to have sought salvation.
Chapter 36
Still among the living
The Lord of the East, from the walls, had called a halt to the firing of arrows, even if he did not understand what the source was of the light they could see, intent on tracing mortal and splendid trajectories in the shadows. The God-Slayer had been able to clearly distinguish the words of his friend Holaf, but had not been able to understand to whom they were addressed. The Lord of the East, shaking his head, ordered Prince Geir:
"I must go, don't hit that luminous being under any circumstances! It could be unexpected help from Denethor."
The Prince of South Winter had some arrows fired aimed as far as they could go to dispel the nocturnal shades and reveal horrific muzzles, but all they saw were several dozen brown Orcs standing still and uncertain in the dark. King High quickly descended the spiral staircase, his footsteps ringing back and forth through the rooms, driven by a desire to know how the battle was going.
The Lord of the East opened the door and was shocked by the vision. The floor was transformed into a dark lake of black blood, dense and fragrant with faeces and putrefaction, from which martyred corpses of men and Orcs emerged. Even the South Winter Realm could boast of fallen heroes, certainly chosen by the Valkyries for their indomitable courage. As always, the Orcs left few people injured. They preferred to be certain and massacre every one of their victims.
"Holaf, my brother, where are you?" High shouted very worriedly as he could not see the bulk of his dear friend in the hustle and bustle of the end of the battle.
Long Sword was sitting at the back, tired and aching. His shoulder was still not in perfect condition and after all the effort of the battle it demanded attention and rest.
It was Eivind, intent on piercing every Orc lying on the ground with the tip of his sword, who heard the calls of the Lord of the East:
"My King, I will lead you to the demon of Trondheim! He retired beyond the front line to catch his breath after adding new meaning to the words ‘fight a battle’!"
"Thank you, little son! You and your father, how are you?" the God-Slayer asked courteously.
"My old man proved once again to be an excellent warrior, but his pride in being the best knight of the north fell in battle I fear," was Eivind's response, nothing like the usual the boring protocol.
King High, however, did not want any clarification: now he cared only to see Holaf, preferably healthy and in a good mood. The God-Slayer was partly satisfied. Long sword, as he did last time, lifted his right fist shouting:
"I'm still here, dear brother."
High shook his head and smiling commented:
"I would have expected nothing more from you than this!"
Next to King Holaf were sitting the Wolf and the Leopard’s Head, while the fourth Nordic rune lay still confused by the blows received. Standing and returned to normal, but breathing heavily, with his war hammer now black, but still steaming, the Dragon’s Head was behind the Lord of Trondheim, gloomy and silent as usual.
The third runic symbol was totally covered with the blood and remains of Orcs. He exclaimed:
"I promised you this, my King! I looked after my Lord. Have you protected my beloved?"
The God-Slayer smiling replied:
"Knight, I've always boasted of being a reliable man. Also this time I kept my word! I'm really happy to see you all alive!"
Holaf told him of Arian's heroic end. His cadaver was so badly crushed that he could not be recovered. The enormous weight of the Black Orc had smashed even the most solid bones, mixing the remains in the lake of blood. The Lord of the North got to his feet uncertainly and began haranguing the men:
"My knights, we can mourn the fallen or rejoice in being victorious, but the battle of the Damwall has not put an end of the fighting, and this is a fact!"
The Dragon's Head gave himself a quick rub down, removing the worst of the horrible decorations affixed to his armour and asked:
"My Sovereigns, with your permission I would like to go to my Sersy!"
The two King of Kings offered no opposition and the Dragon turned to the Bear’s Head:
"Can you come with me, fourth brother? Your Tyra will claim at least one kiss! If you like, I will carry you!"
The fourth Nordic rune staggering like a drunk, got up commenting:
"Thank you, brother, but what I lack in strength I will make up with dignity and I will drag myself under my own power to my beloved!"
The two warriors took a well-deserved break from the horrors of the battle to console their respectiv
e damsels who had been in great apprehension.
King Grigor stared quietly at the Dragon's Head for a long time, until he disappeared behind the door to reach the upper floors. The Sovereign of South Winter looked seriously at King High and exclaimed:
"That one is not part of the challenge!"
The God-Slayer, caught by surprise, answered:
"King Grigor, will you not seriously want to count every fallen enemy? It seems to me a very disrespectful bet and in any case King Holaf would win!"
Grigor brought his hands to the nape of the neck and turning a full circle exclaimed discontentedly:
"Fine, there's no match with men like these! They would seem immune to the most basic limitations and instincts of self-preservation, and the one with the Dragon helmet is certainly not completely human. I get goose bumps if I just happen to catch his eye!"
High alone among his bad-humoured and gloomy companions broke out laughing but it cheered nobody. High commented:
"In the early days I too found the third Master of War disconcerting. I always had a strange feeling, almost a tremor. But only today he saved my life at least twice, and always addressed me with respect, so I think you're exaggerating, King Grigor!" the God-Slayer interrupted himself, trying to gather support among those present and, not finding it, resumed talking: "I don't say he’s the least violent of men, but his excesses can be attributed to the title of Master of War. What more can be asked of a warrior?"
An icy silence fell, and High realized that he was not up to date with the facts. He looked at Holaf with an uncertain smile and asked, "My brother, it wasn’t the Dragon by any chance, that was the source of that glowing in the darkness?"
Long Sword hinted a nod with his head and doubtfully told of what he had seen.
"Dear High, I don't know exactly what happened, but many of us owe our lives to the third rune of Trondheim, although it was disturbing to see him in action," explained the Northern Lord to a pale-faced God-Slayer.
"And that's not all, my King!" the Wolf exclaimed, stopping because of a strange sense d in his mouth, almost a taste of betrayal.
The Sovereign of Trondheim encouraged him by exclaiming:
"My first rune, nothing could surprise me more than what I've seen today, so tell us!"
The Wolf's Head came to life and recounted the episode of the grate that had happened earlier. The whole circle of warriors looked uncertain, but it was Grigor who broke the silence:
"So I am no longer the best of the Nordic soldiers! To tell the truth, I really do not think that I am worth anything anymore. Just as well! At the next attack I'll be behind you, the knights of the runes. If I can't be the strongest, let me at least be the most long-lived!"
King Holaf burst into laughter, hiccoughing and exclaimed between breaths:
"If it is some consolation, dear Grigor, you are the Nordic warrior with the most powerful self-esteem! In this virtue you are without compare!"
The blond Sovereign and his daughter laughed heartily together and he answered:
"Fortunately, at least I have achieved dominance in something. For years I have been swearing to myself and my wife that I must excel at some skill, so from now on call me the Triumph of Winter!"
The strange joviality of the King of South Winter was providential. It gave an outlet to the men and revived their souls, which had been severely tried by so much bestiality. In the hearts of all there was the certainty that many other horrors existed, hiding their shapes among the scattered rocks. Enemies eager to carry out horrific destruction of their bodies were only waiting for the right occasion.
Metal baskets were lowered empty from the top of the walls and hoisted frenetically, overflowing with stones. A group of quick and silent warriors searched through the corpses of Orcs, like blackbirds in a courtyard, collecting the arrows, which were still intact.
"My Dragon, how are you? You are losing blood from your arm!" exclaimed Sersy as soon as she saw her knight, running to help him.
"Calm down now, it's nothing serious, just a big scratch!" reassured the third rune of Trondheim, but the dark beauty did not give a sign of calming her fears, making Elisabet come grumbling to his aid:
"Courage, colossus, sit down and make it easier for me to clean up your wound! That will at least appease the anxiety of your young maiden by which she is so badly affected!"
The Dragon obeyed amused by the mumbling of the old Lady, busy in making comments: "At her age I had already healed so many horrendous wounds that I had lost count, but I did not cry or wail, no way sir, on the contrary, sewing, mending and bandaging was my lot!"
Tyra also carefully inspected the Bear's Head for injuries, but the knight, apart from a few minor scratches, had received a strong blow causing pain in his whole body but not showing any outward sign for now.
"You're unharmed, my love!" the princess in armour exclaimed smiling.
"Yes, my beloved, but I'm alive only thanks to my first brother and the Dragon. Again he was the pillar of the war," the Bear turned to his rudely cared for brother and promised him, "Dragon, I will do everything in my power to award you your well deserved honour. The Knight's Cross of the Pillars of War can be for no other than you."
At such an affirmation the third rune of Trondheim, usually without expression, smiled and commented:
"That would be a very welcome reward."
Tyra, seeing the unusual reaction of man, asked intrigued:
"What is this honour for?"
"We are talking about an almost legendary honour. Think of it, my love, only two have been awarded in all history. One of them was earned by Trondheim Thorson, who was given a statue on the wall of heroes in the great hall of the Titan. This mythical warrior was the founder of the Order of Masters of War and the Nordic capital. The second was offered centuries later to Erling I, father of King Holaf's father," the fourth War Master exhaustively satisfied the curiosity of his blond Lady.
"You have heard, my knight, so now you no longer have to risk so much to show yourself worthy. Your value will be justly rewarded!" exclaimed smiling Sersy kneeling next to her warrior, who did not make the slightest cry, despite the fact that Elisabet was busy sewing the big wound on his shoulder.
The Dragon's Head gently lifted his hand to place his fingers in the dark hair of his beloved and, after a couple of strokes, the third rune commented:
"My sweet Sersy, we are not made to live in the shadows. Our nature hunts enemies incessantly, and my hammer yearns for battle all the more strongly, when it promises to be arduous and bloody!"
That this strange discourse of the Dragon was spoken in the plural did not go unnoticed. The ears of the Bear Head and those of the elderly Lady both caught the hint, but neither was willing to investigate or create tension.
One of Fyodor's companions watching on the wall noticed the there was no light coming from one of the three lookouts to the north positioned along the terraces to control any enemy manoeuvres. The knight called this to the attention of the heir of South Winter:
"Prince Geir, the light from the north has been gone for a long time!"
The prince looked south and counted three lights, then northward seeing only two was not alarmed:
"Maybe it burnt out. They will re-light it shortly!"
Only a few minutes passed and to the south the second light broke out on the wall, starting as a weak trembling point in the dark, then becoming a living flaming strip. Geir, not alarmed over the first event, saw the flames spreading across the stone ordered:
"Men, on guard! A new deception of the enemy is about to overwhelm us!"
The archers, armed with arrows, divided into two groups, half lined up northward, while the rest turned their points south. The third northern light began to dance nervously, first to the right and then to the left of the barrier. In the distance you could hear faint, thin screams, icy as needles in the flesh.
"Did any of you understand the meaning of the cries?" Geir asked aloud, but no ear had been fine enough
to understand at such a distance.
Every doubt and uncertainty fled away, showing the position in all its drama. When the light stopped moving frenetically, the light seemed almost to fly out and then descend rapidly several times and then draw a line of light beyond the parapet toward the darkness until it dissolved. A roar thundered in the air chilling every heart.
King Holaf shot to his feet putting on his helmet as he looked north. The Lord of the North was surprised by a second loud threatening scream, coming this time from the west side of the wall. An arrow flew through the air, which ended its flight in the head of the Captain of South Winter, in private conference with his Sovereign. The arrow overcame the resistance of the skull, emerging from the right eye of the poor wretch, pouring splashes of blood onto the King, and finally scratching the cheekbone of Grigor. The man struck by the arrow turned his healthy eye to the middle of his face, as if to see what had happened, his mouth fell open allowing blood and saliva to escape. Then he collapsed to the ground with a loud metallic crash, lifeless. King Grigor touched his face and, seeing the blood on his hand, still astonished he turned towards the demon of Trondheim, already intent on shouting orders with warrior-like energy, protected by his shield.
It was Prince Eivind who helped his Lord, who was standing there stunned. He pulled him to safety beyond the wall of shields, and then shouted vigorously at him:
"Father, have you fallen asleep? It will not be a little scratch like this, that can send you to the company of the Warriors Gods!"
"What's happening, my King?" asked Grigor as soon as he recovered from his fright.
"Orcs are attacking us from east and west, we'll have to enter the building and barricade ourselves," explained the Lord of the North to the blond Grigor.
However, the defensive plans of the King of the Nordic Kings suffered a severe blow, when from the top of the Damwall, Geir leaning out between the battlements shouted:
"My Sovereigns, enemies on the battlements are moving rapidly towards us from north and south, the Damwall is lost!"
TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering Page 63