Chapter 37
Strenuous defense
Amidst joy and singing Holaf still waited to relax his nerves, staring at the austere mountains in the distance. The Dragon silently approached his King to look at the same thing at which the Lord of the North was gazing, enchanted. The third Master shook his head, roaring furiously:
"Brothers, stop the noise! Use your brain as well as your ears! Last night, there were so many that they looked like a river and now I do not see enough corpses to balance the accounts."
The tremendous echo of a drum came from afar, quieting the joy and extinguishing ardour. A second and a third drum roll were added to the first. In a short time the air was filled with their macabre percussion. From the shadows of the mountain noisy Orcs moved confused and screaming in large numbers. There were still so many enemies coming down the slope that they discouraged even Grigor, who, embracing his son, said:
"Eivind, my son, I'm sorry to have involved you and your two brothers in such hell, but now there's nothing left to do but face a good death with courage!"
King Holaf, next to him, would have liked to encourage his own talented Vassal with good news, but at the time he saw nothing but an Orcs landslide on the salient.
"Make a wall of shields, use the spears and pikes to keep them on the ground, and if they jump, dodge them. If the will of the Gods demands our death, we will make sure to stack up so many enemies that we can climb on foot to Valhalla!"
The Lord of the North held his sword in two hands and brought it to his face whispering incomprehensible words. The Dragon's Head approached his Sovereign, brandishing in his tight fists his mighty war hammer and his short axe. The third northern rune smiled as he watched the inconclusive herd about to attack screaming on the right.
King Holaf asked his Champion, "I never asked you if or what name you gave your hammer?"
The Dragon did not turn around, keeping his gaze fixed on the enemy horde, but he replied:
"My father's father called him Slammer of the Gods. My father didn't even want to wield it and I, to be honest, have never called it in any way. What name have you given your blade, my King?"
"My sword has a long name, it's called Fate of the North," Holaf answered seriously and heavily thinking of the battle to come.
The ground began to shudder, the stones knocked together and the number of enemies seemed too great to hope to survive. Among the ugly scarred and damaged muzzles there were two big Orcs Commanders with dark brown skin and a huge Green Skin veteran of many battles. Despite the tension that snaked along with fear among the men, the Dragon gave himself the luxury of a comment:
"My King, your sword has the longest blade of any man, so it could not have a short name!"
Holaf gave a laugh and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the warrior. Immediately after that the Lord of the North gave a powerful battle cry and ran to be part of the wall of shields.
The impact of the horde was very hard, the roar of the metal also deafened the spectator Gods. The line of men did not give way, but retreated by several steps, while the stupid creatures, pushed by the lust for blood, gave themselves self-inflicted injuries on the long spears or were overwhelmed by their companions, who were moved by a sort of food frenzy.
One of the great Brown Commanders came to the wall with his arms raised to the sky, wielding an enormous wooden mace. The weapon was almost a whole tree just shortened and tapered at one end so it could be grasped. The pikes stuck into the bold body covered with nauseating sores. From the horrendous enemy snout flowed a slow, sticky dribble that waved with each footstep of the creature. The club ruthlessly and mercilessly cut down many souls through the satisfied gurgling and anxious breaths of the monstrous Orc.
Evghenij did his best to defend the wall of shields burdened by too many enemies, managing to hit his opponent's knee, giving him a deep wound. The Devil of Vilniar leaning under the falling enemy creature slipped under its arm, which the beast extended to avoid a ruinous fall. He found himself under the enormous shaking abdomen. The brave man was covered in slimy drool drooping from the mouth of the adversary. But despite the repulsion and fit of vomiting caused by the tremendous stench, he turned around and raised his sword in two hands in a rapid and nervous turn.
The blade fell precisely on the neck of the stupid beast already on its knees, cursing in strange tongues. The steel broke through the horrendous vertebrae, cutting off the large snout, protected by a red wooden helmet like a broken bucket. From the chopped neck repugnant liquids were released and they sprayed for quite a distance.
There was no time to celebrate, for the chaotic enemy line was unwittingly wrapping around the less numerous human defence embracing the men in a deadly manoeuvre. Geir ordered his men:
"Fire, shoot every damn arrow, if necessary throw stones!"
The archers began to make their arrows fly over the heads of their heroically dedicated companions. The Orcs launched themselves into all sorts of offensive actions, even snatching limbs or biting, despite the fact that the South Winter armour was able to resist the weakest tusks, breaking them.
From the west, coming through the abandoned Damwall, the monumental Black Orc arrived, an old acquaintance of God-Slayer and King Holaf. There were no openings between the plates of its armour, making it almost unassailable. It wielded two large and stubby swords of incredible thickness, similar to butcher’s cleavers. The black beast did not slow its assault even under the arrows of the archers, led by Fyodor. Commander Orc did not stop in front of a desperate charge of two Tulsky knights, who naively sacrificed themselves in the vain hope of putting an end to the intentions of the angry creature. So much was its furious desire to fight the despised humans that not even its companions were respected, but left slaughtered behind it as a gap need to be opened.
Seeing the creature throw corpses of Orcs behind him, exalting, while the blood of his race washed over it, the Lord of the North called out as loudly as he was able:
"Retreat, men! As fast as possible!"
Long sword well knew that there was no escape. All around them fierce creatures killed and were killed in the senseless dynamics of war. Among cries of anger, lamenting pleas and various grunts, the black figure rushed quickly in search of enemies. The prickly body was noisy and in a hurry, beating skulls and the bones attached. The Slammer of the Gods begged to be put to the test, pulling his owner with contemptuous hatred for the onslaught of the mountainous black enemy.
Commander Orc was also surprised by the unexpected charge of the warrior and made a couple of jumps backwards, causing a tremor in the stony ground. The black Commander quickly opened his arms and closed them, brandishing the two blades as if they were immense scissors. Neither Orcs nor humans escaped, suffering the same fate.
The silhouette of Trondheim's brave Dragon vanished into the blood in the shadow of the huge Orc amidst broken bodies and debris. But like the phoenix the third rune rose again from the ashes, standing, moving the bodies of killed enemies, under which he had been hiding. The angry tusked muzzle tried a second time, but nothing changed except for the number of victims, now minimal. Dodging a series of blows that were so heavy that they crushed the rocks on the stony ground, the Dragon's Head moved to arm’s length and made his hammer ring furiously right on the opposing creature's hand. The forces in the field proved to be very unequal, even though the Dragon had courage beyond measure.
The outcome of the clash could not turn in favour of the men, who were tired, less strong and fewer in number. The wall of shields did not resist the enemy pressure, allowing Orcs longing for flesh to move through the front line. The Lord of the East got the better of many, never one to skimp blows and thrusts, Grigor killed dozens, backed by young Eivind, able to defend his father by cutting throats.
The baptism of blood also came to those not born to wield weapons or dodge Orcs. The young Tyra was very fortuitously guided to a victorious defensive blow straight between the eyes of a big and stupid Brown. The beast, moved by
the lust for flesh, had grabbed Sersy by one leg and was dragging her painfully through the stones to a secluded place.
The Orc that suffered the blow violently shook its muzzle, causing the princess to drop her weapon. Black blood began to blur the sight of the enemy who let anger pervade him. He lifted the screaming brunette to the sky with the intention of throwing her onto Tyra like a club. Inexperienced and unarmed, the blond did not move, chilled by fright and calling for help. The Demon of Trondheim did his best to help and arrived just in time to chop off a limb of the beast, pulling the poor young black beauty into his Nordic arms.
"Collect the sword, Tyra! You must never let it fall. If it hadn't been for me, now you would have both died," King Holaf reprimanded Tyra abruptly swirling Fate of the North with his right hand.
A nervous rustling and a sudden strong wind, like a bird of prey flying into attack, gave the blow enough vigour to offer death to the sound of creaking wood and bones, giving birth to gurgling black slurry. The Lord of the North deposited his unconscious friend in the arms of Tyra, bruised by being dragged over stones. Red blood dripped through her torn clothes on her legs and arms. High stood in front of the girls, knocking down every Orc that crossed the wall of shields, increasingly pressed and in trouble.
The Demon of Trondheim, reaping Orcs as a gardener mows blades of grass, unravelled enemy lines, opening the way to the Dragon who was battling hard with an enormous opponent. The anger and strength of the Northern King were so great that they instilled fear into the hearts of the Orcs. They did their best to avoid the Royal warrior in a cowardly fashion. Covered by disgusting black blood, King Holaf advanced steadily, bringing death and trampling dead. The Fate of the North no longer shone, covered as it was with dark trophies, generating mass escapes each time a blow whistled through the air.
The Lord of the North threw himself between the legs of the black-coloured fighter and wielding his two-handed blade drew an almost complete circle, whistling in the air. The effort made him cry words out loud but the sound was covered by the deafening crash of the Nordic steel against the iron, placed in defence of the limb. The son of the North trespassed through the enemy flesh, cutting veins and muscles without any fear. A desperate metallic scream arose from the traumatized wounded giant. It dropped a sword and jumping on one leg, saw a river of blood gushing gurgling and lively from the injury.
The Dragon took advantage of the moment and gathering his last remaining forces gave a titanic blow on the body armour, generating a chime worthy of the bells of Earth. The head of the hammer stuck into the thick iron, however, without hurting the enemy, but making him lose his balance, falling to the ground. The impact caused a new tumult in the earth, attracting the gaze of many. The snow had not yet settled, thrown back into the sky by the displacement of air caused by the Commander Orc, when the Demon of Trondheim already jumped on its vast chest.
The Lord of the North showed himself to his men with his sword stretched up to heaven, his back curved and his cloak shaken by the wind. The monarch's contemptuous face, so hard as to appear sculpted in granite, was the last thing seen by the one who had secretly crossed the mountains to bring misfortune to men, but died in the cold Northern Kingdom.
The Fate of the North struck a great blow in anger and hope aimed by a screaming King. The first impact deformed the covering helmet so that blood and split eyeballs boiled from the eyeholes. The second blow overcame all resistance, making mush of bones and brain. The beastly creature did not have time to react. The Demon of Trondheim and the Dragon were too rapid and saved their own lives sacrificing that enemy.
However, other Commanders were still fighting. Wounded and screaming leaders with their the barbaric ways pushed their nauseating hordes into the assault. Hopes were dwindling like slender grass, becoming ever more sparse for the future of men. Filthy tusks and clumsy cleavers continued to attack slender pikes and shiny swords in a chaotic tangle ever further south, leaving a macabre trail of blood and corpses on the ground.
The Devil of Vilniar was hit hard by the sharp club of a Greenskin. The rusty spikes penetrated the good steel of his noble armour, stuck deeply in his abdomen. The beast shook the knight violently. He could do nothing more but strike out, sinking his sword into the enemy neck. The energy used by the Duke for this action was enough to put the survival of his bent body and an exhausted mind at risk. The wounded Green called for his last resources, biting the Devil of Vilniar on the shoulder, shaking him like a wolf with carrion in an attempt to take a large bite.
Then the hammer of the third Master burst the skull of the opponent Orc, putting an end to the angry shaking. The situation of the warrior immediately seemed desperate. The Dragon took the weight of the Devil of Vilniar, carrying him to King High, who with other soldiers was intent on defending the refuge of the wounded. Between blood and coughs Evghenij whispered with his last breath:
"Thank you, knight, but for me help has come too late. Now I think of it, it is too late for all of us!"
The Dragon answered nothing, while shaking his head he gently deposited him next to another soldier. The wounded were strangely many by the standards of Orcs, never happier than the moment when winners could pitilessly savage the losers.
"Awaken your rage, find the same warrior, who last night was able to claim victims to the point that death itself was angered," were the last words of the Devil of Vilniar before he fainted.
In truth, the Dragon did not understand the plea of Evghenij. In fact the Dragon overflowed with rage at that time, but he gained no mystical advantages from it, except within his own vast abilities as War Master.
Human resistance was at the end of all hope for freedom of action, with the fetid adversary breathing heavily a few meters from the helpless men. Among the volume of incomprehensible words shouted by two great Commanders able to kill any warrior, pushed the men with their shoulders to a crack, which was furrowed in Rockroad, until they lost themselves in the darkness of the earth. High and Holaf no longer had the chance to hope for a long life. Everything seemed to be going against them.
"My men, it was a great honour to fight by your side! Now I just ask you to kill despicable Orcs, for as long as your arms are able to wield a weapon," thundered King Grigor, throwing himself into the thickest fray and hitting every beast that came in front of him.
The Dragon in the confusion of blood, tusks and blades had not been absent for even a moment, still striking with unspeakable vigour, taming the daring enemies. A blow from a long lance hit him with violence, making the Dragon sink into the colourful enemy waves. Weapons were raised and lowered several times with force against the armour of the warrior, who was intent on the struggle to stay alive. The third Master hammered at the greedy assailants salivating in anticipation.
The Nordic steel screeched severely, denying the attack of the fetid creatures insistent on seeking damage, managing to hurt the third rune of the north in an arm and a shoulder, where the armour succumbed to the violence of the great Commander. On the ground among the mud, snow and gravel, the third War Master defended himself, wielding his weapons and deflecting the blows of numerous enemies. The warrior felt helpless and offended by fate for such a common death: he would have preferred to exhale his last breath standing, massacring every disgusting being.
King Holaf, no matter many blows he gave, was blocked in his attempt to help his friend, unable to reach him as the Dragon was pushed closer and closer towards the abyss. Long Sword could only clearly distinguish the angry screams of his Champion, but he could imagine the movements glimpsing him in the midst of the stream of enemies. Orcs were bent to hit a target on the ground that was far too easy.
The desperate Lord of the North, spread death with his sword, but he could get no closer nor even the Dragon hinted at rising, perhaps luminescent and enveloped by the disturbing red mist. The huge dark shadow of the Commander Greenskin became a funeral mantle for the Champion of Trondheim, who kicked on the ground and never giving in, smashing legs until
the bones exploded. The enemy, full of arrows stuck in the breastplate and in the powerful muscles, lifted the great axe ready for the final blow. And the roar of the Dragon was heard, carried by the wind:
"You will not have me without paying an appropriate debt of blood, damn you!"
The spike on the back of the hammer stuck in the belly of a Brown, intent on hitting the knight in trouble. It cut off the wooden breastplate and the fetid flesh protected by it. The third Master used all his strength by helping himself up by the macabre hold, as the guts of the brown beast slipped bloodily to the ground.
The indomitable anger of the warrior won over numerous assailants with blows of his hammer and still had the energy to dodge the attacks of the Green colossus. The first blow landed on the ground, throwing shards of stone over those who were close. The second- attack came diagonally, missing the enemy and creating gleaming sparks on a big stone.
The Dragon was exhausted, but the adversary continued to push him, until a drooling Black accomplice got the upper hand. The vile Orc Nero stabbed the third Master of the War in the shoulder, right between one plate and another, going for the target its Commander had chosen. The abominable monster, striking the great warrior on his chest, threw him once more to the ground, giving him back to the embrace of death. The monumental creature raised his weapon to finish his opponent, but the Warrior Gods still disagreed that it was time to enjoy the company of such a man.
Chapter 38
Nordic tide
Even the proud King Grigor was perfectly aware of having extinguished perhaps half the number of Orcs that had adorned the sword of the fourth Nordic rune with blood. But he was joyful to have found a good husband for Tyra and glad to have made himself ridiculous. And he gave a moment of rest from the horrors of the war to his companions.
TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering Page 65