Commander Agnar Valen held a torch over the brownstone and stabbed his callous-ridden fingers into the cave wall like he was fingering through a selection of books. Though Sigvard wagered the haze would consume the world before that ever happened. Agnar tore out a fist-sized stone fragment and cracked between his jaws. The crunching bounced off the chamber walls and echoed down the tunnel from whence they came. It made Sigvard’s teeth cry from remembering.

“Old.” Agnar swallowed the bits with ease. “Boy, come here.”

Gazing down, Sigvard crept up beside him, the great war hammer, Gos in his tiny hands. Its head was a massive slab of polished iron, dyed bronze to match the color of the Serpent Alps. The flat head was a metal fist the size of his face, the spiked side a hooked fang.

“Swing,” the Commander ordered.

Confused, he stood there blinking for a moment, looking at the hammer then to Agnar. What point was there for me to try?

“You heard me, boy. It is your birthright. Now, swing. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His eyes threatened a beating.

Sigvard could feel the mocking eyes on him as he stood before the wall. He traced his thumb over the runes on Gos’ handle. I am the son of Halvard the Unbreakable. He breathed in, felt for the spirit of his father within the hammer. When he found it, he bulled forward and swung Gos with two hands flat against the stone. There was a pitiful clink. The wall kicked him back hard, knocking the hammer from his grasp. The ringing waved through his bones and the spirit fleeted.

Laughter erupted. Not the friendly kind.

Agnar jerked him up with one hand, Gos in the other. Darkness painted his face. “A warrior who cannot keep his weapon is better off dead.” He shoved him to the side.

With a winding swing of the hammer, Agnar smashed open a new path, the stone folding down like crashing waves against a sea cliff. The quakes shook the salt fangs above free. Ignoring the raining spikes, the higher clansmen cheered while the lesser men, mercenaries, and slaves dodged. Sigvard was the latter. Agnar’s wives and single-night whores flocked to him for cover like kittens hiding from the rain, salt fingers shattering against his unscathed muscles. Then the muscle-drunk women showered him with kisses and sweet whispers.

Sigvard watched, blood boiling. You bring along so many whores, yet you leave my mother behind.

Agnar brushed them off and flipped the handle of Gos towards Sigvard. The Commander demanded him to take it with a silent nod.

He said nothing, his gaze still pointed at anything but the Commander.

Agnar despised that, he knew. It was a sign of weakness, the gesture of a prey submitting to a predator. He yanked his arms open and dropped the maul into his grasp. “You will learn to use Gos, boy. It is your fate. Begone.”

He knew better than to speak out of turn. A commander’s word is final lest one aims to take their place in combat. And Sigvard had no intention of that — yet. Only when Agnar turned his back and walked a few strides ahead did he tighten his hold of Gos and glared, cleansing the war hammer of the Commander’s tainted fingers. He traced the runes etched along the haft. Guardian of Stone. The words gnawed at his heart.

The clansmen trudge past him until he was herded to the back of the column where the greens, mercenaries, and slaves were kept. They hummed, tapped their spears and swords along the stone, and beat their meaty chests to Khalgaldr, the hymn of Lord Khalon. Each one of them — man and woman — a towering shadow stacked with muscle; their bodies and faces as rugged as weathered stones. Everything Sigvard was not.

He was smaller than the other boys his age. Some of the girls from high families had as much muscle, if not more. His face was soft and unbecoming of a boy turning fourteen. And they pestered him for that, calling it the Namesake Curse since the first half of his name comes from his mother and the second from his father.

“Eating stones touched by the Commander gives you strength,” announced Gilus, picking up a small shard almost as sharp as the scar above his right brow. The mark and his large stature gave him some sort of self-proclaimed reign over the other greens.

Gilus popped a few bit-sized rocks into his mouth and the others eagerly followed. All except Sigvard and Frida, the only green larger than Gilus. She was unusually muscular for a girl; with broad shoulders and arms that were capable of tearing off limbs. Her pelt skirt and fur mantle were made from a family of mountain lions she killed during her Herja Day if the stories held any truth. Perhaps that struck fear into him.

“No, it doesn’t. That’s stupid.” Frida said, hand waving as if to keep the stupid away.

“Yes, it does. My father said so.”

“Well, your father isn’t the brightest, is he? Wasn’t he the one who was tricked with the same promise and sucked on a goat’s teat?”

“That’s not the same!” Gilus stomped. He glared at her, but that only made her laugh, giving the greens confidence to cackle. Fuming, he found Sigvard. “Tell them, bastard boy.”

“It’s true,” he said, straight-faced. He waited for Gilus’ smug grin to stretch wide and proud before adding, “It is stupid.”

The greens howled, slapping their thighs and pointing.

“Laugh all you want,” he said, wincing with pain as he swallowed. “When I become the clan head of our generation, don’t say I didn’t try to help you.”

The laughter calmed when they saw his bloody teeth. While the other greens tried to follow his lead and test the strength of their jaws. Sigvard could only feel glass in his throat.

He never understood it: the constant urge his people felt to prove their strength. As far as their cave paintings and sculptures date, Arindians contended for glory over silly little games. Centuries past, it was claiming mountain peaks; a decade ago, stone showers; now, stone chewing. Most spit the stone out when the taste of iron filled their mouth, but the thick-headed ones feared not the excreting pains and swallowed.

The Elders had claimed it to be a sign of worship to Lord Khalon and his gift of earth, but normal foods came from the earth too, did they not? When he told them as much, they looked at him as if he spoke a different tongue and waved him away, telling him to return to his forgery. What does this little lamb know? Their eyes asked.

It was a barbaric act but he oft did as he was bid with little complaint for he favored anything over his people’s favorite test of strength — battle.

Frida strolled beside him. The mountain of a girl dwarfed him by nearly two heads. He longed for the days he was able to rest his elbow on her shoulder without much stress. Now he’d have to jump for that. And her sudden rise prompted a new nickname for him. “You sure you don’t want to try it, bean sprout? Lords know you need all the help you can get.” Her voice was much more childlike than her appearance.

“Shut it, he-woman,” he grumbled. “We both know Gilus is full of it.”

She slapped him on the back, the blow almost sweeping him off his feet. “Come on. You know I’m joking. No need to throw a fit.”

“Why don’t you have a taste? You’re fine with him being the clan head?”

“Even if he does, that idiot won’t hold any power over me. Not until he can best me in a duel.” She shrugged. “Are you?”

“No, but —”

“Then you should focus on your Herja Day. You’re the only green in our clan to fail. For Halvard's son—” Her lips clamped shut. “Sorry.”

Gos grew heavier in his hands. He knew she meant no harm but the pain was still a fresh wound in his heart, even after a long seven years. Death by combat was the greatest honor an Arindian could ask for, but when his father, the Great Halvard Trygg, died in a duel, there was no honor felt. That day, Sigvard saw the insides of his father’s skull squirting and splattered across the arena. Beaten to a bloody pulp in a pitiful display. Any sense of pride in his “invincible” father stolen from him.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Frida wrapped her large, yet surprisingly gentle hand around his shoulder, and smiled. “Want me to show you a new move I learned?”

Before he could respond, she pulled him still and forced his limbs into a fighting stance like he was a play doll. “Okay, now tighten up as much as you can. I’m going to push you so use all you have to not fall over.”

He knew there was no stopping her once she started, so he sucked air into his stomach and hardened. I am a rock. . . a rock. I am Sigvard the Invincible.

Frida stood square before him and hovered her hand over his abdomen, limp and turned down as if she was expecting a kiss on the hand like one of those fancy ladies from Tridon. She stared hard at his stomach, eyes searching for something. Though she had yet to touch him, he felt as though something was crawling all over him.

“There!” She snapped her hand forward, palm flat on his stomach. A shockwave blew through him. His rock mental shattered into a thousand pieces. He toppled over, his insides bubbling hot. For a moment everything went dark. When he came to, Frida was over him. Her face was pale with fear. A sight seen by him alone.

“Sigvard, are you okay? Didn’t I tell you to tighten up!?”

She helped him to his feet. Stars danced around his sight. “I did,” he groaned. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

“. . . but I didn’t. I only tapped you.”

“What? Bullshit. It felt like you struck me with a club!”

“Hm. . . Maybe that’s why I was told not to use it.” Her careless tone made him angrier. “You called yourself a rock again, didn’t you?” It only took a small glance away for her to know the answer. “Again? Didn’t we go over this? It’s ‘like a mountain’. A rock is too small.”

“Shut up,” he said as he dusted himself off. “Where did you even learn that move?”

“You know I can’t tell you.” She grinned like she was proud to be keeping the secret. “Never mind that. Where I learned it is unimportant. What is important is that this move is perfect for you!”

“Oh, yeah? And how's that?”

“Think about it, bean sprout. I barely touched you and you flew across the floor, which means you don’t need strength for it! Assuming you weren’t faking it of course.”

He rubbed the bruising handprint on his stomach. “Oh, I can say for certain that I was not. Are you sure you're not just a freak?”

Frida threw a playful punch at him. This time he saw it coming and ducked away. She raised a brow in slight surprise. “No, you fool. Listen. All I did was find your center line and push. Simple.” She drew a cross over his body. “Even mountains can fall if its core is broken. . . as someone told me.”

You mean your mentor. “That’s stupid. You can’t break a mountain.” Sigvard scoffed but humored her. “So how do I find this ‘center’?”

“It’s different for all things. You just need to feel for it, I guess. Practice on some boulders and you’ll be fine. That’s what I did.”

“Yeah, I think my hands will break before then.”

“Tch. Do what you will, bean sprout. I only showed you since I think you’d find it more useful than me.” She flaunted her muscles at him and flashed a smug grin, “I prefer a more straightforward approach.”

He gripped his own arm; it fit well in a single hand. “Show-off.”

The march came to a sudden halt. Sigvard gave a farewell nod and rushed to the front, Gos tight in his grasp. He saw the looks the clansmen exchanged as he ran past. These were once his father’s loyal warriors. They shared spoils of war, alcohol, and meals. Some he even considered family. But those are memories of days long gone, replaced by the unwelcoming looks of strangers.

Agnar and his council were standing before a flank of wall colored black in the sea of brownstone, attempting to sample a taste of the stone by ripping a chuck out, but their fingers could not penetrate it. They were discussing something but broke off when Sigvard approached.

He presented Gos to the Commander. As Agnar took the hammer, he clutched his face and forced his eyes up. “You are to look here, boy. Watch and learn something.”

The Commander waved Gos and slammed the flathead against the cave wall, but this time, the stone did not budge. Confused, the Commander eyed the hammer as if validating its authenticity, then tried another strike, roaring to match his ferocity. The cave clapped with the boom of steel like the loud tang of an anvil, the cavern groaned and cried salt fingers. Still, the wall stood strong and unscathed.

Brodin the Shield belched and strutted forth, his steps as heavy as the steel door strapped to his back. Torchlight danced against the golem guardian etched into the shield’s face and twinkled in its topaz eye. “Tired, Commander?” he bellowed a laugh.

“Yes,” Agnar said with a sly grin. “Your wife is quite the ride.”

Brodin choked a chuckle as he was drinking mead from a hollow horn, his muscle-and-mead swollen belly bouncing as he coughed. “Well said, Commander. That one is full of energy.”

Coward, Sigvard thought. It may be a quip but does your wife’s honor mean nothing?

“A stone even the Commander cannot break,” Katla Khan said, running her manly fingers through the wild bush growing from her head. She was the only woman to hold a seat in the clan’s council, but if not for her heavy breasts, Sigvard would’ve thought she was a man. “If the Commander cannot move this stone, who will?”

“It stretches further than we know.” Osvald the Bloodskin laid his hand on the cave wall and tried to chip a piece with his serrated dirk. He stabbed, sawed, slashed, and achieved not even a scratch. He clicked his tongue and checked the dirk's edge with his finger. Blood trickled. Another scar for the collection. “Maybe it is stone left by Lord Khalon from the Lost Ages.”

Agnar nodded. “Then if we cannot go through or around, we go up.” He stomped his burly foot into the brownstone, a stack of earth jutted out beneath, forming a makeshift hill. He climbed and continued swinging.

They mined deeper into the mountain with no map or sense of direction, scaling up the heights with nothing but torchlight. Everything done with gut feeling. Such was the way of Agnar Valen. “The earth will guide us to the City of Light,” he had told his people before they departed Fort Greymir.

A stupid plan, Sigvard sulked to himself, falling to the rear. They had traveled for so long his feet and legs ached. The skin of his sole tore open as if he ran through a field of shattered glass. He wasn’t allowed boots or even sandals; all he was allowed was an iron skirt, his father’s fur cape, and a fine spear he had forged out of broken and unwanted tools. The rest he would have to earn on his Herja Day, for it was a privilege granted to those who proved themselves lone survivors.

They emerged atop the black stone and found it slanting, twisting, and steepening as they marched on. Agnar continued to follow the flow, carving away rock and widening the path with the help of the council. The clan branched out into three. Agnar forged ahead with two hundred clansmen and greens; Katla went left and Osvald right, both with a mixture of fifty mercenaries, slaves, and clansmen. Their torchlight faded to a tiny flicker as they strayed further.

It wasn’t long until they returned. Their discovery echoed down to the rear, “Rivers of black”. Sigvard knew not what to do with the riddle, but if they truly found the rim, then the black stone stretched wide enough for the entire three hundred to walk shoulder to shoulder.

Light pierced through a waterfall of fog pouring from an opening ahead. Like the rising sun breaking through morning mist. Outside, at last, his feet cried.

But when they emerged from the cave, the spotless sky and eternal sun were absent. In its stead were a million luminescent gems speckled across the black canvas overhead. Dark, decrepit houses of stone rimmed the enormous, smokey chamber, like a sea of black, forgotten tombstones. At the heart was the source of the unbreakable stone: a pillar — too grand, too large, too perfectly erect to be natural — sprouting from an ebony field spotted with violet flowers, and rising past the false sky. The peak far out of sight.

“Astervangr.”

“What?” Frida said, scaring him. He did not realize he spoke aloud.

The Realm of the Stars, home to The All Mother, the gifter of life, Sigvard wanted to blurt out, but he knew she wouldn’t understand. His people believed in the Gods they see, touch, feel. But his father used to tell him of nameless, formless Gods, ones that ruled long before the Old Ones.

He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

The bash of sword and shield sounded. Soon, the entire clan joined in the song of steel, all eyes fell on the Commander. Agnar raised his broadsword. Silence came in an instant.

“All of you have proven you have balls worthy of an Arindian — yes, even the women.” His harsh voice boomed over the giggles. “While the other houses cowered behind their walls, pissing and shitting themselves in the wake of death, you have chosen to press on. To reach the city by forging a new path through the mountain slopes with no clue when or where it may take us. A feat surely many cannot say. Some have fallen into the abyss as we scaled the dark caverns. Others lost their way or perhaps fled back to the fort. But not you all. No. You have weathered and persevered. And our reward stands before us. A city long forgotten. A city fashioned out of Lord Khalon’s might. Rejoice, my brothers and sisters! The treasures here are for us to claim! ”

The clansmen, slaves, and mercenaries roared with cheers — even Sigvard felt a shred of pride. The council commanded silence.

“But be forewarned. Take only what you can climb with. The journey to Solaris only becomes more perilous.” Staring at the black pillar, Agnar beamed a smile, the false stars glimmering in his eyes. A true smile, one that’s ugly and poisoned with bloated pride and victory.

Sigvard’s heart grew heavy and dark. He had not seen that smile since Agnar killed his father. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.