Prologue

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The Fifth Apocalypse

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“Fehr five hundred years we’ve honted!”

A hulking man roared out to his rallied soldiers, brandishing a man’s arm in lieu of his weapon.

Although quite robust himself, the corpse he proclaimed victory atop of easily doubled his mass.

“Weh traveled through sea, mountain, an desert for oor divine reward.”

Handling the severed limb proved more unwieldy than the very claymore which had sundered it off his victim; a sword whose thick blade was now freshly impaled into an oversized rib cage, which dwarfed the slayer.

“Glory to the Scanvaragn!”

His men celebrated their leader’s every word, swigging from their ale horns with each cheer.

“Skol to Iarl Thorvald!”

Though their careless sloshing spilled the majority of their beverage, reeking with the stench of iron; ruddy and viscous.

Nectar from their conquered quarry.

Spared women and children, along with any subdued or injured soldiers, comprised the petrified audience.

Repulsed at the desecration of their countrymen, whose strewn bodies lay on the cold stone floors.

Overwhelming impotence weighed over the corralled citizens.

As they remained enthralled by the massacre of their people, entranced by red puddles collecting along the scarlet streams that painted the worn stone floors.

Their throats festered in a compulsory silence, as the survivors were kept surrounded by Scanvaragn, with their bloody steel ready to strike at their slightest defiance.

Across the captured city, were houses made of polished granite; their dense walls were not too dissimilar to the monuments and pyramids of the capitol they shared.

The breathtaking architecture contrasted with the horrific scenery, left over from the anterior battle.

“Aftar centuries o tracking de Fordha, in Odin’s name…”

As if dialect wasn’t indication enough, the blazing hair raining over Thorvald’s war-painted face, granted him the unmistakable appearance of the barbarous inhabitants beyond the northern mountains.

“Finally the mission gifted in my nam, by the All-fadher…”

The Iarl lifted the lifeless limb up to his broad teeth, both his arms tussling with the dead weight of it.

“Oor new hame, oor new kengdom, oor promised land, is at hand. ”

He bit into one of its rotund fingers, like a mastodon’s trunk.

His large canines ruptured through the sinew, splitting off its thumb.

“GAAASP!”

“BLAAARGH!”

Men and women among them heaved at the grisly spectacle.

Their gaze involuntarily averted from the carnage.

The gushing blood sprayed across the enslaved populace.

A spatter of the fluids struck an ivory-robed figure standing patiently beside the war chief; red droplets rolled down from the cross at the top of his aureate staff, staining his pristine silk gloves.

“The Zodiarchiate will smite your people for this treachery Scanvarg.”

The cloaked priest condemned the Iarl.

He leered down at his wrist, eyeing the fixed stones inlaid into a bangle of identical material as his golden scepter.

“Xalfos haes abandoned ye Fordha,

HAHAHA!”

The red-haired man rested his arm atop the priest’s staff, reaching for the horned helm resting upon the crown of his lifeless podium.

“Jus as Odin’s prophecy foretold, Grand Primus.”

Thorvald scoffed, fixing his gear over his skull,

“Soon ye will bear witness te the power o true diviniteh.”

His belittling words held an undertow of menace.

“An… it’s Iarl…

or King.

Whatever is more palatable for yer heathen tongue.”

“SKOL to Iarl Thorvald!”

His men chanted.

“May he lead us for centuries te come!”

“SKOL!!!”

They hailed incessantly to their imposing leader.

As his equally intimidating warriors cluttered the temple courtyard, blockading the exits and passageways.

Herding the smaller, darker natives within the confines of their barracks.

Twelve white hooded men stood beside the foreign invaders.

Rows of gold lining ran from their collars down to the frill of their immaculate frocks, noting their domain and rank.

The dozen of them were gilded in relics and jewelry.

Wrinkles of wisdom complimented their beautifully embroidered cowls, distinguishing them from the common priests; with those of a lower clergy counting themselves among the numerous cowering villagers, hostage among the chaos.

To the Scanvaragn, these commoners were no different than the giants whom they persecuted.

Insolent ones were criminals at the heels of the conquerors, while the more compliant holy men, were revered as saints, guiding their new alliances to victory.

“The blasphemers o his authority purged o thair sinful blood!”

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Thorvald’s sonorous shouts echoed over the crowded subjects.

Genuflected before him, the humiliated prisoners rang their shackles as their jagged cuffs dug into their naked flesh.

The dirt and mud blended with their sunbathed complexions.

“Free will be oor lands o the wicked, an corrupt…“

His wild beard clumped as he spat through his words, the red stains mixed with the dripping saliva.

“Oor souls liberated o thair fallen seed!”

From a simple glance, one could see even the smallest of the pale barbarians overshadowed the largest of the surviving locals.

Their great swords alone were mere inches higher than the average villager.

Behind the imprisoned soldiers waited their families; pleading for their loved ones as they awaited before the pyramid’s court.

The green stone of the structure was stained with the remains of the Scanvaragn’s sacrifices.

And the smell of death permeated the raided city.

“Tak yer men an bring the troll, Primus…”

He grunted at the gold-studded priest standing by his side.

“It’s time for the lest ritua.”

As the holy man marched onward to his orders, the Iarl’s grasp reached out, gripping his neck.

Pulling him back, he held him by the scruff.

Thorvald extended his free hand and stretched his fingers in demand.

“Let’s no forget the fragment, faither.”

He mocked the Primus, waiting for his request to be answered.

Turning to look up at the Iarl’s icy blue eyes, the robed man searched his collar for a delicate silver lace.

His accustomed knuckles quickly yanked the pendant, plucking it from its hoisted gem, then handing it over into Thorvald’s possession.

“Nou breng me the filthy Jotunn Mongrel.” The Iarl Thorvald prompted the priest once more.

Shoving him forth.

The Primus nearly tripped from the force.

“YA!”

“Bring the fallen!”

“Kill the Fordha!”

His warriors repeated.

The Iarl along with his war band imbibed their already blood-stained mugs, as the priests to fetch the young giant.

Thorvald placed the twelfth Primus necklace in his grasp, chiming whilst colliding with the other crystals as he tucked them in his satchel.

Thump

Clomp

Thump

“HELP QUINAMETZIN!”

“XICALANCATL!”

The restrained villagers cried out as the tribute marched forth.

Grounds shook with the heaviness of its approaching footsteps.

Looking ahead Thorvald could see the topside of the giant’s scalp peeking over his brigade, marching ever closer.

CLANK

CLANK

CLANK

Chains struck across the lumbering body of the hostage, rattling as he dragged his large feet.

The links’ girth and weight made more for beasts than men, but only restraints this dense could hold the young Quinametzin.

Although still adolescent, his build was already formidable, even for specimens as monstrous as the Scanvaragn elite.

“Move ye vermin!”

His men swept the lower end of their spears against the crowds’ ankles, tumbling the civilians out of the way.

The Primus vestry heaved on the giant’s iron chains.

An ease was afforded to them by a glowing energy, which extended from their bodies.

Their power caused the Quinametzin to stumble onto the stone floor, with the aftershock startling the villagers.

Iarl Thorvald dislodged the sword protruding from the cadaver below him.

CLAAAAAAANG

Swinging and planting its blade into a makeshift marble altar beside his kill.

The resilient metal rang, wedged into the red-soaked boulder.

With the Primus guard holding his chains, the small giant’s posture groveled near the floor.

“By the will granted to me…”

Releasing the Quinametzin’s bonds, the flowing magic surged from their prayers, enveloping the restraints.

With a mind of their own, they wrapped around his extremities, constricting their movement.

“FELAGI!

Oor destiny awaits in the promised land!”

Iarl Thorvald declared.

The Twelve Primus’ all took their place; surrounding the offering.

Encircling both the compacted prisoners and their martyr: Xicalancatl.

The final remnants of their civilization were held within the borders of the courtyard.

Not only every singular person but each individual book, all pieces of art, and their entire culture, would join their creators’ extinction.

Everything was ready, after centuries of suffrage and sacrifice.

This victory was the final threshold to the Scanvargn’s’ proselytized glory.

“Master Thorvald, the poison sir.”

One of the cloaked priests handed the Iarl a round wooden jar covered with a sliver of animal hide.

“IARL!!!

IT’S IARL YE FORDHA!!!”

His mug blushed in annoyance, as he swiped the container away from the Primus beside him.

“Tell yer pagan spawn, te start singing.”

Thorvald shoved the priest, dispatching him back to his post.

“Protect Xicalancatl.”

One of the enslaved clerics whispered to his staring colleagues.

Discreetly shaking their heads in agreement.

“May the one light grace us with salvation.”

“May the…“

“…grace us…”

“…one light…”

“…with salvation…”

Prayers from multiple clergymen arose from within the mass of detainees.

[AETHERIC TUTEL]

They called.

A whirlwind began forming around the fettered disciples among the bound sacrifices.

The glistening currents fluorescent strands wreathed the huddled captives.

Vague runes across their surface, waxed and waned with the uniform chanting.

Taking notice of such courage, the few Primus’ who had remained obstinate to the barbarian’s wishes, joined their lowly peers.

“SAVE THE QUINAMETZIN!”

One of the clerics shouted, while another had already begun reciting their orations.

“…grace us…”

“…with salvation…”

Energies from the numerous clergymen coalesced, magnifying the power of one another, and reinforcing the magical bands.

[AETHERIC AEGIS]

Their uniform shouts commanded.

The protective spell ejected into a glassy lustrous field around the vulnerable civilians, insulating them from the encircling hordes of pale Scanvaragn.

As the gathering force began to jostle the stalwart northerners, a shout boomed through the commotion.

“Bartalom! Stop thaim!”

Thorvald commanded one of the traitorous priests to intervene.

Amid the ring of surrounding Primus, the invader’s collaborators commenced channeling in retaliation, countering the loyal clergy shielding the banded prisoners.

“For the order of justice.”

“The safeguards of truth.”

“We condemn your will.”

The defector priests swelled with power, their bodies emitting a bright glow as the rushing photons concentrated on their waving arms.

Opening their palms, they thrust forth toward the force field.

Pffft

Pffft

Pffft

Streams of sheer light blasted outward from the renegade clerics.

Rays homed in, colliding with the protective sigils.

As the disrupting shots pummeled the swaddling barrier, causing a tempest to erupt from the clashing between their spells.

Branches swept about the court, winds howled between their ransacked homes.

“UTRED! JURGEN!”

The Iarl’s baritone overpowered the uproar.

Holding the small jar, he pulled the lace strapping the skin over it, uncovering the top.

Burrowing his index into its contents, he scooped a pitch-colored clay clung with his fingers.

“USE TE EITR.”

Thorvald instructed his men.

Reaching out the Iarl grabbed his informant, pulling the Primus recreant from the outer ring of the populated court.

“WHA-!”

The priest’s robes flailed as he realized he was in the clutches of his new master.

Cradling the man’s jawline, Thorvald proceeded to crush its hinges, forcing his mouth ajar.

As much as the cleric jerked his head, the chief’s stained hand inched ever closer toward his choking mouth.

“cOugh COUgh cCOugh-”

He resisted ingesting the tarry substance, but it seemed to take a mind of its own, snaking its way through his clenched throat.

The priest’s body stiffened to a statue, his flaying tongue macerating the incantations with his contorting mouth.

Thorvald’s army stood reticent, expecting their leader’s next order.

The Iarl’s silent lips uttered two words, prompting the Scanvaragn into action.

Standing behind the twelve Primus, the barbarians seized the arms of the praying clergymen.

Pulling out globs of the same black substance, they clenched their white cowls, dragging their head back;

Their hands were slathered in the black gunk.

Ssssssss

Silky strands of the sludge began reaching across their faces.

embracing their gasping mouths.

Glooop

Its slimy consistency became more condensed and animate, clumping itself into a convulsing sphere atop their heads.

With its long thin tendrils muffling their screams, the lumps slithered over their cocooned faces.

Leaving their handlers’ arms clear of any trace.

Even the treasonous Primus, in their attempt to subdue their hostages, blinded themselves to their newfound allies.

All they could manage was a whimper, their lungs asphyxiated on the obsidian slime, quashing their struggling lungs.

As their bodies seized in shock, the amassed energy guarding the peasants rose into the atmosphere.

Erecting to the sky in a burst of incandescence.

The force of which seemed to bend the space around it, breaking the shield apart

VrOoOW

vROoWOow

An ominous groan warped above the temple summit.

The empty skies seemed to reverberate like ripples over the placid surface of a still pond.

GASP!

“AAAAH!”

As the waves grew in size and breadth, the villagers horrified screams joined the clamor.

Unlike the smirk-clad faces of the Scanvaragn, who regressed to partaking in the swill.

Thorvald in particular could not hide the boastful mug beneath his gruff exterior.

Pulling the pendants from his holstered pouch, he paced towards the knelt Quinametzin.

The gem of each necklace was undulating with a dazzling light.

The young giant looked up at the lording Iarl.

His pointed blade stared directly at his chest, ready to deal the finishing stroke into the giant.

“I stand afore ye by the will o the all-father.”

Thorvald recited resting the tip of his weapon upon Xicalancatl’s ribs.

“My kingdom in his glory is written, his will by this sword be duin.”

Gradually he slipped the blade deeper into his chest.

“Nn-Neh, yoll-oxoqu-

AAAAAAHHHH!”

The Quinametzin strained,

Until the unbearable pain became too much to bear.

“Fordha savage.”

Thorvald spat into Xicalancatl’s face and proceeded to plunge the sword all the way through his chest.

“RAAAAAWWWR!”

The young giant howled in agony.

His exhausted tongue devolved into gibberish.

“hbrrhg-xtiuwe”

With the Quinametzin’s entranced gaze fixated upon the aerial whirlpool, his pupils sweep back and forth as if following something within the rippling window.

As the fluctuating air seemed to crack the distortion became more apparent and volatile.

The gathered captives glimpsed into the oscillating distortion.

“AAAHHH!!!"

IT’S THE TITANS!”

A few of the citizens ran in horror.

Triggering the guarding Scanvaragn to swing wildly, gashing and dismembering the runaways.

Yet, the priests beheld with no surprise, without bewilderment,

but with simple expectations, which beguiled their visage.

“IT IS DONE!”

Iarl Thorvald praised to the skies.