Many miles to the south, King Ulden sat at his table inside his tent, when as one, all the birds in the surrounding forest took to the skies in an enormous cacophony of tweets and chirps. He stood up and moved to the entrance and pulled back the flap to peer out and see what was going on, when the ground began shaking.
His legs became unsteady, and he fell to the floor, his eyes wide as he looked around. He could feel himself being tossed repeatedly as the very ground beneath him bowed, and rippled like water. Then the ground tremor subsided, and after a time, the birds fell silent as well.
Triger whipped the tent flap open, and looked inside, his anguished face scanning the interior, when he spotted his king on the floor.
He helped Ulden to his feet, and asked, “Are you all right, Majesty?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Captain Valbrun. Aside from a bruised backside, I’m fine. Is that a frequent occurrence here?”
“It’s not unheard of, as there are several active fire-mountains, but tremors like that are rare. I don’t think it was an eruption, though, Your Majesty. Tremors of that magnitude only happen close to them. We are over a thousand miles from the nearest one.”
“What would cause the ground to shake like that, then?” asked Ulden.
“I am as perplexed as you are, my king.”
“Well, head out and have the officers check on their men. Take note of casualties, and bring me a report.”
“At once, Sire.” Triger saluted smartly and left the tent.
King Ulden, with tentative steps, made his way outside. He looked to the sky, seeing it was clear, and filled with stars. The undulating waves of colour still flashed across the sky to the north. It would have appeared as though the last ten minutes were a dream, were it not for the frenetic activity of soldiers re-erecting collapsed tents, and the groans of injured men.
Ulden made his way through the camp and found himself at an impromptu aid tent, warmed and lit by a brazier. He went inside, and happened to glance down at a man with foamy, scarlet spittle seeping from the corner of his mouth.
Ulden reached down and took the man’s hand. “What is your name, good fellow?”
The man coughed and whispered, “Farod, sir. Am I going to die?”
“I am sure the priests will get to you soon. Fret not.”
“I don’t mind dyin’, sir, but I don’t wanna go like this.”
“We can pray to Myim, he may let you in on a technicality. We are on a campaign of sorts.”
Farod’s eyes lit up a little as he gave a wan smile, that soon turned into a grimace, as his breathing became more ragged.
Ulden rushed to the tent opening and called out, “Healer! I need a healer in here!”
A white-robed man approached, his face wearing an arrogant scowl. “What is all the noise here? Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?” the priest demanded.
When he realised to whom he was speaking, his face flushed, and taking a knee, he said with a shaky voice, “My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t realise-”
“Enough! Get up. I need you to heal this man. NOW!”
The priest leapt to his feet and hurried inside. After several minutes, he re-emerged. He averted his eyes as he addressed his king. “I did what I could. His injury bled inside his body, so although his wound was healed…” He held his hands out and shrugged.
The king spoke in a muted, measured, yet forceful manner. “You do not stop. You go from man to man until you collapse, and then you get up and keep going. Are We clear?”
“Your will, my king,” the priest replied and ducked back inside the aid tent.
Ulden sighed as he looked at the entrance, then made his way back to his own tent.
As Ulden arrived, Triger was waiting, his face creased with worry. The guard captain made as though to speak, but remembered himself. He paused, took a deep breath, collected himself, and plastered on a thoroughly artificial smile and said, “Your Majesty. You had us all worried. Might I ask-”
“You may not. Report.”
“We had over one hundred injuries. Of those, only twenty-six will be unable to go on tomorrow, the rest will have fully healed. The injuries were mostly sprains and broken bones. The ones with head and chest injuries are the ones unfit to march. We had seventeen fatalities.”
The king let out an explosive breath. “Seventeen?” He sighed and threw his hands up, as he continued, “I suppose it could have been worse. So, we are down nearly fifty men. If we felt that here, no doubt the towns nearby felt it too. Send two hundred men to Holkeshofn to assist the town. Have them take our dead, and those unfit to march with them. Once we have Bruderman City in hand, dispatch troops to the towns along the river and to the east to help those folk with whatever they need.”
“Ah, your majesty-”
“If that ground tremor could knock down men and tents, it can knock down buildings. Our people may need us, and so we shall help them.”
“As you command, Sire.”
ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ
The sheer force of sound assaulting Orn was shocking him to his very bones. He put all his will into his voice as he bellowed, “ENOUGH!”
Orn’s voice cut through and then all was still as the immense god looked at the young man. His red eyes were like saucers and his huge maw agape. After several moments of shocked silence, he uttered, “How? You are a man-thing. But… You speak with a god’s voice!”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Orn breathed in shallow gasps. His eyes widened, though he stopped himself, doing his best to hide it. He then said as calmly as he could, “You would destroy all of your people for the mistakes of a few?”
Bijáš flinched at Orn’s softly voiced, yet penetrating rebuke. The question shaming him as his mouth opened and closed; the god struggling to find a response.
Orn ploughed on, not wanting to lose his momentum. “You are ancient, yet you behave like a jilted child. What manner of god behaves like this?”
Orn could hear Briga making soft choking noises as she squeezed his arm to get his attention. Orn ignored her and pressed the god. “And what of your strength? Would you not be diminished by the loss of so many worshippers? I thought gods were wise.”
Briga hissed into his ear, “Really, Orn, you go too far!”
Orn changed tacks as he said, “Spare your children. Let me deal with the ones who’ve strayed. If they survive, perhaps they are redeemable. They are your children, after all, aren’t they?”
“You shame me,” accused the giant god.
“I can understand your ire. My brother infuriates me sometimes, and I don’t doubt he feels the same towards me. But I would be deeply hurt if I were to lose him. Worse still, if it were by my own doing.”
“You cannot be a man-thing,” said Bijáš, his features contorted in response to Orn’s words.
“But I am. Leave your wayward followers to me, and I will tell my father and brother of you. I mean, in a way, they too are your children, so they should know you and praise your name,” said Orn.
“But they are Everrin’s.”
Briga interjected, “I will talk to my father. He is reasonable, and you did grant him sanctuary, and some of your people to worship him when he was in need. Besides, what is one more god among the Halder pantheon? I think your inclusion is long past due.”
Bijáš sat down, closing his eyes as Orn and Briga looked on.
While still eying the god, Orn turned his face toward Briga and muttered, “Is he sleeping?”
“I honestly don’t know,” muttered Briga in response, her brow furrowed in consternation.
Minutes turned into an hour, and then more minutes. As it approached the second hour, Orn whispered to Briga, “Maybe we should go.”
Briga whispered back, “I don’t understand it. Gods do not need sleep. Maybe we should rouse him somehow.”
As the goddess took several small, tentative steps towards Bijáš, he said in a booming voice, “Very well.”
Briga let out a short sharp squeak as she jumped back at the sudden sound of the immense god’s voice.
Orn snorted, and slapped his hand over his mouth as he fought to contain the laughter threatening to bubble out of him.
Briga gave him a reproachful look, even as she blushed.
Bijáš continued, oblivious, “You shall see to those who strayed, and you shall speak of me to your father and brother.”
The immense god reached out with one of his hands and touched Orn’s head. The touch, slight though it was, made Orn gasp as it drove him to his knees.
“Now my children will know you speak for me. Should they not listen, they are my children no more,” said Bijáš.
He then arose to his full height, and ambled away without a backward glance.
After several minutes of watching the god’s rapidly receding figure, Orn asked, “So, back to Bosberg?”
“No, actually. We need to be somewhere else. Come.”
Briga closed her eyes, her face losing all expression. Orn could see in the silvery moonlight, reflected from the stark, white landscape, every detail of Briga’s exquisite features. He could even see the corneas of her eyes moving beneath the surface of her eyelids, as she searched with her fathomless mind.
Briga stepped past Orn, crouched as she touched the surface of the snow, and traced her hand in a straight line upwards to her own height. Moving her hand back down halfway, she then parted the air as though it was a piece of fabric. As she turned to Orn, she smiled and held out her hand to him. He took the proffered hand, and they stepped through.
No sooner had they entered the tent, than the sound of metal striking a solid surface rang in the air. Orn saw the sword in slow motion as it struck Briga between her neck and her shoulder, shattering as though made of crystal.
Despite his eyes seeing that Briga was unharmed, Orn felt the back of his throat constrict as he let out a snarl and leapt at the wielder of the broken blade. Orn’s sword, Skofnung, flashed into his hand as he knocked the man over, landing atop him.
The plea in Briga’s voice brought him up short, as the tip of Skofnung caused a trickle of blood to seep out of where it touched the man’s throat.
“Orn! Stop! I am fine,” Briga cried.
“What is the meaning of this?” a familiar man’s voice demanded. “Orn Avdlak, explain yourself!”
Orn peered about the large tent’s interior, and then his eyes fell on King Ulden. The king expended his best effort to look dignified, undone by the wildness in his remaining eye. Orn then looked down at the man he was holding at sword point.
Briga placed a gentle hand on Orn’s sword arm, and said into his ear, “Easy, Orn. I am fine. Please, release him.”
Orn’s breathing slowed as he calmed down. His sword melded back into his arm, and the runic script returned to his inner forearm. He stood up and moved over to Briga and intently examined where he had seen the blade strike her.
His intense gaze made Briga’s breath quicken as she blushed. Then she clasped her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Enough, my love. I am fine.”
Captain Valbrun regained his feet, holding the hilt of his broken sword, while looking at Briga with a wild-eyed stare. He had interposed himself between the unexpected arrivals, and his king, fully prepared to meet his doom.
The king spoke again, in a somewhat calmer voice. “Orn, what are you doing here?”
“I’m not entirely certain of that myself, Your Majesty,” said Orn.
“You could call me ‘Grandfather’ if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.”
At this impromptu announcement, the wild look in Triger’s eyes only increased.
“It’s all right captain, you can stand down. This is the younger son of Venna, my eldest daughter,” Ulden said, with the slightest tinge of pride in his voice.
Triger gulped as he absorbed that detail. He had heard of his king’s acknowledgement of Princess Venna, but he had not seen her sons. He had remained in Utstadland to protect the queen during the last Halder council in Fludavera.
“And who is this delightful young lady accompanying you? Won’t you introduce her to Us, Orn?” asked the king, having now fully regained his composure.
“Oh, this is-”
“Gentlemen,” Briga interrupted. “We have no time for introductions. Ulden Argenson, I am going to need you to come with me. We have very little time.”
As she said that, her expression shifted to one of deep sorrow before she suppressed it.
“Forgive Us, young lady, but We are not going anywhere. We have things to attend to in the capital of this land, and further...”
The king’s voice trailed off as Briga allowed her divine presence to fill the space inside the king’s tent. Triger sank to his knees, a sickly pallor on his face at the realisation he’d struck a goddess with his sword.
Briga moved to the young captain, and raised him to his feet. “It is well, Triger Valbrun. You did your duty, and protected your king…” She paused as she regarded him momentarily with an arched eyebrow much like Venna, and then teased, “… From a small, feeble, young woman, no less.”
The guard captain held up his broken sword and cast a bemused look from her to his hand and back again. Briga returned his look with a mysterious smile, and a slight shrug.
Orn considered that he may need to, somehow, limit Briga’s exposure to his mother, going forward. She was becoming too much like Venna for his liking. Ulden spoke, jarring Orn back to the present and interrupting his musing.
“Orn, what is going on here?” asked the king, a slight tremor in his voice, his eyes locked on the young woman with the oppressive aura.
“Grandfather-”
“You can talk to me, Ulden Argenson. I am Briga. I brought Orn here to lead your men. The captain can fill him in. But I need you to accompany me to your home. Gereld is there, and he prayed for my help.”
“We pray, but Our prayers are never answered,” said the king.
“That’s because you didn’t need what you were praying for, Ulden. Come, we need to leave now. Time is running out,” she said, as she held her hand out and snapped her fingers.
Ulden appeared on the verge of a retort, but stopped himself. Instead, he shook his head and took a tentative step toward her and gingerly reached out his hand.
“I will not bite you, Ulden,” the goddess said as she grabbed his hand. “Take charge of this venture, my love. I shall return as soon as I can.”
“My love? What-” The king’s question cut off, as Briga half dragged him through the tent flap.
Triger leapt after them, only to find himself outside. His king, and the goddess were nowhere to be seen.