Thrain - Part 3

Chapter 1

Njalor

Snowflakes fell slow in the still air. Some fell against white mountains, meeting friends of the last snow, and the snow before that, on peaks where the cold endured. Others drifted through tall, thin pines of evergreen leaf, catching on the thistles or finally resting on the plains and rivers crossing the northern land.

Some, however, fell into a narrow, winding pathway set by towering cliffs, and landed near men. As a flake fell onto the brow of one, a burly and calloused hand moved carefully and wiped it away, as if in fear of waking something.

Dressed in furs dyed in deep greens and browns, these men stood stark against the white expanse, but had burrowed into the bank of snow, and would not be seen from the road. Next to them, blended in furs of white and black, more large and silent figures waited in the deep bank.

The two tribes of color eyed each other uneasily, but still together waited.

The waiting stretched onwards, and one giant of a man with hair like burning fire fiddled with his knife. Beside him, wearing the same black and white a man grinned, and then continued searching the ravine with a bright and piercing gaze. As the noise of marching suddenly came dimly over the snow, his hand shot out and stilled the man’s twiddling. They both turned and looked up the pass.

Ranks of blue and white marched forward with disciplined strides, their banners moved only by the boot stamping cadence. For a long moment, only the echo of crunching snow and huffing breath went through the pass, and all other sounds were quiet.

Then in the ranks of men within the banks a banner shot up, held aloft by a mighty man. At once Njalor sprang from his hiding spot, closely followed by the man with red hair. The snow around him exploded into a cloud of powder as dozens more in black and white erupted from their hiding. There was no battlecry, only the sound men sprinting to deliver swift death.

Njalor charged forward, his ax raised high, its blade catching the weak sunlight and glinting with that promise. Erik the red-haired barreled past his side, his knife flashing like quicksilver in one hand, and a two-handed ax in the other, and they crashed into the ranks of blue.

The Fjellsyn warriors scrambled to meet this sudden onslaught. Their disciplined lines blurred from motion, and captains barked defensive orders. Oddly, most had their weapons in hand, and the furs were discarded as if hardly put on.

Iron met iron in a cacophony of shrieks and clangs. Njalor swung his axe demanding defense, or death. The Fjellsyn, finding their bearing with shocking speed, fought back fiercely, their weapons shrieking against those of the black and white Urheim.

Erik moved with grace for his size, the knife dispensing of anyone too close, and his ax threatening all in front of him. His laughter echoed over the sounds of battle, as he traded scratches for bodies. Njalor carved his way past several blue Fjellsyn, and had to fell one brown-clad Skogrull, who must have mistaken him for the enemy, and joined Erik.

But as Njalor fought, a gnawing realization slowly dawned on him. He fended off several blows from yet another Skogrull, and met the man’s eyes at the third. The gnawing became a biting in his stomach as he saw clear and cold recognition of who he was. He was forced yet again to send the warrior onward to Sköll.

“Erik!” Njalor bellowed over the sounds of battle. Erik caught his gaze, a maniacal grin of war fever upon his face. Njalor gritted his teeth, narrowly dodging a swing to his face. Catching sight of two Skogrull flanking Erik in brown and green, he managed only to yell “Why?!” And then several Fjellsyn swarmed him.

When he finished with them, sustaining a large cut to the chest, he looked to Erik again. This time, the frenzy was gone from his face, and a cold look peered about the battlefield. He nodded grimly.

With each passing moment, the truth became clear.

"Betrayal!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din of combat. The Skogrull, their supposed allies, were fighting alongside the Fjellsyn against the Urheim.

In answer to his cry the battle raged on, brutal and unyielding. He glanced quickly at the other tribal heads. One by one, three of the tribal heads signaled for attack, their gestures angry amidst the tumult. Njalor signed a retreat in response; this was not the time to attack. Their hope had been solely in the ambush, combined with the numbers of the Skogrull. He shook his head vehemently, but readjusted his grip and felled another. Without the agreement of all four heads, the Urheim would not retreat.

Njalor's ax rose and fell in deadly arcs, and the battle seemed evenly matched, neither side gaining a clear advantage. The Urheim fought like cornered animals and it seemed there might be a chance. He could feel the stone creeping into his arms and knew it was only a mirage.

Then, Njalor's gaze found Yurk the Thar, engaged in a fierce duel with a Skogrull warrior. Fate was cruel, and with a swift strike, the warrior felled Thar, his body crumpling lifeless to the snow.

Shock rippled through Njalor. He was now the Lord of Urheim, twenty-first Thar. He staggered. It was not supposed to happen like this. Almost immediately, the other heads sounded the cry for retreat, now in full agreement with Njalor’s abrupt promotion. As their cries cut through the din, Urheim began to retreat.

Njalor stood completely still, and if not for Erik there would have been a second promotion. The clang of iron inches from his ear, and the red man’s meaty shoulder driving Njalor’s wind from his lungs as he pushed him from harm brought him back. For a brief moment, he considered overruling the retreat, a tinge of red about his vision threatening the Trance. But the reality of their situation pierced the haze. They were leaderless, betrayed, and at risk of annihilation.

Cursing, Njalor began to retreat with them.

The retreat was a grueling ordeal, a bitter withdrawal under continued enemy onslaught.

The tribes, emboldened by their advantage, pursued Njalor’s retreating men relentlessly. Now at range, some turned to slings and arrows -- in fact a great many more than should have, suddenly did for this day. Njalor snarled angrily, turning frequently to fend off the attackers, each encounter further enraging him. Beside him, Erik fought back with equal ferocity, now wielding just the ax in both hands.

Njalor nearly fell to the ground as a bolt slammed into his back and pushed all of his air out from his lungs. By Sköll’s mercy, his armor held together, but pain blossomed across his body. Erik hauled him upright as he stumbled.

As they neared one of Urheim’s outposts, Njalor felt a surge of relief. The outpost, perched on a rise, was manned by a skeleton crew, but it would halt the pursuit. The fortified longbow sat like a gaunt vision of death atop the small tower.

The pursuing brown and blue horde was too war-hungry to recall the danger. Njalor smiled, a hungry, carnal look that took delight in what was about to unfold. As they neared, the bow sprung to life.

The sound was first a deep, rich thrum, 6 of them in slow succession. One of the Skogrull abruptly stopped, eyes wide in remembered terror.

The sound was second a low, whistling whine, as something large moved oddly fast. Many of the Urheim dove.

The sound was third and finally a wet crunch, as two and half-foot bolts as thick as a man’s thumb slammed into several warriors in pursuit. The remaining warriors saw their peril, and for a moment they stopped.

6 more thrums echoed into the fading day.

Hastily, both tribes turned back and went as quickly as they could. Four of the shots no longer hit their mark, but two had been placed hoping for the retreat, and they slew three men, one of the bolts passing through one into another.

Past the outpost and finally safe, Njalor and many others dropped to their knees and wept for men they would never bury. They began the slow plod home.

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Next

Thrain - Part 4

Next Njalor

Thrain - Part 6