Editing BW XXV - Dafydd

The old man sat on a frost-bitten tree stump looking across a frozen lake.  He wore winter furs of some quality, under which his burnished armour was clearly visible. On his left arm was a great round shield, effortlessly born and in his right hand was a battle axe which took his weight as he lent forward and peered into the distance.  His heavily bearded face resembled the harsh landscape: white beard and hair, like the snow; gnarled, wind-blasted and sun-dried features, like what was visible of the flora; and dark pits from where his remarkable eyes shone forth, clear blue, like a glimpse of the sky between the clouds. His Great Helm, decorated with all manner of Nordic symbols and adorned with the feathers of two wings, rested in the crook of his right arm.  

As he saw movement on the opposite bank of the lake, the man rose and place his helm on his head, leaning his battle axe against his right side as he did so.  Resting a hand on the top of the mighty weapon he watched intently as two dark figures approached across the ice. 

“You asked for me..?” His voice was as clear and crisp as his surroundings.

“Yes, father, we asked for you”, came the hissed response from the dark-clothed giant opposite. Face almost completely hidden, it wore a hooded sable cloak with holes to allow two huge horns to protrude from its head.  Its robe was deep-purple silk, which flowed to the thick ice beneath his heavily booted feet.  

Towering above the man opposite, its form quickly shifted into that of a middle-aged human, similarly clad but bearing thick horns which protruded from its enlarged forehead.  Its size too altered, diminishing to match that of the man opposite.  Bearing no obvious weapons, its was encased in oriental armour onto which had been bolted large plates of metal bearing all manner of evil looking spikes and effigies. Its face resembled a human’s though it was grotesque, with large, dark eyes and greatly exaggerated features.  

“The struggle has begun and you now know you have lost, Odin.  You knew that the time you lifted your gaze from the Mage and your will is obvious.”

“You were once our friend, Loki…” the God’s voice cracked as if he remembered fonder times.

Ignoring the old man, Loki continued, “Was he so much a fool to incur your wrath? Did he deserve to be banished at his moment of need, foresaken by others? Give up Father you know we prevail.”

“You have had plenty to say Loki and played many cards, but this is not your time either and the battle has only just begun.  No, you will not prevail and there are others that have my attention now.  No longer do I regret what happened to the Arch Mage, for there is hope and this is destiny.” The retort was strong and confident. 

“Ahhh, they fail to listen - the enemies of your scant followers rule the land, burning the good before images of our dark daughter; I will have the last laugh.” 

The second figure became more prominent in Dafydd’s mind.  She floated above the ice which was drawn up and around her adding a brief dapple of grey to her otherwise dark, strange clothing.  Hood drawn over her hair it was just possible to make out the mask that sat behind the cowl.  The half-black, half-white mask carved into the image of a beautiful young woman.  So lifelike was the image and so compelling that Dafydd got drawn in, staring at the face until his God’s voice broke the enchantment.

“There is still hope.” 

“Ha! You have been absent for too long Odin; others have taken your place…No-one is left to fight for the glories of Valhalla and Asgard anymore. Fenris has rent those fools willing to defend your pathetic dominion already.” His long, shrouded arms stretched out as if to embrace the land.

“The Valkyries have cause to work hard it is true, but I have no less Einherjar for that! Beware Loki, I will not be defeated yet; so, chain up your offspring and make rest your giant kind for the time of battle is not now! My son Heimdall soundeth not his horn, though we battle thy kin often.” 

The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating Odin and penetrating the dark that surrounded Loki and his daughter. “My rule is no longer to be questioned and the Prime will be free of your influence.  Let not your daughter corrupt any more of those innocent folk for I will no longer tolerate her devilry.  The time has come for my followers to rise up against you, and you would do well to take heed of their power.”

“Hahahaha….The time is at hand Odin when we will crush you and the Prime will fall to us. Your son, born of nine, from the sea on the earthly prime, will see his end soon enough.” 

“He looks forwards to skewering you Loki!  But no, that time has not yet come to pass.  In this auspiscious Age, Prime dwellers have seen other paths that route away from your influence.” Odin grew in confidence with each retort as if he realised the truth behind his words.

“They leave you also, old man.  Their new Gods are equally pre-disposed to slaughtering all that you stood for and my daughter here is well acquainted with their underworld.  It is your influence that continues to wane, and if you have not realised it yet, the hope you place in the few that remain loyal will soon prove groundless.  Just like the Sylvan elf in whom your offspring put so much store.  He was swift to turn to a darker, better, more powerful path once we had his spirit in good keeping.  The others will follow: it is the nature of the Prime dwellers to seek power above all else, and we have so much to offer.”

“Light will put out darkness and our light is the most powerful of all.”

“You blind your would-be followers, who turn their gaze to us.”

“No longer Loki; my followers will carry the light ahead of them, burning away your darkness for eternity!”  The blow was sudden and powerful enough to send the beast reeling backwards.  In a blur Odin had lifted his axe, twisting his wrist and flexing his arm to describe a wide arc cutting from right to left across the evil God’s chest. Even Loki was surprised by the ferocity of the attack and decided against retaliation.
 
In the distance, a middle-aged man stood on a hill illuminated by a ray of sunlight that broke through the otherwise dense, low cloud overhead. It was cold and the ground was soft. Steam rose from a horse’s back, which stood close by. He was dressed in chain armour, studded with metal plates, some supporting fierce-looking points. Across his shoulders was an ermine cloak, hood thrown back to reveal a weather-beaten, yet handsome face and sharp blue eyes, surrounded by unkempt blonde hair that struggled against the occasional plait and the few ribbons that remained sufficiently intact to offer a binding. He was Norse with a full, wiry, blonde beard. Behind him was a long line of warriors on horseback, followed by rank upon rank of women, children and all the baggage of life. A lightly armoured warrior approached on horseback. 

“My Lord, there is Gos and our scouts tell us that it is poorly defended. The enemy have moved further West to attack the Old Forest and do not expect our return.” 

Over the warrior’s shoulder the walled city loomed out of the surrounding plains.  Its once strong, white walls were broken and rent for it had been the scene of many battles.

“Yes, Balar, summon the captains for I have need of their counsel.” 

A nomad-style camp spread widely across the rolling downland. At its centre, surrounded by guards was this Norse warrior who addressed the crowd of captains sitting in a semi-circle before him. 

“Countrymen, we have a mighty challenge before us – one that Thor would relish!” Cheers and shouts rose from the throng. 

“…I know the incapacitation of Lord Perrion caused us all to think again about our goals.  I might not have his way with words, but I have his strength and his courage of conviction. We know this to be right – look at our success against the Demon.  Look at how we joined with those of other races to stemn the tide in the East.  We know that we have to take back our ancetral home and to free Gorgoroth of the evil that has seized our birthright. We were told that Gos was a fruitless venture and that Sutur will fall - that the last bastions of the Old Ages will dwindle before the massing foe. We were told that we must abandon what we once held to be impregnable and that old alliances must be sacrificed for the greater good…” a silence descended as the warrior spoke, “But our friends have shown us a new way.  There is still hope!  We must once again establish that which was lost to us.  Yes Sutur has fallen but the Prime is not dust!  Yes we lost Gos, but Gorgoroth has not frozen over.  There are friends in the most ancient of realms who honour their long-held agreements and do not turn their backs on us.  It is our turn: the time has come to take the battle to the heart of the enemy!” 

Huge cheers rose to meet the sound of the rattling of weapons and pounding of shields. 

“But the way ahead is shrouded in mystery and chaos.” The noise died down. “Why has the enemy apparently abandoned Gos? Why did we not see our foe on the long march West from Caladhon? What is the Witch doing and why did we not feel the full force of her will?  I must take my bravest warriors to scout the land ahead and spring any trap that may have been set for us.”  

A pin could have been heard to drop, even though it would fall on deep, lush grass. 

“What do you expect to find?” A tall Norsemen stood to ask; he was typically dressed save that his ermine robe was covered with a blue tabard on which was embroidered a great ram’s horn. 

“A cunningly orchestrated trap, Grumskull, which will divide me from my warriors and ensure that we are attacked simultaneously on many fronts.” 

“Would not triggering the trap spell our doom?” Enquired another who stood alone from the throng, this time wearing a blue tabard on which a hammer was inscribed. 

“Do you not know your history, Thorsen?”

“Of course not, he can’t even read.” quipped a lithe, handsome young man dressed in light riding clothes and with no obvious adornment or armour.

Thorsen looked hurt and was about to lash out, “Now, now Hathfell, I have it on good authority Thorsen is perfectly able to decipher the drawings of the Gorgoroth children”, holding up his hand to overt a riot, the warrior continued, “do not forget that we too have friends, we too have ancient bonds with ancient peoples which will be honoured.  Gos has stood proudest when all races faced the enemy together.  Well, I know that Elerienne, no longer embroiled in the battle for Sutur, brings her elves out of the Forest to Our West, that the dwarves march from their Minas to the South and follow our way out of the East, where they are joined by the Gnomes.  It is the North that concerns me.”

“My Lord, we have seen the enemy in such great numbers, how many do the older races bring?” Grumskull enquired.

“Enough…at least that is what I hope, and what they lack in numbers they will make up for in courage and ability.  They are experienced warriors of great renown.  Fear not Grumskull, have faith, they will not disappoint.  Look at Minas Morgul: by battling together we routed the enemy.  They may not have been at full strength, but it is these small victories that we must turn into a much bigger success.”

“Then what of the North and this trap?” asked Thorsen pointing at Gos and uncertain whether he should be annoyed by his leader’s joke.

“I will send no-one North; it will appear as if we have left a route through which our enemies could escape.  I wish to gauge the strength of the enemy in the City itself, before committing our forces to its relief.  I am sure the enemy’s subterfuge leads us to a trap, for the Witch is too clever to simply allow us to take back our home without a fight, even if the Demon had considered it common sense.  We have not the element of surprise save what our allies may bring.”  

As he spoke their leader turned to look at Gos - the once beautiful white city which stood tall and proud, emerging from the rolling green plains like a marble monument to the Norse Gods, was unrecognisable.  The temple at the centre of the city whose massive stained glass window once portrayed the eye of Odin, searching the northern horizon, was thrown to the ground.  The great barbican was smashed and the keep rent and torn, blasted by fire and cold it now looked weak and vulnerable.

“What of Perion’s force?” Hathfell asked with more optimism than he felt.

“As you know, I counselled against it.  I do no think that we can hope for much; it was too weak to have any real effect and we have not heard from him in weeks.  No, the long route across the frozen north was, I fear, folly.”