Book 7: Chapter 31: Cracks in the earth
The next morning, they gathered outside the longhouse. Horses were not practical for this journey, so they would simply walk. Given it should take them a fiveday to reach the creature’s lair and another to return, carrying provisions on their backs should not be an issue; if necessary, they could forage for more.
Besides the four mages, Martel noticed two ordinary warriors had joined their group. He recognised them from the evenings in the longhouse, though he had not spoken with them. As everyone looked through their equipment and prepare for departure, he saw Rolf having a brief discussion with Halfrid before they separated, the latter muttering and shaking his head.
“What is amiss?” the battlemage asked.
“Halfrid’s little speech last night convinced these two to join us. As they have no magic, I told her they are bound to get killed. But she claims it’s not her place to deny them the chance of glory, which I guess I can’t argue against.”
“Their choice, I suppose.” Martel looked at Eleanor, the only person whose survival mattered to him. “Are we ready?”
The mageknight nodded. “As ready as we can be.”
Others issued from the longhouse; the jarl’s warriors, his family, such as his wife and children, and finally the ruler of the Raven tribe himself. They did not speak many words. Those staying behind placed their hands above their hearts as a farewell gesture of some sort; Halfrid bowed her head toward them and began walking north, followed by the others.
Much of the landscape north of Svartheim was forested, slowing their progress. With spring arriving, it would have been a pleasant journey if not for the thought of their destination. It was difficult to enjoy the early bloom of trees and flowers, knowing that not all of them might be on the return trip. Martel kept to himself to avoid feeling any attachment to the others in the group; as long as Eleanor came through this unscathed, he would not ask more of fate.
Perhaps the others felt the same; as they made camp the first night, none of the Tyrians spoke. In the case of the two warriors who had joined them, it might be that they simply understood no Asterian, but they did not make conversation in their own language either. They seemed dour, and Martel suspected this was due to the nature of their journey. He had an impression of Tyrians in general as boisterous, swift to laughter, and fatalistic to some extent, often dismissive of danger. But even that had its limits, it would appear. He knew their names to be Asger and Hákon, but nothing more, and Martel did saw no reason to get closer acquainted until after the fight with the wyrm. While Martel imagined none of them wanted to dwell more than necessary on the monster they sought, wilful ignorance seemed foolish. “What can you tell us of this snake we’re after?” he asked of Rolf.
The bard did not respond at first. Just as Martel was about to repeat his question, he finally replied. “Not much is known of the wyrms. They are born in the deep places of the earth, and they might be as small as a finger. But they grow, and they never stop. Few in number, to our fortune, and they sleep years at a time. But when they wake, the ground trembles as they slither forth. Steel cannot pierce their hide, and terrible venom flows through their fangs. But perhaps the greatest danger is their blood.”
The Asterians looked at him in confusion. “Blood?”
Rolf nodded slowly. “It burns like liquid fire. Many a warrior has inflicted grievous wound upon such a wyrm, only to be sprayed with blood upon withdrawing their weapon, dying a painful death.”
Martel looked at Eleanor. As he fought from a distance with his spells, this should not pose a threat to him, but it did to her.
If this troubled her, she did not show it. “How do we kill it?” Eleanor simply asked.
“With strength, steel, and fire.” The words came from Halfrid. The berserker carried a great axe with runes carved into the haft and head. Ordinary iron might not cut through the wyrm’s skin, but she seemed to trust her weapon could. Martel was glad Eleanor likewise carried an enchanted blade. As for the other Tyrians in the group, Martel saw what Rolf had meant; they were poorly equipped for this fight, in every sense.
“Sleep,” Halfrid commanded. “We need all our strength.”
A fiveday passed. On one occasion, they spent the night in a small village, where the locals seemed both fascinated and fearful upon hearing of their venture. If someone could slay the beast, they would live without such a threat hanging over their heads; but if they failed, who knew what vengeance a wounded wyrm might take? Would it understand that humans had come to kill it and seek their brethren to get revenge? Despite any misgivings, the locals still provided the travellers with plenty of food as they could spare, if nothing else out of respect for their courage.
The last two days of their journey, they saw no sign of other people, not even a shepherd or grazing animals. The people who dwelt this close to the mountains were few and far between.
As for the Pillars of the World, they had grown to greater heights than Martel imagined a mountain could reach. He wondered how far they would have to walk; while it was spring in the lowlands, it would still be cold up in the mountains. With early spring melting the snow from winter, it could be a dangerous journey as well.
His concerns turned out to be for naught. On the sixth day of the journey, they reached an area with great cracks in the ground. The few trees that had managed to make roots in the rocky terrain lay scattered, as if a careless giant had walked through the area and simply thrown them aside.
“It’s awake,” Rolf mumbled. “The wyrm has left its lair.”