BECMI Chapter 418 – The Hammer Falls
“There are still over five thousand of you.” Thor’s voice boomed over them all, a Warlord capable of being heard, and they were definitely paying attention now. “But now, now you have a problem.” He let that drag out there ominously, getting them thinking about how things had just gone very, very wrong for them.
“Let us leave off how you insulted the Lady of Doomrose by coming here in the first place. Her taking your ships as tribute was quite merciful, I’m sure you’ll agree, when she could have just killed you all.” He let that stand out there meaningfully.
“We aren’t afraid of an elven witch!” one curly-haired blond braggart shouted back, lifting his shield and axe defiantly. “Let her come! Let-”
His head exploded under a hurtling streak, and a bolt of lightning blew outwards from the impact, scattering and crisping all those about him.
Mjolnir slapped back into Thor’s waiting hand crisply. There wasn’t much left of the initial target, and half of those around him weren’t moving now, either.
“You have no food,” he went on as if the dead man had not spoken. “You have no water. You have nothing to haul your plunder in. Your only way home is through the mountain passes on foot, and most of you don’t know the way.
“And I, I have cavalry. And dragons.”
A Ruby and a Gold dragon heaved themselves up behind and above him on the walls, towering over him and gazing down on the barbarians out there expectantly, their silence deference to the Warlord standing before them making him all the more ominous.
“You thought you’d do as your ancestors did, before the Lady of Doomrose tamed them once. You thought your glory days might have returned.
“They are now your end,” he stated as the dragons leered at them. “You are going to run now. You do not have the time or the force to take these walls. The ones who run the farthest are the ones who throw away all but a hunting spear or bow, and they might survive to make it home.
“But I am going to be coming. With riders, with runners, and the dragons, the dragons are looking for choice and meaty prey.”
Both dragons grinned, their teeth shining, fires playing about within. They knew their job of intimidation quite well.
“Your alternative is to surrender, here and now, and let us decide what to do with you.” His pale blue eyes seemed to bore into them. “Run, little Ertos. Or drop your weapons and yield.”
Fair-haired men and women looked at one another in mounting fear and desperation. In truth, they had been completely surprised by the fighting prowess of the city’s defenders, especially the outlanders who had been all too happy to mix it up with them and unleash their foul arcane magicks into knots of brave Erto warriors.
But… the towering brute with his massive Hammer was absolutely right. They had no ships. There was no way they could carry any plunder home. All of their supplies were on the boats being towed across the channel and away from them by the dragons of Doomrose.
What were they going to do?
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The temple to Grimr burned. Inside, the priests of the Stormfather, gutted or their throats slit, were piled up on the altar they used to sacrifice enemy warriors to their Patron. Dirre rang softly, two notes audible to all nearby, cutting over the flames and what shouting remained.
Sif’s face was expressionless. The Priests had advocated the raiding of the Bolle, encouraged it, Healed the men who went on the raids and lauded them as proper warriors while cursing and belittling the heretical scum who had abandoned the Highfather who had always favored them.
Their spells had not saved them when it was time to fight.
Something crunched and went sailing over her head into the inferno of the lovingly-made and venerated wooden building in front of them. She caught a glimpse of a pale face, shock forever frozen on his face, before it vanished into the flames.
Snow crunched underfoot as Thor stepped up next to her, Mjolnir on his shoulder, crackling with the occasional show of voltage, his expression flat.
“Who was that?” Sif asked calmly, turning back to stare at the few survivors who had decided to stick around and glare impotently at the raiders burning them out of house and home. They weren’t killing the women and children, but they were forcing them to move, move away, and spread the stories.
The Bolle didn’t want to settle here as yet, but destroying the infrastructure of the Erto was totally fine. Thor’s company was rolling north even in the autumn months with snow threatening, uncaring of the cold and taking the best of the surviving Erto and handing them their teeth.
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“Priest of Sonr. Proposed helping me conquer all of the Erto tribes and making me high king with his help. If you were there, you would probably have killed him for the treachery on his breath before he got within ten paces of me.”
Sif didn’t refute it. Neither Nifl nor Sonr was to be trusted, and their Priests with them. They had too many tales heard and experienced close to them to believe it, and while Sonr wasn’t completely an arse, he had chosen Entropy.
If he wanted to bring down the world, then so be it. He and his Priests could go down with it first.
“Grimr could be a nice unifying force as a noble and paternal god-king, if so much of His doctrine wasn’t racist drivel, hyperconservative bullshit, and sanctimonious paternalist megacrap,” she muttered by way of apology to the Immortal.
They wanted to sacrifice warriors by the blood eagle? They deserved to be offed.
“Don’t expect Him to change for us. Our job is to change to be approved of by Him,” Thor grunted sarcastically. “Doesn’t make Sonr any better. More like the same thing, except He doesn’t keep his word.”
“And relying on a trickster for your throne is the height of stupidity. Not that we need Him at all, except to fuck off and die.” Sif wrinkled her nose. “Aunt Edge says the tribes are seriously considering fucking off and sailing away to a new land to get away from you. It’s like you’re seriously beating them down or something.”
“It’s the priests. They know I’m killing them, and they don’t want to lose their power and disappoint their god. Sending the souls to Vairholl is one thing, losing them all to a fucking blasphemer is another. Can’t keep the brave sons of Grimr around if there’s no Priests of Grimr to see it, right?” Thor said cheerfully.
“And the valiant servants of Vindler just die defending their people.” Sif pulled out a few amulets carved with the Watchful Eye and threw them into the burning church likewise.
A pressure washed past them, and both of them did not turn to acknowledge it.
“Well, well, well. What do you think?” Sif asked narrowly, considering that. Clearly the source didn’t think they’d have the spiritual development to sense the scrutiny.
“Let’s go build a fire,” Thor said after a moment of thought.
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Snow crunched under a wary tread. Briggs looked up as a shadow came up to the edge of the fire. Were he a smaller man, he might have called it looming. As a bigger man with spiritual awareness, he could see the shadow was actually much, much larger than was visible, and looming was vastly understating it.
“Elder,” he greeted the old man leaning on a hunting spear there, without rising. “You seem to have lost your way.”
He ignored the way the man had somehow gotten through the guards with a spear in his hand. He also ignored the scarred face, long white beard, rough eyepatch, and the rough furs that were worn and just ragged enough to look like those long-favored by a hunter.
“You seem to have the only fire without occupied seats. I thought I’d help myself,” the old man said roughly, studying him with a piercing dark eye.
Thor just huffed, glancing around to confirm that was actually true. “You should be with your people, graybeard, not mine,” he rebutted calmly. “But I’m feeling generous. The tea is hot and will warm your bones.” He gestured absently at the fire, with the bubbling cookpot on it steaming in the cold night air.
He wasn’t cold in the least, of course. Nor, he knew, was this old man.
Hospitality offered, it was accepted. The old man sat down as if he owned the place, pulling out a cup he dunked into the hot, thick tea and taking a careful drink of it. He seemed surprised at the taste, although his voice was disappointed as he commented, “I rather expected some celebratory old mead.”
“Alcohol is a dangerous thing in a land full of enemies, human and otherwise. It dulls the senses and robs the will. A good tea wakes the mind and warms the belly as well or better.” He reached forward to stir the pot. “Mead is there to celebrate when it is appropriate. There is nothing to celebrate here, just a job to do.”
“Oh. You loot and plunder through the holds of the Erto, and do not celebrate it?” His tone was scoffing.
“Look around you, graybeard. Do you see anyone celebrating?” Thor asked neutrally.
The old man did just that for a long minute, turning his eyes from fire to fire and the tents around them. There were some low chants, but no singing, no loud boasting, no swilling of mead or wine or anything but warm, thick, sugary tea.
“As for plunder… there is precious little the Erto have that we want. Their weapons and armor are inferior. Their craftwork is almost primitive now, and too heavy to carry on the trail. About the only things of value is precious metal that they plundered from others, now being taken from them in turn.
“No, the only thing we take is food and firewood for the trail. The Erto have nothing worth looting, and there is little glory in the fall of our cousins. They are a primitive and savage people, and they are dying that way. Wild beasts should be killed and run off, and so we are treating them as. Since they’ve little we can use, there is little we plunder.”
The matter-of-fact statement seemed to interest the old man. “You and your woman have been defeating some of the finest warriors of the Erto. Surely there is glory in such victories for a young rising warrior and warlord such as yourself?” he asked with only some contempt, quite justifiable.
“No. The Erto are primitives. They have little historical record of wars outside of raiding and some observations of elders passed on. Their mastery of weapons is abysmal, what they had they learned from Darkmoor, and those masters are all dead and gone, or driven off by their kin for knowing such skills that were not inherited from Erto masters.
“The most skilled warrior I’ve run into had no more true understanding of how to use an axe than most woodcutters. Sure, he understood how to fight… but he was no master of the axe. It takes time, tradition, intelligence, and education to be a Weapon Master, and the Erto frown on all four that is not their own, or have it not at all.”
That seemed to annoy the old man more than a little. “You insult your own ancestors with such words, young warrior!” he said a bit stiffly.
“Aye, that’s part of the problem,” Thor nodded slowly, reaching forward with his mug to scoop up his own new serving, holding it in his big hands to steam and cool for a moment. “They are exactly like my ancient ancestors. The ancestors of a thousand years ago would look on the Erto with approval!”