BECMI Chapter 419 – The Old Ways are not the Best Ways
“Ourancestors would laud the Erto still wearing the same poor chain mail.
“Still unable to work mithral.
“Still not even having a prayer of working adamantine.
“Disparaging of those who go outside the tribe to learn to make better weapons and armor, even if they’ll buy them if they must.
“Still building with wood and sod instead of stone. Still getting water from creeks and rivers instead of wells. Still bathing in the waters others shit in. Still making the longships our ancestors have used for a thousand years, despite seeing bigger, better ships for sea voyages made by a dozen cultures since then. They still don’t bother to have enclosed decks, because the ships have to be small enough to sail up small rivers to raid with.
“Still don’t have the pride to learn how to develop and work their own land, so they have to rob their neighbors to stay alive, and justify it with words like ‘glory’ and ‘viking’ and ‘warrior’s spirit’ and other nonsense to disguise the fact they are savages, fools, and thieves.
“The majority of them cannot read nor write their own language, and their priests attempt to teach them that instead of the Human tongue which is the legacy and right of every human man and woman born to learn to use to speak with one another. Instead, they cling to a tongue which divides them from other men and women, calling themselves ‘special’ for doing so, when they are just building a wall and screaming at the other side like monkeys trying deliberately not to understand one another.
“Aye, graybeard, I’m looking down on my ancestors. For at least a thousand years they accomplished exactly nothing. They didn’t leave a better world for their descendants. They didn’t learn. They didn’t build. They kept doing the same thing over and over, and it got them exactly nowhere as the rest of the world grew up and left them behind.
“The Erto are clinging to the old ways after running away from the wrath of the gods who struck Darkmoor, forgetting that they were on the cusp of becoming stronger and greater. The Bolle are attempting to grasp that which they already had and rebuild, instead of revert.”
“Darkmoor reached too high and became careless,” the old man began, his voice rising.
“Do not speak that lie to me.”
His voice was utterly cold, utterly dangerous. The old man went silent, reading the fire reflecting in the pale blue eyes of this young man, and cut off his words.
“And if you disparage the Lady Edge here, prepare to lose your head. The Erto would long be dead if she had not withheld her hand and her dragons, and she has never preyed upon the Bolle in any form. Her quirks and customs are her own, and we do not care. She has never harmed us, and in fact great wealth has come to us because of her.”
The old man looked suitably disgruntled at that news. “That great hole for fools at the base of her mountain?” he almost sneered.
“Those fools have pumped nigh a million gold into Drakkunport since the Doomrose Dungeon was discovered and word of it spread. Yes, that great hole and those magnificent fools who delve it, facing some of the strangest monsters, mightiest foes, and dangerous traps to be known, if their tales are even a tenth true.
“The adventurers who fed the Erto their teeth when they tried to take Drakkunport, despite being outnumbered fifteen to one.”
Many Erto had decided to fight rather than to run, and their heaped bodies had been mounded up in great hill and Burned in unwhite, misting flames, a bonfire that had been visible for miles.
The vikings had not returned home in triumph. Over two-thirds had not returned at all, and none of their ships. It had been a horrible, harrowing defeat on all levels… and the Witch of Doomrose hadn’t even appeared!
“Are your ancestor’s ways really so vile that you would look down at them like so?” the old man switched tactics. “A warrior like you would be acclaimed among us! You could easily rise in power with your strength and might!”
“I am the finest smith in these lands. I am twenty-three years old. That is an insult to these lands,” Thor replied with startling bitterness, making the old man wince at the truth of it. “I have fought six men who, if they had any true mastery of the weapons they wielded, should have defeated me. I crushed them instead, for they were merely fine warriors, and I am a master of the hammer. The Erto are so weakened with infighting among their clans and families that they have lost everything that made them great, and turning them against us, their cousins, has only accelerated their fall.
“I look at the Erto and see every single way our ancestors have failed us. Were I an Erto, I, too, would be a failure like that, and the thought chills me to my bones, graybeard.”
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The old man had little answer for that. His good eye roved over the armored plates, the magnificent Hammer, even the work of cookpot and cup, and saw that they were considerably above what was made by Erto craftsmen. There were nods to the ancient and traditional styles, but also a willingness to go further and pursue a level of perfection in other forms and branch out into his own new style, entirely the right of a master artisan of any skill.
“There are ways to become great that do not involve embracing the heresies of Darkmoor,” the old man grunted, coming to the crux of the argument.
Thor grunted in return. “The Erto have access to only three fates,” he almost spit in return. “One is to follow Grimr’s path, which is to leave your fate up to being chosen by the Skyfather… and the Skyfather picks only a precious few to tap His power, not everyone. My fate is my own, the Skyfather does not pick it for me.
“As for Sonr’s path of thievery and deceit, or Nifl’s path of death and ever more corruption, no true son of the North would ever pick them. The Erto are already poor warriors compared to others, and they look upon the masters of the arcane arts with fear instead of respect.
“There is no path among the Erto to greatness save for Grimr’s and Vindler’s Priests, and I am not and will never be a Priest. The Bolle will not be held back by not having the eyes of the gods.”
“Dangerous words, in a certain light. Are you challenging the power of the Immortals?” the old man warned him.
“Not being chosen by Grimr is no different than not being chosen by Nifl. Am I to cower and sulk in my home, that I cannot tread the paths of glory because an Immortal did not pick me?” He spit off to the side calmly. “I will grab my hammer and make of my life what I choose to make of it, and so be it. We are not slaves to the Immortals!”
The old man huffed for a moment, but did not dispute his words. “A path without glory or remembrance, then.”
“No, it is not a path like the Erto,” was the instant rebuttal. “No one remembers the Erto chieftains and warriors, their clans and feats. They are just the thieving, raiding warriors of the north, nameless beneath their grim gray god, faceless and forgotten. Does there even exist a record of who was Jarl at the time Darkmoor died? Will anyone even remember the tribes were once united?” Thor just raised his chin. “But the whole world remembers Darkmoor. They remember the name of its King on distant shores, the glory of his realm.
“He was not chosen by any god as a priest, either. Even now, memory of the gods of the south slip away, empires fall to dust… and yet Darkmoor’s name endures, and will endure where many who thought themselves glorious are merely dust in the tomes of Immortals, unremembered even by their own.
“So, aye, if I want glory, I will not be like the Erto, forgotten beneath Grimr’s cold gaze. They may survive, but so do dogs and rats. If I want glory, there are far better examples to follow...”
The old man ruminated on that, pausing to contemplate his cup, then choosing to dip for another hot helping of the sugary tea, his face thoughtful. “There will be many, many challenges on a course like that if you continue, young warrior.”
Thor just grunted. “There is no greatness without challenges, elder.”
The old man just nodded at him as he sipped at the hot tea. “Before I take my leave, I would ask… from whence came the name of your Hammer?”
“Mjolnir?” He affected not to notice the twitch of the old man’s hand. “The Lady Edge bade me name it so. She said it was a portent with my name,” he admitted casually.
“I see. And your wife’s?” the old man asked hesitantly.
There was only the slightest whisper as a long, dark blade of sublime perfection, its edge a razor of Gold, came down upon his shoulder, making him stiffen in shock. He’d had no idea someone was there...
“I am my own woman, and need no elf-witch to Name my Blade,” Sif purred once, the shadows of the night seeming to peel back and find her suddenly standing there behind him. “Its name is Dirre, graybeard.”
“I see…” he nodded slowly, taking care to make no offensive moves as he eyed the threat of the naked Blade. “Were I younger and more foolish, I would take up my spear and test your skill as a warrior… but it is long past the time and not the place for such a thing, now.”
“Finish your drink and return to your people, graybeard,” Sif stated coolly. “We will forget your name as we forgot theirs.”
“You never asked me my name,” the old man pointed out, before taking a long, deep final drink.
“You never offered it, and neither did they,” Thor answered evenly, unperturbed, as Sif silently withdrew her Blade. “Fare you well, graybeard.”
“Young warrior.” The old man inclined his head as he stood, leaning upon his spear as he secured his cup on his belt. He turned his head, but Sif had somehow glided out of sight and was no longer behind him. He paused, but rather than appearing foolish and spinning about to chase a look after her, he simply shook his head, smiled wryly, and stole off through the night with somewhat stiff, long-legged grace.
None of the guards in the area saw him leave.
Sif stepped out from behind Thor’s seated form, his bulk more than enough to conceal her from a casual survey of the area. “He could not have been more obvious if He had a crow on his shoulder,” she muttered to him, leaning on his shoulder like the comfortable rock that it was.
“You’ve certainly realized that originality is not one of His strengths,” Thor murmured back, reaching out to sweep her up and onto his leg effortlessly. “He was also polite enough to give us a warning.”
She looked up at the cold sky, frowning. “I don’t sense magic on the wind, so no sudden storm. Something attacking out of the night?”
“Surely you don’t think all the spirits and beasts that have been harrying us and you’ve been hunting down so enthusiastically have been a coincidence?” he asked her, huffing in amusement. Sif’s enthusiasm in throwing herself at the walking bundles of Karma had spread throughout the force, who greeted the savage attacks and ambushes with rather disconcerting zeal and energy now.
Of course, when One a Day showed them getting stronger with more Karma, and his people knew what they had to do to get stronger, well, that was only to be expected!