The Legend of the Five and the Choosers of the Slain

Chapter 2 - A Jewel for Roata

            A shadow lengthened in the Northman war camp as the black-robed figure stepped around the campfire. Arylia listened, and she could discern the identity of the intruder by his footsteps. Slow, deliberate, not entirely accustomed to the woods, for they were loud… and there was a third footstep, the consistent tak-tak-tak of a staff.

            Without turning, she said, “Hello, Surandil.”

            “How goes the campaign against the savages?” asked the night elf.

            “You’re late,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

            Surandil furrowed his brow. “What have I been up to? What am I ever up to, aye? More important things than a pointless skirmish between two human tribes, lady, that’s for certain.”

            “You should pay more attention to the affairs of men,” said the archer. “You may find you learn more than you thought you would.”

            “Aye, well, perhaps we can discuss this later. I’ve got some other things to do.”

            Arylia still did not turn to address him. She merely nodded. When he was gone, and she could easily sense when he was, the warrior elf rose and turned. She spotted his tracks immediately, and she began to follow them. For some reason, ever since the beginning of this campaign, she had been curious about his dealings, and now she felt she should investigate. After all, he’d been away from the camp all morning… and morning was a time he usually spent skulking or sleeping, since he was a night elf and preferred the light of the moon and stars.

            Surandil’s tracks were easy enough to follow. They led back to the battlefield of the previous night. It was not nearly as large as that first battlefield had been; this was merely a minor skirmish fought between the Tribe of the Bear and a small Darkcliff raiding party. But the corpses were still spread far and wide. Arylia found herself scanning the trees again for the birds, the Valkyrie, but they were not there. Either they were late or they had already done their night’s work.

            All elves knew of the Valkyrie, as did all dwarves. However, the Valkyrie, who served Odin and Freyja, only selected from among the human dead. The elves, lovers of beauty and long life, had been granted their gifts by their god Freyr, who also cherished such things. And the dwarves, lovers of fine craftsmanship and warfare, had been created by the god Thor, whose domain included these tenets. All these deities, however, were in the same pantheon of gods, the Gods of the North, and so all knew of one another and were kindred in that respect.

            Arylia lost Surandil’s tracks in the trampled and bloody earth of the battlefield, where it was mingled with those of many other warriors. And yet… something was wrong. There were peculiar bootprints visible, more like the small and sophisticated boots of Imperials than the rough footwear of the Northmen. She also spotted a few strange markings on the ground beside a few of the corpses, as if runes had been carved in the earth there and then crudely wiped away.

            Just what had that elven wizard been doing out here, anyway? Something was definitely amiss here, but wizardry was not in Arylia’s range of expertise. One thing was certain, no Northern barbarian had made those markings. They were too sophisticated. In fact, they had likely not been made by a human, as humans were very, very rarely magically inclined. Still, the Imperial-looking boots were certainly not Surandil’s. Perhaps her suspicions were amiss.

            Arylia copied down a few of the runes on a bit of parchment, and then she left the field. She had much to think on, and perhaps there were others that she could ask about this. It might not be anything dark or dangerous, and Surandil might not even be involved, so she was hesitant to reveal this to one of the other elves. But there were others she could ask.

            As she left the field, she noticed them out of the corner of her eye. On a small pond nearby were the silhouettes of three swans, and perched above them were the ravens, the hawks, and the majestic golden eagle. They had arrived, and they were most likely waiting for her to leave. As the elf exited the scene, she gave a slight bow.

            Once Arylia was out of sight, the three white swans stepped up onto the land. They extended their wings, and in the blink of an eye, three Valkyrie holding out their white-feathered cloaks stood where there had once been a trio of birds. Kara, Gondul, and Myst stepped out onto the field and exchanged glances, as behind them the other birds came swooping down, transforming into Rynnhilda, Reginleif, Roata, Skogul, and Thruda. Sigdrifa and Skegjol had stayed behind with the rest of the Golden Host in Valhalla. This was but a small job, after all.

            “I like the elves,” Kara commented cheerfully. “She knows about us, doesn’t she? She knew who we were?”

            “Clearly,” Myst replied, with a soft smile. “Elves are well versed in the affairs of immortals, for they are nearly immortals themselves, like most of the feyfolk. They serve the god Freyr, very close to Freyja, as I’m sure you know.”

            Roata’s dark shape pushed past them as she said, “Personally, I am more interested in what she was looking at.”

            “I as well,” said Reginleif, looking around worriedly. “Something feels terribly amiss here.”

            Beside her, Rynnhilda nodded. “I sense it also. Something is wrong.”

            They both glanced at each other as if waiting for more, but neither of them was able to put their thoughts into words. It was Gondul who did that for them.

            “This place feels dead,” she said, “even more devoid of life than a battlefield should be. Something is terribly, terribly wrong…”

            Skogul shivered. “Okay… but perhaps we should stop all this whining about it and get to work, yes?”

            Roata and Gondul immediately went about their work of inspecting the dead. And immediately, they heard Gondul give a slight gasp. She had her hands on not one but two of the dead men’s foreheads, and her face was contorted into an expression of pain and anguish. She tore away her hands, and pulled her helmet tighter to her head with both hands, as if trying to shut out an overwhelming noise.

            “I can hear them all…” Gondul cried, “I hear them all, and they’re saying… nothing! Nothing!”

            “Gone,” Roata said, rising to her feet again and staring at the ground as if stunned. “All that is left of them is echoes… echoes in empty shells of death. We are here too late. The souls of these men are gone.”

            Rynnhilda clapped a hand on Roata’s silver pauldron. “You know what did this. All of us who have been with the Host long enough know what did this.”

             Reginleif blew out a sigh. “Yes, I fear it is the dreadful truth. A truth that only Gondul and Kara perhaps do not know of.”

            “Roata,” Rynnhilda ordered, “explain this to them. Reginleif and I will discuss our next course of action in private.”

            As the two Valkyrie leaders stepped aside, the rest of the group assembled around one of the bodies, their faces forlorn. Kara looked lost and confused, and Gondul looked genuinely upset. Myst’s golden face was full of sadness and mourning, and she removed her silver winged helmet and held it to her breast. Skogul and Thruda looked angry, ready to fight to avenge the souls of these worthy warriors if need be. Only Roata looked entirely calm, if grim. In fact, she was inspecting the runes that remained visible on the ground with keen interest and curiosity.

            “Can you tell us about this now?” Kara demanded, since she knew timid Gondul would not ask.

            Roata looked up from where she was crouched and pushed a dark strand of hair out of her blue yet raven-like eyes. “Very well,” she said irritably, “though I know not why this tedious duty falls to me. Do you see these markings?”

            “Of course,” Kara said with a nod. “They look like runes.”

            “They are, of a sort,” Roata said, tracing one deeper with her finger.

Only then did Kara truly notice her peculiar gloves. They were black as night, with all of the fingers cut out but for two – the index and ring fingers. Such gloves were usually used for archery, but this was clearly not the intent in this case, for on Roata’s two primary fingers were mounted hinged armor plating, the tips of which were armed with claw-like blades. Like a raven’s talons, Kara thought.

“It would be closer to the truth, however,” the midnight Valkyrie continued, “to say that this is merely another language. I am not sure precisely what language, but it’s safe to say it is some form of Daemonic. Such otherworldly languages hold great power here in the world of mortals… power that tempts humans and other mortals terribly. Even the near-immortal elves heed its call, for they know that even their lives will not last forever, and eventually they will die and pass to Alfheim, the realm of Freyr from whence they came.”

“Dark magic,” Gondul whispered, as mysteriously as ever. “It corrupts the natural world. It does not belong.”

Roata glared at the timid Valkyrie. “We too are not of this mortal, ‘natural’ world, sister Valkyrie. We no longer ‘belong’ either.”

Gondul did not argue. She merely looked away, removing her helmet so that her golden-brown hair fell down and hid her face.

“Now,” Roata went on, “the purpose of these symbols is clear. They were used to draw out the souls of the dead, probably into a powerful magic stone known as a Soul Stone. In fact,” she said as she produced a small, smooth, oblong black stone from beneath a bit of trampled grass, “I seem to have found one. Notice that it too is marked with a demonic rune. It is dark, so there is likely no soul trapped inside at the moment.”

Roata ceased her speech as Myst laid a hand softly on her shoulder. “Roata, perhaps you should simply tell them who is behind this and explain their intent.”

Roata pulled away from the smaller Valkyrie’s grasp and stood. “Perhaps you can tell them,” she snapped. “I have other things to do.”

“Very well, sister,” Myst said with a kindly smile.

Not for the first time, Kara wondered vaguely why Myst’s hair was such stark, silvery white. Her perfect teeth, her pale blue eyes, and her stark white hair contrasted a bit with the warm, golden glow of her skin. Even Roata seemed to soften under ever so slightly her kindly gaze.

“These runes,” Myst said, looking grave again, “were carved by necromancers… mortal wizards, skilled in the arcane arts, who concentrate on the study of death. They commit many crimes on the corpses of the dead, raising them back to life as magically-animated servants. They also steal the souls of mortals.”

“To animate the dead?” Kara asked, shooting a glance at the genuinely terrified-looking Gondul.

“No,” Myst said, shaking her head so that her loose hair floated about it like a fog, “and yes. Most of the undead created by the necromancers have no soul, just a mere shadow of one that is barley enough for movement and the obedience of commands. They have not the power of true souls. The soul of a mighty warrior can power an immensely strong undead, or a destructive weapon imbibed with dark magic, or be used as a reagent in a great spell of death.”

“It is not right,” Gondul whispered.

Suddenly Skogul took a step toward them and stamped her foot on the runes. “No, it is not right!” she shouted. “These mortals think they can tamper in the affairs of the dead, of the gods themselves? I say we cut them apart for what they’ve done!”

To emphasize this point, she drew her swords. Skogul carried two short swords, one on each side of her hip, attached to two belts that crossed her chainmail-clad waist in an X. She brandished these blades before her, with a fire burning in her eyes that was nearly as bright as her red-orange hair. It was then that Rynnhilda and Reginleif rejoined them. Both of the Valkyrie leaders wore grim but determined expressions. Apparently they had reached a clear agreement. It was Rynnhilda who spoke, tossing her golden braid back, replacing her helmet, and drawing her sword.

“Skogul is right,” she said. “These Imperials have overstepped their bounds. Think they that their Empire is the only place with laws that cannot be breached? Think they that the North is just some hunting ground where they can take what they like without consequences? Well, the North has its gods too… the Aesir. It has Odin, and it has Freyja.”

            “And Thor,” Thruda said, too proud to let her father to be excluded.

            “And it has us,” Rynnhilda concluded. “There is a cave not far from here. Tonight, you will sleep there.”

            Gondul looked up. Her expression visibly brightened at this news. Myst’s did not. The fair Valkyrie bit her lip and toyed with one of her sparkling necklaces.

“Sleep in a cave?” she moaned. “Surely that isn’t necessary…”

Reginleif smiled down at her and placed a hand on her shoulder, as the Valkyrie of Freyja often did. “Worry not, sister. You will be fine. After a night on the surface you will be more used to it again, and more ready for what is to come.”

Rynnhilda nodded. “Indeed. You are Valkyrie. You are tough enough to get through this. Now, Roata – I believe you know the most about this area, yes? The Valley of Death’s Shadow?”

Roata nodded. She extended one hand and twiddled her two clawed fingers, drawing a shimmering circle in midair. Then she reached through this circle with her other hand, appeared to feel around at the air a bit, then withdraw. As her hand passed back through the ring, a roll of parchment appeared in its grasp. Together they walked to a nearby large, flat stone, where she unrolled the map. Roata’s curved talon then extended to a line drawn through the mountains on the page.

“The Valley of Death’s Shadow,” she said, “is actually a part of what the barbarians know as Darkcliff Gorge, where the barbarians of the same name dwell, many of whose bodies lie at our feet right here. Darkcliff Gorge is the outermost part of the canyon, and it winds much farther into the great mountains of the Jagged Edge. The farther one goes in, the higher and steeper the walls get. Vegetation begins to disappear, and the sky becomes overcast with clouds of ash forever billowing from the great series of volcanoes at the center of the world.”

Rynnhilda nodded. “Yes, and that darker place is the Valley of Death’s Shadow. There is no clear visible boundary, but trust me, you will know when you have crossed into it. The Northmen, even the Darkcliffs, never go there.”

            “But you will be doing so,” said Reginleif, “so prepare yourselves. You will be looking for a group of necromancers that are said to dwell there. Find these abominations, slaughter as many of them as you can, and recover all of the Soul Stones you can find.”

            Skogul grinned malevolently and brandished her swords. “Yes! It’s time for a little divine intervention!”

            Kara stepped forward and put a finger on the map, pointing to where a large walled city was marked. “Is that what I think it is?”

            Skogul laughed. “Oh yes… I’m sure even you’ve heard of Dhuum, girl. The City of Monsters will be not far from where we are passing. No creatures of light live there… only those who love the shadow cast by the Nidhogg’s Breath, the cloud of smoke and ash that blocks the sun there at all times. It is inhabited by goblins, orcs, trolls, ogres, giants, and those dragons who serve the great Dragon Lord.”

            “Try not to be spotted by their sentries,” Rynnhilda put in. “Now, enough talk. The night wears on, and it will be morning soon. Find the cave and rest. I will return and meet you there around noon. In the meantime, Reginleif and I must return to Valhalla. There are things we must discuss with our Lords the Aesir.”

            The two Valkyrie leaders looked over each of their followers in turn, nodded to them, and then turned and left. They threw open their cloaks, transforming back into birds. Then Rynnhilda the golden eagle and Reginleif the red hawk flew away together, up into the starry night sky and out of sight.

            Four figures stood in the shadow of the forest, looking toward the not too far off cliffs where a group of six beautiful women were gathered in a cave… in their cave, to be exact. They had many hiding places for their loot and other goods, but that cave was one of their biggest stashes.

            All four figures were human, clad in leather armor that blended in perfectly with the surrounding forest. Three of them had a quiver of arrows across their back, so they appeared to be rangers. But then, three of them also had large mustaches in various styles, which made them look a bit comical. The one in front had long, slightly curly brown hair and fairly handsome features, covered partially by the aforementioned mustache, which he shared with the two older men behind him. In the rear of the group was the youngest man, who had sandy blond hair and a rather large nose. He was the only one without a mustache.

            “That big brown-haired one shpeaks more like a man,” said the clean-shaven ranger, staring at Thruda, “though her voishe doeshn’t quite match.”

            “Well I’ll be damned if she looks like a man, Farmer!” exclaimed the one with the long brown hair, obviously the leader.

            “She looksh more sho than the othersh, Roddy…” amended David Farmer.

            Roddy, also known as Roderick Helsinger, responded with a sly grin. “Well, I sure as the Underworld wish all women looked as manly as her, if that be what you call manly! She appears quite womanly to my eyes. Look at the arch of her brow, her full lips, her great big…”

            “Figure,” Farmer concluded for him, shooting him a glance. “Yes, she is a fine shpeshimen of a woman.”

            Roddy wagged his eyebrows. “Bloody straight, she does. She gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘breastplate,’ eh?”

            The younger of the two older men behind them tapped his large crossbow. “Well, they are in our bloody cave, boy! What are we going to do about it?”

            The oldest of the group nudged him. “I say we can take ‘em. C’mon, let’s go!”

            The former snorted. “You’re insane, Slobby.”

            “Been said before by other than you, Van Pelt,” said the old man with a giggle. “And most of ‘em said so is dead.”

            Though he was the oldest by far of the four, with a stark white mustache and a receding hairline, “Slobby” was the most heavily armored, wearing a suit of chainmail under his leather tunic, over his apparently surprisingly muscular form. On his back was sheathed a large sword fit for a barbarian, along with a sword and a club on either side of his belt, and he was leaning on a short, heavy club-like cane similar to a shillelagh. He was the only member of the group who was not armed with a ranged weapon of some sort. “Slobby,” named for his eating habits as well as… all his other habits, had been an adventurer all his life, and was very good at what he did. So he simply saw no reason to stop. He went wherever he could find entertainment of his liking, and currently he was traveling with this group of rangers, whom he often joined when they left on a hunt.

            “What did we have in that blasted cave, son?” asked Van Pelt in his posh Imperial accent.

            “For the last time, I am not your son,” Roderick growled. “You are my uncle, Van Pelt, not my father, so stop acting like one!”

            “No need to get snappy, Roderick!” Van Pelt hissed. “I’m older and wealthier and far more successful a hunter than you will ever…”

            Farmer threw his hands in the air and hissed at them through his ever-stuffy nose, “Shhh! Quiet down, guysh, or thoshe crashy glowing Amazonsh in there might year ush.”

            “Anyway…” Roderick said, regaining his composure, “most of the stuff there is from bandit raids. You know, either when we were raiding the bandits, or when we were the bandits. It’s what we live on when the whole hunting business goes sour.”

            “Which ish pretty often,” Farmer muttered.

            Van Pelt rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes… my nephew, the famous monster hunter. The great Hell-singer, and all that. Everyone knows you’re full of rubbish, my boy.”

            “Hey, at least I hunt things that can fight back,” Roderick retorted. “All you do is shoot defenseless animals.”

            “And the odd minotaur, when opportunity presents itself,” Van Pelt said proudly, “but the things I hunt are hardly defenseless…”

            Slobby appeared to suddenly become very impatient. He stamped his foot and coughed loudly. They all started and shot fearful glances at him, making motions for him to quiet down.

            Slobby ignored them.

“So, we gon’ kill ‘em?” he asked. “Or at least, you know, take ‘em prisoner or somethin’.”

“We can’t take all those Amazons by ourselves,” Roderick said, “even with you here, Slobby. But we will remain here for the night and watch them.”

            Farmer frowned. “But why, Roddy? I thought we wash hunting werewolves.”

            “We are,” Roderick said slyly, “and I have a sneaking suspicion that these women will help us clear the way… to them.”

            Farmer rubbed his nose. “What makesh you think they’re headed the shame way ash ush?”

            “Because hanging on the wall in that cave is a map showing the Valley of Death’s Shadow,” Roderick answered, “and that is where we are headed. That’s where their den currently is… where we’ll find them.”

            Farmer nodded. “Yesh… the True Werewolvesh…”

            “The true True Werewolves,” Van Pelt said in a solemn whisper. “The Five.”