Valkyrie's Shadow

Chapter 12

Sigurd stomped away from the two young watchers over the pass, kicking up clouds of loose powder that were snatched away by the howling wind. The grim frown under the Frost Giant’s ice-caked beard marred his features more than any of his scars.

It was not their fault, but the brief exchange had soured him – no, it reminded him of something he had long been dissatisfied over. After returning from the Dwarven passes, he reported his findings to Jarl Erik Frostreaver. It was all he could stand just answering their questions as the council of clan elders deliberated. He was dismissed, long past the point of his being sick of standing around, so that they could deliberate further and consult with the other clans, presumably so they could deliberate some more.

He didn’t have to wait for longer than a week; he was not the only one sent to see what was going on above the Dwarf Kingdom, and those representatives had far less of a distance to travel. Any reply from the other clans would most likely be immediate, as they should have received their own reports days in advance of his arrival at Frostreaver Citadel. The response should be obvious – or so he felt – but his sarcastic reply to the young warrior at the southern pass was about as close to reality as he was willing to openly admit.

Disgusted by the tepid reaction displayed by the Jarl and his council to his report, he left to make his rounds, hoping that familiar routines would put him in the right mind again. Reminders only followed him, however, as he trekked over their greatly diminished holdings. Sten was right about one thing: the Frostreaver Clan should hold the greatest place of honour for their deeds. Instead, they had been cast down and shunned. Now, they were considered nothing more than a small clan on the southern fringe of Frost Giant lands.

He stopped to gaze down at the pass, sighing wistfully over the past. Though he received the reaction that he did from the youths of the clan, they probably didn’t even know the half of it.

Their kind was forged from ages of conflict: far beyond the climactic confrontation with the Demon Gods. Their mighty ancestors – legends of measure beyond the reckoning of those who lived today – warred in frozen climes the world round. Time and again they stood tall against all who came until the ruinous powers of the south set the world aflame and cast down the great powers of old. None of the present day wanted to hear those stories, however.

Sigurd’s lips pulled back in a sneer as he turned and continued on his way. No one wanted to hear those stories, but they should. Sigurd loved the ancient sagas – those legends of mighty deeds that challenged all who heard them to strive for those very same heights of glory. The stories that taught them how to live and how to die; that drove him to become one of the greatest warriors of his time.

Yet many others did not share that same appreciation. It reminded them of what they could never be and never achieve, the spectre of untouchable glories past. Better to compare themselves to something more reasonable, they thought – as if setting limits for themselves would prepare them for the next time tumultuous events came their way.

And come they would, Sigurd firmly believed. Every century or two, the winds of change and chaos came, and it was now two centuries since the coming of the Demon Gods. He looked up, past the clouds to the azure skies beyond: the Frost Dragons were the first hint that something was happening, for the true harbingers always came from the south. Would they be able to meet the next challenge to their strength? It was a needless line of thought, for the unsettling idea that they were almost certainly not had already entrenched itself in his mind.

Their blood had thinned, strength and bravery supplanted by weakness, passive thinking and deliberations. He knew the arguments, presented time and again: they needed to be cautious, to preserve and grow their strength. Sigurd, however, disagreed. The Frost Giants could not sit idly by as the ages withered them away. They needed to fight; needed the strife of war and mighty deeds to surpass the legends of old. That was what made them strong, not the endless idling that turned them into shallow husks of their former strength, unfit to enter the glorious halls of their ancestors. All they were doing in their current state was passing on weakness.

Through fields of ice and sudden storms, Sigurd walked on, stepping over crevasse and stream. Over day and night he skirted the southern borders of their territory, contemplating the future as he looked on past the borders: to the emptied ruins overlooking glacier and vale. Two other clans once existed in the south, two of the nine that made up the Frost Giant population of the Azerlisia range. The three clans in the south – the Frostreavers being the third – banded together to meet the Demon Gods in the southern pass, yet their strength failed.

The devastation had been so great that they were forced to consolidate their numbers and, with the southern clans no longer presenting any challenge to them, the Demon Gods moved on to invade the Dwarf Kingdom. The worst part of it was that the Demon Gods appeared to care more for the Dwarves than they, bypassing their remaining strongholds in favour of an uninterrupted route to Feoh Berkana.

It was an event that brought great shame upon the survivors. To suffer trespass, unable to bring down the foes who tread freely through their lands. The clans to the north believed little of their account – why would such a mighty enemy simply fight them and leave? Distasteful rumours grew, transforming into truth in the ears of many.

In the aftermath of the invasion, the Dwarven capital lay in ruins, and their kingdom fell into decline. The Frost Dragons – who had flown away over the northern seas to avoid the Demon Gods – returned all at once and demolished the Frost Giants’ northern fleets and coastal settlements along the way. For the next two centuries, a period of relative silence fell over the Azerlisia Mountains, marked by the quiet stalemate between the Frost Giants and the Frost Dragons. The latter part was slowly being remedied but, then, changes came once more. Slow and methodical planning was no match for decisive action and overwhelming power; it was as if their long-cultivated victory was snatched away to remind them of this, though he felt that very few saw it that way.

When he finally tired of brooding over the southern border, he turned back – the days that had passed should have been enough to send word back and forth to the central clans. Scaling the great glaciers that flowed from the southern icefields, he made his way north, circling a towering massif that jutted from the ice. A third of the way up the massive peak, Frostreaver Citadel loomed, perpetually hidden from the light of the sun.

It had the look of having been grown from the cliff face, wrought from enchanted stone and ice drawn forth by the mystical might of their ancestors; shaped into an existence that stood for centuries. Its outer walls were melded with the mountain itself, spanning most of its northern base. Stairs and spires of blue-grey ice twisted and rose, appearing and disappearing into the stone hundreds of metres above.

Sigurd strode up the ramp to the main gate, a cavernous maw over three times his height. He entered into the main corridor, the sound of his boots echoing up and down its length until he arrived at a door crafted entirely of shimmering black ice. Two Blackguards in dull midnight plate stood on either side, hands rested upon the pommels of their Frostreavers – massive greataxes forged from enchanted ice – nearly identical to Sigurd’s own. They nodded grimly at his approach but did not voice any welcome.

“Housecarl,” he spoke to the Blackguard on his right, “are those old wretches in?”

“When aren’t they?” He replied with a smirk and jerked his head, “They’re expecting you.”

Sigurd grunted in response and placed his hands on the doors to the great hall. Jarl Erik Frostreaver and his council turned their heads as he threw them open, walls of enchanted ice shuddering in the wake of his entry. The old ruler was seated on a throne covered in the furs of ancient and mighty beasts, and he looked down at him from the head of the hall. His council, seated at a long table between the throne and the door, glared sourly at his brash entrance. Sigurd ignored their unwelcoming expressions, striding forward to stand in the icy blue glow that permeated the chamber.

“What has been decided, my Jarl?” Sigurd asked.

“The clans are divided,” Jarl Frostreaver answered. “Literally. Four lie north of the dwarven highway; three south – including us. What sort of response are you expecting in this situation?”

“A proper one,” Sigurd told him. “These newcomers bare their teeth at us, so we should provide them a welcome befitting those who would challenge us on our land.”

The Jarl exchanged looks with the men at the table. They were all old – well past two hundred years of age. A bearded elder with a scar that ran across his face drummed his fingers on the table.

“Did you yourself not give the report of their strength?” He asked, “Or was it a fanciful exaggeration?”

“It wasn’t, Halstein,” Sigurd answered. “Each one of those Undead soldiers standing along the road was roughly as strong as an acclaimed veteran warrior.”

“Yet you expect us to hurl our strength at so many,” Halstein told him. “It wouldn’t even be our own warriors, for the most part.”

“Why does it matter?” Sigurd clenched a fist at his side, “Unless they plan on doing nothing at all…”

“It matters because the other clans do not consider us in the same manner as their own,” Jarl Frostreaver’s voice rumbled over the table. “We are weak and shamed in their eyes, and our numbers weigh poorly on the scales of strength.”

“This again…” Sigurd said, “How long must this farce go on for? To dishonour the clans of the south is to dishonour themselves – by Thrym, we fought while they did nothing!”

His voice boomed across the chamber, but the Jarl snorted in the face of Sigurd’s ire. Sten was not the only one who shared this opinion in the Frostreaver Clan – most of the younger generations did. It had become a sort of common gripe that had lost most of its effect over the years, even when voiced by a champion of the clan. Even Sigurd himself felt that, with the accompanying inaction, it smacked of whining.

“The difference between us only grows wider,” Jarl Frostreaver stated, “and they will press their advantage for as long as it suits them.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to cut them down to size,” Sigurd spat. “They won’t be so proud once we tear their strongholds down around their ears.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” the Jarl told him. “The clans have agreed that something must be done, and are even now making preparations.”

“What was the point of this entire discussion, then?” Sigurd scowled, “Why would you make it sound as if nothing was being done?”

Halstein stirred from his pile of furs, eyeing Sigurd pointedly.

“A demonstration,” he said. “A test to determine whether you could be sent or not…”

“And?”

Jarl Frostreaver looked around to his councillors, who each shook their heads in turn.

“We cannot,” he said. “You’re too strong.”

“Too strong?” Sigurd’s face twisted into confusion, “What kind of–”

“Too strong,” the Jarl cut him off sternly, “too impulsive, and too charismatic. The clans have decided that, given the strength of our adversary, we should conduct warfare using a more…strategic approach. Your presence will almost certainly disrupt order as you draw brash young warriors into your camp. Gunnar will be sent to lead our warriors instead.”

“Gunnar…”

“You believe this to be a poor choice?”

Sigurd and the Jarl’s son had very different views on how to carry out their battles, but he was no weak fool. If he was entrusted with the command of some of their forces, he might just be able to put an end to the other clans’ delusional stance against the southern tribes.

“No, Jarl,” Sigurd replied. “If war is to be waged in the fashion you suggest, then Gunnar is the obvious choice.”

“Good,” Jarl Frostreaver grunted, “I’m sure that Gunnar will be delighted that you approve.”

The council turned their attention away from him, seemingly satisfied that his audience had concluded. Sigurd, however, remained standing where he was.

“What about the other part of my report?”

“Other part…?” The Jarl frowned for a moment, “You mean your warning about Frost Dragons flying south?”

Sigurd inclined his head slightly.

“Do you truly believe it means what I believe you’re implying?” The Jarl asked.

Erik Frostreaver’s long frown was mirrored by those in his council. They had all been children at the time of the Demon Gods’ invasion. Sigurd trembled from the effort of keeping himself from smashing the table before him. There it was: more plainly than he had ever seen – the spectre of the past that prevented their kind from claiming the future, consigning them to the stagnant spiral of decay.

The south stirred, offering them the chance to redeem themselves from the failure of the past. Yet what was their response? Hesitation. Weakness. Fear. He brushed aside his anger – he would do what needed to be done, regardless of the Jarl and his cowering council.

“I do,” Sigurd said. “Many pay no heed to the old sagas, but I find this timing just a bit too uncanny.”

“And if it is, what do you think we can do about it in our condition?”

“We will do what we must,” Sigurd told him. “I know that if we do not ready ourselves at all, the outcome will be far worse.”

“Fine,” the Jarl blew out a long sigh. “You may make your preparations. Just don’t get ahead of yourselves.”

“I hear you, Jarl.”

Sigurd turned on his heel, striding out towards the entrance of the great hall. As he placed his hand on the door, the voice of the Jarl came over his shoulder.

“I don’t know how you can cling to this hope of yours,” his tired voice betrayed the long passage of years.

“Hope? Nay,” Sigurd pulled open the door and looked back over his shoulder at the council. “Glory. Gods, Demons, Dragons – come what may, we will be chosen to take our place in the halls of the slain.”

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