The Battle for Jordborg

by Logan Petty

  Vaskar hovered at the entrance to the palace. His face resembled Vaskar, but everything else about him changed. He wore a silver cloak that swirled like smoke, his armor barely visible beneath it. A hood draped over his head, but two white flames burned where his eyes should be. His countenance was grim. Two massive, black raven wings spread from his back, keeping him aloft a few feet off the ground. Harfjothr shone brightly, heat rising from its glowering blade. Vaskar pointed the Spear of Kings at Xifrieg.

  “Your illegitimate reign is over, Usurper Xifrieg. Your corpse shall walk on this land no longer. I am Vaskar Geldhart, rightful ruler of the Free Hold of Jordborg, and I have come to rip my right to lead this nation from your undead chest.”

  Xifrieg snarled as he lurched toward Vaskar. “You! I thought Skirndolg disposed of you years ago! I’ll have to remember to beat that cur thoroughly when I am done with you!”

  Vaskar wasted no time as he flew straight at Xifrieg, vengeance burning on his features. The usurper lifted his blade just soon enough to deflect the first lunge from Harfjothr. The impact staggered Xifrieg, the spot on his sword glowing from the intense heat surrounding the Spear of Kings. Vaskar recovered quickly, slicing at Xifrieg’s fat. The giant wailed as massive lacerations opened all over his body, smoldering from the holy flame that leapt from Harfjothr. The wails warped into cackles of amusement as his wounds repaired themselves.

  “Better try harder, prodigal prince! I’ll pull myself back together faster than you can cut me up! Hwa ha ha ha!”

  He swatted at Vaskar with his blade. The king-to-be easily avoided the sword, pushing off of it with his spear. He rode the momentum straight toward Xifrieg’s face. Harfjothr left a trail of light behind it as Vaskar swung with all his might. A stunned look of surprise popped onto the giant’s face as his neck split open. He stood still momentarily as his head rolled forward, down his gut and thudded onto the ground at his feet. The crown on his head rolled around until Vaskar stopped it with his spear, slicing the artifact in half.

  Silence fell over the battlefield as both sides took in what just happened. Cheers erupted from Vaskar’s allies as he rose Harfjothr into the air. The celebrations stopped quickly as Xifrieg’s decapitated body stooped over and picked up his head by the scraggly white hairs on his scalp. The head grinned widely as he placed it back on his neck. Vaskar turned slowly as the giant’s vocal chords healed, letting out a new wave of laughter. Xifrieg popped his neck as he hefted his sword.

  “That'll clear your sinuses! Oh and look! You’ve gone and broken my crown! I’ll have to take that out of your pay once you’ve become a thrall to the Grey King! Oh that’s right. You won’t get pay! I suppose I’ll sell you to that hero collector in the west. What was his name again?”

  Vaskar launched himself at the giant, furious that he would not die. Xifrieg countered his strikes, moving faster than before. As their fight raged on, Sawain continued his duel with Hervoth. The remainder of his forces battled the oncoming tide of undeath that kept them from aiding either struggle.

  Xifrieg chopped at Vaskar as he rebounded from the last parry. The prince only had time to twist in the air to avoid the deadly weapon. He dashed downward at Xifrieg’s wrist, slashing at the bracer on his right wrist. The giant screamed as his hand shattered and his bracer fell to the ground with it, a smoldering heap of ruin. Xifrieg snarled as he lunged for his blade with his left hand.

  “How dare you! HOW DARE YOU! YOU HAVE DEFILED MY SACRED VESTMENTS! UNDEATH IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU!”

  “Sacred . . . ,” Vaskar muttered as a hint of realization flickered across his face. The giant hoisted his sword, swinging clumsily. Vaskar bounded off the blade and dropped from the air, chopping downward at Xifrieg’s gut. A savage wound tore open vertically from the top of his gut to his waist, spilling entrails. Xifrieg’s belt buckle caught the brunt of the attack, splitting in half as well. Xifrieg’s pants sagged as he tried to scoop his entrails back into his fat belly as it healed itself. He yelled at Vaskar in a higher pitched voice.

  “Y-you coward! Wha--hah--wha--why won’t you -- a hah ah hah -- fight . . . FAIR!”

  Vaskar leapt back into the air as the giant’s blade raked the ground where he landed. He sliced at the usurper’s left wrist, disarming him again and shattering his other bracer. Xifrieg raised the nubs where his hands once resided, sobbing in panic. He glared at Vaskar.

  “You -- hah -- you know! Who -- ahh -- who told you?! HOW DO YOU KNOW?!”

  Vaskar charged Xifrieg head on, stabbing him in the chest. Harfjothr cleaved through bone and flesh, as well as the amulet that hung at his neck. Xifrieg screamed in agony as his healing failed him and his body began to decay.

  “NOOOO . . . NOOOO! LORD . . . THARIXOS . . . Sa--save me . . . .”

  The usurper's flesh fell from his bones as his old wounds returned with the delayed rot. His head rolled from his shoulders as he fell to his hands and knees. His tiny red eyes looked up pleadingly at Vaskar as he landed beside it. Vaskar finally spoke again, feeling an unusual pang of pity for his defeated enemy.

  “You’re a lich, are you not? I should have known. You share the same properties as those Grey Priests, who can only really die if you destroy their masks. You were more complicated than that. Probably because you’ve direct ties to the Grey King. What was that name you used? Tharixos? Now the faceless dread has a name. If he has a name, he has a form. We will find it, and when we do, we will kill it. Just as I have killed you.”

  The giant’s head snarled violently, gnashing its rotting teeth. Vaskar turned Harfjothr’s blade downward and thrust it into Xifrieg’s skull. His eyes rolled back into his head and his body collapsed, turning to ash and bile.

  The liberating army returned to their cheers as the remaining priests fled and the enemy soldiers dropped their weapons. The undead among them crumbled to ash as well, except one. Lord Hervoth dropped his dark blade, watching it dissipate before it hit the ground. His eyes moved up to Sawain, then down to the familiar sword the half-elf gripped.

  “Giltglim . . . my old friend. Have you come back to see me off? And you, stranger . . . , your face is familiar. Have we met?”

  Sawain shook his head. “No, sire. This is our first meeting. I am Sawain. I have come to set you free, that you may go to your fathers.”

  Hervoth smiled, his flesh beginning to smoke. “Better do it soon then, Sawain. I feel the curse pulling me into the abyss.”

  Jashr appeared at Sawain’s side, bowing to Hervoth. “Milord . . . .”

  The elf prince turned to Jashr, smiling. “Jashr, you are well? Good. I will need someone like you to ensure the Spirar tradition is kept alive. Take care of our brothers and sisters, that they may shepherd the lambs of Jordborg.”

  Jashr nodded, “I will, milord. You have my word as a Spirar.”

  Sawain raised his sword slowly, pointing it at the elf’s chest. “Are you ready to depart, Lord Hervoth?”

  He nodded, closing his eyes. “Yes. Goodbye, friend Jashr. Goodbye, friend Sawain. Perhaps when you return to the halls beyond, you can share great tales with me.”

  Sawain smiled as he thrust Giltglim into Hervoth’s chest. “I look forward to it, milord.”

  Giltglim’s radiant aura spread through the wound it created in Hervoth’s chest, purging the undead curse from his body. The elf prince died with a smile on his face. As his body collapsed, Jashr caught it. Tears filled his eyes as he hoisted the fallen lord.

  “Thank you, Swerdbrekker. You have kept your promise. The Spirar are forever in your debt.”

  The survivors of the battle gathered around them as Sawain rested a hand on Jashr’s shoulder, words failing him. The crowd parted as Vaskar strode into their midst. His appearance had returned to normal. His wings and ethereal countenance faded into mist and his human eyes shone with relief. All fell silent as they awaited his command.

  “Brothers and sisters, friends of Jordborg . . . . I thank you. If not for your courageous endeavors on this field today, our land would
forever remain in the grip of the Grey King. By your sacrifices, we have saved this realm from a fate of undeath. From the bottom of my heart . . . thank you.”

  Shouts of jubilation arose on the winds. The survivors, barely over a hundred men and women, clapped one another on the backs, danced in the streets, and sang heartfelt songs of victory. The battle for Jordborg had ended, and the people stood victorious against the usurper and his tyrant king.

  Epilogue:

  Word of Vaskar’s victory over Xifrieg spread throughout the city like wildfire. The citizens who hid in the tunnels and alleys began to emerge one by one. A week passed as the reclamation efforts wrapped up loose ends, capturing enemy deserters, sending messengers into the fells that Jordborg was safe again, and repairing the gate that fell in the initial siege. Sawain and the Ghosts stayed to help clean up the town. After all, the local gossip about town said they were to be guests of honor at Vaskar’s coronation, so it would make sense to offer a helping hand while they waited for the big day.

  It came quickly as more of the citizens who hid in the caves and hills outside the city flocked back home. The streets that once lay abandoned and strewn with refuse now bustled with people once again. Party planners scurried about, directing workers who hustled to and fro, hanging banners, cleaning windows, and checking guest lists. The morning of Vaskar’s coronation came and everyone in Jordborg rose with the sun as excitement reached a high.

  Sawain, Mari, Timbrell, Banthan, Jatharr, Kyra, Axel, and Sydarion walked through the open gates of the Sea King’s palace and into the courtyard where the coronation was to be held. Jordborg shone like a pearl on this momentous day. The city looked nothing like it did a week before. Colorful flowers bloomed around the edges of the courtyard. The once barren trees wore garments of bright green. The ravens cawed happily from their branches as they hopped about, feasting on berries and nuts. The monstrous servants of Xifrieg were gone, replaced with revelers in colorful tunics and dresses. Music filled the air. Laughter lilted from young children as they played hide and seek among the hedges. Sawain took it all in, enjoying this brief respite from war, feeling his energy return to him.

  The crowds gathered in as a band of trumpets announced the arrival of Lord Vaskar. Sawain and his allies hurried to their positions around the raised dias, making an arch around the prince as he stepped onto the platform. They were joined by Rognur, Jashr, Captain Whyteskornr, and several men and women who made up the Senate of Jordborg. Many of these senators fought alongside Sawain on the day of the battle as seemingly common soldiers. He only learned of their true identity the week following.

  Vaskar shone in his kingly outfit. A red cape bearing the silver raven draped across his left shoulder. He wore his father’s silver gauntlets, a pin from his mother’s collection, and a red and silver velvet ensemble that fit him well. His weathered black boots clashed with his outfit, but he refused to go through the coronation without them, claiming they carried him to this point all these years.

  An older man in flowing white robes ascended upon the stage before Vaskar. In his hand he carried Harfjothr. A younger woman in similar vestments, though less elaborate, stood beside the old man. She bore a pillow upon which a glittering crown of silver sat. The old man offered the Spear of Kings to Vaskar.

  “Lord Vaskar Geldhart, third son of the Geldhart lineage. On this day, it is tradition to offer the future Segrammir the Spear of Kings, Harfjothr, to the royal candidate, that he might prove to all his people that he is chosen of the Raven Lord to rule his people. Will you accept this holy blade and rule your Hold with righteousness?”

  Vaskar stretched out his hand, wrapping his fingers around Harfjothr. “I will.”

  The Master of Ceremonies relinquished the spear, allowing it to return to its rightful owner. Harfjothr shone brilliantly as it passed to Vaskar, proving to all in attendance that the Raven Lord approved of his new Segrammir. The crowd clapped and cheered at the revelation. The old man allowed the celebration to continue a moment before raising a hand for silence. As the noise died down, he spoke again.

  “Lord Vaskar, the Raven Lord smiles upon you this day, as do your loyal subjects.” He turned to the girl, who offered the cushion to him. He delicately picked up the crown and turned back to Vaskar, who knelt before the old man. “I, Senator Gerhas, on behalf of the senate and the people, crown you Segrammir Vaskar Geldhart. May your reign be long and prosperous!”

  He placed the crown upon Vaskar’s head and the crowd erupted in celebration, unable to contain itself any longer. The new Segrammir remained bowed a moment to allow his subjects this moment of happiness, knowing in his heart they still had many days of hardship ahead. As he rose to his feet, the old senator bowed before him. The rest of those in attendance followed suit, as well as Sawain and all the guests of honor. Vaskar took it in for a moment, scanning the crowd with fondness. Finally, he spoke.

  “People of Jordborg, as your new Segrammir, I make three promises to you. The first is that this great nation will never fall again as long as I draw breath. Never again will our streets be empty. Never again shall our citizens go into hiding. Never again will the Grey King threaten our home. We have won a tremendous victory in the war against the tyrant, but I know there will be battles yet to come. He will be angry. He will want revenge.

  “My second promise to you is that when he comes looking for a fight, I will greet him. The people of Jordborg are fierce, proud . . . strong. Our Spirar will defend our streets. The Ravenwake Armada will keep our shores safe. From the shadows, we will strike, never fearing the dark. I promise that we will not back down from the fight to come!

  “Thirdly, I promise to you that our history of treachery and violence against our neighbors shall end under my reign. No longer will Jordborg fight against Alfhaven or Anvilheim. A week ago, our home sat in ruins, overrun by the usurper’s foul ilk. A united army of warriors from Anvilheim, Alfhaven, and Jordborg besieged the enemy and reclaimed this sacred Hold. Today, as the war against the Grey King continues, we will work with the free Holds of Hammerhold to defeat this common threat and bring peace to the entire land, not just our own.

  “I thank you all for the faith you have put in me, and I intend to repay it tenfold. Long live Jordborg. Long live Hammerhold.”

  The crowd roared in unison, “Long Live Segrammir Geldhart!”

  Vaskar smiled and waved as the people all jumped to their feet, celebrating.

  . . .

  The feasts and celebrations lasted throughout the day. The guests of honor participated in all sorts of honorary positions, from leaders of the coronation parade to the first seats at the banquet, and many other joyous festivities. At the feast, Sawain left his meal untouched as he watched the others enjoy themselves. After ten minutes or so, he excused himself from the table and left the great hall, wandering back out into the courtyard, where many commoners gathered with their picnics to celebrate as well. He leaned against the marble banister of the raised porch, watching their games. Kyra appeared at his side moments later. His heart raced as she leaned on the rail as well, not far from him. They stood in silence a while before Sawain spoke.

  “I’m leaving tonight.”

  Kyra glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He kept his eyes locked on a group of children who danced around with long, flowing ribbons. “I mean we’ve been sitting around too long. Like Vaskar said, the Grey King will have his eyes set on Jordborg by now. I have a unique opportunity as his primary enemy. I can draw his attention away from Vaskar as long as I keep striking his outposts. Aside from all that, I still have a mission to carry out for Turin. Deep in the Cobalt Mountains, there’s a shrine. I have to travel to it and carry out Turin’s will there. It’s the only way I will be able to defeat the Grey King.”

  Kyra’s finger traced the grain of the marble as her eyes dropped to the hedges below them. She let out a bated sigh as she picked at her sleeves.

  “So, what does that mean for the rest of us?” />
  The children’s laughter flittered in the air as Sawain hesitated with his answer. “It means we have to divide our forces.”

  Axel’s gruff voice interrupted as he pushed open the door from the Great Hall. “Woah whoa, hold on, laddie. What’s all this talk of dividing forces? Yer planning on leaving us again?”

  Sawain turned to the dwarf. “Axel . . . it’s the only way. The Grey King . . . , he can be everywhere at once. We can’t. In order to stand a chance, we have to strike in two places at the same time. I have to go to the Cobalt Mountains, but I need the rest of you to return to Anvilheim.”

  Axel scratched his scalp. “Anvilheim? Why?”

  Sawain reached into his satchel, removing a weather-worn scroll. He handed it to Axel, who began to read over it as the Swerdbrekker spoke.

  “I found this letter in the Goretusk camp not long after I left Anvilheim. It’s been well over a year and a half since I came across it. I don’t know how long you’ve been away from home, but we may have another fight on our hands soon enough. I want you to take our army northward, recruit as much help as you can. Keep the Grey King’s attention off of Jordborg. Maybe we can get lucky. It will take a while to make my way to Caer Teallagh. I’ll need you to stay vigilant and keep fighting while I’m gone. The entire continent depends on our success.”

  Axel nodded slowly, his eyes reading over the message again. “I am pleased your ploy with the stones worked . . . . So it was a trap to divide our attention all along. . . . ? But I don’t understand . . . . The city was fine the day we returned . . . . How could this be?”