The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 5

  Gruesome dug his thick claws into the rough bark of the tree and craned his neck to look at the clearing below him. Well below him...for he was over three times his own great height above the solid ground. If the gods wanted havtrols to be so high above the earth, glorious Fjur would have given us wings, he grimaced to himself. He watched Pjodarr as he knelt in the snow. The old shaman was odd, given to amusing himself in all manner of ways, but Gruesome had learned to trust the slave’s instincts. If Pjodarr said frost wyverns now hunted this forest, the havtrol believed him. But he didn’t have to like the old man’s improvised method of hunting, which brought him so high in this tree.

  The little old man below raised his tattooed arms above his head, the steel of a knife's blade glinting in his right hand. In one smooth gesture, he sliced the palm of his left, and pushed both arms upwards. Snow swirled toward the sky. Gruesome's keen nose caught a faint whiff of blood on the shaman's wind.

  A raspy screech echoed from above. Gruesome hadn't heard the call of the wyverns in over ten seasons, but he knew it well. The carrion beasts were ever present on battlefields in the highlands of the Bergmark. He never expected to see them here, across the sea. A chill ran up his spine. Was the dwarf homeland so desolate now that even the vermin of the sky had left it?

  A soft whoosh signaled the first wyvern's glide toward its prey. The havtrol knew another would follow. As the second beast passed him, he steeled his nerves. He'd hunted the great leviathans of the sea, so why would he dare be afraid to jump from a simple tree? He aimed for his target and launched himself into the air with a grunt. His full weight smashed into the second wyvern's back, and he clawed desperately at the creature's furred body to find a grip. It wailed and flapped its leathery wings, but the scavenger was unable to protect itself from an attack from above. The pair plummeted into the first wyvern. Gruesome briefly hoped the shaman had time to get out of the way before all three bodies smashed into the frozen ground. His bones jarred on impact, and he heard a gushing crunch from one of the beasts below him. The wyvern directly under him thrashed weakly. Warrior instincts took over; in a daze, the havtrol found the thing's long neck and easily crushed it.

  Another screech brought him to his senses. Pain rocked his massive body as he rolled onto his back to face his attacker. He heard the creak and groan of ancient wood and the panicked cries of a wyvern above him. A large clump of snow fell on his face. When Gruesome opened his eyes again, the shaman's silver mask filled his vision. The old slave grinned mischievously beneath it.

  "How does it feel?"

  The big warrior groaned as he sat up. "Ice giants do not hit as hard as this cursed ground."

  "No, no. How does it feel to be the first havtrol to ever fly? First Bergsbor, really. I'm sure some elf has done it at some point or other. But you should be proud."

  Gruesome growled at the little man and pulled himself to his full height, almost half again taller than the thin shaman...and three times as wide. He looked up to see a third wyvern trying desperately to free itself from a prison of large tree limbs.

  Pjodarr looked toward his captive. “I love these trees here, so old and mighty. If we’d had these in the Mark, I would never need dwarf or havtrol. Just an army of roots and limbs.” He raised his hand and made a motion as if pushing something down. The great tree shook and the last wyvern was thrown to the ground. The havtrol pounced on the creature and broke its neck before it could even attempt to defend itself. These beasts were completely helpless on the ground, and never much of a threat to live prey without greater numbers, despite their large size. They could easily carry a man or a skinny dwarf, but only a dead havtrol had anything to fear from them.

  The shaman gave a long whistle and then went to work with a small axe. He began cutting the wings off one of the wyverns while Gruesome lumbered to where his armor and weapons were piled under the base of one of the huge trees. Pjodarr was right to tell him to leave it all below; the extra weight probably would have killed him along with the beasts. A large var bounded into the clearing, in answer to the shaman's call. The female snuffed excitedly at the carcasses. She clamped her powerful jaws around the neck of the last wyvern and shook it violently.

  "NO!" Gruesome roared at her and cuffed her on the snout. Her hackles rose as she growled at him. He returned her snarl with a rumble from his own throat. No stupid var could back down a mighty havtrol warrior. He didn't even like riding the beasts, much less sharing the bounties of his kills with them.

  "Oh, for the love of Berta," the shaman groaned. "Mila!" He called as he chopped off the head of the wyvern he was busy preparing for travel and tossed it to the var. She dropped the other and snatched her prize in her wide jaws. She crunched the entire head in her mouth twice before swallowing it whole. "That's a good girl," Pjodarr cooed as he went about his work. Gruesome shook his head and went back to donning his gear. The chainmail shirt went on easily, but he had to have the shaman help him cinch the steel plates on his upper and lower arms. Like most havtrols, he did not wear gauntlets. He did not want to deprive himself of the natural weapon of his thick claws. The last piece to go on was his most cherished. A black steel helm in the shape of a snarling bear's head, the gaping maw framing Gruesome's own fearsome face. It marked him as a proud warrior of Clan Beartooth, given only to those that proved themselves in great battle. The helm was a symbol of the respect his people held for him. Even after he’d stained his own honor, they had not taken it from him. He placed it on his head and felt almost complete.

  But only the warrior’s true treasures could make that so. He bent down and lifted the large hammer and double-bladed axe from the ground. Forged from solid Thurin steel, they gleamed in the sunlight. The thick leather wrapped around their hafts kept his grip firm. The weight of them brought him great comfort. High King Henrik had presented them to Gruesome as gifts on the day he’d pledged his clan’s loyalty to the dwarf’s cause. Where most weapons of power were covered in runes, only a single one graced each side of these. It represented the bond between their peoples, and havtrols did not take oaths lightly. With a rumble of satisfaction, he slid the hilts into the big loops at his hips.

  By that time, Pjodarr had the wyverns ready for travel. Sweat beaded on the shaman's bare arms, even in the crisp winter air. The man was slim, but wiry. The tattoos that covered most of his skin depicted various parts of nature: a mountain here, a tree there. Fire, clouds and waves cascaded down his arms, interspersed with animals of all sorts. The havtrol knew that they were all things the shaman had used as weapons. All battle-tested shamen had similar markings, given to them by other shamen. It was how they showed each other respect. But Pjodarr was the only one to have a certain type of tattoo; no other could boast the lightning bolts that covered the backs of each hand. All of the inkings were smooth and clear, as if the slave had just gotten them recently. A shaman trick, just like they never showed their age. Such magic was beyond the mind of a warrior, so Gruesome did not wonder about it. One other spot, high on the old man’s right arm held a different mark than any other shaman as well: a brand in the shape of a serpent twined around a column. It was the symbol of his eternal bond to his master. Few slaves were given such an honor.

  In contrast to his markings, the old man’s attire was mostly nondescript: sleeveless chain shirt over a plain tunic, worn brown pants and a thick brown cloak. Only one thing stood out, the silver mask that left only his mouth and beard visible. Most shamen wore masks of carved wood; Pjodarr was the only one Gruesome had ever seen with one of pure silver. The old man's stringy hair hung under the mask's leather cap, tufts of silver-streaked red blowing in the cold breeze. The slave did not normally carry himself with the weight of the power he truly bore, but the big havtrol knew that the shaman could command as much authority as a dwarf king if he desired. None from the Mark doubted his bond with Fjur.

  Gruesome strapped the wyverns and their wings to the var's back, and they all began the short trek east to their c
amp. They’d taken shelter in a cave in the foothills of the Deerleg Mountains. Over the past five seasons spent with Pjodarr and his master, Gruesome had learned the southern part of the mountain range well. Due to the war, the area was less inhabited than most of Caldera. There were a few small villages, but they were more likely to see a dwarf patrol than anyone else. The dwarves did not trust the Calderans to maintain the terms of the recent treaty, and Gruesome did not blame them. Human nations were not known for their honor.

  Pjodarr talked for the whole journey, mostly to the var. The shaman seemed to enjoy talking simply for talking's sake. Well, maybe the var enjoyed it, too. But something bothered Gruesome, so he finally decided to ask the old man the question that burned in his gut.

  "Pjodarr, when will we find their trail again?"

  The slave was silent for a moment, then his shoulders slumped slightly. "Give me tomorrow to prepare these wyverns, then we will continue. These will keep us fed for a few days, and we can trade the wings. Folks here have never known leather like wyvern leather."

  "Eight nights have passed, are you sure you can find them?"

  Pjodarr chortled. "Your folk aren't known for their subtlety, my friend. Especially not after they go wild."

  "Do not mistake Honorless for wild," Gruesome rumbled. He wondered more and more about the shaman. Perhaps age was making the slave weak, but recently he seemed to be trying to avoid battle. Gruesome was on a mission, and he now felt the shaman was keeping him from it. He knew Pjodarr was not afraid to fight, nor afraid to die. He'd seen the man give all of himself in battle. No, Gruesome was sure it had something to do with Blade. Did the shaman sense some change in his master? The havtrol continued the rest of the journey in silence.

  “Master,” Pjodarr greeted the dwarf joyfully as he entered the cave. “We’ve had quite the bounty. And you missed a most glorious spectacle. The mighty Gruesome flew through the air with the grace of a stone butterfly!”

  Of course, the old dwarf did not answer. Gruesome did not have to look to know exactly what the honorable general was doing. He knew he stood in the same place from when they left that morning. He knew that Pjodarr would now be giving his master water to drink and a bit of food. Because the once great Blade would do nothing but stand as still as a statue unless the shaman told him otherwise. Gruesome pushed one of the other var away as he untied the carcasses from the big female. The shaman named them all, but the warrior never cared to learn which was which. They were simply “var” to him. He left Pjodarr to care for his master in peace.

  “And we will have quite the treat tonight for dinner. I’ll make you my famous wyvern stew. Or infamous, as you like to call it, Master.”