Wilmurin: Land of Darkness

by H. J. Cronin

  Finnvid looked down at his sister and fell to his knees again; the others came over to comfort him whilst Larko kept watch.

  'It has been a tragic day,' said Ardag, 'We shall bed now and carry on our journey on the morrow.'

  They set up a small camp with a fire and started to cook some leftover meat they had. They covered Jess's body under a cloth and Finnvid said a prayer and spoke to his gods. He spoke about an afterlife and the great journey Jess would now take to reach it. Dark passes, bridges, monsters, deadly rivers all stood in her way, but for the warrior she was, the journey would be easy. She would be reunited with her ancestors and drink with the gods. Finnvid offered the suitable words to help her journey even more. The companions sat silently and listened, fascinated by the words and beliefs of the Mjorn.

  One by one the party drifted off to sleep, leaving Ardag and Johan awake. Johan took the opportunity to speak to Ardag. He whispered, 'When I was paralysed by Shalon, I was still quite aware of what was happening.'

  'You were paralysed in the body, not the mind,' Ardag responded quietly.

  'Yes, I thought as much – how did you get that power? I saw you destroy a small army of undead creatures with the butt of your staff. Your power has grown beyond imagination these past months.'

  'A power that has been bestowed upon me, I have not chosen it. I can only imagine my true potential,' Ardag said, still reeling from his encounter with Shalon and extremely relieved to have lived through it.

  'Ardag, even if we manage to forge a sword from the filven, how are we going to get close enough to Darkool? It's not as if we can disguise ourselves like assassins. First we have to reach Wilmurin. I am sure the Mjorn will lend us a boat but how about actually landing? Drugar only knows what Darkool has done to fortify the place,' Johan sounded worried. He didn’t mention the fact that Ardag seemed different because of his new magical powers.

  Ardag gave him a comforting smile, 'That is a road we will cross when the time comes. It will be hard and perhaps even our end. It may even mean the sword bearer being killed.'

  Johan swallowed nervously, 'Killed? I will be prepared to give my life to accomplish our goal.'

  'I know you will,' Ardag said proudly. 'Let us hope it doesn't come to that. We will find a way, I will be at your side throughout. Now, get some sleep, we need an early start to make it to the Mjorn town. I am sure Chief Folkmar will be devastated by the news of his daughter’s death.'

  Johan didn't say anything and lay down to try and sleep. The whole party were distraught because of the death of Jess. Johan had grown fond of her and her brother. Jess had been an amazing shield-maiden, tougher than many men. Her death was both unexpected and unwanted; she was not just another death in this war but another friend that Johan had lost. They slept that night under the stars, and sleep eventually found Johan.

  The bitter cold morning air was always an unwelcome guest, although it wasn't nearly as cold here as it was farther north, it was cold enough. The walk back to the town was silent, and a sad atmosphere surrounded the companions, sadness for Jess. Finnvid insisted on carrying her body alone, with no help along the way. They walked through the Cold Wood not encountering any form of life – so far the frost giants had kept their word – they came over the crest of a hill and saw the Mjorn town; Johan gave a sigh of relief as they made for the town.

  The party arrived at the town looking as though they had been through a war and back. Ragged clothes, thick animal furs covered in snow, eyes that longed for comfort. The entire town came out when word of their return was heard. A jubilant crowd became silent and still as they noticed the body of Jess upon Finnvid’s shoulders; he stared dead ahead, not making eye contact with anybody. The others followed quietly behind. Johan even heard some women wail when they didn't see their loved ones return – all of the Mjorn warriors that had accompanied them were dead.

  They made their way through the silent crowd towards the large mead hall to meet the chief, who would, by now, have heard of their return. Everything in the town had stopped at the news of the companions’ arrival.

  Chief Folkmar awaited them at the foot of the large stairway that led to the mead hall; his proud and happy expression changed instantly when he saw Jess. 'My daughter!' he cried, and ran over to Finnvid, who placed her down in front of his father.

  'How did this happen?' the chief demanded, fighting back tears.

  Finnvid didn't reply, it was as if his tongue had frozen, so Ardag spoke up, 'An evil lich king called Shalon, a servant of High Count Darkool, found us and almost killed us all.'

  'She didn't even see the blast coming,' added Johan.

  The chief stared down at his daughter, his face full of hurt and pain. He looked at Finnvid with sadness in his eyes. 'Can you not speak to your own father?'

  Finnvid looked down and sighed. 'I feel I have failed you. Jess was my responsibility, this is my fault.'

  'It is not your fault, my son,' Chief Folkmar said, placing a comforting hand on Finnvid’s head as he knelt. 'It is the fault of this evil plague the outlanders spoke of.' He then looked at Ardag. 'Did you find what you were looking for? You have been gone for a very long time.'

  'It is a long tale but we have found the means to destroy Darkool. I am sure we would all benefit from a warm shelter and some mead,' Ardag said indicating the mead hall, ‘and we can then tell all.’

  'Of course,' the chief said. 'All of you, come inside, my aids will take my daughter. We will give her a proper funeral tomorrow.'

  The companions followed the chief into the hall, each taking one last look at Jess. They sat with the chief at a long table; succulent roast pork cooked earlier was served and they all ate until their bellies could handle no more. The warm fire at the end of the mead hall heated the place, making it feel more homely.

  Ardag and Finnvid told the chief their tale. From the ambush by the rock shelter, to the meeting with the Lone Druid, all the way to the mountain where they were ambushed and overwhelmed, to the magnificent halls of the Builders, the battle with the chimera, the peace with the frost giants and, lastly, the confrontation with Shalon and the sad death of Jess. The chief listened intently, not interrupting once. The part about Jess was the hardest for him to listen to.

  'So we need to find a way to forge your filven sword, Johan,' the chief said, looking at Johan and stroking his beard.

  Johan nodded, 'The quicker I learn how to do it, the faster we can set off for Wilmurin. Because I seem to be the only one who can lift it, maybe I am the only one who can forge it'

  'Return to Wilmurin?' Bry said aloud, and blushed when she noticed all eyes on her, 'Although I am eager to get back, I like it here, we are far away from the enemy and these are good people.'

  'This darkness that Darkool brings with him will eventually reach here,' warned Ardag, 'I have said it before, the darkness will spread all over the world if it is left unchecked and unchallenged.'

  'I know,' Bry conceded. 'We don't even have a boat to cross the sea, how can we get to Wilmurin without a boat?'

  The chief laughed, interrupting them. He said, 'We have plenty of boats here, I will even give you a crew to sail you there – our longboats are unmatched. I shall want it back though.'

  'That's very kind of you, chief,' Johan said, bowing. 'Thank you for all you have done.'

  The chief was about to respond when Finnvid spoke up, 'I want to go with them.'

  The chief looked shocked, and frowned. 'You can't, Finnvid, your home is here, you are to rule when I die.'

  Finnvid shook his head, 'The will outlanders leave Jotun outnumbered and vulnerable, they need all the help they can get. I have a brother who can fill my position here.'

  'You think you can change the tide of their war?' The king said, unintentionally sounding harsh.

  'No – one thing I have learned from them is that this isn't their war, it's our war,' Finnvid said.

  'Don't leave me, son,' pleaded the chief.

  'You have many years left in you yet, Fathe
r. I hope to return. I cannot bear to let my newfound friends stand alone. They say this world will burn and, since seeing this Shalon, I believe them. It is the Mjorn way – we pride ourselves on battle. I will fight many more until I am ready to meet my sister in the halls of the gods. Should I, or we, let them stand alone? The answer is no.'

  Neither the companions nor the chief said anything; Father and son stared at each other silently.

  The next day the town was out once again; rather than joy at the party's return, there was mourning. The Mjorn people watched as Finnvid and several warriors carried Jess to the funeral pyre. A slow, mellow song began to be heard from the crowd, which soon spread. The whole town joined in the song. They sang about fallen warriors and their ancestors, a beautiful song that sent shivers down the Johan’s spine; of course, he couldn't understand the words but the melody brought tears to his eyes.

  Bry held his hand to comfort him. Ardag stared straight ahead at Jess's body, feeling guilt for her fall. Larko also stood silently; he remained taciturn following his outburst.

  Ardag tapped his staff, following the rhythm of the song. He felt he should have prevented her death; if he was as powerful as he thought, then surely he would have sensed the servant of Darkool. He knew that one day they would confront each other again – one of them had to perish. He swore he would get vengeance for the death of his wife and son.

  The Mjorn placed Jess on a stack of wood that formed the pyre. Finnvid covered her eyes with coins for the afterlife, a Mjorn custom; she was dressed in beautiful silk robes with her bow and shield, a symbol of her once being a shield-maiden.

  Chief Folkmar climbed some steps and towered above his daughter’s corpse; he wore a lavish robe with a large thick hide around his shoulders. He held out his arms and spoke to his people, his voice carrying throughout the large town. The people stood silently and listened. 'People of my town, friends and family, warriors, farmers, all who go by the name of the Mjorn!' The people were respectful and made no response. 'I stand here as a father about to send his daughter to the afterlife, something a father should never do. She died protecting our way of life and is a hero because of it. There's an uncertain future ahead of us, we must unite to face this future – all of the tribes must come together! I light this fire and send my daughter to the afterlife proudly, so that she may travel there well – she is worthy of being escorted by the gods. Raise your hands and cheer her name, Jess!' The crowd followed and chanted her name as the flames spread quickly. Soon the pyre was ablaze and Jess's body left the material world.

  After a moment's silence the chief walked back towards the mead hall; he met the four companions standing together, and Johan noticed a tear in the chief’s eye. He spoke to them gently, his voice full of pain, 'Stay with us for one more week, eat and drink well before your long voyage. I will have a ship ready to sail you to Wilmurin.'

  'Thank you for all your kind hospitality,' Ardag said, bowing, and the others followed suit. The chief nodded and walked back to the mead hall.

  The funeral party was full of drinking and eating, the life of Jess celebrated and praised. The companions were not used to these kinds of funeral rituals. The chief was absent from the celebration; he sat alone in his room.

  After one week the companions had enjoyed a great deal of hot, fresh food and mead, and now they prepared the ship to leave. Johan looked out at the great bay surrounded by mountains, and the sea beyond, and sighed. He had crafted his sword with the help of the Mjorn blacksmiths. The Mjorn couldn't shape the filven, only Johan could and he done it with ease – the time to craft the sword was far quicker than even the most highly trained blacksmith. Johan had worked tirelessly day and night. Johan wondered at the significance of this filven, and why only a Night Hunter could lift it.

  He had fashioned a long sword, four feet in length, the blade as light as a feather to Johan. He looked over it, fascinated by its colour – a very dark and dull silver. He then looked back out over the bay, dreading the journey ahead.

  'What's wrong?' Bry asked, noticing Johan’s thoughtful face.

  Johan shook off his trance-like state and smiled at Bry, 'I feel like we've come all this way, achieved so much, all for nothing. Getting to Darkool is going to be impossible.'

  Bry sighed. 'We have come so far and overcome every single obstacle – Darkool is just another one. I have seen you become a strong, brave man from the quiet, innocent boy I met in Bemon all that time ago.'

  'Thank you,' Johan said, his eyes glistening slightly.

  'I am just eager to get started,' continued Bry, 'As much as I love the Mjorn, I want to get this task done.'

  'Once Finnvid returns, we will be on the move,' Johan reassured. 'Once again we will be off on our adventure—'

  'Fail or succeed, at least we tried,' interrupted Larko. 'I will come with you to Wilmurin. I am sure my mother doesn't need me.' He had been very quiet and this was the first time he had spoken for a while.

  'We can always do with your skill with a bow, Larko,' Johan said, patting the elf on the shoulder.

  Bry said nothing but stared at Larko with obvious hostility.

  Ardag approached them after loading the last of their cargo on the longboat. 'We're all ready and packed. Just waiting for Finnvid to return.'

  'What's the plan?' Johan asked.

  'I have thought about it for a while,' Ardag started, 'we will go to the same place we left, that small beach at the bottom of the cliffs. That should give us a chance to enter Wilmurin secretly.'

  Bry was about to speak when she was interrupted by shouting from behind. Finnvid ran over to them, 'Wait everyone! We cannot leave yet, my father has summoned the four of you to the mead hall.'

  'With all due respect, we should be on the move,' Ardag said.

  'Trust me, Ardag, you and the others will want to hear this!’ Finnvid said, and led them back to the town.

  They arrived at the mead hall halfway through a meeting between the eight elders, Chief Folkmar and his wife.

  One of the elders was speaking; the companions came in in mid-sentence, '…how do you see this as helping us?'

  Chief Folkmar responded, ignoring the new arrivals, 'The world is in danger. I will not sit back idly whilst it burns.'

  Johan whispered to Finnvid, speaking on behalf of all of the confused companions, 'What's going on?'

  'Shhh,' Finnvid whispered back.

  The elder responded to the chief’s statement, 'It is the choice of the whole council, chief, you seek to fight in a foreign war.'

  The chief looked irritated, 'The conflict with the frost giants is over. I do not seek war, nor do I want to see my people destroyed. I ask you, the council of elders, to approve of my plan to send six thousand warriors to Wilmurin, to help end this war.'

  'But that's our whole force, practically all of the men of fighting age,' one of the elders said angrily. The companions looked on intently, now excited by the proposal put forward by the chief.

  'I do not seek the glory of war, I seek a new home on Wilmurin, where the land can be farmed and the sun can be felt. It’s cold there only for a few months according to the outlanders. We will have a new place to call home. This Darkool has an army like a plague, the outlanders warn of his darkness spreading. Let's take the fight to him.'

  One of the elders stood up, 'I think I am not alone in wishing to find a new home, but the odds are against us. Even if we despatch such a force, it pales in comparison to the possible number of enemy.'

  'We are the Mjorn,' Chief Folkmar said proudly, 'The odds are always against us. That is how we thrive. I beg you all one more time. Approve the intervention of the Mjorn, let the Mjorn go to war.'

  'How will we gather enough ships to transport such a force? It will take months to prepare an army,' another elder said.

  The chief answered immediately, 'It will take months, perhaps six, including the upcoming three months of harsh winter. Our ship builders will work ten times harder than normal, and they will train others – w
e have an abundance of wood around us.'

  The eight elders sat silently for a moment before discussing it amongst themselves. Chief Folkmar listened quietly, trying to hear the low, mumbled conversation. At last the elder with the long white beard stood and spoke to the assembly, 'The elders have decided the choice in this matter lies with the outlanders. If they request our aid, then, yes, the Mjorn will go to war. Outlanders?'

  All eyes fell upon the companions, they looked to Ardag to speak for them. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and answered, 'We never had the intention of asking for aid. However, we need as much help as we can get – you know many warriors will not return. But you will find a new home on Wilmurin, a safe home. We accept your offer, we request aid in our struggle against Darkool.'

  'So be it,' said the elder, 'Six months from now we depart for Wilmurin, and war.'

  There was a cheer and a toast of mead. The assembly disbanded, leaving the companions with the chief and Finnvid.

  'Thank you, Chief Folkmar,' Johan said, 'We don't know how to thank you enough.'

  'Truly, chief,' said Ardag gratefully. 'It has been an unexpected turn of events.'

  'Surely six months is too long,' Bry said hastily before the chief responded.

  'Wilmurin will be no better off in six months than now. I fear the clans are all destroyed,' said Ardag with a sigh. 'We have the opportunity to take the fight to the enemy and have a better chance to succeed.'

  'Very well,' conceded Bry. 'It will be a long six months.'

  'And a cold one with winter approaching,' the chief said and smiled. 'For three months the temperature will plummet, but we will still work hard building these ships nonetheless.'

  'For Wilmurin,' Johan said, raising a cup of mead. The other outlanders took up the toast, and the Mjorn chief, his wife, and their sons smiled approvingly.

  18

  The Last Thorn in Darkool

  High Count Darkool, master of Wilmurin and master of slaves, sat on his throne. The throne looked horrific, made from the bodies of fallen soldiers and civilians. He had dispensed with the old, stone throne and replaced it with this abomination. Dead prisoners hung from the ceiling, blood dripping to the ground for him to drink. He had the once proud city of Flordonium fashioned to his liking. Skulls lined the walls, slaves lived in the streets, easy pickings for the many vampire warriors that passed by.