E.T. Gunnarsson

Chapter 1

"Massacre at Hafornstalt"

Brónmal hated the Northlands.

Even as High Summer approached, it still snowed. The light sprinkle came from sparse clouds and layered the ground. Despite the snow, the valleys and fjords were rife with green.

Standing on the dock, he watched the ships arrive from Mednodorn across the Gisjaf Sea. The sea calmly ebbed and flowed. Beyond the bitter waters to the Western horizon rose the Fjandgarth mountains. Great storm clouds enveloped their peaks. From the distant mountains, salty, icy winds swept over the sea and lapped against Brónmal. He shivered.

“How do they tolerate this weather?” Brónmal thought.

Throfi and Mednohail workers unloaded warships full of food, weapons, and armor onto the docks. Shouts and laughter echoed around the docks. Every dialect from the North and across the Empire could be heard while they worked. The Mednohail, Brónmal’s people, were short, stocky men with dark tan skin and brown hair. While the Mednohail were often five feet tall, the Throfi were taller, usually a foot or more than the average Mednohail. They were large men whose heavy footsteps shook the wooden docks.

From afar, Brónmal watched the Throfi. He found their gray skin and silver hair strange, lacking a sense of normality. Their pink, shallow eyes made him recoil in disgust. While Mednohail wore refined clothes of linen and fibers from plants, the Throfi wore animal skins. Hide and fur from Northern beasts covered them from head to toe and kept them warm. Flakes of snow rested on the fur clothes and white beards of Throfi men.

“Primitive,” Brónmal thought. The giants lacked sophistication. They had no factories or great fields to produce clothing, just small tribes and families. Worse still, they had magic, a wretched offense to the Three. Brónmal’s jaw clenched. He wished that they would simply release their devilish traditions.

Dockworkers greeted ships as they arrived. Brónmal scanned the horizon. The Godspeaker’s galley, the Apfaircada, was still nowhere to be seen. As General of Beinthal, the third of the Nine Provinces of Mednodorn, it was Brónmal’s job to prepare for the Godspeaker’s arrival.

Brónmal turned to his friend and squire. “Hacarad, is the city secured? The guard must be ready for the Godspeaker’s arrival.”

Hacarad nodded. “Of course, Lord. I also made sure that supplies were stocked and accounted for.”

“Good. Go, talk to one of the warship captains and see where the Apfaircada is.”

Hacarad bowed. “Yes, Lord.”

Brónmal adjusted his robes and watched Hacarad go down to the docks. He wanted his armor. The Throfi were friendly, but how could he trust a pagan people?

It had been an Aothill, 150 years, and the Conversion was far from completed. Brónmal hated how long it took. It was the Mednohail’s Daodamath, or divine purpose, to lead the world into the one true faith, Tharifen. The Godspeaker often spoke about how men like Brónmal were shepherds of the ignorant. Here, among the ignorant, he hated them. He looked forward to the Godspeaker’s arrival.

“It is time for these pagans to learn,” he thought.

Hacarad returned from the docks a few minutes later. “Lord, the captain says the Godspeaker’s ship will be here soon. It is in the middle of the fleet. The last of the fleet will dock by nightfall.”
“Wonderful. That lays my worries to rest. What do you think of these pagans? This is my third time in the North, and they never seem to change.”

“These Grayskins? Strange people. They are giants compared to us.”

“I think they are savages.”

“They are. How could anyone worship the sun, moon, or death over the Three? If only they knew of their Eirsa.”

Brónmal shook his head. “They do not know of the Cug Baolar. The Godspeaker explained that Eirsa, even the word heresy, does not exist in their language.”

“Primitive language. At least they are not like the Heokolons.”

“True. I pity these ignorant Grayskins. At least they are learning and converting. Are they not worth mercy because of that, Hacarad?”

“I believe we can save them. For some, it takes time to see the light of the Three and to bathe in the bliss of the Godspeaker’s words.”

Brónmal smiled. “Eager to see our glorious Godspeaker again?”

“It is always a blessing. May Daonrex smile upon his journey here.”

“Are all the housings ready for the Godspeaker and the White Hands?”

Hacarad nodded. “Yes, Lord.”

“Good. These pagans can at least prepare for the arrival of true grace.”

“What does the Godspeaker intend to do when he lands, Lord?”

“Many are as ignorant as I. I believe the Godspeaker will give a speech to those here in Hafornstalt after his arrival. There will be a feast, and work will begin converting the Grayskins.”

“What do you mean, Lord?”

“I heard the Godspeaker will travel for a week from farmstead to farmstead and to a few villages to help convert people.”

“And we must escort him?”

Brónmal shook his head. “No, the White Hands will protect the Godspeaker. We will only accompany him, not deal with his protection. I am to speak to the village leaders on the way.”

Hacarad shrugged. “Simple work then.”

“Boring work. But it is far better than warring with these giants.”

Brónmal looked across the small city of Hafornstalt. It was insignificant compared to any city back in the Empire. The houses, made from wood, were small and dome-shaped. Treated hides covered the roofs and kept the heat in to endure the never-ending snow. Smoke came from chimneys protruding from the center of each home. They always required firewood here. In the distance, Brónmal could hear the city stirring. As High Summer approached, the sun no longer set. The Throfi scurried to use the enduring sunlight before the long dark of High Winter took hold again.

Hacarad pointed at a group of Throfi on a dock. “I would not like to fight such giants.”

Brónmal glanced at him before bowing his head. “Saying that is a mistake. I would gladly give my life for the Highlord, the Godspeaker, and the Three. If it takes one of these beasts to send me to Daonrex, so be it. Whatever sacrifice it takes to lead the world into righteousness is worth it.”

Hacarad’s gaze fell. “My apologies, Lord. Cowardice took me.”

“There is no room for cowardice. We are servants of the Three and have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Brónmal groaned. “Come fetch me if you see the Apfaircada, and make sure the Grayskins do what they are told.”

“Where will you go, Lord?”

“I am going to the temple to pray.”

Hacarad nodded and bowed. “As you say, Lord.”

“Three bless you, Hacarad.”

“And you as well, Lord.”

Brónmal walked toward the city’s temple. His steps carried his father’s lessons about nobility. Walk upright, plant each step as if one owned the earth, and hold the chin high with dignity and virtue. On Hafornstalt, no one dared to meet his gaze. The Throfi, much larger than him, crouched and lowered their heads, fearing him. They knew him as ruthless, a righteous judicator for the Highlord, the Godspeaker, and the Three.

It took cruelty and unyielding honor to work one’s way up from a knight to a General underneath the Highlord himself. Brónmal held his position with stern pride, far from the humility of a peasant.

Each street bustled with trade. There were vendors everywhere, selling items from food to weapons. Many sold fish, meat, and other animal goods since crops were hard to grow in the North. The air was heavy with the reek of animals in cages, barrels full of fish, and racks of salted game everywhere. Throfi hunters and Mednohail immigrants packed the streets. Yet, unlike the streets of a Mednohail city, Hafornstalt did not stink of feces and unwashed peasants.

As if witnessing a murder, the streets became deathly silent while Brónmal marched past. Even the animals grew quiet. The crowd parted to let him through, some kneeling and bowing in respect and fear. Brónmal’s gaze was like a spear, penetrating the mind and spirit of anyone he looked at. The courage of hunters and peasants faltered beneath it.

On the way to the temple, Brónmal thought of his faith. Did these Grayskins have what he had? Could they, or their children, faithfully follow the holy words of the Godspeaker, the one true prophet of Mednodorn? Could they submit as deeply as he did to the will of the Three? He pitied them. They were ignorant, closer to savage cannibals than blessed folk under the Three.

The Throfi were lucky the Mednohail held any form of mercy toward them. Brónmal knew that if any of the Nine Armies of Mednodorn sailed North, cities would burn, and they would erase the name “Throfi.”

A Throfi child ran out of an alley and crossed before Brónmal. As she did, she saw him and fell to her hands and knees, head down. She begged in the Southern dialect of Throfi, words that made no sense to Brónmal. He looked down at her.

“Monster,” he thought. She was a feral beast of the North with gray skin, silver hair, and pink eyes. Dressed in fur, she wore a necklace of bones. Primitive. He raised his chin and continued.

A smack sounded, followed by a cry from the little girl. Brónmal did not glance back. He kept walking while a Throfi woman yelled at the child.

“Imbecile language,” he thought. His nose wrinkled. He did not understand them, and he never wished to.

The crowded, domed houses opened into a large square dominated by a cube-formed stone temple. Its roof had a bulbous, dome-like garlic shape. The dome had five spires, each adorned with smaller bulbs that made the roof crown-like. Towering over the city, the temple stood as an idol of power over the North. Brónmal looked up. He thought of it as a seed of domination, soon to sprout over the entire world.

Enslaved heretics had built the temple. With a body of stone, it was immortal compared to the wooden homes of the Throfi. Brónmal believed stone showed superiority. While the Throfi’s primitive houses would rot and collapse, the temple would stand timeless through the ages.

A pair of Mednohail soldiers guarded the grand entrance to the temple and bowed before Brónmal. “Three bless you, General Brónmal!”

Brónmal walked past them and entered the temple. The ceiling, supported by grand stone arches, rose high above a salt pool along with three statues that stood opposed to the entrance. Corpses lay in the pool, time and salt mummifying them. Brónmal went around it to the statues.

A Mednohail man dressed in black robes approached Brónmal and bowed. “Three bless you, Lord.”

Brónmal bowed in return. “Three bless, Nehadrir.”

“Any news about the Godspeaker?”

Brónmal gazed at the salt pool. “He is soon to arrive. I have simply come to pray to pass the time.”

Nehadrir gestured to the pool of salt. “There is no nobler way to wait. I hope the dead do not bother you?”

Brónmal shook his head. “I have slain far too many heretics to be bothered by death. No, I am curious about what the Grayskins think. Do they think like us?”

Nehadrir tilted his head. “Of salting the dead?”

“Yes. It must be different to keep the dead like we do so that families may grieve and remember their mortality and sins?”

Nehadrir shrugged. “It is far better than sending the sick, dying, and dead into the frozen north. I have heard little objection. I have helped build a few ancestral altars to lay the dead here in Hafornstalt. The Throfi seem grateful that those that pass may stay for a short while longer before burial.”

“I remember when we replaced my great-grandfather's body with my grandfather’s. It was sad to bury him finally. It is good to see the heathens learn.”

“Three bless them. We will shepherd them all to the light, eventually.”

“Hopefully. I will pray now. Three bless you, Nehadrir.”

“And you as well, General.”

Brónmal walked around the salt pool and knelt before the three statues. The central statue depicted a muscular man. He was dressed in traditional noble clothing, large robes that reached just below his hips, with a belt around his waist. The belt shaped the robes into an hourglass and brought out the fine details of flowers and twisted designs placed along seams and folds. The statue’s pants were tight, bulging with great leg muscles. A gold crown sat on his head, which was unlike the rest of the stone body. A mask covered his face, and he held a sword in his right hand. This was Daonrex. He was the divine progenitor of humanity and ruler of all things.

“Praise to you, I am not worthy,” Brónmal thought.

The second statue depicted an old, bearded man dressed in priestly robes holding a pen. Filahaich, the patron of the common folk. His robes were long and flowing, a common priest’s attire that removed individuality. Instead, with simple clothing, he was one with the church and the universe. A figure of humility and honesty, he was the role model of the peasant. He ruled outside of humanity and made plants grow. Without his hand, the world would starve.

The last statue, worn and unkempt, depicted a hooded man dressed like a peasant. Dubilfen, the patron of darkness. Clothes torn and patchy, he looked like a vile man. Sneering with a mouth of broken, rotted teeth, he was depicted with boils and rashes upon his skin. He brought plagues, disasters, and chaos. The Mednohail did not worship Dubilfen in reverence. Instead, they hoped to appease him and keep him away. He was the First Sinner and patron of heretics and criminals. It was Eirsa to worship Dubilfen, heresy of the worst degree.

Brónmal spread his arms upward and bowed his head, opening himself to Daonrex. He felt divine light enter him. A sensation of glowing and pulsing came from his bones. He felt love and passion.

The temple doors burst open, shocking everyone inside. Hacarad stormed in and shouted. “The Apfaircada is here! Prepare for the Godspeaker!”

Brónmal came out of his meditation. “Tell the city! I want the guard prepared for the Godspeaker! Go! GO!”

Hacarad and Brónmal left the temple. The city bells rang, drawing a crowd toward the docks while Brónmal darted to the ships. He sprinted through the streets, pushing past people and accidentally knocking over a barrel. At the docks, dozens of armed Mednohail soldiers formed a wall between the piers and the growing crowd.

The Apfaircada docked alongside a few other vessels. A white titan, it was an incredible wooden mass dwarfing not only the other ships but also a quarter of the city. The oldest Mednohail ship, it had been around since King Peregrine IV in the first Aothill. Nine soaring sails cast the docks in shadow, even as crewmen hurried to lower them. Its white body was adorned with gold-painted designs of flowers. Upon its bow was a wooden, shirtless man, spear in hand as if he led a charge. Along the ship's sides were three layers of trapdoors that ran from stern to bow. Within each were dozens of great ballistae of ancient design. Though the Apfaircada had never seen battle, it would undoubtedly tear apart any ship. Crewmen ran like ants and gathered to lower a large ramp.

Brónmal ran along the docks. “Line up!” he barked.

An army poured from the ship. The White Hands. Each man stood taller and broader than the average Mednohail. Dressed in all-white plate armor, their figures shone in the summer snow. Each had a spear and a large rectangular shield. There were a hundred White Hands, all surrounding a man dressed in bulbous white robes.

The Godspeaker, Bruidharir, stood out among any man. His brown hair had streaks of silver, with the pale fur of an albino animal decorating his shoulders and gold adorning his entire figure. Age had bent his posture, yet he walked with pride. His brown eyes had bags under them and looked as if they had seen centuries pass by. In his hand, he held a staff of silver and gold twisted together. A book with a jeweled cover and golden pages hung from his left hip, a holy scripture permitted for the Godspeaker only.

Brónmal knelt and bowed his head as the White Hands surrounded him. The Godspeaker approached. “Brónmal, Three bless you. It is good to see one of the most faithful men I know here in this chilly place.”

“It is an honor to see you again, Holy Godspeaker.”

The Godspeaker’s words gave Brónmal a taste of euphoria. “Come, Brónmal, we must speak.”

“As you wish, Holy One.”

The White Hands surrounded them, forming a wall between them and the soldiers lining the dock. The Throfi, new converts, cheered for what they believed to be a divine figure. They threw orange flower petals in the air and cried out in broken Mednohail. Brónmal gazed down at the petals. They were Yow flowers, the most common and hardiest flower of the North that grew all year around. He recalled the taste of Yow tea, bitter and sour, unlike the sweetness of any Mednohail tea.

The Godspeaker tilted his head. “How have the Throfi treated you?”

“As well as a pagan people can. They are strange people, though slowly turning to the light.”

The Godspeaker rested a hand on Brónmal’s shoulder. “I sense impatience in your voice, Brónmal. They will learn. I will be sure of it. Even animals can see the light. Not too long ago, the Throfi here were sacrificing to heathen demons. The rest of the tribes will learn what the Southern cities have learned.”

Brónmal bowed his head. “Forgive me, Holy One. It is hard to watch such misguided people.”

“Do not worry. You hold yourself responsible for people who can only be responsible for themselves. They will learn.”

Brónmal glanced at him. “Do you intend to give a sermon today?”

The Godspeaker nodded. “At the temple. I intend to bless these people and help them see the Three. We have a few that we will usher into the light, reborn.”

Brónmal smiled. “I am glad that I can be here. The priests have made all the preparations for your arrival. Do you need me to provide anything?”

“No, you have done your work. You may join me if you would like.”

Brónmal’s heart fluttered. “Absolutely, Holy One.”

“Come then. We have no time to waste.”

The army of white-armored bodyguards escorted the pair to the temple. They kept the people back, shouting and plowing through the crowd. At the temple, priests greeted the Godspeaker, exchanging pleasantries and kissing his hand. The White Hands, followed by the roaring crowd, gathered outside the temple.

Brónmal stood, hand resting on his scabbard. He watched the Godspeaker whisper to a priest, who nodded and disappeared. A moment later, he approached Brónmal. “An exciting day, is it not?”

“Yes, Holy One.”

“We must speak later of the Heokolons. Mednodorn calls for its Generals.”

Brónmal recoiled. “The Heokolons? What of the Easterlings? Have those wretched heathens attacked us?”

“No, but this is a conversation for another time. The Throfi await.”

Brónmal lowered his gaze. Like all Mednohail, Brónmal hated the Heokolons. “Will I avenge your failure, father?” he thought. Only time would tell, though he itched to spill Heokolon blood.

The Godspeaker’s booming voice interrupted his thoughts, repeated by a Throfi translator. “Good people of Hafornstalt! With the grace of the Three, I am blessed to be here amongst the humble Throfi once more!”

The crowd roared.

“It is my pleasure to see this temple finished in all its glory! A stone immortal, may it stand here for all eternity as a symbol of our faith in the Three! It fills me with joy to see so many of you basking in the light of Daonrex!”

Again, the crowd roared and jumped. The line of Mednohail soldiers in front of the White Hands stumbled back, eyes wide as they raised their shields. The Godspeaker raised his hand to calm the crowd. “I have served you, Mednodorn, and the Three for twenty years! But never in my life have I felt the love of Daonrex himself shine so bright here in these cold lands!”

He paused and glanced as a line of twenty-seven Throfi men in chains approached, escorted by twenty-seven Mednohail soldiers. “Yet, even in the brightest times, some still wish to cling to the darkness. Some have not seen the light, refusing to let go of ignorant and savage ways!”

Brónmal squinted while the line of men approached. The soldiers kicked out the knees of the prisoners and hit them with the hilts of their swords, forcing them to kneel and bow their heads. A priest came to them. He held a bowl in his left hand and a twig in his right. The bowl had a reddish-purple liquid called the Blood of Daonrex, which was water mixed with sap from sacred Morohm trees. While he chanted, the priest dipped the twig in the bowl and flicked drops of the liquid onto the heads of the Throfi prisoners. The crowd grew silent.

“Good people, the men before you have refused to see the light! They continue to do Dubilfen’s work and conspire to bring down the holy knowledge we have brought to these cold lands.”

One man jerked against his chains and shouted in Throfi. The crowd murmured, some screaming in anger. The few that could speak Mednohail cried out. “He said he’s converted!”

“Silence! Many of the men before you are wretched heathens, though few have falsely converted. Let them not fool you! They are disguised demons, workers for Dubilfen who lied about their purity! They are sinners, guilty of four of the Cug Baolar! The first is Aolfrao, deceit! The second is Esadif, disobedience! The third, to the disgust of the Three, is Aogadraod, witchcraft! And fourth, most heinous of all, is Eirsa, heresy!”

The crowd jeered and shouted when the translator delivered the Godspeaker’s words, but the line of guards held them back.

Hacarad walked up to Brónmal. “My Lord, what is going on?”

“I am not sure. The soldiers brought out these heathens, but I think some have converted. Where have you been?”

“Dealing with the guard. Everything is a mess. Something is going on. What have we not been told?”

Brónmal grimaced and looked around to see if anyone was watching them. All control seemed to have been taken from them, but by who? The Godspeaker?

The Godspeaker raised his hands in the air. “Good people, we cannot have traitors in our midst, heretics corrupting us! Wretched magic users, all of them in defiance of the love and grace the Three give us! We must be pure, we must be faithful, and we must fulfill our duty to the Three to lead the people into the light! If it is done through the sword, so be it.”

The soldiers readied their swords. The Godspeaker continued. “May heretics and our enemies, from outside or within, know we will not be misled. By man's blood and steel's will, all will see the light! Send them to Dubilfen.”

The soldiers cut into the line of prisoners, felling them with brutal, zealous stabs. The prisoners convulsed and screamed; their cries turned to gargle as they choked on blood. The crowd gasped. Men shouted as brothers and kinsmen were put to the sword, wives and daughters screaming as loved ones perished.

Hacarad shouted. “What are they doing?”

Chaos erupted. Brónmal heard women and children scream and watched them run. Throfi men tackled soldiers or kept them at bay while their families escaped.

Mednohail soldiers attacked the enraged Throfi. Brónmal snapped out of his shock and barked commands. “Wall formation! Surround the temple! Protect the Godspeaker at all costs!

The Mednohail soldiers gathered in an immense wall of shields and weapons, pushing against the attacking Throfi. Throfi men clawed at the shields. Some soldiers were ripped from their feet and hurled to the ground. Others screamed as Throfi men tore shields from their hands and broke their bones with crude bronze weapons. Brónmal clenched his hands in anger. Such primitive monsters were nothing to him, nothing without Mednohail discipline.

Brónmal shouted. “Move forward! Slaughter them!”

A unified cry came from the soldiers. “For the Three! The shield wall slammed forward. The Throfi fell back, swords and spears cutting them down. The formation inched forward. They crushed dead men under their feet, stomping and stabbing until the crowd broke. The intimidated Throfi grabbed their children and wives and ran off, leaving only a few who clung to the bodies of their fathers, brothers, and husbands. Wailing filled the air. Blood tainted the sacred grounds of the temple.

“What happened?” Brónmal thought. Did the Godspeaker execute heathens or massacre innocents? He walked among the dead, blood squelching beneath his boots.

Hacarad came up to him. “Why this? We were meant to convert peacefully here, so why this now?”

Brónmal hissed. “Shush! Do not question so loudly. We will speak later. I must see to the Godspeaker.”

“As you say, Lord. I will help keep order and deal with the dead.”

Hacarad bowed and walked toward the small army of soldiers. “To me, men! Gather the dead! Secure the streets around the square!”

Brónmal looked up. The snow continued to come down, melting in the heat of fresh blood.

Had they sinned here or served faithfully?