Chương 212: Extra Chapter: The Last Night

The rays of the sun were beginning to hide behind the imposing natural wall of the Rualfis mountain range. The flashes had dyed the sky a bright orange that faded into purplish violet, a color palette that only spring in those northern lands could offer. The cold from the mountains descended through the wind, blowing strongly from their peaks and giving it the characteristic whistle of those lands, a sound that was at once melancholy and invigorating.

That afternoon lacked the quiet drowsiness that rested every day in the village of Hreinn-Thorp. The sounds that reigned everywhere were the cheerful laughter of men and women, of boys and girls, of the beloved Gull with their cheerful and lilting chirps that rose toward the sky as an offering of joy.

The scent that had covered the entire town was that of freshly baked grain bread, of roasted animals slowly turning on pyres, of numerous sweets dripping with honey or berry desserts that shone like red and blue jewels on wooden plates. The one that stood out the most, without a doubt, was the irresistible smell of Gorgan meat sizzling on the pyres, its fat dripping onto the embers and raising clouds of aromatic smoke that enveloped the entire village. Music filled the central square of the village.

Many of the neighbors, like Hakon, already had red noses from the Eplaöl prepared by beloved Maire, a sweet liquor that gave off a scent so powerful it could only come from Askepli. The man was so drunk that he had started dancing with Maire herself, his clumsy but cheerful steps marking the rhythm of the Talharpas and the kantale, the Säckpipa and the Samí that gave the traditional dance of the harvest festival its characteristic sound.

The notes rose and fell like the waves of the sea, carrying all present in a current of shared joy. The little girl watched them reservedly from the distance of her home, sitting on the wooden windowsill. Her legs swung to the rhythm of the distant music, and her light blue eyes, the color of a clear sky, observed the bustle with a mix of curiosity and timidity.

She was waiting for her parents, her small hands clinging to the edge of the window, until she was taken from behind by two enormous hands that lifted her up to her father's shoulders and seated her there with the ease of someone who had performed that gesture a thousand times. —Elskan mín, always waiting quietly and watching from afar —said Cormac, his voice a warm murmur that contrasted with the harshness of his face, weathered by the wind and the sun.

He held her small hands firmly and continued speaking to her affectionately— My beloved child, you must learn to express what you feel more with words, or people will not understand it. The girl released one of her hands and teetered on his shoulders, clinging desperately to her father's long blond hair, which fell like a cascade of gold over his broad shoulders. At the same time, a door creaked open and shut, the wooden latch giving it its characteristic and definitive touch.

—I have told you, Fjora, not to pull Papa's hair —Milica, her mother, scolded her in a stern tone as she came out of the house wearing a moss-green wool dress— You must behave like a young lady. You have already turned five years old, and you must learn more things than just being protected by your father's training. —Don't go on with that, my love —Cormac said with resignation and a light tone, his large, calloused hand caressing his daughter's head— We already talked about it.

She will start formally sparring with other children of the village next month like everyone else. For now, let little Elen and strong Niall be enough for her. He paused, and his voice softened even more. —Besides, I don't mind her tugging my hair a little —he said, and a warm smile lit up his face— as long as I can still carry her on my shoulders. Milica sighed deeply, shook her head briefly, and a smile grew on her face, a sun rising over the horizon of her patience.

—All right, you win this time, darling —the woman yielded and chuckled softly, while the small braids of her hair covered her eyes— Let us take our great Khelganor warrior to enjoy the festival in honor of the goddess Gróany. Her mother began fastening the last buttons of her dress, but the man approached his wife and kissed her. A long, affectionate kiss that seemed to contain all the years of love and complicity they shared.

Perhaps too long, because Fjora tugged his hair again, with the strength of someone claiming what belongs to her. —Papa is mine —snapped the little girl, frowning at her mother, her blue eyes shining with determination that already foretold the warrior she would become. Her parents couldn't help but laugh softly, a sound that blended with the music of the festival.

Her mother now passed a hand over the little girl's face with all the love that only physical contact can convey, a caress that was a language in itself. However, the child did not change her annoyed expression, until her mother gathered her loose hair and began to braid it delicately, slowly and steadily, crowning it every so often with her colorful leather hair ties. —For my little giant —Milica said, her voice a whisper laden with tenderness— this gift is given to you by your mother.

She finished braiding it, and the little girl let the braid rest on her shoulders, feeling the light weight of the leather ties against her skin. —So that everyone knows my Fjora is already a whole young woman capable of fighting a duel —Milica continued, her fingers caressing her daughter's cheek— but also of being the sweetest girl I have ever known.

Little Fjora released one of her hands from her father's again, now running her fingers over the ties her mother had given her, appreciating the texture of the leather with distinctive Nordic patterns under her fingertips. It was a tangible gift of love, a reminder that she was cherished not only for her strength, but for her essence. After walking barely fifteen minutes, they were already in the center of the village.

They sat alongside the others, many of whom held wooden mugs full of beer with abundant foam overflowing the rims. The table was lavish, with cornucopias of fruits and berries that shone like gems, roasted meat giving off an irresistible aroma, and grains and desserts that were a feast for the eyes before being one for the palate. But they had already served themselves and were savoring the Gorgan meat with its soft, lean, red meat even after being cooked, a delicacy enjoyed only during major celebrations.

It was the Ålderman who raised his voice, while with a raised hand he caused the neighbors playing their instruments to slow the rhythm of the party for a second. The man was tall, with a shiny bald head reflecting the light of the bonfires. His beard was lush and braided, his belly prominent, but his arms showed the strength of someone who had labored through decades of hard work, and those decades were marked in his gray-filled beard like a map of lived experiences.

—Today we are all gathered here —Radomir began, his voice a thunder echoing in the valley— in the eternal favor of our lord Thrumir, who gave us abundant rains, gentler winds, and a less harsh winter. He paused, looking up at the starry sky with the full moon high above, a silver disc illuminating the celebration with its cold, benevolent light. —Gróany, his great wife, accompanied us with her blessing —he continued, his voice filling with gratitude— and in her honor we hold this beautiful celebration.

The goddess of the harvest has made us fruitful; the goddess of animal life has multiplied our heads of livestock. Even our Gull seem happier. Many of them laughed, laughter inundating the place at the Ålderman's unintentional joke. Once silence returned after he raised his hand again, most returned to their seats, though many of the younger ones were already eating, unable to wait any longer.

—Let us begin this year's great harvest festival —said Ålderman Radomir as he raised the single bronze goblet brimful of choice beer— May everyone enjoy the food! The hours flew by amid the feast and cheerful conversations, many dancing in the crackle of the bonfires. The instruments accompanied the others, while Sorcha sang with her voice as sweet as honey on warm bread. The lyrics reached the little girl who was almost dozing off in Milica's arms, her eyelids heavy as lead.

"Great Olav Iron-Arm rose to claim a torc of old, Called Cylch-Eira, sung of in sagas bright as gold; Borne down beneath the waves where no man dared to tread, By Thrumir's storm-wrought vision, onward still he sped. The tempest tried his courage; he neither swayed nor fled, Yet when he reached the deep, no torc did he behold; Only a shade in black that touched no cavern floor, Who named himself as Zarvok, and silence closed once more." This text was taken from Royal Road.

Help the author by reading the original version there. However, the little girl began closing her eyes while watching her father talk with Ålderman Radomir. The men, with serious expressions, could only talk about one thing, and their voices reached her clearly through the murmur of the party.

—We believed it too, Cormac —Radomir said with the heavy weight of responsibility on his face, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening— Your harvest has been the best, and that is why I believe it is right to warn you, despite the festive atmosphere. I am very sorry. He paused, his gaze turning toward the mountains, where shadows lengthened in the night.

—We saw a titanopod on the slopes of the mountain range —he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper— We thought it might be some border group of bandits, but it was only for one day, and just one. Cormac ran his hands over his short beard, then crossed his arms firmly, his posture shifting from the relaxation of the festival to the alertness of a warrior. His voice dropped a little but maintained the calm of someone who has seen many battles.

—I don't think this can end well —he said, his eyes resting on the children playing near the bonfires— The children, the men, and above all, the women celebrating must not find out about this. He sighed with resignation as his shoulders tensed, the weight of responsibility falling upon them like an invisible cloak. —We will not let these scoundrels steal what is ours again —he said, his voice a firm commitment— I swear it by Thrumir.

The conversation faded into the air with the same lightness with which it had arrived, absorbed by the music and laughter of the festival. Fjora had closed her eyes, finally falling asleep. The little girl rested warmly in her mother's arms, covered with a thick fur blanket smelling of wool and home. She dreamed of stone giants and heroes who descended to the bottom of the sea. The music had died out.

The crackle of the last bonfires was what still filled the air, its dying sound giving the final atmosphere to the great celebration. The smell of ash and roasted meat mixed with the aroma of spilled beer and the sweat of the dances. Many slept drunk, leaning on the benches and long tables they had brought together in the festive mood, their snoring forming an irregular choir that was the last echo of joy.

Little Fjora, wrapped under a blanket, slept with her mother on a bench, her face relaxed in the innocence of childhood sleep. While Cormac kept talking with Radomir, their conversation had extended so much that almost no one remained awake or sober. The Ålderman's nose was already red from the beer, but the little Nordic girl's father was sober. He had not tasted a drop of alcohol, just as he had promised his beloved mother Margrete before she departed for Vedrfodrssalr.

—You won't believe it —Radomir said, his voice slurred by the liquor but still lucid— my cousin Ivar in Vind-Borg told me that a priest of Aelthra... Upon pronouncing the name of that deity, he cleared his throat loudly and spat on the ground, a gesture of contempt that spoke of an ancient and deeply rooted hostility. —...

was put on trial for sleeping with the daughter of the chief of the Sýra-Blóð clan —he continued, and a raspy laugh escaped him— They say that under the pretext of crawling to the woman's great house, he made up the story of night specters that crept through the village for vengeance. Cormac maintained a serious, worried expression. His eyes were on other problems, on the shadow looming over the horizon beyond the feast. Even so, he could not leave his friend without a reaction. —And how did it all end?

—he asked, merely nodding, waiting for his friend to finish the story. —Well, the man wrapped a white wool blanket around his body, wailing near the cemetery —Radomir chuckled softly, his beard trembling with laughter— They say only the Stórozh found a ghost climbing through the window of beloved Freya Sýra-Blóð. At least they treated him as a sacrifice to the great god Réttek. They hung him from a post and slit his throat upside down…

Cormac joined him in laughter until he heard about the blanket, but he couldn't keep it up after the trial. The image of the man hanging, throat slit, was too vivid, too close to the darkness that always lurked at the edges of their world. It was then that, from the shadows, the constant rattling of six powerful legs and the sound of those articulated ones, those of insects, which every peasant in a border village knew, was heard in the distance. They were the legs of a group of bandits riding titanopods.

Both turned around. Fjora's father, standing rampant before the threat, felt his blood run cold in his veins. But the smoke arriving now was not from the celebration. Surrounded on all sides, the flames spread like an exuberant life consuming with fury the roofs, the walls, their houses, their barns, and everything made of wood. The smell of burning straw and smoldering wood filled their nostrils, a stench that spoke of destruction and death.

Radomir, staggering, stood up reaching his hand toward the knives on the table, the longest and sharpest ones at the party. However, Cormac walked straight toward one of the bonfires, and from there he lifted the axe that had been used to chop the firewood feeding it. The metal gleamed with the reflection of the flames, a flash of hope amidst the chaos. He carried it on his shoulder to the line of men and women who had woken up and armed themselves quickly before the threat.

Those who had not drunk, but all together they were no more than fifteen people. Fifteen souls facing the approaching darkness. It was Radomir who raised his voice loud and deep, a command well known in the village: —Everyone on alert for the attack! The Ránarmenn bandits! He raised the knives toward the few clouds in the night sky, his voice a thunder defying the gathering storm. —Great Thrumir, God of the storm, grant your people defense!

—he shouted, his voice a prayer and a challenge— Send your daughter, beloved Bryndís, so that this battle gives us honor in the blood of the enemies! Those who did not arm themselves, like the children, grabbed buckets of water in their hands, carrying them to the men and women who remained passed out from drunkenness. Little Fjora, accompanied now by her friends Elen and Niall, ran through the shadows, her shoes leaving marks on the cold earth. The task was interrupted when the bandits drew near.

They were not of course they were not bandits. Cormac noticed it first as he looked beside him at Milica, who also carried a short axe in her hand, her face a mask of fierce determination. Those men bore heraldry, one that few had seen over the decades, but many remembered from the tales of their parents. That heraldry was "the dune felis with a sword in its snout." They were not bandits. They were soldiers of the royal crown.

Upon arriving before the men, those riding titanopods pointed their lances at the villagers, impaling men and women from the sides, and many of them pierced through, losing blood from their mouths. The weapons pierced their simple clothes with the ease of a hot knife melting butter. Astonished gazes took hold of many of them, but no Khelganor retreated. —Gwm-men-mos ghren-om kwed-pe sun-uns per, kwis-kwe ne gem-ti mor-ye-tor. Erabergh-os rēk-s kwer-no ple-nos-om de-ti meg-s-i kow-sa-i serw-e-ti.

—the captain of the squad ordered in a firm voice, without taking his eyes off his soldiers. His face, marked by old scars, was a mask of cold efficiency— Swah ayst-om bhag-ta dei-wih Aelthra kwer-ye-ti, sap-en-ti rēk-s kwer-no-kwe per!! At the superior's immediate order, the men charged once more against those on the ground, drunk and defenseless. Piercing their hearts, their throats, staining the night with crimson and the deep smell of iron.

Each soldier killing without mercy men and women, pursuing teenagers all the way to the burning houses, where the great clamor of pain of so many rose like the most horrendous music heard in that village for many years. The houses being desecrated again and again, with hard kicks breaking down doors, with eyes focused on the men, women, and teenagers. Their swords given over to death, their lances, their bows, their axes and maces surrendered to the massacre.

The children, huddled in the shadow beneath the carts with straw, trembled with primal fear. Many of them cried desperately in silence, looking through the slats, seeing their murdered parents, their siblings, their mothers. Fjora held Elen tightly, so much so that the poor girl's hand already ached, but neither made a sound under the cart. The smell of blood and fear filled their nostrils, a nightmare perfume they would never forget.

Cormac, when he had the opportunity, charged heavily, followed by his wife Milica and Radomir, against the captain. The three pierced through the ground soldiers, his axe embedded in the soldiers' skulls as he advanced firmly. Each blow was a release; each life he took an echo of the fury boiling in his chest. Until a cry came from behind. A piteous cry. Turning around, there was only one plea in his heart: that what his eyes were seeing was not real.

Milica looked at him with red eyes, while blood stained her teeth. A steel lance had pierced her from her shoulder to the side of her belly. Seeing her, she could only smile at her husband, moving her lips slowly, but no words came with them. The girl's father was only able to see one thing directly, and his body felt nothing, until something warm began running down his leg. Looking down toward his thigh, he noticed it, soaked in blood. It was pierced by an arrow.

—Damn you —he whispered, his voice a broken oath— Damn you a thousand times. Tears ran down his cheekbones, his hair covering his face in the night wind. —Once again, they take someone I love. He charged again, head-on, seeing only the captain approaching the titanopod he rode. But the arrows fell upon him again: his back, his arms. Now it was not a single one, but several, and all had hit their mark. Recognizing his situation, he took his axe once more and threw it with all the strength he had left.

The weapon struck the man commanding directly on the shoulder, but with the back of it. Cormac had missed and was now falling to the ground, bleeding out. The only thing he could see in the distance was the cart where his little girl was hiding. He stretched out his hand, his fingers almost caressing the air upon seeing the small hand trying to reach him from afar. His life went out when a mace put an end to his existence directly on his skull, scattering its pieces everywhere.

The little girl closed her eyes tightly while Elen grabbed her arm to hide it again. But what they felt next were two strong hands lifting them directly by the hair. The man looked them in the eyes with a smile and with eyes full of greed. —Tu-wes serw-e-te, kor-yo-i per-k-ti-m e-ye-te. —said the lieutenant as he lifted them— Kers-te wol-wa-es bar-bar-as, pwer-yo mel-g-o ghros-i dng-gwa kwer-ye-ti ne derk-si rēk-y-om nos-tero-m meg-i-m.

While the lieutenant lifted them, a female soldier bound their arms and feet with rough ropes that bit into their skin. They gathered them with the others in carts that were wooden cages, a solid coral-red wood. There, children from the whole village were gathered. None was over ten years old, and in the background of the terrifying night, only the screams of women, men, and the crackle of fire could be heard.

Little Fjora, with her arms bound and her heart broken, looked for the last time at the flames devouring her home. The smell of burning flesh and ash mixed with that of her own fear, while the cart set in motion, carrying her toward a destination she did not know, but which, somewhere deep within her being, she knew would be marked by the same darkness that had devoured her village.