Dennis Schmidt - Twilight of the Gods - The First Name.pdf - Dennis Schmidt - margozap

TWILIGHT OF THE GODS: THE FIRST

NAME

By Dennis Schmidt

This book is dedicated to Freyja.

THE VIGRID

Two men lay just behind the crest of the ridge, hidden by the jumbled

rocks and twisted scrub that crowned it. One was dark and slender,

narrow of face, with an aquiline nose, thin harsh lips, and liquid black

eyes. His hair was the same midnight hue as the long robe that covered his

body.

The other was a complete contrast. His huge, muscular form was

covered with a filthy beige robe, that reached to just below his knees.

Blond hair, bleached almost white on top, hung past his shoulders in

several braids. A braided beard and mustache, equally blond, covered

most of his face. Two cold blue eyes stared from a light skinned face that

was peeling and sunburned. The nose was broken and twisted to the left.

Full, sensual lips, dry and badly cracked, could barely be seen in the midst

of his beard and mustache.

For long minutes the two lay there, unmoving except for their eyes,

which took in everything, cataloging, counting, and evaluating. Satisfied,

their eyes met in mutual agreement and slowly, cautiously, the men

lowered their heads and began to crawl backward down the slope. Once

certain they were well below the line of sight of those on the other side of

the ridge, they scuttled quickly to the bottom of a narrow ravine, where a

group of men awaited their return.

Surt’s black eyes sparkled in response to the greedy smile that curved

Borr’s lips. “This is what we’ve been waiting for, Skullcracker,” he

declared. His strange southern accent and soft deep voice were a murmur

barely discernible above the constant hot sigh of the west wind that

scoured the barren hills. “This one will make us all rich men.”

Borr nodded his blond head and grunted agreement. “Huh. Rich, yes,

but there’s something strange about this caravan. It’s not like the others

we’ve seen. Those guards, for instance, and that big wagon. And that one

who rides alone, that one in black. I couldn’t quite make out his face no

matter how hard I tried. Strange.”

“Strange indeed,” Surt responded. “Some of those who lead the beasts

wear the garb of far off Kara Khitai. The panniers on their animals look

heavy with treasure. In the days of the First Dark Empire such a thing was

not unusual. Now it’s rare for the Yellow Robes to journey to Muspellheim.

“The wagon is stranger yet. It’s painted with the designs and curtained

with the rich fabrics of dawn lit Prin. Who knows what fabulous wealth

lies within? Fabulous it must be, for those who guard it wear the livery

and badges of An, the eldest Son of Muspell. Their kind do not ordinarily

guard caravans. Whatever treasure the wagon carries must be bound for

An himself.

“Strangest indeed is the, black one who rides along. He’s a wizard, Borr,

and from the looks of him, a powerful one. The caravan is rich, my Aesir

friend. Rich beyond our wildest imaginings, and it’s also very well

guarded.”

Borr frowned. “A wizard, eh? Why a wizard to guard a caravan, even

one this big and rich?”

Surt shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked craftily at the Aesir. “Surely

the presence of a mere wizard doesn’t frighten you? Wizards can die,

Skullcracker, just like ordinary men.”

The blond man shook his head and growled. “I’ve not studied the Dark

Art as you have, Surt, but I fear neither it nor those who practice it. I meet

wizards and their foul evil the way I meet all enemies with cold steel in my

hand. There’s no room for fear in the heart of an Aesir warrior. Our fates

are rune carved by the Nornir at our births. There’s no escape. So no true

Aesir cowers at home in fear. We stride forth to meet our dooms with

singing hearts and blood drenched weapons.”

Surt nodded and smiled. Ah, my fine Aesir fool, he thought. I knew you

wouldn’t disappoint me. You and your pale haired friends are so big, so

brave, so stupid. Oh, yes, you fear nothing. So we’ll attack the caravan and

many of your men will die. Then, when the treasure’s won and your

followers acne few, when you think it’s over and you’re safe at last, then, in

the dark of the night, while you lie rolled in your blankets, dreaming of

luxury and wealth, I and my jackals will slit your, throats! Yes! And all the

treasure will be mine! All of it! All the gold and jewels that weigh down the

panniers the beasts carry! Plus whatever incredible wealth lies within the

wagon from Prin!

Yes! And one more thing. A shiver of expectation coursed through his

body. One more thing. One thing mote valuable than all the rest. He’d

caught only the briefest glimpse of it, but that had been enough. For years

he’d slaved in harsh apprenticeship to old Shubur. In all that time the

wizened little bastard had refused to teach him anything more powerful

than the most menial spells of the Kishpu sorcery. He’d had to steal

anything else and puzzle it out on his own, but if he could get possession of

the thing he’d just seen, he knew he could summon and control vast

power! His hands curled into grasping claws just thinking of how he would

clutch it. He lowered his head to hide the lustful light he knew burned in

hiss dark eyes.

Borr turned from Surt to look at the thirty men who stood in a silent,

waiting group. Most were Aesir, tall, thick, and blond, with wild, shaggy

hair like his own. The rest, ten in all, resembled Surt. Like their dark

leader, they were condemned criminals who’d somehow escaped the

wrath of the Sons of Muspell and now roamed the Great Route between

the Oasis of Kath and the Great Wall, preying on the caravans that

traveled it. A scruffy lot of murderers and thieves, they made Borr

uncomfortable. Not that he feared them. One’ Aesir was worth ten such in

a fight. It was just that they were skulking killers, throat slitters nuking a

foul living, rather than battleglad heroes seeking glory. No matter. They

were useful allies here in the Twisted Lands. They knew the territory, and

this was a big, well protected caravan. They were valuable extra blades.

Still, he reminded himself, it would never do to turn one’s back on them.

He knew the worth of his own men. Karldred, the best ax next to his

own in all of Asaheim; Nial, a swordsman without equal; Thidrandi,

Torhall, Ingvar, Haakon, Skirnir, Lodur, ail of them hardened Aesir

warriors one could stand back to back with against any odds. They knew

the wolf work, the raven’s game.

Borr grunted again and nodded. “I say we take them. How say the rest

of you?” Their grins and growls were answer enough. Borr smiled and

looked at Surt. “My, wolves are eager to pull down the prey, and begin the

blade feast.”

Surt’s eyes gleams darkly. “My friends are ready too. When, and where

shall wt strike?”

“Hmm. They’re well armed and alert. Ordinarily I’d think one of these

ravines would be the ideal spot, but not this time. They’d be ready, and the

odds are too close. Hmm, I wonder.” For a moment he was silent, his blue

eyes half closed as he calculated and planned.

“Surt, do you remember that spot on the Vigrid?”

The dark man frowned. “The salt flat? Where the two ravines parallel’

the trail?”

“Just so. What if we divided our men and put half in each ravine? When

they drew abreast, one half would attack. Once the first group had them

fully engaged, the second could launch a surprise attack from the rear.”

Surt nodded. “Yes. They’ll be less wary on the plain. We’ll surprise them

twice, once from the flank, once from behind.”

“If we move out now we’ll get to the Vigrid before them,” Borr said. “We

can travel all night and take up positions at dawn. They should reach us

late in the afternoon. The trail runs almost north south there, so we can

launch our first attack from the west to keep the sun in their eyes. That

will put the wind right in their faces too.”

He paused for a moment, looking speculatively at Surt. “Have you

magic to cloak our odor so their horses won’t smell us and give the alarm,

and to hide the second group from even their sharpest lookouts?” The

dark man smiled slightly and nodded twice. ‘”Good,” Borr grunted. “Then

you’ll be in the other ravine and lead the second attack.” He looked around

at the raiders, meeting nods of agreement. “All right, then. Let’s ride.

We’ve a long hot day and night ahead of us.”

“With great wealth waiting,” added Surt softly. They all chuckled grimly

in response.

The Vigrid had once been a shallow seabed. Now it was a vast plain of

dried; salty mud, its cracked, ravine riddled surface lifeless and deadly. A

full fifty miles wide and nearly as long, it shimmered in the heat of the

southern sun. Nothing moved or stirred anywhere, except the occasional

dust devils whipped up by the ever blowing west wind.

Haruum hated riding point. Out here in this endless flatness he felt

totally exposed, one man with emptiness all around him. He looked back

over his. shoulder at the caravan that stretched out behind him to

reassure himself that indeed it still followed; that he was rot, in fact, alone

in the midst of this stinking Vigrid. As he turned forward again, the low

afternoon sun glared in his eyes and momentarily blinded him. By the

Sons! he silently cursed. The damned thing was brighter now than it had

been at midday.

His vision cleared at the same instant the arrow took him in the throat.

With a gurgling cry of astonishment he flung his arms wide and pitched

from his horse.

The raiders poured from the ravine, howling with bloodlust. Amid a

clash of steel and a screaming of horses, they collided with the guards.

Borr was the first to draw blood, his one handed battle ax shattering first

the shield, then the skull of one of the defenders. With a shriek of victory

raised to Sigfod, God of Battle, he whirled his horse and launched himself

at another enemy. An arrow thudded home .in the luckless animal’s neck,

and it stumbled, going down on its knees and throwing Borr forward. He

dove, curled into a ball, and sprang upright even as he hit the ground.

Blocking a sword sweep from a mounted warrior with his shield, he

chapped at the man’s leg and neatly severed it just above the knee. Blood

sprayed out in a red fountain as the man tumbled backward off his horse.

Borr found himself covered with another’s gore. He howled triumph once

more and spun about, looking for other prey.

At that moment Surt, leading the second group of attackers, struck, and

suddenly everything was a whirling, slashing madness Borr turned just in

time to see two guards on foot rush at him, long battle spears in hand.

Quickly he thrust his one handed ax in his belt, dropped his shield, and

unslung his two-handed battle ax, Deathbringer, from his back. Brushing

aside one of the spears as though it were a mere stick, he drove the guard

to his knees with a mighty blow that split him from the top of his head to

the middle of his chest. The other nun struck out with his weapon, and

even though Borr twisted quickly to the side, the blade slashed his

shoulder. He stepped back, blocking a second thrust. Then with a roar and

a leap he was on the man, ax shattering spear first, chest second.

The battle raged on. Borr saw three men close on Ingvar and cut him

down. Lodur, kicked senseless by a horse, was skewered on a spear. Two of

Surt’s black cutthroats want down, one missing an arm, the other spilling

his life from a gaping wound in his stomach. More and more died as the

wolf work progressed.

Stepping back from the headless corpse of the man he had just felled,

Borr felt a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked up to

see strange dark clouds growing on the southern horizon. What in the

name of the gods? he wondered. Then it hit him. The wizard! Of course.

The bastard was summoning something to his aid. Perhaps some demon!

Dennis Schmidt - Twilight of the Gods - The First Name.pdf

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