| |
The rain let up halfway through the day, and the sun even dared to break the titanic hold that the clouds had wielded for many months. They had long since passed Barnavor and were now riding along the banks of the lake that the Sauranians had named Diden Ten—Silver Lake. The road they were on was no longer level with the water but had instead risen and was now a cliff with a fifty-foot drop down to the surface. Looking out over the lake with the rays of the sun playing with the ripples made Prolur feel that it was aptly named. The water truly seemed to be made from silver. At the height he was riding, he had a clear view of the ships sailing about—either for sport or carrying goods between the port in Barnavor and its counterpart, the capital of Dourland—Boscia. The soldiers rode behind him in a single file. He hadn’t looked back since they’d left. A fresh wind blew in from the water and had quickly dried up the right side of his clothes and hair. The wet side made him shiver, and for a moment, he considered turning in the saddle and riding backward. After deciding such an adventure would be near impossible dressed in a monk’s robes, he stared straight ahead and took in the damp air. The road itself was well-traveled, and due to the rain, it had become very muddy. Many riders had tried to avoid getting stuck by riding on both sides instead. This had only caused the grass to turn into mud as well and only made the road a wider mud path. They had not met anyone, and the grassy plains to the left and the lake to the right gave the journey a desolate feeling. Suddenly, Prolur noticed Captain Roe riding up next to him and slowed his horse down.
Roe smiled at him and saluted. “How are you, sire? Is everything well with you?” he screamed, trying to outdo the wind.
Prolur moved his animal closer to Roe’s so that he would not have to shout. “I am fine, Captain. A little cold from the dampness and the chill of the wind. Otherwise, just fine.”
“I hope you do not mind if I ride with you?” Roe said enthusiastically. Prolur shook his head. “As you can tell, we are taking the northeastern trail. There has been some trouble in the middle of the country—highway bandits and such.” Prolur kept nodding his head whenever Roe would pause to keep up the illusion that he was interested, although the young captain’s voice was a welcome change to the howling wind. “We will be heading west once we reach Parán River. Then we ride along with it and cross the triple tongue rivers and head through the Coronian woods. From there, we will move north towards the mountains. This will give us a constant supply of fresh water and a variation of scenery.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Captain,” Prolur replied.
“I understand that all this is not very exciting to you, sire,” Roe continued, half to himself and half directed at Prolur. “For many of us, this is our first assignment. Our land has lived in peace for many years now, so many of us soldiers have been stuck in the barracks only to be let out whenever Sauranian farmers or robbers have made noise. It is far from the excitement of your day.”
“Yes, excitement...” Prolur stared out over the lake and began to drift away.
That night they made camp on the plateau over the lake where rocks had been placed on the edge as a makeshift wind barrier. The soldiers did the best they could with their packing to improve the protection since there was no trace of shrubs to be found. Then came the arduous task of making fire from dead grass and twigs so that supper could be made. Prolur was too tired from the travels of the day to feel any hunger. He sat down on the blankets laid out before the rocks and leaned against his pack. From one of the pockets of his robes, he produced a leather-bound book. He had taken it from the library of the convent. It was one of the originals that he had been translating. He was fairly certain that no one would miss it since he had kept its existence a secret. He opened it and turned the frail yellowing pages and immersed himself in the thick black lettering and detailed illustrations that graced the pages. In his hands, he was holding one of the few collections of Haugarian verse in existence. Songs and epic poems mixed with intricate colored paintings made the book one of the most beautiful pieces of literature in the world. He was about to turn to the poem about Haugar’s rise to godliness when Captain Roe came to stand by him. Prolur looked up and caught a glimpse of the chef preparing supper. He had hung a large black kettle over the mediocre fire that didn’t seem warm enough to bring water to boil. Then he met Roe who was smiling at him and without an invitation sat down next to him.
“The army gave us provisions to last us halfway to Eccliati,” he said as he made himself comfortable. “So, we might have to restock along the way, and if we are to survive, we might be forced to hunt as well.”
“I see that the army has not changed,” Prolur replied with a smile of his own and caused Roe to laugh.
“Correct, sire. I hope you do not mind army cooking because it will be a long time before any of us will taste food prepared by a halfway decent cook again,” Roe said as he rose to his feet and left Prolur as if he sensed the monk’s need for privacy. He also needed to make up the schedule for the evening's watch detail.
Prolur closed his eyes and put the book in his lap and let his mind wander. Before him, he could see the faces of Naed, Taura, Rauman, and Elden—and the illustrious feast that were the dinners at Craucés each night.
He was yanked from his dream by a young soldier who announced that supper was being served. The rest of the soldiers grabbed their standard-issued wooden bowls and sat around the fire while the chef served them two scoops each. Two men scooted sideways to give Prolur space, and he sat down between them and was handed a wooden bowl and spoon. Supper was a soup-like mixture made from quintac meat and indescribable vegetables. The meat had been shaved so thin that it basically had melted into the mixture. Of all the things the army had to offer, this was what he had missed the least. The group ate in silence. The soldiers were cold and tired, shivering, and trying to warm their hands on the bowl or by inching closer to the fire. They all peered at the monk with their tired eyes as if they were expecting him to speak, to offer an explanation for their venture into hellish mountains and certain death. When the chef had served everyone a second helping, which had been eaten with the same silent ritual, the soldiers wiped their bowls clean with whatever grass they could find and continued to stare into the fire or at Prolur.
Captain Roe, who had taken his soup away from his men, came to sit with them and smiled his now trademarked smile. A smoking pipe hung from his mouth—a common practice among officers, and one that Prolur had avoided. “I am well aware of the low morale among you,” he said in a serious tone. “The prospects of this campaign are hardly exciting I agree, but if we remember our training and trust in Haugar, we will successfully see it through together. “The soldiers nodded in unison but with an air of reservation. “We are all cold, and the soup has left us unsatisfied,” Roe continued, and everyone laughed except the cook. “Yet with us on this journey we have a legend and a monk. Someone who knows what it means to be in our situation and also knows the will of Haugar.” He indicated Prolur and turned towards him. “Father Prolur, why do you not tell us a tale? From the war or maybe a song of Haugar.”
Prolur sighed—to be an entertainer was not in him. He had long since realized that the work of a monk included comforting people, even if he tried to avoid it as much as possible. “I am sorry,” he said. “I do not know what to tell.” The soldiers moved around anxious and disappointed.
“Tell us something from the Haugariad! You must have a favorite,” Roe pushed.
“I do,” Prolur answered and brought forth his book. “I have many favorites, but not all of them hold any interest with young soldiers.” He began to leaf through the worn pages as if searching for a certain passage. “Do you know how Haugar came to don the cape of war?” he asked and looked at the young men before him. It was an odd question to ask anyone from the kingdom of Haugar. Men and women all over the nation were taught the verse of the Haugariad before they learned to walk. By the time they turned sixteen, the age of adulthood, they were expected to know it by heart. These expectations came from the Allguén whose duty was to keep the faith among the people. Prolur knew that most people had little or no knowledge of the great book, especially among the peasants. This was mainly due to their inability to read. The only ones who could boast any recollection of the text were the individuals who made up the Haugarian nobility, and this was only because they were called upon daily to prove this point at court. Naturally, the king was expected to recall the Haugariad verse for verse at the drop of a hat. This seldom happened since the king always had a priest beside him to do this for him. The only time he was forced to prove his knowledge was at the crowning ceremony when he had to recite Tieto’s royal oath—something he often memorized the night before.
Prolur’s question hung in the air as if the soldiers were embarrassed to show their ignorance.
“We do, but we have forgotten,” a dark soldier with jet-black hair exclaimed, and his brethren laughed heartily.
“I see,” Prolur replied. “You need not worry. I will tell you of how Haugar came into being and how he was awarded the title of God of War.”
The soldiers fell silent again and gave Prolur their individual attention as he began, not reading but putting the tale in his own words.
“Haugar was the product of an alliance between the goddess Mamnas, the protector of nature, and Wa, the creator of the trolls. Why Mamnas, who was a very beautiful goddess, would let Wa into her bed is unknown. Some legends say that Wa drugged her and took advantage of the situation. Some say Wa cast a spell on himself that made him look like Mamnas beloved Thaugmal, the god of thunder. Still, some claim that Mamnas took pity on the hideous creature, Wa, and loved him for what he was. No matter what the story may be between Haugar’s parents, he remained a full god later to be related to all trolls when Wa created them in his own image. Haugar kept his mother’s features, those of a human with fair skin and ashen hair. Yet from Wa, he was given a large frame and an incredible strength. He lived in close harmony with nature like his mother did and later, when his father Wa fell out of favor with the other gods, he came to stay with Chachra. Under the tutelage of the gods at court, Haugar learned the art of sword fighting—something that came naturally to him because of the violent nature he had inherited from his father. It was during a visit with his mother that the Tirans, with the help of Bhachra, gained entry into our world. Haugar returned to Chachra’s palace to help against the onslaught from Enco’s armies. During the heat of the battle, Haugar came face to face with Enco himself. Haugar had yet to acquire his famed blade and fought with a regular broadsword. Though he fought bravely, it was no match for Enco’s fierce gilded cane. As Haugar parried a blow from Enco, his sword broke in half. Haugar continued to battle with his bare hands. With one sweep with his sharp-edged weapon, Enco slashed Haugar’s face, cutting out his right eye. Haugar fell backward at the feet of Enco and desperately put up his left arm to protect himself. Enco brought his cane down, aimed at Haugar’s face. Because Haugar was protecting himself with his raised arm, Enco's weapon hit his wrist. The razor-sharp edges of Enco’s cane had no trouble cutting through the flesh and bone of Haugar’s wrist. Haugar cried out in horror as he saw his left hand fall to the ground in a pool of his own blood. He froze from the shock and pain and could see Enco coming closer. The Tiran wore an evil smile, grabbed his cane with both hands, and pointed the sharp end of it at Haugar’s heart. ‘It is futile to try to stand in my way. It was doomed to bitter failure from the beginning,’ Enco said in a hollow, near metallic voice. Then he laughed and drove his cane with all his might through Haugar’s chest, piercing his heart.”
Prolur looked at the soldiers around the fire. Some of them had bowed their head, as was the custom during sermons. Some had leaned back with their eyes closed to visualize the legend. They were all silent and fully concentrated on Prolur’s words. Even the guards had moved closer to the fire to listen. Prolur continued, “After the devastating battle, many of the gods were injured and many of their troops had fallen. Plenty of trolls had fallen as well, but no Tirans and only one god—Haugar. They carried his lifeless body back to Chachra’s palace. There Chachra took the tears from Mamnas’ wet cheeks and turned them into life essence. He placed the essence in Haugar’s mouth. Slowly his wound began to heal, and the color came back to his face. For three days, the gods sat with their fallen comrade until he was fully restored. Unfortunately, they could do nothing about his eye or hand. Instead, they forged a claw for him in Verma’s hot fires that they put in place of his left hand. Haugar refused to let them replace his right eye, wanting its absence to be a constant reminder of Enco’s deed.
During this time, the tirans spread across our land and ravaged it. Mamnas took the thorn from an again tree and blended the juices from its blue and red berries. She dipped the thorn in the concoction and began to tattoo an intricate ornamentation of runes into her son’s body. They covered his back and ran from his shoulders down his arms and ended at his wrists. Every strand of runes created a powerful spell. For Mamnas was desperate to protect her child. When she had finished, and they had healed, they began to take effect. Haugar’s muscles bulged, his skin hardened, and his power increased. Empowered Haugar returned to Chachra to help in the hunt for Enco and his followers. The hunt went on for years until the tirans, or what was left of them, had been trapped in the icy mountains of the north. After a confrontation, Enco narrowly managed to escape with his life. Haugar gave chase alone. For days he followed Enco’s tracks in the snow until he came to a cave. He entered and wandered deep down into the earth. As he descended, he encountered a village of cave trolls—the waíde. They quickly recognized him as the son of their creator. Among them, Haugar found his own father, who had been mortally wounded by the god of the sea, Aquile. When he once again beheld his son, he became overjoyed. As his final action, regretting his turn against Chachra, Wa wished to aid his son. He commissioned a sword from the waíde for Haugar. By that evening, the broadsword known as Agarax was done, forged from the waídes’ own metal that could only be found in the North Mountains of our world.
Wa embraced his son and sent him after Enco. The god of all trolls did not die from his wounds that day or the next. He continued to roam the earth, but it was the last time father and son would meet.
Haugar ventured farther down into the earth—farther down than any creature had ever dared go. Finally, he came upon a lake in a huge cavern. The lake stretched from wall to wall, and on the far end, opposite the corridor from where Haugar had arrived, a crystal-clear waterfall fell. The lake itself was black as night, and in its center lay an island of stone. On this island stood Enco himself. There was no place left to run, so he waited for the final confrontation. There was nothing to carry Haugar across the lake, but Aquile, who was watching from afar with the other deities, sent a giant fish. It carried Haugar on its back until he yet again stood face to face with Enco. The tiran was naturally surprised at seeing Haugar again—whom he presumed dead. Enco quickly regained his composure and attacked. Haugar dodged and drew Agarax at the same time. The two enemies traded blows until the sun set, the moon rose and set, and the sun rose again. This time, Haugar’s blade remained intact. Enco began to tire and decided to make a final thrust at the young warrior. He aimed for his head, but Haugar’s superior speed kept him one step ahead, and Enco missed. Haugar saw the opening, and with one sweep, he cleft Enco in two at the hips. The lifeless body fell at Haugar’s feet, and he kicked both pieces into the lake and returned to his mother.
For his bravery and determination, Chachra elevated Haugar to the god of war. Now he roams our world protecting us from whatever forces may threaten us.” Prolur paused. “That is the tale of how Haugar became the god of war.”
The soldiers kept silent as they played the tale over and over in their minds. Captain Roe broke the silence as he rose and said, “Thank you very much, Father Prolur. I am certain everyone enjoyed it, and I for one am looking forward to hearing several more in the nights to come.” With that, he smacked his lips and placed his hands on his hips as a sign that it was time to turn in. The men scattered and began making themselves comfortable around the fire. There was a loud grumble from the ones who ended up sleeping away from it, but it soon faded away as the soldiers fell asleep. Prolur remained seated with his book open at one of the colorful illustrations. He looked down at it. It depicted Haugar at Enco’s feet with his arm raised to shield himself. Enco had his cane raised above his head, ready to let it sever the fallen god’s hand.
Enco was a large being that completely lacked the normal human physique. He wore no clothes, and his body was so pale that it was nearly white. He lacked all forms of body hair, and it made him a truly hideous visage to behold. Prolur turned to the next illustration that depicted Haugar and Enco with their weapons locked together atop the island in the black lake. Even though Enco died in the flesh that day, he would return to wage war on the world. The tirans were always portrayed as the enemies of the world, although all they ever wanted was to recapture a realm that once had been theirs. Where they came from was unknown—none of the old documents revealed it. The only thing they said concerning tirans was that they were spirits that had inhabited the realm long before Chachra and the other gods. Some scholars believed that those spirits managed to manifest themselves in the world after it was created. Others held that Chachra himself created the tirans as a prototype for the humans to come. The spirits inhabited the bodies and ran beyond their maker’s control. These were only two of the hundreds of theories that had been written down over the years.
Prolur yawned so hard that it made his eyes water and ran his fingers over the image of the battling god of war. He never ran from his enemies, not Haugar. He wandered the world to face his demon and finally destroyed it. That was what made him a god and not a normal mortal like Prolur. He fell asleep with the book open, with his back against a rock. Luckily, it didn't rain again that night.