Post by Mr. C on Feb 5, 2009 21:13:58 GMT -5
VII.
“The path was clear, and there was not far left to go for Cross and his Viking army.”
“The Norse Hammer” and his band of Vikings had been travelling for nearly a month now and on very few supplies. The food they had was what was left from their nearly completed voyage, the one before they took a complete about-face at the whim of their leader Brett Cross, or any beasts they felled and devoured since. Through dense forests filled with poisonous serpents and tricky, devilish elves or through treacherous frozen path-ways, and now as they trekked on through the snowy mounds, starving and lost, not a single warrior spoke out against Cross. Instead, Brett had kept their spirits high, even through their wandering. An unexpected snow storm had turned them far off course, it disoriented them and sent them walking off their path for quite some time. But, as they walked, Brett Cross told stories of his past valor, of the prizes and trophies he’d earned, and the great trophies to come. Their leader, Hammer as they all referred to him, was well-known throughout their Viking homeland. He had more maidens after him than most men could dream of having, and every young child wanted to grow up to be him. He was a living legend, and for these men to fight beneath him was an honor, it was a privilege - it was a dream come true. When it was said earlier there was no such thing as a leader in Viking warfare, Brett Cross soon learned there could be nothing farther from the truth when it came to this crew. The men beneath him, and everyone back at home looked up to this man, they loved him, and he was the best leader they could ask for. They would follow him through Hel and beyond without thinking twice. He would do them no wrong.
Through story and song, Brett Cross and company made their way towards the heart of Jotunheimer, their goal still being to grasp that number one contender status, that illustrious storied blade, Brandrwulf. And when they thought they could walk no further, when the stories had begun to grow old and the songs no longer seemed jolly, not a single man lost faith in Cross, but a different sign appeared as smoke rose up over a nearby hilltop. The Jotun would have no use for fire, but man would. They had found a small village, an outpost; a chance at survival and a chance to be put back on track towards their goal. Hammer led his men forward, over the ridge, and there it was, indeed, no disappointing snowy mirage. A small village with a bonfire at its center sat in the midst of the snowy peaks. Snow packed up tight around the thick wooden walls of the fort, but its interior was shoveled clean, as was a path leading to it. Inside, the people were bustling, performing chores and going about their every-day peaceful lives, despite the unbearable cold. The village was so surreal, so inviting, just the miracle Brett Cross and his men needed. As they made their way in to the village, Brett Cross quickly realized that there wasn’t a guard in sight. For a land that was so close to the vicious Jotun, there was not a guard to be seen. The Norse Hammer called out to the closest villager, a young man with dark hair carrying a bundle of sticks on his scrawny shoulder, and motioned him over. The man quickly set down the sticks and bounded over without hesitation or apprehension, it was as if he knew who Cross was before he came, and perhaps had even been expecting them.
“Ach, lad! I am Hammer, and I speak for all of these men when I say we come not in harm. We’re Vikings on a quest from the gods themselves, and we have lost our way in the storm. Could you point us in the direction of your mead hall so we may rest and find our way?” Cross spoke with a booming voice, far deeper and imposing then his usual, in fact he was attempting to match the voice from the dream, the speech of the gods.
“Aye, ‘Ammer! I know’st ye, and I know’st of ye’r men, too! Welcome, welcome. Follow me n’ I’ll get ye and ye’r crew where ye need t’be!” The man’s face was sunken in, he was not very nourished it appeared, and from the looks of the other villagers as Cross and company made their way to the mead hall, no one was. Cross turned towards the warrior at his side, his trusted Glaeg and whispered in to his ear,
“Be weary, friend.”
“Way ahead of ye, ‘Ammer.” was Glaeg’s immediate response, his hand already wrapped tight about the hilt of the blade at his side as they entered in to the massive drinking hall.
They followed the scrawny man in to the mead hall, and the size comparison was immense. The hall’s ceiling stretched high enough for one of those very Jotun they were hunting to stand in comfortably and the long tables inside were large enough to fit Cross’ entire army. The kegs were more like vats, with giant soup ladles to serve it, and the fire at the center was roaring brighter than a king’s funeral pyre. All of Cross’ army stood dumb-founded at the spectacle, it was a grand scene indeed, and the men and women inside it, the corpse-like inhabitants of this land made it seem that much more imposing. The man they had followed held open the large wooden door made of mast-sized wooden posts, greeting each soldier individually as they passed. To call this man inviting and friendly would be an understatement, everything about this land was warm and inviting, it was a little oasis in the snowstorm, and it was indeed a miracle. The Vikings all sat about the table, chatting loudly with the villagers, and raising large mugs of mead in prost, all men except for Brett Cross and Glaeg, who sat at the far end of the table, speaking with their host.
“So,” started Cross as he casually pushed his mead to the side as Glaeg did the same, “What is this land, friend? You have quite the encampment; it is indeed a wondrous sight especially in the heart of these Jotun badlands.”
Their guide kept his bright and cheerful smile plastered on, his deep green eyes twinkling from the bonfire. He spoke quickly and precisely, not seeming to put much thought in to his words, as if everything that came out was a methodical and predetermined speech.
“T’is the land of Jotunloke, as t’is quite obviously locked by Jotun. But that means not that we fear them, nay. Our fathers long ago, led by a man named Lock, made a pact with ‘em and because of’t the Jotun keep us safe. The size of this village was done only because of their ‘ard work, we surely couldn’t ’ave done it ourselves. We once were wanderers n’ lost men just like ye. Now, we make life here, locked in Jotunheimr. I am Lock, the fifth son of the original. I guess one could say I am king here.”
Cross frowned at the story, knowing now he would surely not be given the way to the Jotun caves to find and slay one of their protectors. That would indeed break the centuries old pact of these men. But, that would not put an end to Cross’ quest, he’d simply need to find a way around it. The story seemed true enough, regardless of how he felt about the place, it was almost too inviting. Quickly, the plan surfaced, he’d stay up through the night to watch the sun rise and from that reference he could get them to the Jotun. He needed not the directions of Lock; he could figure things out on his own. For now, he’d bide his time. He dared not sip one bit of mead that entire night, nor did Glaeg at his side. But, he allowed his men to have their fun, for whether they knew it or not, he had no intentions of giving them a part in the coming battle with the massive Frost-Giant. It was not a matter of fear, nor a sudden swing of compassion; it simply just was not their fight. The gods sent for him to wield Brandrwulf, and he would prove he deserved to alone. The Vikings partied in to the wee hours of the night before they all retired; sleeping about the floor of the mead hall upon the furs they came with. They would be able to sleep anywhere in their state, all drunken, exhausted and gay. Cross lay near the door, and Glaeg at the far other side of the room. Neither of those men could get to sleep.
Through the night, Cross listened to the sounds of the snoring of his soldiers. Some talked in their sleep, others whistled through their noses, the wind howled outside the hall, but inside the army was far louder. This was the best rest they’d had in weeks, and they all savored it. It felt good to Cross to allow them such relaxation, but other things were on his mind. This was his last test before the final battle, before he could wield Brandrwulf, before he was labeled the number one contender for the Pure Title. All he had left to do was reach the Jotun’s cave, slay the Frost-Giant, the bastard spawn of Loki who guarded it, and retrieve the illustrious blade. All he had to do was beat Chance Fusion and Chris Sabora; it seemed simple in his mind.
In his mind, it was just the next obstacle. In Brett Cross’ thoughts, it was just another step. There was no fear, no apprehension, no nothing. It was all forward, no looking back, it was logic, it was inevitable, it was fate, and it was destiny. This coming match was a laundry-list of things to Brett Cross, and his mind swirled with every single one of them. This match was simple, yet complicated, it was do-or-die, and there was no die. As simple as it was, Brett Cross could not wrap his mind around it. He’d never lost to Sabora; he did not fear the man. On the contrary, the man seemed to fear him. He neglected his student 415 in the weeks prior to their initial and only other match-up; he neglected his entire life to prepare for the match as he’d seen on the EUW reports. Chris Sabora worked hard prior to the match, and he worked hard prior to any match, and this coming one would be no different. Sabora was the closest thing to a true warrior that EUW had. They had your gimmicky morons, your dead men, your loud-mouths, your psychopaths, your homicidal maniacs. They had everything you could ask for entertainment-wise, but the two of them were the only true warriors. That week HnV, Sabora and The Vindicator were victorious sure, but it was not a matter of his preparation, nor a matter of his skill. No, not at all. It was a matter of Chance Fusion’s inability.
Chance Fusion showed last week just how weak he truly is. His game plan was simple, utilize the weapons right out of the gate and his fiancé was included as one of those weapons. The two of them kept on Brett Cross as he knew they would. He made the immediate connection before to the two of them being like a wolf pack. They were part of the massively successful, and recently disbanded, Dogs of War, they knew of mob-mentality. But, Brett Cross was the true mobster. He knew far more on how to be relentless, he knew far more about teamwork and weapons. He proved last week that he was the better fighter. After the match, Chance Fusion even relayed a quick message to Cross, by beating him up with his bride-to-be. The two of them attacked Cross after he’d gotten his win and left very high and mighty. But, “The Norse Hammer” is still here, isn’t he? The attack didn’t do any more damage than the match had already done, and if there was anyone in the EUW who knew how to take punishment, it was Cross. In fact, the message was quite the opposite of what Chance intended it to be. Chance, like Sabora, was afraid of Cross. Both competitors are afraid of him. Chance tried to take him out before the finals even came around, and Chris Sabora had been preparing to face him for weeks now. Both men couldn’t come up with a plan to beat him, he was just too powerful. The strength of Vikings was unstoppable, and combined with their tenacity, their endurance, their mindset and their will; they were unbeatable no matter what. Brett Cross had won this match before it even started because both men feared him. Neither man wanted to face The Norse Hammer in the finals, neither man wanted to face him ever. The match was his for the taking and he could taste it. There was nothing Chance or Sabora could do now but wait until their next shot. There could be no more motivation for Brett Cross then the lust for blood. These men were afraid, they were cowering, they were on their knees begging and pleading for their lives, shouting up to this monster to spare them. Cross would simply look down, smile and then drive the axe through their skulls.
The wind stopped, and the noise of the mead hall fell quiet as well. The snoring stopped, as did the breathing entirely. It was as if every man in the mead hall had died, as if the giant hall had instead turned in to a morgue. A board creaked next to Cross’ head, and at the same instant a spear tip drove down through the planks, Cross rolled out of the way of the attack and quickly on to his feet. There stood Lock, spear in hand with the tip of it stuck in the floorboards of the mead hall, struggling to free the point from between the wood. Cross took a quick instant to look around and noticed that indeed, his entire army had died. Every man that lay on the floor of the mead hall had gone deathly pale with fluorescent green bile dribbling from the corners of their mouths, poisoned during the festivities. These men that Cross had been looking after for months, for years, had been slaughtered in one night. The men he protected on the battlefield, through war after brutal war, where not a one of them fell, not on his watch, had all perished in a single moment. When it was said earlier that there could be no more motivation for Brett Cross, there could be nothing farther from the truth. To see the men he’d cared for, watched over, loved, all fall in one fell swoop without getting to see the end of their glorious journey and much less without having a valiant end to their lives, to get to die in battle like any Viking should, that made Cross sick to his stomach and made his Norse blood boil. These were good men, men who didn’t deserve to die, and men who didn’t deserve to die like this. Every single one should have entered Valhalla, and with that, Brett ran forward and thrust his shoulder in to the chest of the corpse-man Lock, knocking him to the ground.
The Norse Hammer drew the spear from the ground with one quick tug, making the act that was so tough for their host look easy and trivial. Brett followed after the collapsed skeleton-person, stalking the fallen dead man. Then, pressing a burly buckled boot in to Lock’s chest, he then pressed the tip of the spearhead up underneath the traitor’s chin, pushing the skin inward to its breaking point, just to the cusp of its ability to hold in blood. Brett glared down at the fallen, treacherous heathen and spat out his words.
“Ye vile traitor. Ye heinous pig. Why has’t you betrayed me and my men? Why has’t you killed all of these great soldiers in their sleeps, denying them the Valkyrie ride to Valhalla where they deserve to be? Speak, you disgusting Jotun-loving bastard before I run my blade through tongue and jaw straight in to that empty skull of yours and make sure ye choose ye’r words wise.”
And, as soon as his speech was done, the man beneath foot and blade transformed. Lock, who was once a skinny, unhealthy looking man fleshed out in to the body of a god. His ragged green tunic and khaki trousers turned in to the finest silken cloth and glorious golden armor of any king. His sandy, lifeless hair flowed out in to long black locks and color returned to his face. But his eyes stayed that same vile, poisonous green that Cross knew he’d seen before. Lock was no Lock after all; indeed he was Loki, God of Mischief, father of many a Jotun, and every demon to run amuck on the world in the ensuing Ragnarok. Brett Cross growled at the sight of this damned being and pressed the blade tighter, drawing a bead of crimson from beneath his chin. But, even in his new, godly form, Loki did not speak freely. His voice was quick, it was raspy and weak, and it was almost as if he was pleading not just to Brett, but to father time as well.
“Cross! Dear Cross, you’ve seen through my trick the entire time, and I know’st you have. But you cannot blame dear old me, for I merely did what I had to do to protect myself and my children, just as you plan to kill me to avenge you and yours! Ye must understand, Cross, that I know the gods sent ye, and I know’st it’s for the good of mankind, but it’s my children you’ve come to slay, show mercy, Hammer!”
“The Norse Hammer” Brett Cross continued to glower down at the downtrodden sly-god. He kept the spear pressed tight, but did not push it further as he thought over the god’s words. For, Cross would be no different than Loki if he ended him here and now. Cross cared for those men whose lives ended today the same way he imagined Loki cared for his children. But, to a Viking, did two wrongs not make a right? And, by ending Loki’s life now, could he not save countless other lives, including the lives of gods later down the line? As Cross thought on the matter, the blade slipped off Loki’s throat just enough, and as it did, the sly-god reached up with both hands and gripped the staff of the weapon, and with a wink and a laugh, the blood-brother of Odin was gone. The laugh reverberated throughout the massive mead hall, and so did Loki’s taunts.
“Ha ha! You’re weak, Cross, and the gods have seen’t, now! You will never be able to wield Brandrwulf; it’s a blade that only befits the gods! And, even if’n ye could wield it, you do not have the courage to slay one, either way! Tehe, Cross! You’re weak, and the biggest shame is that your pathetic army never got to see’t!”
With the words booming out through the mead hall, Cross growled and flipped the nearby long ship-sized table, and then turned and kicked over the poisonous vat of mead beside it. He gripped one of the stools at the overturned table and tossed it, smashing it against the wall, and continued on, yelling ferociously, his eyes welling up the whole long while, before a comforting hand rest on his shoulder. Cross’ heavy breathing slowed to tired gasps as Glaeg squeezed his shoulder.
“I ‘eard everything, ‘Ammer, ye’r words n’ Loki’s. Ye slept through’t, but the Valkyries already came for the men. They were good soldiers, the lot of ‘em, and now they’re all waiting for us’n Valhalla, ready to fight by Aesir side when Ragnarok comes. And Loki’s taunts, think nothing of ‘em, for he’s the god of mischief for a reason, ‘Ammer. Come, let us build the pyre for these men and get a move on, I’m sick of being on Jotunheimr.”
Glaeg’s words came out softly, grizzled as always through a throat stung by years of war smoke and drinking, but his words came from the heart as he earnestly tried to calm his emotional friend. Cross turned back at Glaeg, his brow furrowed still, and then nodded in agreement. He was mad, but he was pleased to hear the men were accepted in to the Viking heaven, and he also knew truth behind the comment on Loki’s taunts. The two men quickly set to work on the task at hand, Cross’ head now filled with more emotions.
Cross knew the men in the coming match had feared him before. The story of Brett Cross ran long, and everyone had heard of his glorious deeds. But now, Cross was a driven man. His drive could not simply stem from the want to please the Gods, no. Instead, he had to avenge his crew, his friends, his brothers and sons. He had to fight and secure Brandrwulf, to finish the quest for all of those who had fallen. Now, he was a man possessed. His mission meant far more now than it ever had before. And if Chance Fusion or Chris Sabora weren’t afraid before, they had best be now. Brett Cross is a Viking, and Brett Cross is a warrior. So how do you stop a Viking warrior, who is out to kill for revenge?
Brett Cross and Glaeg spent much of the rest of the night pilling the bodies of the fallen Vikings together inside the mead hall, and made a true funeral pyre, one this time truly fit for kings in their fire pit. To them, each man was a king, and they would each be missed. But, there was certain gladness that Cross had in finding Glaeg had heeded his word and strayed from the poison drink. He wasn’t as alone as he thought he would be in the coming battle, and it was one of the hundred reasons he’d emerge victorious, ready to wield Brandrwulf in the name of the gods of Asgaard.
With newfound inspiration, they marched.
