Dakka Veteran
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Halyroot was a symbol of civilization in the otherwise barren, savage land. There lived within the giver of rings, his wife at his side. Its woven tapestries of golden thread, hung from the rafters, depicted the tales of the hero Shield Seafang, the wrecker of benches, rampager amongst hosts of foes. Eight full-grown destriers could stand shoulder-to-shoulder in it, and still leave room to go around, such was its width. Above the twin thrones at the hall’s head, stood the mounted, preserved head of a stag, its eyes blankly watching over all. A great firepit was reflected in those black orbs, orange tongues of raging flame. “Glorious” was a synonym for “Halyroot”, as far as the people of Fennia’s northernmost continent were concerned. It was something they could rally around.
Yet Halyroot was under siege. “Lock the oaken doors. Bolt them shut.” They would futilely, scaredly whisper. “It’s coming.” It wasn’t dared to speak the evil’s name, for fear it might come. For in the dark of night, it would come amongst them as they slept. Creeping over them. Slaying them. Eating them. Then, before dawn, the wicked one would leave his ruddy tally clear - the terror of its passing hanging in the air like a miasma.
Twelve years had passed this way. A hundred and forty-four months, four thousand and three hundred, eighty days. Twelve winters of woe. Twelve summers of bloody harvest. Then the sky-ship came to Fennia, breaking the waves of the sea of stars. In it, waited the chosen warriors.
Rogerr, the young fair-haired king weary beyond his age, was first to see them. Strange and foreign they looked to his bleary blue eyes. He’d been weeping. “Who goes there?” He challenged them, thrusting his long-hafted spear outwards, away from him. Armor draped in the furs of strange animals, they stood there quietly. The mysterious warriors spat in the air, as if to subdue evil spirits, to bind them to their will. Then, one of them approached.
He was a strange one, that was to be sure. Rogerr knew it immediately. In basic bodily form, the foreigners’ war-leader appeared much like the people of Fennia. But it was as if he had been stretched, and bulked out. Like a mighty giant of fireside stories, he was larger and stronger. Big bulging eyes, which were a bright fire-fly yellow, surveyed Halyroot’s interior and scanned its inhabitants one by one. A pierced nose smelt the air, smelt the ashes of a burnt-out fire, the fears of Fennia’s people. Then, he spoke in a rough growl, a low rumble, like the crashing of waves, the grinding of rocks.
“This is a great hall, clearly. Yet - “ The giant sniffed some more. His tremendous fist, twice the size of a man’s heart, came to his chin. “The people here are sad. The mead flows freely, yet men are not hale and hearty. Women do not dance with their husbands. Why? Why is this hall silent?”
“An evil.” Rogerr told him. He looked over his shoulder, as if it were there. The winters had worn down on him, scarred his generous mind. “The daemon Grendel. Spawn of the Underverse.” He spoke its name fearfully, shortly and sharply. Flickering firelight from wall torches made the shadows in his face seem to deepen. “He comes. Slays our men in their sleep. Taunts us. My wife - she tends to the wounded, but...to no avail.”
The warrior listened intently, empathetically. His face was scarred, the legacy of battles many, many winters past. “You come from afar, outlander.” Rogerr beggingly said. “Surely,” He asked. “You can slay Grendel? Bring peace to our lands?”
“We will see what we can do. You have my word.” With that, the giant raised a strange object. It was a pitch-black metallic box in form, with two cylinders jutting out of one end. From the bottom, a sickle tapered down. “With this - “ He paused, smiling with sharpened incisors. “I will slay Grendel.”
Dusk came and went. The outlanders lay in wait, in front of the great oaken doors of Halyroot. Their confidence seemed alien. Surely, Grendel would take at least some of these brave men - surely. Yet, they were all smiles. Black boxes, swords, and axes at the ready, they stood behind the doors. Laughing, joking in strange tongues. Rogerr watched from his throne, eager to see them in action.
The thumping came. He, the lonely enemy of all, had come. Darkness, like fog, rolled in under the doors. The timber gave way to his fist, a mighty, greenish-black scaly arm tearing him an entrance. Soon, the latest battle in his war of one against all would commence. The terrible Grendel had come. Yet the warriors were ready.
The leader leapt back as Grendel tumbled through the breaking doors. “Fenrys hjolda!” He cried, ducking under a sweeping, groping blow. Raising his box, the outlander roared - and the storm roared with him. Thunderous noise, painfully bright flashes from the cylinders. Rogerr gasped in awe as the thunder pealed and boomed once more, its splitting crack filling the room as the monster reeled back. Fire billowed upwards in a great cloud from Grendel’s sooty form, the creature howling.
“Go!” The pack leader cried aloud to his pack-mates, urging them onwards in a clarion voice. “Before it recovers! Kill!” They all piled upon Grendel like ants out of an anthill. Hacking and stabbing at it with their blades, its blood flowed freely. It was a black ichor substance, thick like pitch. The sight was brackish to Rogerr, so he winced.
With a final burst of strength, Grendel threw off the warriors clinging to him. They slid backwards. Some impacted the legs of the hall’s great tables, others slammed into the floor. He loomed large over them, stomping the floor of Halyroot. They’d wounded him - a feat no other warrior in the hall could claim.
But they’d also angered him.
Only the leader remained standing. Only he blocked Grendel’s path to the throne. He gripped tightly the haft of a great two-handed axe, which must’ve been as tall as a Fennian warrior. With a loud cry, he raced towards Grendel - who swung his arm, mightily. The two foes clashed together at that moment, and only one could win.
The leader ran past Grendel, huffing and puffing. A long silence hung in the air. Then Grendel fell down, down on the dirt floor. His right arm was gone. He bled freely, the blood flowing like waves in the ocean. But finally, life left those cursed eyes. Rogerr breathed a sigh of relief.
“This is good. If only that accursed brood was exterminated. His mother yet lives.”
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