Gateway to Nifleheim (7 page)

“Try it,” said Theta, passing it to him.

Claradon grasped it, his eyebrows rose, and he smiled. “What a wonder. It’s so light. What kind of steel is this?” he said, as he maneuvered it around. “It's not even half the weight of mine.”

“The plates are three times as thick as those commonly used in shield work,” said Theta. “They are made from a rare alloy that is five times as strong as standard steel, but only a fraction of the weight.”

“You could win wars with an army equipped with these,” said Claradon, a look of wonder lingering on his face.

“I have,” said Theta with a smile. “Your wizard was reluctant to speak of magic,” said Theta. “Tell me why that is.”

“In Lomion, it's considered improper to speak of things arcane.”

“That much is clear,” said Theta. “My question is why?”

“One reason being, most folks believe magic is no more than mummery. The greater reason being, it's illegal to publicly practice the true arcane arts. The crown and the council take a hard stance on this, even more so in recent years. Those who violate the edicts face ostracism at best, or imprisonment or exile if things go against them. I gather that in your lands such is not the case.”

Theta nodded. “Why do your rulers fear magic so?”

“A good question, often asked in private by those of us who know the truth of things—but one never adequately answered. Perhaps it’s because they can't fully control magic or those who weave it, so instead they suppress it and seek to deny its very existence.”

“With your laws as they are, how is it that you have a House Wizard?”

“Ah, well—being a wizard, or rather, proclaiming yourself a wizard is not illegal and never has been. On every street corner in the great cities of the realm, there are those who call themselves wizards, sorcerers, or seers, but they are charlatans all. They trick the unwary and unwise with sleight of hand, and fool the foolish with palm readings, astrology, and other such bunk. As far as the common people know, that’s all there is to magic and wizards.”

“So your government has done its job well.”

“They have, and have been doing so for generations. All that the common people know of true magic comes only from legend and superstition. We Lomerians are a superstitious people you see, so many fear those tales, and the olden magic and those who weave it. It's better to believe only in the card tricksters and their ilk, or so they think.”

“So they think your House Wizards are no more than well-dressed street hawkers?”

“Aye.”

“And I gather that that isn't the case.”

“Indeed, it is not—at least not amongst the great Houses. Our House Wizards are chosen from those most singular few that belong to the Order of the Arcane. They are learned in the true mysteries of the magical arts of thaumaturgy, divination, sorcery, necromancy, and other such esoteric fields of study. Many of their members can command fantastic magics and enchantments to accomplish all manner of wondrous deeds. Par Talbon, our House Wizard, is such a man, as is Par Tanch.”

“The wizards are sworn to never publicly use their skills, save in the defense of their master’s life, or by order of the Crown. They may not even cast their magic in self-defense. Even in defense of their lord there can be repercussions, if the need for its use be not so great. Rare it is that such oaths are broken, and on those occasions when magic is used, the authorities quickly cover up the incidents and remove the evidence, the government long ago having decided that the common people must never know of such things. For good or ill, that is the way of things.”

“And which is it, good or ill?”

“Ill, I would say.”

Theta nodded. “Magic is a dangerous thing. There is wisdom in limiting its use.”

“A sword is a dangerous thing too,” said Claradon. “Yet used wisely, it’s a valuable tool.”

“True, enough,” said Theta. “Can only those Lomerians in the Order command the magical arts?”

“Some few members of certain militant orders are trained in the ways of magic, but their command of the arts is typically far more limited than members of the Arcane Order.”

“I take it that these knights are under the same restrictions regarding using their arcane skills.”

“They are.”

“You have such skills,” he said in a manner that could easily have been mistaken as a question, though it most certainly was a statement.

“I do,” said Claradon, not quite holding back a grin at Theta's insight. “As you've no doubt already discerned, my brother and I are knights of the realm of Lomion, each holding membership in one of the militant orders. I serve the Caradonian Order of the Knights of Odin, and they afford me the title of ‘Brother’. We are a religious order and perform various duties typically carried out by monks and priests. Ector and my brother Jude are members of the Tyrian Order, whose patron is Tyr, god of justice.”

“I have not met Jude,” said Theta.

“No, he and Malcolm, my youngest brother, are in Lomion City, our capital, on House business.

VII

THE ODINHOME

Ob carried a small lantern to guide their way, as he, Theta, and Dolan quickly walked toward the octagonal building the Eotrus called the Odinhome. In many ways, the Odinhome was the heart of life at Dor Eotrus. By design, it was a spiritual place of worship, but in practice, it was also a hall for fellowship, storytelling, and debate, and often, for feasting and drinking. It connected one to the past, through traditions and ritual, through ancestors and the gods.

“We don't got no grand cathedral as do some Dors and them big cities, but our worship hall is better than most by a good stretch,” shouted Ob so that he would be heard over the wailing. “And that’s no accident. Like most folk in the provinces, we respect the old ways and take our religion seriously. Not like them fancy city folk what lost their way and don’t believe in nothing anymore.”

“The Odinhome is the only big building we got what is mostly made of wood. The rest are stone, slab to peak, but don’t let that fool you. We build them all to last up here in the North. Storm or siege, fire or axe, it don’t matter none, what we build endures whatever needs enduring.”

“You see them fancy double doors?” he said as they approached the Odinhome’s entrance. “Stout oak, six inches thick and banded in cold-forged iron. Take an army to pound them doors down while we rained death on them from on high,” he said, pointing at the battlements more than 25 feet up. “There be seven sets of doors just like these spaced around the building—one for each of the gods.”

“Aren’t there more than seven gods?” said Dolan.

“You ask a lot of questions, fella,” said Ob as he gave Dolan the eye. “I can hardly get a word in with you jabbering all the time. Don’t know how you tolerate this fellow, Theta.”

“He can cook,” said Theta.

Ob nodded. “That explains it. Half the servants we got burn the water and boil the toast. Stinking bumpkins,” he said as he lifted his wineskin to his lips for a goodly swallow.

“Anyhow, in addition to Odin, there’s seven gods what we northerners fancy a bit more than the rest,” said Ob. “Inside, we got statues and such to each of the others, so as not to leave anyone out. Never a good idea to offend a god, so we make certain each one is held high and touted in some way or another somewhere in the ‘home. Some in the South got other godly preferences, mind you, but we don't much care what them folks think. We do things our own way up here. Always have.”

Ob approached the entry doors and pulled on a large iron rung that served as a door handle. “This here is Tyr’s gate,” he said as he strained to swing the massive door open. The smell of firewood, hickory and birch, wafted toward them as the door opened, along with the welcome scent of roasting meat.

They stepped through the entrance onto the grand arcade that encircled the interior perimeter of the building. The place was mostly one huge open room. The covered arcade opened to a sunken seating area with a very high domed ceiling. Sturdy looking men with somber expressions walked purposely along the arcade while the subdued and mirthless voices of others rose up from the seating area beyond. When Tyr’s gate closed behind the group, the wailing sounds almost entirely disappeared and they breathed the easier.

“This is one of my favorite places in the Dor,” said Ob to Theta. “As long as at least two of the doors are propped open, there is always a nice breeze in here, so the air is fresh, unless the priests have the incense burning, and even that stuff don’t smell half bad. It never gets too hot in here, and rarely gets too cold. It’s a good place to sit, talk, and think and whatnot.”

“Look around—we don’t build random in these parts. Everything we put together has got its proper function and place, or else some symbolic meaning that's important to us. Them stairs, for instance,” he said, pointing across the arcade, “they’re aligned with the doors, so that when you stroll in, you cross the arcade and head straight down to grab a seat in Tyr's section, no fuss or wandering about required. Seven steps there are, each seven feet wide. They take you down to the central dais where abides the all-father’s altar and other sacred thingamabobs. And between each set of stairs, there is a long narrow table and bench what sits seven at least on each and every step. Seven’s got some religious meaning what escapes me at the moment, but it’s something important, I’m sure. Donnelin would know—he prattles on about it during one of the high holy days every year.” Ob scrunched up his face and shook his head. “Anyway, if you can cypher good and proper, you’ll come up with seats for 350 warriors, battle clad and blood ready. We can squeeze in twice that many folks all casually dressed and sitting cozy. Not to mention the hundreds what can stand around up here on the arcade bleating like sheep and picking their noses instead of paying attention to the service, just so they can say they were here.”

“Ole Brother Donnelin is many things, but an inspiring orator, he is not. So the place don’t get crowded much, especially since them weaselly prelates from the Outer Dor’s temples have siphoned off most of his flock and their tithes with them. I get stuck having to dip into the House treasury to pay the upkeep on this place—there are just not enough donations to keep the roof tight and the paint on the walls, and there hasn’t been for years,” he said as they walked across the arcade. They warmed their hands at one of the long, rectangular, iron fire pits arranged at the inner edge of the arcade, just behind the top row of benches. The pits were topped with iron gratings, and here and there, a slab of meat roasted over a crackling fire.

“The hour is late for supper,” said Theta.

“I won’t say no to a nibble, if asked,” said Dolan.

“We always feast before going to war,” said Ob. “It’s tradition. We’re big on that in these parts. Tradition, that is. It grounds us. It reminds us of who we are and where we come from, and that’s important. Fiercely important to us northerners, especially to the Eotrus. The family line hails all the way back to Odin himself—a direct bloodline to the gods, or so goes the tale.”

“Tradition is why each of them seating sections,” he said pointing, “is dedicated to one of the big seven: Thor, Heimdall, Balder, Tyr, and the rest. Them friezes along the walls behind us feature each god’s deeds, even the ones what make little sense to us mere mortals. There’s also a statue, big as life, of each god at the top of their stairs,” he said pointing. “Some of them are near as tall as Artol. I suppose that’s to be expected, them being gods and all.”

“We got stained glass in the windows way above us—hard to see right now owing to the dark, but trust me, it’s there, and it's not just colored glass, mind you, them windows tell tales: prayers, stories, and such. That glass goes back hundreds of years, salvaged by the Eotrus from some forgotten temple in the mountains. Tradition. It means something.”

“Impressive workmanship,” said Theta as he looked around.

“Don’t see no workman’s ship,” mumbled Dolan as he turned this way and that. “Not even any water in here. Dry as a bone, it is.”

Ob beamed. “The stonework is gnomish, of course, made way back in olden days, except for a few recent additions whittled by dwarves out of Tarrows Hold. The best of them was carved by me ole buddy McDuff—that granite statue of Heimdall at the top of yonder stair. We had to replace the original about ten years back—it got busted up during some unfortunate fisticuffs. I still say it wasn’t his fault, but Aradon told McDuff he had to replace it or else. So he did—carved it by his own hands. Took him nearly a month working night and day. I have to admit, he did his penance right and proper, as his work is a sight better than the original. More lifelike and bigger muscles. A statue of a god ought to have some muscles, don’t you think? But I always pictured Heimdall shorter.”

“That section over there is reserved for Odin, the all-father,” said Ob pointing to the northernmost portion of the building. He held off describing what they saw in that direction, and instead turned to study his guests’ reactions.

Across the seating area, on the far side of the building was an enormous granite statue of Odin seated on a polished, white marble throne. If the statue could have stood, it would have surpassed thirty feet in height. The all-father leaned forward, hand to his chin, horned helmet atop his head, a long spear in hand, and gazed down on his followers with his one wise eye. A stone wolf stood on either side of him, and a raven perched on each of his shoulders.

Dolan’s eyes went wide, but Theta gave nothing away—as if he had seen such sights a thousand times.

“No grand cathedrals, but we got that,” said Ob pointing to the statue. “And nobody else has got nothing like it. We figure the Eotrus of olden days built the Odinhome around it, because there’s no way they could’ve hauled it in here.”

“Is it one piece of stone?” said Theta.

“Aye,” said Ob.

“Then it is a wonder,” said Theta. “Such things are rarely seen these days—the skills of the old world, long lost.”

“Long lost, they are,” said Dolan.