Hymir's Finger

Part 1 of 1

Lord Vahk sat on his throne, watching his bodyguards at their posts as if they were some sort of prey. He was edgy, waiting for a message on their current battle, the bearer of which come through the doors of his audience chamber at that moment.

"Your Lordship," respectfully began the messenger, bending low to the ground. "Our forces have been victorious in the skirmish between the subhumans on the eastern border. We await your command." Despite the messenger's calm report, it couldn't hide the sweat beading on his tanned brow, or the horrors of the battlefield in his hazel eyes.

"Press forward, leave none of them alive. They will not know defeat until we show it to them." Vahk ordered ruthlessly. He could imagine the screams of his prey. It would have been hard for anyone to have missed the bloodlust in his voice.

"Yes, my lord," The messenger bowed again, gold-brown tufts waving a moment before he left, an audible clank of his sword hilt and chain mail matching the rhythm of his jogging strides.

The moment the door shut behind the boy, Vahk stood up, and made his way to the back doorway of the room. He stopped abruptly before the door, and commanded, "Krit!"

"Yes, lord!" A lanky, chestnut-haired member of his guard stepped forward and saluted.

"Ready my gear and horse for the morning. I will be visiting the eastern border for a progress check." ordered Vahk, not once faltering in his tone.

"Yes, my lord!" with that, Krit broke rank and made his way out of the front door, followed by two trainee bodyguards.

Commands issued, Vahk continued out the back exit and to his quarters.

Although Vahk may have seemed like a bloodthirsty brute, he was quite literate. Books may have been scarce in his small western Lordship, but it didn't stop him from recording the days' events on whatever piece of paper was available. He also used it as a weapon to blind his opponents with rage, mocking their illiteracy, calling them incompetent. It had given him an upper hand in many a battle. His records were also useful for later reference, and as Vahk imagined they would also be reference material to the future warlords of his small country.

Vahk may have been prideful of his literacy, but the size of his country was a sore point. Even though the military was successful, he had hardly any skill at dictating a large population. After conquering a country, the people would usually revolt, and when they did, they easily chased Vahk's forces out by sheer numbers. This meant that no matter how long Vahk kept conquering, his dwarfish country of Myzrad would always remain small.

Sitting down at the plain, dark mahogany desk, Vahk unrolled a piece of parchment and scrawled out his success over the subhumans onto the paper, but it would be almost impossible to read due to the vast number of grammar and spelling mistakes.

A few minutes later, he crawled over to his bedside, changed into his drab nightclothes and shut his eyes.

Blood rained throughout his dream. He was in the middle of a field, drenched in the blood of subhumans. He turned to see the surviving creatures fleeing into a canyon, their probable origins. He ran to follow. Upon entering the canyon, his back throbbed the dull pain of a dream, and he fell forward, pushing back the tip of an arrow protruding from his chest.

Vahk sat upright in his bed, the nightmare of his dream still vivid in his mind. He thought aloud, "Is that the end, or is it the sorcery of a mage trying to set me off balance?" Before he could think it through more, a pair of his guards and the messenger from the day before asked permission to enter.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, lordship, but we have and urgent report on the eastern border skirmish." Reported Krit, the trainee accompanying him slowly nodding as if to confirm their reason for intrusion on the lord's quarters.

The messenger spoke up, "The subhumans are retreating to the canyons in the northeast. Your orders?"

"Pursue them. I told you not to leave survivors, correct?" Sometimes Vahk rued how fast messengers could cross the distance between castle and battle field.

"Yes, lord." The messenger left, leaving to two bodyguards in the doorway.

Krit broke the silence with, "Your gear and steed are ready, lord. We can leave as soon as you wish."

"Very well, have breakfast prepared and we can set off after the meal.

With a bow, the two bodyguards left towards the kitchens. Vahk climbed off of the mattress, took a moment by the mirror to shave his face and straighten his short brown hair, and put on his tunic, breeches, and carried his dark leather riding jacket with him to the galley.

Being a small nation, it was enough for even the lord of the country to eat his meals in the kitchens with his guards to eat, although not quite as equals, which should be expected. Vahk used to try to talk with the guards about their families, but the just wouldn't drop the "Yes sir, no sir, how high sir?" attitude, so he gave up on that and ate with them in silence.

After their meagre meal was done, the guards picked up the plates and carried them to the sink, and accompanied Vahk to the main hall.

Vahk took the lead to the stables, eager to reach the battle despite his prophetic nature. As he was walking he donned his leather riding jacket, and put on a pair of matching riding gloves that were in the pocket.

He double-checked that all his equipment was in the saddlebags; chain-mail, sword, bow and arrows, it all seemed to be there.

"Aright, shall we go?" Vahk said in an unusually friendly tone for a pre-battle order.

His guards nodded, and the three of them set off in the same direction as the messenger took not even an hour before.

Other than a small farming settlement, Vahk passed on his way to the border, the entirety of the trip was an endless run through plains with the scarce patches of grass here and there.

In the distance, Vahk caught sight of his forces. Cavalry and infantry seemed to be proceeding, but his archers were firing from their present locations. He spurred his horse forward and headed for the archery squadron's commander.

"Move forward as needed, ensure that the other units are covered." issued Vahk shortly. He began laying his chain mail over his riding clothes, and strapped the bow and quiver to his back, sword on his hip. "I'll be in there, too. Let's show them that Myzrad isn't a force to be underestimated!" With that brief speech, his guards rallied and caught up closer to the rest with Vahk spearheading the group towards the bloodbath.

As Vahk came closer to the canyon opening, he faltered, he experiencing Déjà vu from his dream. "So this is how it'll end…" he thought, unaware of what was about to happen. He charged forward anyhow, and a split second later, he heard a small thud. Behind him, the shaft of an arrow was stuck in the ground, angled towards the edge of the canyon-cliffs. This one didn't look like to ones used by the subhuman archers, though. Its shaft was made of a better quality wood, affordable only by a more successful army. Then he recognised the insignia on it, near its tip, the empire's mark. He looked to the front lines to see his infantry being attacked by Imperial soldiers.

"Fall back, draw them out! he ordered urgently. There wasn't a single soldier that he could afford lost.

They retreated into the open. It was obvious that the empire didn't expect much of them, for there wasn't a single commander among the lot of the. They were expecting Myzrad to fall to sheer brute force.

Once out of the empire archers' range they turned around to slaughter their foes, their archer joining in and shooting their adversaries at point-blank range. It wasn't long before all but three of the empire soldiers kneeled on the blood-moistened ground at Vahk's feet. Their tears fell freely from their eyes as they begged for mercy.

"Please, spare us. As long as we can live, we will be content. We can be soldier, slaves or servants, bound in chains or free, but please let us live." The most senior of them sobbed. It seemed too practiced to Vahk.

"Well…"Vahk muttered. Are the honest, or will the turn on me the moment they get the chance? "I'll take your heads, but your eternal souls are yours to keep.

They were dumbfounded. Even their decapitated heads showed that expression as they were buried in unmarked graves on the battlefield.

Vahk's army, being one matching the country's stature, needed to take all that they could. If that meant using the armour of their fallen enemies, then so be it. After scavenging what they could, the scouts and younger officers carted the unusable armour into the castle lobby.

"Highness, what do you request should be done with this scrap iron? There is plenty of supply for all, so this extra is at your disposal." reported a small female officer. It mattered not the gender of those who wished to serve in this country.

Vahk pondered the situation, but soon devised a new scare tactic for his forces. "Forge it into a sword for me. Spare no expense to find the best Myzradian smithy to forge it, and do not bother being discreet." Vahk commanded in a ceremonial, yet somewhat barbaric tone.

"Aye, sire." With a bow, she left, taking a relaxed after-battle stride.

Relaxing too, Vahk plopped down in his chair and planned his next conquest.

Little more than a fortnight afterwards, the sword arrived, swathed in silk, in the audience chamber. Vahk adored the sheer size of it, sure that it would strike down his enemies with edge and reputation.

He stepped down from his seat and strode toward the massive blade. Underneath the silk was a dark iron blade, the sheer size of it enough to make foes flee before the blade was even splashed with red. He raised his hand and brushed away the rest of the silk, amazed that only a shaped wooden block was holding it up vertically.

"I name this sword for my grandfather, Hymir's Finger, for I believe this is his hand reaching down form the heavens to aid his country in their struggle against the empire." Vahk declared, with his hand clasped tightly around the hilt.

He tightened the muscles in his arm, and…could not lift it. Rather than embarrass himself further, he asked his staff, "How was this carted here?"

Krit responded, "Lord it was carried in on a two-horse cart, and a group of five smiths carried it to the chamber."

"No mortal man should have the strength to wield this blade. Do with it what you wish, but dare not dispose of it." The blade still meant something to him, even if it wasn't useful, Vahk thought as he trudged to his chamber to contemplate a new scare tactic.

Many a week later, Vahk sat in his audience chamber, plotting an advance into the south-western neighbour country. His usual messenger barged in the doors.

"Lord!" He hurriedly bowed, and continued on with the message. "The imperial forces have appeared out of the west, they have us in a corner."

"Alrigh…" Vahk's eagerness was shattered by a sickening crack. He looked upwards to see, to his dismay, Hymir's Finger, hung on the crimp in the ceiling, directly above where he was standing. With a gruesome crunch, the sword came down on him, sending a shower of tears around the room. Vahk didn't even feel the water on his face before his body was rent in two.

Here's the original paragraph this is based on, so you know what's mine and what isn't.

This is the largest sword in the world, too heavy for any mortal to lift. It is believed that until now, no warrior has been able to wield it. It was ordered forged by the warlord Vahk the Pitiless. Made from the melted armour of his vanquished enemies, the sword announced Vahk's might and grandeur to the world.

Next: I don't know yet, so I'm open to suggestions. (Deathdance, maybe?)

Yeah, it's done! Woo hoo! I'm gonna sleep now, and then WRITE SOME MORE! XD