I will say, I did not exactly have much planned for this chapter. However, if you have been following along with this story's lore, then I can assure you that the events in the second half of this chapter will probably get some of you intrigued and curious!
Either way, I hope you all enjoy!
The rest of the night went by uneventfully after the feast had ended. The entire vanguard slept within the safety and warmth of Halholm's great hall, yet the sleep that the young vikings had that night was the greatest they had in a long while. It felt as if their very minds and souls were healed and reflourished.
However, upon waking up the next morning, something had changed.
Hiccup and the group had expected for the snowfall to once again continue. They expected freezing blizzards to come crashing down upon the Frel Mountains, as they had for the past five days. Or rather, as they had for the longest time.
But this was not the case…
When the vikings, elves, and dwarves awoke and stepped out of the hall, they were met with neither grey clouds or snow, but rather clear blue skies with white puffy clouds, and a bright sun, which shone down from the peaks of the distant mountains to the west.
The people of Halholm gazed at the sight with much surprise and awe. Yet as beautiful as it was, there was still important business that had to be done that morning, for they had not forgotten about the departure of their guests.
Once the vanguard's troops had their morning fill, they rallied to the gates of Halholm, flying their flags and banners, and made their last preparations before marching out. The people of Halholm all the while began restocking their carts, filling them up with enough food to last until they reached Dalgard.
Soon enough, all was set. The gates soon opened, and they were on the march once again.
The vikings, elves, and dwarves were met with a farewell from many, including Brann, who stood there waving from atop the gates' ramparts. With Hiccup and his friends at the front, along with the dragons and the captains, they began their march towards the northern pass that led out of the valley, and towards the main pass of the Frel Mountains. To the surprise of the dwarves however, the distance they covered was much quicker than they anticipated. With the Frel Mountains being under clear skies for the first time ever, the march was faster than ever.
As time passed by, from the morning to noon, discussion amongst the ranks of the vanguard began to pick up, including with those at the front of the line. However, Hiccup remained silent. Before they had left Halholm, he had been given words of wisdom from Brann as part of his farewell, and the words from the legendary viking were stuck in his mind;
"Just remember, lad. If there comes a time where all seems hopeless, don't waste your time worrying about it. Though the gods from above exist to help and guide us, it is the will of man, elf, dwarf, and every race in Midgard to decide their own fates. We are the masters of our destinies. Should you believe in your hope, it will come."
"But what exactly would our hope be?" asked Hiccup, to which Brann chuckled.
"Hope is whatever you want it to be."
The viking's last words resonated in Hiccup's head the most. It only partially made sense to him, and yet at the same time, he also questioned its meaning. Was their hope connected to the Wings of Midgard, to their victory against the enemy, to the people of Midgard themselves, or something more than that? Hiccup was uncertain.
Eventually, the lad shrugged it off to the side, and snapped back to the reality around him.
"...Agh!" groaned Beldrak as he scratched at his bushy beard. "I can't I was beaten by an elf at a drinkin' game! I had ye by yer pointy ears, and yet ye were the last one standing!"
"Never underestimate an elf's abilities," smirked Valara.
"Hel yeah! That was an epic game, if you ask me," said Ruffnut. "In fact, that was the first time I ever saw an elf get drunk!"
"Definitely wasn't the first time you two got drunk," said Snotlout, referring to both of the Twins. "The two of you combined nearly drank four barrels of mead last night. I'm surprised you didn't vomit your livers out."
"...Now that is a disgusting visual," said Hookfang in Dragonese, as he and the other dragons listened on to their conversation.
Olof shook his head. "Your friend Snotlout here may have anger issues at times, but he's right. Drink too much mead, and you might drink yourselves to death."
"Great!" said Tuffnut. "Because then we'll end up in Valhalla and-"
"Helheim, lad," interrupted Olof in correction. "You want to go to Valhalla? Then die a glorious death in battle, whether it be by the blade, or by the will of the gods. The Allfather wants warriors, lad, not mere drunks."
"Gah! Dammit!" grunted Tuffnut.
"I mean- it's always been like that, Tuff," said Heather. "Just ask any wandering viking why they're fighting, and they'll tell you, Victory or Valhalla… or, Fólkvangr, which is Freya's domain."
"Eh. I'll know where I'll go the moment I die in battle," said Beldrak. "And if it's by the hands of an orc, then I'll shove muh boot up its buttocks till it dies too! It'll be tae Helheim with them! And if I survive, then it'll only get better from there."
"Save your need for battle for the fight ahead, master dwarf," replied Olof. "Enjoy the calm before the storm while it lasts. As heavy of a threat as the Dark Legions are, we still have King Kharinz to worry about. Once we arrive at Dalgard, we should probably address ourselves to the king himself, and then get the elven healers to work as soon as possible."
"Agreed," nodded Valara. "I assure you, they'll work day and night until the king is at his full strength once more. Whatever this sickness is, I doubt it is something they cannot handle."
"...Let's hope so," said Beldrak.
As the group continued talking amongst one another, Hiccup all the while looked around at the mountains around him, admiring the view of them beneath the sunlight and clear blue sky. But it was then that he soon started to notice something. He began to realize that the further they marched, the more the mountains were ever slightly closing in on them. It was almost as if they were nearing an end-point of the pass.
"...Astrid," said Hiccup.
The blonde shieldmaiden turned her head towards him. "Hm?" she asked.
"Have you taken notice of the mountains around us?" he asked. "They're closing in on us. The entire mountain pass is literally becoming narrower."
Astrid gazed up at the mountains, and her eyes widened with the realization. His words were not false. "What the…? Are we nearing the end of the pass or something?"
"I don't know," said Hiccup, to which his head then turned towards the talkative group, with his eyes staring directly at Beldrak in particular.
"Hey, Beldrak!" he called out, catching the attention of the dwarven thane, along with the others, before pointing a finger towards the mountains and cliffs around them. "The mountains are closing in on us. Is that supposed to mean anything?"
Everyone suddenly gazed back at the mountains, noticing now the changes. However, Beldrak merely gave a grin at this, and as his eyes turned to look ahead, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. "We're here."
"Uh…" responded Ruffnut as she arched a brow. "I'm sorry, what?"
"...What exactly do you mean by that?" asked Fishlegs. "Are you saying we've arrived at Dalgard?"
"Nay, lad!" chuckled the dwarven thane. "We've arrived at the crossing point! Our exit out of the Frel Mountains. Look ahead!"
As the group's heads spun to look into the distance, many eyes widened, and many jaws dropped. Up ahead, where the mountains were at their closest, and where the sunlight did not strike, stood a great bridge of stone, lit up by many braziers like distant fireflies. As grand as the sight was however, what caught the group's attention the most were the pairs of large, ancient, stone statues standing on both ends of the bridge. They were statues of armored dwarves, carrying runic axes in one hand, whilst the other was raised out in an open palm, as if warning their foes to beware.
For the case of the vikings, elves, and dwarves however, they had nothing to beware, and as the vanguard came before the bridge, Beldrak grinned.
"Behold!" he began. "The Great Passing! Our way out, as well as our way home, to our great city of stone! KHAZÂR! KHAZÂR!"
As Beldrak roared out his battle-cry, all of the Ironbeard dwarves within the line let out a bellowing cheer, raising their weapons and colorful shields into the air as their eyes were kept fixated on the Great Passing.
At last, the city of the dwarves was close.
"Finally," huffed Toothless.
…
To the north of Dalgard, beyond the Obsidian Mountains, the Warlord of the Dark Legions, Drago Bludvist, was continuing his way through the wastelands of Northern Valnr. The wind, neither cold nor warm, blew lightly across the lifeless lands, while green lightning from the stormy clouds above crackled, followed by the sound of booming thunder.
Yet at the same time, as all of this was happening, the ground beneath Drago's feet shook, for he was not alone...
Behind him, an army marched. A vast army of terrible warriors and monsters, whose feet stomped against the ground in near unison. They were all disciplined, cladded in darkened armor, and armed to the teeth with weapons that would make any ordinary man want to run for the hills.
Numerous amounts of orcs, goblins, dark vikings, and heavily armored trolls were amongst Drago's ranks, making up the bulk of his legions. But they were not the worst of it, for near the back of the vast horde, more horrific things marched alongside them.
In its entirety, it was an army unlike any that was seen before. Compared to the coalition of vikings, dragon hunters, and dwarves that Drago led in his campaign against Valka and the Archipelago, the legions at his command made them look like child's play.
It was an army that brought forth an earth-shattering invasion.
As the march went on, Drago Bludvist soon began to notice mountains in the distance, and thus, he came to a stop to take a glance at them… They were mountains as dark as coal, with snow that covered their summits like ashes. The snow itself hailed down from the wintry clouds that covered the skies above them, and from where Drago stood, he could feel a light, cold breeze blow in his direction.
And it was then that he noticed them…
There were seven figures in the distance riding towards him, all mounted atop horses that were cladded in dark plating. They were warriors who bore outfits similar to that of the dark vikings. From head to toe, they wore black armor and furs, along with dark furred cloaks that were tattered from battle, and in their hands, they carried great axes that appeared large enough to cleave their enemies in two.
Yet even then, it was clear to Drago that though these men were vikings, they were not dark vikings.
Compared to the dark vikings, the warriors' eyes did not glow green with the power of chaos energy, and they were not as heavily armored, thus parts of their skin were revealed. They even had their beards exposed, and some even lacked their chest gear and horned helmets, thus allowing their scarred faces and chests to show.
The warrior in the center however, their commander, was completely cladded.
Drago let out a sigh, and immediately rose a palm in the air. As such, a loud horn was sounded, and the entire army came to a stop.
The warlord's green glowing eyes were fixed upon the seven vikings as they rode closer, and soon enough, they slowed their horses to a halt, stopping more than a dozen feet away from Drago… except for their commander.
The armored viking's horse trotted slowly towards Drago, before it too slowed down, halting several feet in front of the warlord.
The two of them exchanged nods.
"Hail Maldragor," said the viking commander, speaking with a strong, nordic voice.
"Hail Maldragor," replied Drago, and to that, the two of them started conversing.
"...I bring word from the Chieftains of Northvar," began the commander. "We've done as our Dark Master has commanded. Our tribes are now undivided, and our armies are now gathering for an invasion of the south."
"Excellent," smirked Drago. "See to it that the tribes make way for my legions to march through Northvar. Lord Maldragor demands that the city of the dwarves falls first, and that the final ritual begins."
The viking nodded his head. "In that case, what message shall I send back to the Chieftains of Northvar? Shall we join you in the upcoming battle? It would be a bloody honor to-"
"No," interrupted Drago. "Tell your leaders to wait for further orders. Your time to attack will come soon, but Khaz'dalgard is mine to destroy. The Dark Legions shall make the first move against the south."
The viking commander gave a growl. "...Don't make us wait too long. Our weapons yearn for the blood of the weak southerners! We have waited for nearly a thousand years for this moment! To take revenge on the Alsworn cowards who banished our ancestors into the north!"
"And your time will come, viking," said Drago with his brows lowered. "Be grateful that Maldragor has brought your high chieftain back from the dead, otherwise your tribes would still be fighting one another."
The warrior responded with nothing at first. But after a brief moment of silence passed, he gave Drago a nod. "I will bring word back to the chieftains. We allow you to pass through Northvar because the Dark God wills it, and we thus honor it. But mark our words, Bludvist; the Viking Horde will march south soon, and we will lay waste to it in the name of Maldragor. We will not wait forever."
"...Then see to it that your message is delivered, commander," said Drago.
Without another word, the viking commander turned his large, armored horse around, before shouting out a command as he began riding back into the direction of the distant mountains, with his warriors quickly following.
As soon as they were out of sight, Drago let out a sigh as he looked over his shoulder, before raising his arm as he gave a swift gesture of his hand.
"MARCH FORTH!" he bellowed, to which the horn once again sounded out, and as such, the march continued...