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 a few of the lines in the second half of this chapter might intrigue some of you.
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, along with a bright sun, which shone down from the peaks of the mountains in the east.
The people of Halholm gazed at the sight with surprise and awe. Yet as beautiful as it was, they all knew they could not remain idle. There was still important business to be done, for they had not forgotten about the coming departure of their guests.
As soon as the vanguard's troops had their morning fill, they quickly rallied to the gates of Halholm, flying their flags and banners, and began making final preparations. All the while, the townsfolk went on to restock their carts, filling them up with enough food for the rest of the journey.
With that, everything was ready. The gates opened, and the vanguard marched once more.
The vikings, elves, and dwarves were met with a massive farewell from the people, including Brann, who stood there waving from atop the gates' ramparts. With Hiccup and his group at the front, they began their march towards the northern pass that led out of the valley, and back 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 under clear skies for the very first time, the march was faster than ever.
As time passed by from morning to noon, discussion between the warriors of the vanguard soon began to pick up, as well as among the riders, dragons, and captains. However, Hiccup remained silent. Before departing from Halholm, the lad had been given words of wisdom from Brann as part of his farewell, and the words from the legendary viking stuck to his mind like ice;
"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 guide us, it is the will of man, elf, dwarf, and every other 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 is our hope?" asked Hiccup, to which Brann chuckled.
"Hope is whatever you want it to be."
His 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 peoples 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 believe 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. "Both of you 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 in on 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 drunken fools."
"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 three words; 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! However, if I manage tae survive, then it'll only get better from there."
"Save your hate for the battle 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 him, and then get the elven healers to work as soon as possible."
"Agreed," nodded Valara. "And I can 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 back 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. As they continued marching further and further, the mountains began to close in on them ever-so-slightly. 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 noticed 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 and the others, before gesturing 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. Yet as grand as the sight was, what caught the group's attention the most was a pair of large, ancient, stone statues standing by the entrance 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 they kept their eyes 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, continued 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 very 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 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 it look like child's play, for they brought forth the rage of 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 blowing in his direction.
And it was then that he noticed them…
From the distance, seven figures rode 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 appeared as if they were ripped and tattered from battle. In their hands, they carried great black axes, seemingly large enough to cleave their enemies in two.
However, it was clear to Drago that although these men were vikings, they were not dark vikings; compared to them, the warriors' eyes did not glow green with the power of chaotic energy, and they were not as heavily armored. Parts of their bodies laid exposed, such as their beards, their chests, and even their scarred faces.
The warrior in the center however, their commander, was almost 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 remained fixed on the seven vikings, and as they closed in, their horses began slowing down, until finally, they halted a dozen feet away from Drago, save for their commander.
The armored viking's horse trotted slowly towards Drago, and like so, it halted 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 to converse.
"...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 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 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 brought your high chieftain back from the dead, otherwise your tribes would still be fighting one another. Your Horde would still cease to exist."
The warrior responded with nothing at first. But after a brief moment of silence, he gave Drago a nod. "I will bring word back to the chieftains. We will allow you to pass through Northvar because the Dark God wills it. But mark our words, Bludvist; the Viking Horde will march south soon, and we will lay waste to it in the name of our high chieftain, and in the name of our god. 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...