Chapter 28: The Wall That Guards The Land
Bjorn Wolfhunt, the Northman,
Whereabouts unknown,
4th year of Hakim’s reign on the Sultanate,
Back in the walls of Wercheg, Bjorn was merely called by his own name by the his fellow guardsmen. He was their captain for quite a long time, yet there are things that took him away from his duty in the city. Grandmaster’s plans he’d tell himself. His plans that brought him to where he is. In the land of the Rhodoks he was called the Executioner, the right hand man of the king, the man who would carry out his will on the battlefield. Yet, his defeat at the hands of the Men of Iron or the Forlorn Hope had brought shame to the Rhodoks. Now shackled and chained, Bjorn was named the Northman by the guards and the soldiers.
He finds himself surviving day after day in the dungeons of Ahmerrad. He didn’t know what kept him alive for many weeks after the Fall of the Guards. At times, he felt like he wanted to end his own life – but he didn’t. The damnable heat made his throat dry and the endless tortures and beatings took away his strength. He was strong, yes. But he wasn’t strong enough.
Visible wounds and scars ran down from his back and to his limbs. Some more grotesque than others. A testament of a soldier’s life after years of serving in the way of war. Bjorn never fought for his own glory, never. He only fought to save the Nords from Ragnar’s iron fisted grip.
His ear caught the voices of the guards talking at the end of the hallway. Their voices were too far for him to be able to get a clear sense of what they spoke about. Scale armor covered their bodies and a helmet with a mask that covered their face. A long horsetail flow down their backs – one of red and the other of white and strands of silver – and a spear held in their hand with a sword carried on their hips.
Bjorn kept listening, he laid his body on the cold ground and his eyes peering at the end of the hallway. His wrists bleed because of the shackles and chains that binds him to his cell.
“ – they have taken Shariz isn’t it?” one of the guard speaks, looking at his friend as he asked.
The other nodded, “Never knew that they are able to do it. The Pearl is heavily fortified and guarded by those damned greens. Yet, they did it. Have you heard anything about the Prince?”
“Ah, Prince Darius was in the infirmary for a few days. He was stabbed by the Pale Moon and the wounds were severe until the best apothecaries needed a few additional days to treat his Majesty’s wounds.” He said. “Darranic Steel is terrifying.” He shuddered.
“Yet we know so little of it. Some of the stories even said that weapons crafted from the steel were forged with the flames of dragons.”
“Bah, dragons, demons, beasts, the undead. Leave those mythical imaginations to the Men-on-the-Walls. They took an oath to serve no king but the king that seats upon the All-Seeing Throne. To raise their swords to guard the lands that sits within the walls is it not?” the guard with the red horsetail said. “Surely you heard about them,”
“Yes, yes,” the other replied. “Speaking of them. Isn’t the Northman supposed to be brought to the walls?”
He shrugged. “I guess. But we were supposed to wait on – “
The conversation stopped with a loud sound of boots snapped. Bjorn saw them, straightening their backs and held their heads high. The two guards saluted to a man that approached them, wearing a coat of white and a cloak of gold and yellow. He raised an eyebrow but kept himself silent as he looked.
The two guards listened to whatever the man spoke to them. They nodded and turned to enter the dungeons with their spears held in their hands. Their horsetail flow from their backs like a river, one of blood and other of molten silver. Their footsteps thudded loudly with every step they made, it echoed throughout the halls of the dungeons and the inmates kept a close eye upon them. The man kept his own gaze to his guards, then to Bjorn with his hands behind him.
The doors to his cell were opened and the guard with the red tail yanked Bjorn up to his feet with the chains. The Northman could not do anything with the strength of a dying man. He had been eating on mere bread and water, sometimes even leftovers. At days, he was tortured for information. They asked him things that he do not have the answer to like, “Where do they plan to strike next?”. But the most shocking question of all still lingered in his mind, they asked him once, “What do Graveth planned with the demons?” those words shocked him the most.
Demons. He had heard of wraiths and Giants who lived up far into the Northern Mountains. They were in a constant war with the tribes of the mountains. Some were as cold as ice and some were vicious to their methods of killing.
Bjorn looked up and the entrance and before he could take a clear look at the man, the rigid jawline, the coat of brown hair and his fearsome eyes of yellow that glistened in the sun made it looked like a pair of golden coins – it was the Prince.
“It’s time,” the Prince’s voice reached his ears. He could feel the guard’s tight grip on his arms, “Bring him to the walls,”
Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. The sun hasn’t been merciful during the trip either. Water supplies ran low in a quick rate and so does the food. For what it seemed to have been a journey for a few days turned into a two-weeks long trek across the scorching deserts of Sarran. An endless ocean of sands lies between the cities of the Sultanate and the walls. It stretched as far as the eye could see, there were no one sighted for days with exception of daring bandits, looters and occasional deserters who proudly called themselves the ‘free brotherhood’. Even Bjorn find them disgusting in leaving their post but yet again, he already did the same thing.
What impressed him the most is the two guards the accompanied him. For days the two fought against countless band of criminals all by themselves. He started to wonder about who they actually are. It wasn’t long until his saw the emergence of a large fortification from the dunes, then as they approach, its massive shadow loomed over them over a dozen meters high. Sixty meters of an wall that stood valiantly and with absolute vigilance now revealed itself on Bjorn – the Wall of the East.
They were at one of the castles that were built to house its knights. The sigil – a golden sun pierced by a sword that looked quite the same as the Sword of Kings upon a white field – was painted on the massive gates. The two guards that escorted him looked up and gestured to the knights upon the walls.
In just a few seconds, the gates were lifted and they entered the courtyard. As they dismounted from their horses and took Bjorn with them, the Northman lifted his head and looked around. His eyes saw dozens of knights donning a white armor trimmed with gold. The sigil of the order itself emblazoned upon its breastplate and their helmets covered their faces. Some of them wore an armor of black and trims of red with gauntlets to match their color. They wore helms with a red overflowing tail made of horse hair, carrying a shield as dark as the night and they carry weapons much like the others. They are the fearsome Black Guards. Few in numbers with members fewer than a thousand, but they made themselves worth a thousand men for single Guard.
“Bloody hell,” Bjorn mumbled as he looked at them, admiring as it seems. He then saw a man in brass armor, the order’s sun etched upon his breastplate and a cape of black flows down his back. He had a long face and a black hair, his flashy blue eyes looked at the two that stood with Bjorn.
“Khiran the Red Tail and Ordun the White, how may I help you both?” the man addressed the two escorts flanking Bjorn’s sides before lowering his eyes and looked at Bjorn, sighing. “Is this about the prince again?”
Khiran nodded, pulling his helmet off. He was tall and had a coat of gold for hair. His eyes were as green as the gems of Zhou. “Apparently yes, the prince wanted to send this prisoner to the walls. As a punishment of sorts,”
“I can’t just take prisoners into the brotherhood Khiran. Tell that to your prince,” the man said.
“And you know that the prince won’t tolerate that, isn’t that correct Commander Duncan?” Khiran frowned, looking at the man who is the leader of the Order of the Immortal Sun.
“The knights do not serve your prince or his father or the rest of the kings of Calradia. We only answer to the one who held the Sword of Kings in his hand,” Duncan said, his eyes pierced through Khiran’s green.
“He wasn’t just a prisoner, Commander.” The other voice spoke, Ordun the White. “The former Executioner of the Rhodoks and the captain of the guardsman of Wercheg,”
Bjorn lifted his head, his eyes widened and looked at the one named Ordun. He was shocked to see that the man knew who he was despite he never told it to anyone in the Sultanate. “How – “
Duncan raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed as he looked at Ordun with disbelief. “And a Nord by the looks of it. Why do you think that every word you say would convince me to take this man into my brotherhood?”
“He knows the Grandmaster,”
Khiran and Duncan fixed their eyes on Bjorn as if looking at a criminal who had committed an act that brings shame to his family. Khiran’s eyes remained cold while Duncan looked at him with interest. “Is this true?” Duncan asked the Northman.
Bjorn’s face is painted with shock and confusion. He would never told anyone of the Grandmaster of the Order of the Snow, especially to his enemies. To him, only his comrades knew about this and nothing else. A mere prison guard knowing this meant that the Nordic Order has been infiltrated, at least that’s what Bjorn assumed.
“His face says it all, Commander Duncan,” Ordun said, yanking Bjorn closer to him by the chains. “I’ll bring him to the apothecaries and have him treated and prepared for whatever hell you’ve decided to unleash upon this man. Khiran will be with you to finish the arrangements,” he said.
The Commander nodded and Khiran left with him to his office. Ordun dragged Bjorn from the courtyard and made his way to the infirmary. It was a small building made of wood, unlike of stone like the rest of the castle’s area. As they entered, the smell of medicine and herbs filled the air, replacing the scent of sand and metal from outside. Bjorn looked around and saw it is almost empty, with only a few knights and recruits were sent here, most of which were injured during their training.
“You must be asking yourself about how did I know about you. About how you know the Grandmaster,” Ordun speaks with a flat tone. He kept his face forward and the white horsetail of the helm flowed down his back. Bjorn opened his mouth but Ordun interrupted, “You’ll have to answer that question on your own, Northman.”
He frowned, hoping to know how he knew everything. Ordun then shoved him to his front, “Treat him well, Master Orwell.” The guard said, as an old man with a wrinkled face stood in front of him.
“Nice to see you Ordun the White. Aren’t you supposed to be on the front lines where the sweet songs of battle can be heard quite clearly? Yet, you are here bringing this man to our walls.” Master Orwell said. His fingers are frail and a burnt scar covered half his face. The knights of the order would call him Orwell the Burnt because of it. “Ordun the warrior now a mere escort?” he lets out a laugh. “My, times have changed.”
Ordun the White fighting during his early days
Ordun shrugged. “The Sultan needed me and Khiran somewhere else. Ahmerrad is the home to the worst criminals of the Sultanate and its prison guards dwindled drastically. Fix the damned Northman, Master Orwell. You’ll have my gratitude,”
Orwell’s frail fingers lifted Bjorn’s jaw as his eyes examined him. “Hmm. Why is he here? Duncan wouldn’t want to accept the man into the brotherhood lest he is…quite valuable,”
“The Grandmaster of the Snow knows of him,” Ordun handed Bjorn over. “Duncan had suspicion that the damned Bastard of the North is planning something.”
Orwell posed a wrinkled smile, “Splendid work as always, Ordun. Duncan isn’t the only who suspects of that. Me and everyone in the order thinks the same.” The old man shuddered, “If the Grandmaster really is planning something, he could be in league with Graveth.”
“Poor ****er’s going to bring his own kingdom into chaos. I heard that its lords are going to defect anytime soon and the threat of a nationwide rebellion loomed at their doors.”
Orwell nodded before fixing his eyes upon Bjorn. “Does the Northman knows about this?”
“The interrogators asked him questions that he doesn’t the answer to. Graveth’s been keeping secrets. Even he didn’t have the guts to tell his Executioner. Now that he’s in our custody and knows nothing about the king’s plan, it’s safe to say that the damned bastard told his plans to the Council of Three.” Ordun explained. The Council of Three comprised of the three most trusted men in Graveth’s eyes. Each to govern a certain aspect of his country in terms of finance, military and social affairs. The Constable acts as the king’s military advisor, the Chancellor for the things regarding the people and his lords and the Chamberlain holds power over the kingdom’s wealth.
“Enough of this. We shall talk about it on a later date,” Orwell says as he gripped onto the chains around Bjorn’s wrist. He took a few steps away from Ordun before he turned for a moment, “You still have your Northman father’s cold attitude do you? You never changed,” the old smiled before taking the key from Ordun and disappearing into a room.
Ordun left the infirmary and returned to the courtyard where the new recruits would train themselves for the coming days. Inside Orwell’s room, the old man freed Bjorn of his chains around his wrists. The old man noticed his scars but kept silent about it. He pulled a wooden chair and looked at the Northman, “Sit. Or I wouldn’t be able to treat your wounds.”
Bjorn does as told, he felt his wrists lighter after a long journey from Ahmerrad’s dungeons to the Wall of the East. Even if he is escorted by two highly skilled guards, he is not invincible to survive without any injuries from their occasional encounters with criminals.
Orwell took a few herbs and vials from the closet before mixing it in a wooden bowl. Bjorn looked at him, noticing the slight hunch on his back as the master apothecary mixes. The old man then took a few leaves and puts it close to Bjorn’s mouth, “Eat this. You needed energy after travelling across the deserts. Its harsh winds must have sipped away your remaining strength,” he said.
Bjorn took it started chewing. He almost vomited because of its bitter taste that bursts out from its leaves as he chew. His face twisted as it tastes more unpleasant even after swallowing it down his throat.
The master smiled and giggled at him, “It’s godsweed.” He said. “Normally found in your territories, Northman. Despite its unpleasant taste it gives you a boost of energy for the whole day.” He then brings the bowl in his hand and examined the wounds he sustained during the journey. It was nothing too serious nor it was life threatening but the old man knew that if it was left untreated for another week, infections may occur. He dipped his finger into the thick mixture of herbs into the bowl and applied it onto an open wound on Bjorn’s back.
A sharp pain jolts through the Northman’s body as the old man’s fingers rubbed the ailment onto his wound. It was there when one of the bandits they have encountered grazed his back with the tip of its blade. It had been days since it happened and without proper treatment, it worsened by the time they arrived at the walls. Bjorn kept himself steady and grits his teeth, wincing at the pain.
“Northman.” Orwell called out. His eyes fixed to Bjorn’s wounds, “What is your name?”
He remained silent. He felt like it was unnecessary for him to reveal his name. His failures weighing upon his shoulders like the mountains of the North. He was a captain of the guardsmen of Wercheg yet he failed his comrades by leaving his post, abandoning his men in fear of the Grandmaster. He was the spy for the Grandmaster’s plans, and he never returned. He was the Rhodoks’ Executioner, the king’s second in command but he failed to uphold his duty.
Orwell shrugged, “Well, I guess you’d prefer me and the rest of the order to call you ‘Northman’”
“It’s – It’s Bjorn,” he introduced himself.
The old master smirked and he stood up. He took a few bandages from the shelf before returning to the Nord, lifting his arm and wrapped it around. “Well, Bjorn. Welcome to the Wall, I suppose,”
Bjorn looked around and his eyes peered outside the Master’s room. He saw the apothecaries worked endlessly even if there’s less injured people to be treated. He saw the knights, the Black Guards and the Commander himself. He finds himself wondering what lies beyond the walls even if he had heard of the legends – the Exiled, otherwise known as the demons. But surely, there are other things out there isn’t it?
He turned to Orwell, “I heard of the legends surrounding the order itself. But, there’s not much known to the people other than they only serve the true king of the land.”
The Master walked towards his rack as it holds a collection of books. Bjorn’s could not get the exact number of it but he is certain that there are more than a dozen of them in Orwell’s collection. The old man pulled a stool and sat down, lifting the book close to him and blew the dust off its cover. “It is true that the we only serve the king who brings the fabled sword. But our war against the Exiled had existed long before the old empire.” He says.
“When the first nations rose in the land of Calradia, it was a place brought to life by chaos. There were no humans but only beings that existed in our nightmares. The Horde, the Exiled, the demons are just a few of the names we have given them.” He continued. “The Exiled caused terror upon the first kingdoms of the land for thousands of years. Until a king of the Old Age united all of them under a single banner against a common enemy, the humans, the pointy eared, the horselords – they put aside their differences and forged an alliance,”
“Some even said that the gods themselves descended from their thrones and aided the alliance. But yet again, the Exiled were strong. Their leaders possessed the strength that could match a god’s power with ease. Thus, the First War of Calradia began. Some said that dragons aided them in the war, breathing flames that melted their flesh. Some even said that the king that united them – Adamar was given the Brass Armor by the gods and it made him quite invincible,” Orwell continued as he flipped between the pages of the book in his hand, keeping his old eyes on Bjorn. “Others said that Adamar was a god. But just like the Scholars said – rumors remained rumors without proof.”
Adamar the First King of Men, the Lord of Crimson and the Savior of Calradia
“Anyway, it was Adamar the First King of Men, who forged the Sword of Kings with dragon fire, its steel folded not ten, not a hundred, but a thousand times with countless blows of his hammer upon the anvil. The old gods helped him in his craft, giving the blade a mystical ability that only a worthy king may wield it when the time is right.” He remarked. His fingers stopped at a page of the book and lifted it to show Bjorn a crude sketch of the sword, “And so, Adamar fought with the weapon he made. But he was slain defending his beloved city by the undead. His son Aragar took up his mantle and fought with a deadly ferociousness against the deathly terror,”
Bjorn listened closely to the tale the old man tells. He had heard of the many stories that bring upon the creation of the mighty sword. Some said that it was the gods that created the blade, others speak of the Exiled attacked the humans because it was theirs. He never knew which version of its creation was true. Yet, the Scholars of his old home speak of Adamar and his Aragar as the first kings of the land – one that the monarchs of the old empire were descended from – or at least, that is what they believe.
“Aragar had an armor as dark as the night with a cape that matches the color of blood. He held his father’s blade in his hand and ended the war by driving the Exiled back to where they came from,”
Aragar fighting against the dead
“The Deserts of Sarran,” Bjorn said.
“Indeed,” Orwell said. “But the war had its consequences. The pointy eared men left the land after their people suffered a near extinction. The horselords retreated into the Great Plains and the mightiest kingdoms fell as the conflict ravaged their homes. Even Aragar was said to have left the lands for reasons unknown to their people and the throne is empty just like it did for our current times.” The old man sighed as he closes the book. “War has been the blood of our land, it existed for so long that it almost became a daily routine.”
Bjorn tilted his head, “What about the wall?”
“Ah, that.” The Master said. “It was Vyrn the Keeper, Aragar’s son who built it. The Order of the Immortal Sun is the shield that guards the land and the sword that struck the heart of darkness. We were founded on that belief.” He stood up from his stool and slid the book back into the rack. Then the sound a horn bursts through the walls, loud like a lion’s roar. He looked out the window, looking at the knights rushing towards the gates. “Come now, Bjorn the Northman. Story time’s over, it’s time to bring you to the smiths to get you ready,”
“Ready for what?” he asks, looking around as he notice the people moved in haste.
“For your first encounter,”
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Alright, been wanting to delve into the history of the Order of the Immortal and started to focus on the more supernatural aspects of Calradia. Also, there's a few more characters introduced and hope you guys like them
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There's still a lot more to discover in the story and big plans coming up. Wish you enjoyed the new chapter!
Mods used for the screenshots: Phantasy Calradia and Nova Aetas.
