Ragnarok Rising (NanoWriMo 2016)

There exists a place, far past the deserts to the east, and even the elven cities of gold. There is a Dark Continent, where they say men capture lightning in bottles, and the ruined towers stand tall.

The snowy owl sang to the hollow note of the frigid winds, lamenting as the mountains crumbled and storm clouds churned overhead. The wolves howled to the moon, and the foxes cried as they scurried into their dens, to find their pups frozen over, dead.

But their somber symphony was completely swallowed up by the crash of catapult salvo against the cliffsides. Fiery gold rained from the sky, embers settling on the frozen corpses of men fallen, bodies half buried in the raging mountain blizzards.

The clang of cold steel rolled down the cliffs, the roars and cries of ten thousand men and women, tearing each other apart with blades and claws. Red rivers cascaded off the white rocks, flowing beneath the stamping boots of the bestial Aurochs, who marched down to meet there invaders in the fiery storm. They were the warriors of the north; men and woman of the mountains, and last remnants of Beast-kin in the land.

From below, the Ants of Duran’dul, kingdom to the south, and best known for their military might, fought up the Northern Mountains, their vanguard of two-thousand spearman, and even more bowman braving the volley of ballistics and ice.

“Archers! At will!” Captain of the Ant vanguard, Sir Herald Cauldron, barked commands, sending his spearman forth while the line of bowman at his rear knocked arrows. They steadied their hands, bowstrings taught, but the whipping cloak of the storm on the cliffs made precise aim impossible. The captain swore, tossing his axe into the chest of closest barbarian before retrieving another from the snow below.

The clouds burst, spilling thunder, lightning and rain onto the icy battlefield. It was as if the gods themselves were joining in the bout. Pounding hail and stones blew in with the winds, pelting the Aurochs and Ants alike, but the latter were of the mountain, and their bodies were born into the ice and wind. But the Ants were among the greatest warriors in all of Auriem, and at the captain's commands, they pushed the offensive, racing through the narrow mountain pass in a bloody spearhead.

Cries from their rear rippled through the ranks, and all eyes simultaneously tearing away from the fleeing aurochs ahead, and locking onto the twin cliffsides above.

The captain roared commands, but not unlike the foxes and wolves, his cries were smothered under the entombing avalanche of ice and stone.

The bowmen scattered, the scouts retreated, and three-thousand spearmen and swordsmen were buried beneath the silencing flood of snow that filled the pass like a glass of wine. The vanguard was split in two like a head from it’s body, and while the surviving frontline met the swollen Auroch forces at the passes end, the backline fell to disarray, panicking like the body of a headless chicken. The head was swiftly demolish by Auroch blades.

“Stand strong, warriors of gold! They’re army is wounded! Push these invaders back down the mountain, and back where they hail from!” The commanding voice cut through the wind like a knife, and from atop the snow capped hills, a mighty obsidian charger reared up, the beast's breath steaming in the air. Upon its back rode the chieftainess of the Auroch warriors. Shaman of the golden hills, and revered hero of the silver walls; Rune Greshield. And with her gold-tipped spear; Gildfraisir, she rode bareback through the Ant frontline, skewering any poor soldier who her warriors blades had yet to cut down.

Ser Herald Cauldron, and his main guard had perished, and the remaining rear fled down the mountain side, Auroch riders pursuing the stragglers on bull-back. With the vanguard ravaged, the barbarians would finish the runners, before striking the camping main army by surprise. It would be the revered armies confidence that would be their undoing. The outcome was as plain as milk.

The Ants of Duran’dul were doomed.

Rune Greshield’s mount bucked, whipping her off it’s back and sending the warrior tumbling through the snow. The bull lay bloodied, bucking and roaring with an arrow halfway through it’s eye. Rune took this as a declaration of battle, and rose with a wide smile on her face, and a fiery glint in her eye. She eyed the cliffs, using her beastly instincts to sniff the air of a fear-filled Ant archer. The winds carried the odor of blood through her frost locks, but any Ants she could smell were already fleeing down the mountains. She closed her eyes, listening to the voices of the birds and bays of the wolves. The snow resting on the horns of her helm melted onto her reddened cheeks, time seeming to both slow and rush as she focused her reaching consciousness, searching and grasping for the spirit of the only doomed Ant to stand against certain death with bow in hand.

She heard the winds part for a second whistling arrow, one that thunked against a cold stone by her head. Rune rose, spear in hand, and blood burning in anticipation to face the brave adversary.

Standing upon the high rock overlooking the battle, twas only a girl; barely a woman grown. A bow was strung in her hands, and her eyes blazed fierce in her soft, unscratched face. She was but a budding seed, and seeing this, Rune relished the idea of bringing her into their flock. An outsider she might be, but when bravery lay in the heart of a child, it was her code to show them sanctuary.

But Runes thoughts quickly shattered when the girl brought from her belt the bloodied war horn of a fallen Auroch rider, and set it upon her lips.

It was no secret that men were strong. They had strength, speed, power, and a roughness that had combated the ancient beasts in the old tales. But women were gifted as well. With unseen power, carried within their veins by the golden blood of the Warrior Goddess.

When the child's voice rang out through the mountain peaks, and rolled down the frosted ravines of the Northern Mountains, they say it could be heard all the way from the rear guard, and past even that, her rallying cries echoed through the king's great halls from across the hollow crags and thorned fells, drawing the dining knights of the capital and the kings guard to aid in the battle.

They also say it was that unnamed girl alone who flipped the tides of battle, warning the main army of the incoming Auroch vanguard.

She’d kept the that horn, fleeing from the war and returning to her summer home by the sea share the riches she’d purloined from the Auroch treasury. It’d turn out the girl hadn’t even been a soldier, but a rogue trickster, who in her excitement at the haul, blew into that horn, and inevitably drove the Aurochs from from the land forever.

The girl, known in legend as the Hero Trickster, bore one child, who them self sired a single child, and they, yet another single - the great horn of the Aurochs passed down to the next in line for generations.

That horn would be known as The Trickster's Gambit, and just as it had for three centuries and a half, the great horn of thieves luck would fall into the hands of the next in line, and just as it had the Ants and the trickster, it may just serve it’s purpose, three hundred years beyond.

Author's Note

There is a place, beyond the charted world. A Dark Continent that lays beyond the sea at the edge of the Great Deserts. In this place, it is said the World Seed, lost by the earth goddess, lays untouched. And it is also said that whomever where to acquire this seed, would alone have the power of a ruler fit to change the world forever.

The catch?

It is said that on the Continent, their are men "out of time". Humans who capture lightning in bulbs, and listen to voices through little boxes. Their buildings rise higher than any tower Auriem has ever scene, and their weaponry can pierce shields from afar. No one who has dared the voyage to this continent, dubbed Ragnarok, has ever returned.

But that doesn't stop a mix-matched band of determined adventurers from setting out towards this very continent. And what they might find their, past the oceans of abandoned vessels. is a secret kept away from even the gods themselves.