Heresy: The Book of Mammon

Chapter 1 Rewrite

Chapter 1



It had been a particularly difficult fortnight since the King had recalled much of his expedition. Thane Ragnarr forgot how useful even the smallest of minds could be when attempting to tame lands that had not felt the foot of a man in a millennium. Though most of the ancient city still stood against the onslaught of time, forests grew thick around the old stone buildings and vines covered much of their beauty, and clearing them was not a simple task.

All that stood in the sunlight, and untouched by the corruption of the wilds, was the domed rooftops and scarce views of white stone. The buildings were of a grand magnificence that he had never before seen until coming to this land. White marble and stone towered high on the bluffs that overlooked the blue bay below. The city was split in the center, with the bay carved into the face of the cliffs by tools that today, would have taken centuries, if not longer.

Below, receiving the blunt of the sea's power, small docks lined the cliff face, and his longboats rocked in the gentle waves. Ancient stairs carved against the cliff face, and zigzagged upwards to the city above, where he now stood.

Though it was a dead city, it was not at all bereft of life. The wilds had its own denizens of birds and beasts. Though they had gone largely unscathed and uninterrupted, he knew that somewhere out beyond the reach of the city, beasts roamed the dark forests. Within the city however, there no such things. Birds perched themselves upon the great round roofs of the ancient buildings, and often sang melodies to the workers who’d been tasked with clearing the growth. It was not an easy task to achieve, but they had made some progress in the past weeks. Vines felled from polished columns that rose to high ceilings and overlooks. Spires that were once blanketed in velvety green were now shimmering in the morning sun, and statues of great wolves that guarded the city were now untouched by the strangling vines of the forest.

The city was nearly alive once more. After a millennium of being forgotten, men once again graced its flagstone streets, and soon, the northern expedition would no longer be an expedition, but a nation.

Men chopped and hacked at twisting, gnarled branches, and others ripped away at vines and thorns. His new outfitter spent his time grinding weapons, and polishing swords. Though the expedition was halved by the king’s recall, men still needed to arm themselves. The man they sent was remarkably skilled at his craft, but he was certainly not as good as the one he’d had before. Still, mediocre weapons were better than none at all. Though they had gone unchallenged in reclaiming the northern island, danger often lurked when all was well, and having a good sharp sword was always something he enforced. Though most of the blades were used for things other than killing and defending, it was still better to have them, than be armed with sticks.

The man busied himself with the grinding of his sword, it was the sword the king had gifted him before he was sent here. It was a beautiful weapon of polished steel that captured light as though it were swallowing the sun. Though there was not form of elegance on it aside from the blade itself, the steel was quite remarkable. He was not one for luxurious weapons, they were better left for those that didn’t know how to use them. He preferred simplicity, and this sword was perfect for him, though it had seen more use at hacking branches and vines. The blade dulled quite fast since they’d come here. It was not from a poor quality metal, it was from the endless clearing of the forest which had grown into the city. Hacking at branches with a dull blade was as productive at hacking at them with a log. The outfitter’s work was by far the most vital.

Though they had no proper forge, anvil or wheel, the man did what he could, and he did well enough. The stones he chose for the sharpening of blades were of the finest he could find among the few buildings that had collapsed. They hissed across steel, and dull blades were reborn with quite lethal sharpness. Though sharpening a sword was not all that difficult, the outfitter knew better than most men here, that sharpening was not a task, it was an art. What he could do in an hour, was more than Ragnarr could do in a day.

The man finally stopped the grinding and held the sword up. He inspected every inch of it a hundred times over, and slid his thumb across the blade a dozen times before he nodded to himself. He rose from his seat on a marble stair and held the sword out to him, hilt first. He was quite the formal one despite his humble position.

“She’s as sharp as lightning, Thane Ragnarr.”

He always told him that when he’d finished with the sword. Lightning was not at all sharp, at least as far as he could tell, but rather jagged. Still, the expression was accurate in its own right.

He pointed to the blade. “You have a find sword there, finest steel I’ve ever seen. Where did you get a blade like that?”

Ragnarr smiled to the man, he always enjoyed someone that recognized simple beauty rather than gaudy embellishments. “The King gifted me with this sword on the eve of this expedition.”

The man nodded. “That is quite the gift. I wish I had a blade as fine as that.” He patted the long knife that hung from his belt. “But I suppose I have no need for such things, at least not yet.”

“You may yet find yourself using that blade on something other than roots and trees. Be glad that you have one.” He slid the sword back into its scabbard as he scanned the man up and down. He was quite small for a Norsemyd. Though he was as stout as a tree trunk, he was remarkably short, and managed only to reach the tip of his nose. In a fight, the man would serve useful, or so he thought, but he was at a distinct disadvantage compared to the rest of the men. Size meant a lot in battle. Though skills with a sword or firearm were infinitely more important, skills were only half of the fight. Strength was quite close in second of priorities. He’d been told a hundred times over that a good swordsman cares not for the size of his opponent, but rather his ability with a weapon. That was only half true. For he’d seen battle on more than one occasion. Being a thane in the harsh southern lands of Xalimfal had placed him in the thick of the war against the Dwergar. Significantly overwhelming an opponent with strength was every bit as useful as overwhelming them with swordsmanship, and he had both.

This man however, was not a warrior. He was a blacksmith’s apprentice. A damned good apprentice from what he’d seen, but if and when it came time to defend themselves, the man would find himself in troubles far worse than he could imagine, but having a blade was certainly better than not having one.

“Perhaps when we’ve reclaimed this city, you can make one for yourself.”

The man shook his head. “I can’t afford materials like that.”

Ragnarr offered him a smile. “When this land is ours, blacksmith, you’ll find yourself far wealthier than those of the mainland.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned his attention to the army of men that sliced and hacked at branches. “Do you know what this expedition means for us?”

“More land for Xalimfal?”

He nodded. “Yes, but it is more than that. This is the start of a new world, out of reach of the wars between clans, and out of the reach of the Dwergar.

This land will not see the hardships of Xalimfal, but progress. The bickering between the Temple and the Tribunal will not come to these lands. Rather than laws coming in stalemate, the people will decide what is best for them. The people will make the laws, rather than the king, and nobles. We will see prosperity here like none we have ever seen, and all will share in the wealth.”

The man turned to the work before them. “It sounds like a lovely future.”

“Indeed, and it is in our grasp. This expedition is more than the expansion of the King’s lands, it is the expansion of the people of Xalimfal. We will not be bound by the ice, and by war, but by peace and cooperation among our citizens. Rather than argue, we will help one another.”

The outfitter nodded and smiled. “It’s a magnificent dream you have.”

“It’s more than a dream, blacksmith.”

He shook his head. “The King’s law will rule us, just as it rules the mainland.”

“The King will not be here to tell us how to rule. As long as he receives his taxes, he will leave us alone. You’re not a member of the court, blacksmith. I’ve seen the ways of politics.”

He nodded. “Perhaps then, it is more than a dream.”

Horns boomed in the bay below, and echoed through the bluffs. Birds scattered from treetops, and roofs alike as he turned.

“More supplies I imagine.”

He squinted his eyes against the golden shafts of sunlight that pierced through the canopy of the forest. Below, a longboat made dock, and men darted about as they tossed mooring lines about. Several men disembarked from the ship, but none carried crates, parcels, or anything that resembled new supplies. Though they had just received a large shipment when half of his force was recalled, it was troubling. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple news, or a member of the court to inspect the progress, but something still itched at him as he watched men pour from the boat.

He recognized robes and furs that they adorned themselves in. They were not thanes, or common folk, but members of the church. They were the Gothi. It was odd seeing them as they made their way up the stairs. What purpose would the Gothi have here? They were not warriors, or workers, but priests.
The earth rumbled beneath his feet as men climbed the stairs. They braced themselves against the walls as if they would fall into the seas below. It was not at all a violent quake, no worse than any others they had experienced since the his forces were halved.

“How many is that now?”

The blacksmith looked up at nothing in particular, and rose his fingers as he counted in his head. “Eight.”

“Eight quakes in only a fortnight.” He scratched at his nose as he watched the men ascend. “Quite odd.”

“That was a bit better than the last one.”

He nodded.

As the last of the Gothi climbed the final stair that overlooked the bay below, he squinted his eyes to view them. The one that made up the rear of them was a woman; one that he’d known for some time before coming to these islands. It was Gothi Agatha, one of the members of the Temple Council.
Each of them adorned robes of shimmering white, and heavy furs over their shoulders. He smirked at the foolishness of their attire, for Nidavellir was anything but cold like Xalimfal. The men wiped sweat from their brows and their chests rose and fell as though they’d just fought in a great battle. Agatha however, showed no such fatigue. She scanned the city that stood before her, and returned stares as the men who had busied themselves with clearing the forest turned to see their newest arrivals.

Her attentions fell on him, and she stepped forward. She offered him no smile, or greeting of any kind as she walked. Her brow was creased as though she wished to strike him. She brushed golden hair from her shoulders and held a rolled parchment before him.

“Hello Thane Ragnarr.” Her voice was not at all pleasant, but then it was not harsh either. It was rather gray and cold. “This is a new edict from the King and Jarl Loki.”

He took the parchment from her hand and unrolled it. His eyes scanned the writings briefly and his attentions returned to her as he wrinkled it in his hands. “We’re to simply abandon this expedition?”

She nodded. “Loki has signed control of the north over to the Temple. We’ve declared that these sacred lands are to be kept sacred and free of expansion. We have no business here.”

He shook his head. “We have every business here, Gothi. It’s time we stop worrying about superstitious consequences and focus on our future.”
“Thane Ragnarr, I do this with great regret, but the King has ordered that you return to Xalimfal. No man shall set foot on Nidavellir again. You do not understand the ways of the old, and you have no idea what potential danger this expedition has awakened.”

“There’s nothing here but buildings, and us!” His hand swished through the air as he motioned to the city. “There are no ghosts, or beasts, or anything of the sort! The only thing we’ve awakened is the birds.”

“You dare defy the King’s orders?”

He shook his head. He knew the king did not order this, the Temple did, the king was merely forced to sign this law.

“I’ve been instructed to arrest your men and yourself if you do not cooperate.”

He allowed a laugh to escape his lips. “You and your Gothi? You’ll arrest us?”

She smiled. “These men are not Gothi.”

They pulled the robes over their heads, and flung them over the cliffs. The wind caught them and they hovered on the air like the wings of an eagle. He turned to them, and stared at the many weapons that glinted in the sun. Pistols, small axes, and long swords hung at their belts and across their chest. They weren’t Gothi, they were the royal guard. A dozen of them rested their hands on pistols and blades as they stared cold, harsh looks to him and his men.

“Do not defy this order, Thane.”

A second quake erupted beneath his feet. It was not at all like the previous. It was as though the earth was splitting beneath their feet, and stones from buildings fell like weights as the ground shook. Man stumbled on their feet and others fell on their backsides as it continued. Birds took flight from the trees and roofs, and the golden shafts of the sun evaporated into a gray, hazy, half-light that dulled their surroundings.

The rumbling slowed as he rose from his hunched spot on the rocky grounds. Other men were slow in standing.

“You’ve awakened no danger? Tell me, Thane, what do you think that was?” Agatha asked as she dusted her robes.

“I don’t know. This is the ninth one, and the worst we’ve had since a fortnight ago.”

She shook her head and clenched her fists. “You fool! What did you steal? What was it?”

He had no idea what she was shouting about. They hadn’t stolen anything, for there was nothing to steal. The buildings were empty, they were nothing but hollow stones.

“I see you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She stepped forward, and pulled a leather-bound book from her robes. “Do you know what this is?”

“The Gylfaginning.” It was a silly question. What other book would a Gothi carry with them.

She nodded. “Do you know of the tale of Jotunheim?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve just awoke its guardians.”

Clouds swelled above them, and the world continued to dull itself to a thick haze. Heavy fog rolled across the ground like smoke upon a wind that was not there. For the first time in a month, he saw a snowflake. It fell upon his shoulder and he brushed it off, as more snow began to fall.

“Draugur… this is Jotunheim, Thane!”

He shook his head. Jotunheim was nothing more than a myth in an old book that the Temple called holy. There was no city of the dead. Why would anyone build a city if they didn’t intend to live there?

Men shouted and cried as they scattered into the mist and vanished. He heard the ringing of steel on steel, as the cries of death shrieked in the heavy air. Her hand clasped around his wrist like a vice and she pulled at him as the royal guard descended the stairs.

“We must go!”

The outfitter that stood near him was gone. Streaks of blood trailed behind where he stood, but there was no sounds of struggle. He merely vanished.
As his footsteps echoed against the face of the cliffs, he heard a terrible sound that was as stone grinding against stone, but hollow and empty. It had not the coarse scrapes of a rough surface, but smooth. It was the sound of bones.

He turned, and the ragged, rotted flesh, black and gray dangled from the maggot infested bones of their pursuers. They were clad in a metal that looked like steel but had a curious glow about it like silver in twilight. Their swords and axes were of the same metal, and they were not like the one he carried. They were not mere blades, grinded to a fine sharpness. Gems and carvings emblazoned their surfaces and hilts and glinted in the dull gray light.

They didn’t follow with any sort of grace like that of a live man. Their movement was abrupt and ragged as though they were made of rusted metal, but they were fast like that of a wolf. There was a distinct hollowness of their eyes. Though their sockets were not empty, no pupils revealed themselves within the pale green glow that that shifted and turned like a storm beneath the whites.

Lines were sliced and tossed aside as they poured into the boat and pushed off the dock. Blades raked through the air in fierce arcs behind him as he lunged for the ship. The two of them crashed upon the deck and they turned to face the guardians of Jotunheim, the city of the dead.

The Draugur roared at them as they littered the docks. Royal guards took aim and fired, and bones burst away from their flesh, but they did not fall. As the ruckus faded, and they took to the seas, fog enshrouded the ship. It was not the normal haze of a mist upon the morning water, but heavy and oppressive like a storm cloud. It was dark and cold.

Waves swelled and frothed in the waters beside the ship, and a dark shadow swam beneath the surface. It was long like that of a whale, but not at all the same shape. It appeared more as a giant snake, like the one spoken of in the Gylfaginning, but it was not called a snake. The gods knew it as a different name. It was the Jormungandr, the worm of the sea.

Wood splintered and exploded from the hull as the thing crashed into the side of the ship. Pistols fired into the great beast, and water burst high into the air as bullets shot into the sea. Still, it continued to devour the ship. Agatha dove over the rail of the boat, and he was quick to follow. He paddled with everything he had in the piercing cold of the northern seas. Salt burned his eyes as water splashed his face. The two of the kicked and struggled against the rising waves as wood cracked and splintered behind them. Water splashed and roared, and planks splashed into the ocean all about them.

They each gripped chunks of wood, as the ship vanished into the mist and sea. The shadow was gone, and they floated through the mist in the chilling ocean. The warmth that they found in the islands of Nidavellir was gone, and all that lingered was the cold embrace of the dead. He wiped his face as they floated upon the shifting seas, and his body stiffened. Whether it was by the Jormungandr, the Draugur or the ocean itself, he knew, these were his final moments of life. They had roused a dark secret in the north, and regardless if they managed to survive the ocean, he knew that eventually it would come to Xalimfal.

The Gylfaginning spoke of the mist. Not the fog that was common upon the seas, but a different kind. It did not bring with it the scent of morning air, and the salt of the seas, but the living corpses of those drowned at sea. They were within the embrace of that fog, and as it rose from the sea and shifted and twirled, he knew that eventually, it would find Xalimfal.

"Odynn protect us." Agatha shivered in the cold waters. "Nine quakes, Thane. Nine rivers in Niflheim, and nine guardians. Draugur and the Jormungandr are only the beginning. You've set in motion something far worse than what we just saw."