The Knight of Twin Thunder

“Urzu’s foot!” swore Mattis, raising his axes again. “Come, men. Don’t let that thing near the women and children.”

Gilvantes found the chorus of battle cries hollow. This was not a band of marauding bandits or pirates, but something that belonged in the founding myth of Walthuria. These men knew they were outmatched.

“Gil,” said Wodan. “You’ll lead the battle.”

“How?” returned the exasperated prince, heedless of the confused looks he attracted for yelling at his sword.

Wodan grumbled. “You’re about to find out.”

Mattis, barking orders at his men, paused to stare at Skyrend. The radiance from the azure gladius, for some inexplicable reason, radiated a paternal warmth.

“You need not fight, Gilvantes,” said Mattis, after directing a pair of boys at the armoury. “My men will keep you safe.”

Gilvantes, caught between two voices, waved Mattis away and closed his eyes to better focus on Wodan, who had become a blinding ball of light. Repeating instructions beneath his breath, the prince sounded like a shaman casting a spell.

“Mattis, have the young one evacuate the women and children,” ordered Gilvantes. “You have done well. I’ll take it from here.”

Fuming, Mattis seized Gilvantes by his collar and yanked on it so hard that the prince had to stand on tipped toes. “Being Wodan’s friend does not put you in charge.”

“Assemble the three ballistae and pull them to the western heights,” Gilvantes continued, ignoring him. “Erect five layers of palisades before commencing fire. No point fighting for empty buildings.”

Stunned, Mattis loosened his grasp. “Who are you?”

“Later, Mattis,” Gilvantes said softly. “You have the right to know. Now go!”

Mattis ran off, repeating the instructions he just received, only many times louder. Gilvantes, heaving a great sigh of relief, lifted his sword high and slowly marched towards the town centre. He could feel the giant hound tracking his every step, its eyes swirling with bloodlust. The Blightfang knew who he was.

“Keep your distance and lure the beast westward,” instructed Wodan. “The wet sands will slow it down.”

“You done this before?” asked Gilvantes.

Wodan barked a humourless laugh. “No.”

Gilvantes did not share his mirth. Slowly, he planted himself in front of the hound who waited on its haunches. He knew the creature was big. Now, he felt it. The Blightfang was larger than a house. Its maw, filled with boulder-sized fangs, could easily swallow a chariot in one gulp. The nails, each the length of a great sword and many times wider, carved rifts deep enough to swallow wagons. The question was now pressing: how was he to fight this thing?

“Seed of Urzu…”

Gilvantes froze. The voice, guttural, malicious, and amused, sent his bones into a jittery dance. The Blightfang was talking to him.

“Gil!”

A gust sent Gilvantes leaping into the air, somersaulting over the sweeping claw that had birthed it. Howling, the Blightfang slammed its paw down. As he rolled away from the crushing blow, he dragged Skyrend across the front leg, dyeing the sands with black blood. The hound roared, rose to all fours, and bared its fangs.

The Blightfang dove after a retreating Gilvantes, snapping at the puny boy with the blue needle. The human proved much too nimble for its maw. Howling again, the beast harried Gilvantes with a flurry of slashes which ploughed the sand skywards. Furious, it lunged forward, extending a paw that the prince easily sidestepped.

“Now!”

Gilvantes charged, thrusting at the exposed shin. This was a mistake. The Blightfang rolled over, flipping the outstretched paw. He lifted Skyrend in defence but the mass proved overwhelming, flattening him against the sand. Everything went black.

Blinking, Gilvantes found himself staring at the blue sky. He should’ve been squashed into an unsightly treat for the Blightfang. Instead, he lay covered in dirt, aching, but alive. Hurriedly, he scrambled back to his feet, lifting Skyrend once more and assuming a battle stance. Then he saw it. Wodan’s light had dimmed. Gilvantes paled.

“Wodan, Wodan! Answer me—”

“Ow,” moaned the knight. “That just got me closer to Urzu.”

Caught between laughing and crying, Gilvantes did both.

“It comes. Focus.”

He danced back, retreating until seawater poured into his boots. Gilvantes lowered his gaze for an instant. The tide, a distant concern moments ago, now lapped at his ankles. The demonic hound leapt, planting itself between Gilvantes and solid land. Baring its fangs, it unleashed a guttural growl that resembled derisive laughter.

“Nowhere to run…”

It pounced, throwing its entire weight down in an earth-rending slam. The little man, as it had predicted, rolled to the left. Immediately, the Blightfang chased after him only to find its paws stuck in the sand.

Gilvantes charged, hacking at the front leg, his blade tracing blue arcs. This time, the Blightfang squealed in genuine pain, rearing as it yanked its claws back. It hobbled back, dangling the bleeding paw.

Lifting his sword, Gilvantes brought it down like a commander ordering a charge. A salvo of giant bolts punched into the crippled demon. Howling, the Blightfang fell on its side with a deafening splash. Mired in the shallows, it thrashed and barked before rolling to its feet. Black blood, thick as tree sap, stained the ocean.

Not letting up, Gilvantes gave chase, ducking under a feeble swipe and burrowing beneath the Blightfang’s underbelly. He bolted towards the hind leg and with a leaping slash cut through the hock. The demon crumpled again. Gilvantes ordered another salvo. There would be no screaming this time. The Blightfang, lifting its head for one last time, poked out its tongue, as if desperate for air, before dropping dead.

As soon as he sheathed Skyrend, pain, fear and exhaustion punched him in the gut. Inhaling sharply, Gilvantes staggered back to dry land, collapsed onto the sand, and splayed his arms wide. He closed his eyes, allowing the water to lick his feet. Nothing felt real ever since he drew Skyrend. He had killed a bunch of bandits, traversed mountains and forests with hardly any rest, and vanquished a demon. It all sounded too similar to the heroic epics in the royal library.

“Come on, prince,” came a baritone voice. “Let’s get food down that royal gullet of yours.”

“And some rest,” said another man, laughing. “You really think he’s a prince, huh?”

Gilvantes opened his eyes and found himself on a stretcher. Mattis and another local man, having loaded him onto the wicker frame, were now climbing back to their village. The ride became a rather rocky affair as they scaled the incline, almost dropping him on several occasions.

“Damn it, Mattis,” complained Wodan. “I never expected to make a corpsman of you but this is disgraceful.”

“He can’t hear you,” whispered Gilvantes.

“I know,” replied Wodan. “Tell him his battery angle was off today.”

Gilvantes smiled. “Mattis, good shot.”

The big man puffed out his chest. “Thanks. Glad to see somebody appreciating good work.”

“Regardless,” said Gilvantes, groaning as he sat up. “Please let me down before you drop me.”

A supporting shoulder under each arm, Gilvantes limped back to the village. With the women and children in the square, Northshore turned out to be much larger than he had expected. An elderly matron with thin, snowy curls was tending to the wounded while the men loaded the dead onto wagons. The prince watched in silence. The locals, it appeared, did not begrudge the invaders a burial.

“I know the Urzu Dirges,” offered Gilvantes. “I can… conduct the cortege, if you don’t mind.”

Mattis nodded. “Thank you,” he replied. “We usually hire priests from outside, but sometimes they don’t make it in time. I… wonder, if those buried without blessings can reach Urzu.”

Gilvantes looked to Skyrend. The dim light was still there. This conversation, however, raised a fear he had not considered until now. How much longer could he rely on Wodan? Surely, sooner or later, a Walthurian Knight, a warrior blessed by the Goddess, would have to join her at the summit of the Worldspire.

“Mattis, bring him here,” called a hoarse voice. It was the elderly healer. “The boy’s hurt.”

Wodan glowed as the crone drew near. She peered up at Gilvantes’s face, frowned, then pulled up his tunic. None too gently, she smeared a lotion over his scars, causing the prince to wince.

“I’ve heard many tales about the third prince,” she said, “but there certainly wasn’t anything about demon slaying.”

“Thanks?”

“I thought these old eyes were playing tricks on me,” the healer continued as she applied another film of lotion. “You fought just like him. You had his form.”

The prince blinked. Wodan grew even brighter. Then, a deluge of images drowned out his world.

Wodan, hiding behind a large rock, waited for the three pirates to creep up the hill. He allowed them to pass, then pounced with a pair of meat cleavers. The trio never found out who killed them.

Gilvantes clutched his head. The Wodan he saw might have been a few years younger than him. Were these his memories? Before he could make sense of his situation, another vision came.

Paromitz Godblade opened the gates to the Hall of Divine Covenant and gestured Wodan through the pearly gates. The man, tentative at first, entered, knelt before a statue of Urzu, and uttered the oath. Down came a beam of light, ordaining him a Walthurian Knight.

Head spinning, Gilvantes leaned against Mattis to regain his balance. That was his grandfather, a face he had only seen in portraits. The next episode cut short his reverie.

Wodan was fighting on foreign soil. In the face of his impossibly fast charge, most of his foes died before they could ready a weapon. Combined with his twin axes, it wasn’t long before his men called him Knight of Twin Thunder.

Gilvantes found himself taking a deep breath. Merely witnessing Wodan’s ferocity was suffocating. How could this peerless warrior be the same person driving his wagon yesterday? Again, the story did not wait for him to finish his thought.

Half of Northshore was burnt down. His axes dripping red, Wodan stared at his devastated home in silence. Dropping his weapons, he walked through the wreckage to find a weeping boy outside a razed shack. All his inhibitions collapsed. He bellowed at the heavens, screaming for Urzu to answer his question: what good was thunder when it always struck late?

Eyes moist, Gilvantes quickly covered his face. Had the sight of suffering got to him, or had Wodan’s grief seeped into his consciousness? Either way, these people must think he was crazy. Fortunately, the next vision spared him the concerned looks of the old lady.

Wodan was squaring off against Mattis. Again and again, Wodan floored the boy with his legendary charge. Mattis laughed sheepishly each time while the knight shook his head in disbelief.

Gilvantes stole a look at Mattis. He had trouble imagining this Mengot as a novice who could barely stand his ground. Another scene forced his eyes shut.

Wodan was writing another petition. On his desk was a pile of returned envelopes, sealed in black wax, the stamp of rejection. He laughed off his wife’s complaints about postage and pointed out that his current request for an imperial garrison had not yet been rejected. The woman, shaking her head, kissed him, and exited.

The images became increasingly fragmented. Wodan running home to show his pregnant wife the man-sized purple tuna he caught. Wodan walking the beach with a girl on each shoulder and one on his head. Wodan punching Mattis for proposing to his daughter. Wodan becoming a wailing drunk at the wedding. Then the pictures faded to black.

“Well, Gil,” said Wodan. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Gilvantes straightened in alarm. “Wodan?” he cried, heedless of the confused looks. “Wodan? What are you saying?”

“I feel Urzu’s call,” replied Wodan. “It’s my time.”

“But I still need you!”

Wodan sighed. “My lifelong wish was to see the village safe in my absence. Urzu gave me time for that. It’d be unfair to ask for more.”

“I can’t do this alone,” pleaded Gilvantes. “Please—”

“And you won’t have to,” said Wodan. “Check the sword.”

Wiping away hot tears, Gilvantes looked down at Skyrend. Its spotless scabbard now bore a golden glyph.

“So long, Gil.”

Wodan’s light exploded into a shower of colours.