Equestria Divided: Humans Expac

Two weeks passed at Strennhold during which Ardon and Neratha were welcome guests and friends of Chieftain Strenn. They ate in his halls, slept in his spare beds, healed themselves of fear and exhaustion. Neratha needed the healing far more than Ardon.

She rarely spoke to anyone but the Wanderer, spent most of her day light hours practicing her archery with the guards. In the evenings she would eat quietly and then retire to her chambers and wouldn't see anyone but Ardon. The times he did visit her he found her mulling over a few trinkets she had recovered from her clan, often with tears in her eyes. For the most part he left her to her grief in privacy. If she needed help or comfort he would give it but for now he reasoned that she needed time.

Chieftain Strenn meanwhile had been busy, sending out messengers and ravens to every clan and lord he called a friend to warn them of the Windingos.

"They've never been this far south as far as we know," Wrenestel told Ardon one night as the Chieftain paced before the fire, his face grim as the winter wind. "All the stories say they usually stay up in the mountains further north."

"Looks to me like their moving south then," Ardon replied.

It was then that a servant entered the hall and informed Wrenestel of the return of several Ravens. He immediately excused himself and was gone for some time. The hall was silent as they awaited the sorcerers return, Ardon spent it drumming his fingers on one of the long tables.

When Wrenestel returned his face was grave and a fist full of letters were in his hands. With a bow he presented them to the chieftain who took them and sat back down on his throne. He read them in silence, his face growing darker and darker with each message.

"It seems we are not the first to suffer this blight," Strenn growled tossing aside the letters in dejection. "Every clan and lord I'm on at least amicable terms with says the same thing. All of them are besieged even further out on the isles of Britas."

Ardon grimaced at this knowing full well how dire the situation was.

"Will they call a moot?" He asked.

Strenn shrugged.

"I cannot say," he replied. "It is not in my hands."

A moot, a gathering of all the lords, all the chieftains, all the clans, all of the houses. A gathering of Menn, Caladria, Dökkálfar, Sindarla, and Avariel called only be the priests of the Gods, the Priests of War. It was a sacred summons that was only issued in times of crisis, times when the full might of the Nor Menn was required. Only three times in the long passage of time had a moot been called and each time its results had saved the Nor Menn people.

They had the answer the next morning when during breakfast Tarnus came running into the hall his eyes wide with awe and fear.

"My Lord," he began hastily making a bow. "At the gate there was a..."

Before he could finish the double doors to the hall were thrown open. In walked a man, clad from head to toe in black armor of plate trimmed with gold. Dark mail of the same material as the plates showed through the few gaps in the armors shell. A great helm was on the mans head; black with two horns sticking out of its sides. A great axe was hanging from his back its blade, bone white and catching any light that fell upon it drinking it in.

At the sight of this man all within the hall dropped to their knees and knelt before him. Even the Chieftain got down off his throne and bowed before the stranger.

All were silent as this man crossed the hall, one step at a time, his armor making no sound as he walked. When he reached the Chieftain he motioned for Strenn to rise then removed his helm.

The man was heavily scarred, but a braided black beard streaked with gray still grew from his chin. His eyes were dark and told of countless battles, glorious and terrible. When he spoke his voice was deep and commanding.

"Chieftain Midnar Strenn," he began. "Lord of Strennhold, you are summoned."

Strenn nodded, his face impassive.

"I shall answer the summons," he replied. "With all of my strength and all of my haste."

Thus by dawn the next day Strenn had prepared a small force of his guard, most of his Huskrals, along with Ardon and Neratha, and they had set forth, lead through the forest by the armored man, a Champion of Ragnarok, a warrior for the end times. Time seemed to pass in a blur as they marched. Ardon knew they were crossing massive distances each day but lost count of how many days had actually passed on their journey.

By what Ardon guessed was the third day of their journey however they began to glimpse other parties moving through the forest. Other lords and Chieftains, whole clans of Sindarla and Avariel. All were following their own champion, none acknowledging the others and yet all moving with the same purpose to the same place.

Before long they heard the distant crashing of the waves and Ardon knew they were close to the sea. On the seventh day of their journey they at last reached their destination and all within the party bowed their heads in reverence as they approached the great stone pillar. Odin's lighthouse men called it, the site where their ancestors first made landfall in this frigged land.

About the base of the pillar was a great structure of stone, wrought by skilled hands while the ancient crafts were still strong. It was part temple, part fortress the home of War Priests, the Valkyr Sisterhood, and the Champions of Ragnarok. Odin's Fortress they called it and it was easy to see why.

Gathered about this ancient stronghold was a massive array of camps. Hundreds of clusters of tents, wagons, and pavilions, some vast some small. Fleets of Longships were on the beach each one flying the colors of a clan or chieftain. It was awe inspiring.

Their guide left them to set up a camp and for the next day all of them sat around their campfires in silence. No words were allowed before a moot, no messages or secret dealings. There was to be no violence even though many of the Clans here would likely have been at each other throats under normal circumstances. None dared to break the laws of the Gods in the face of their avengers. For sure enough the Champions of Ragnarok stalked between the camps, silent but ever watchful.

On the second day since their arrival however a drum sounded from within Odin's Fortress and all assembled stood. The Champions of Ragnarok came one by one to each camp and then lead the parties into the Fortress. The came to a great amphitheater with seats rising high up to the walls, enough for all to find a place to sit. The chieftains and lords however were lead down to a circle of chairs that had been prepared. There was Jarl Rhaegastar Dragonsfury, a mighty and respected Jarl, Jarl Robvin Krast, the young leader of the powerful Clan Krast and nephew of Jarl Rhaegastar, Jarl Valkar Hammerhelm a fierce and veteran warrior with a large number of warriors, and Jarl Stannith Furysheart the commander of a massive fleet, dour and grim. There were lords of Dökkálfar Houses of Summer and Autumn. No one said a word until all of the seat were filled

Then the drum sounded again and a line of men in robes and armor emerged from one of the great temples, each bearing a bladed staff, and a great beard upon each face. The War Priests had come and at their head was their wizened leader, Meralf. Ardon and all the rest bowed their heads in his presence for they knew that High Priest of war had signed his own death warrant when the call for the moot had been issued. Such were the laws of the Gods.

A winged Valkyr Caladria sounded a horn and all raised their heads, turning their gazes to the High Priest. He spoke with a deep but creaky voice.

"Brothers and sister," he began. "I thank you for answering the summons as is your duty. The Gods grace us for allowing us to reach this season and guard us in the sanctity of these halls."

"Hail," all of those assembled called in answer to this statement.

"My brothers and sisters," Meralf continued. "My lords and ladies, you have all no doubt heard the tidings. The enemy in the cold, the foe in the night has begun to press us harder and harder on all of our lands. A week ago I prayed to Odin the all-father for guidance. In my dreams that night he gave me his answer."

No one said a word, their eyes fixed on the High Priest as he leaned on his staff.

"In my dreams I saw our lands, our homes, our ships, and our people frozen and dead. An endless winter which summer would never break. A raven appeared to me and spoke of a land far to the west, the lands of our ancient ancestors. The land we know as Equestria."

Everyone shared glances but still said nothing. Equestria was a story told force troublesome children to behave themselves. A pony nation that had driven their ancestors into this frozen land. A ban had been placed upon them that if they dared to make landfall on Equestria they would be destroyed.

"The raven told me that the only hope for our people was to travel west and return to the lands of our ancestors," he continued. "That we must dare the ban and reclaim that which is ours by right. But to do this we would need one warrior to lead us, we would need a King."

There was a collective drawing of breath as the Lords and Chieftain's shared a look. The Nor Menn had not had a single King for over three hundred years. Kings were only crowned in times of great crisis, but if the Gods were ordering them to find a King they had no choice.

"As the sunrises on the morrow," Meralf stated. "We shall discover who our king shall be. I bid you all to retire to your camps for now. Rest my brothers and sisters for tommorrow the great melee shall begin."

A horn sounded again and one by one the Chieftains and lords rose along with their retainers. They marched back to their camps silently.

That night Ardon kept close to Chieftain Strenn. As a Chieftain even as low in the political and power level as he was, he had a chance to become king. The Chieftain ate little and went to bed early, Ardon however knew that sleep would not come easy.

All through the night they could hear the commotion of the Champions of Ragnarok assembling the field upon which the melee would occur. The King or Queen of the Nor Menn was chosen by trail of combat, a massive battle on foot called a melee. Blunted weapons were used but they could still maim and kill.

As the sun rose the next day a horn sounded once again signalling to those who would be fighting that they needed to prepare. Ardon helped Strenn into his armor, heavy plated mail. He wore the traditional winged helm that all would be required to wear in the melee. A round shield bearing his personal arms was strapped to his arm. A longsword was hung at his side and in his hands was the great hammer he wielded.

"Are you ready my lord?" Ardon asked.

The Chieftain shrugged grimly.

"Probably not," he replied. "I'm a few winters to old to wear a damned crown."

"Gods watch over you," Ardon said with a nod of understanding.

It was then that the drums began to sound. The time had come. The group walked with their Chieftain to the field which had been prepared in the night. It was a large open spaced cleared of snow, hard packed earth and gravel. Posts had been driven into a ring about it and at each one stood a Champion of Ragnarok axe in hand. At the end closest to Odin's Fortress a great forge had been built at which the War Priests had gathered along with the Valkyr Caladria. The forge would craft two items this day, the first would be the crown of the King and the second would be the symbol of the King's power, the Sword of Flames a magical weapon that would burn whenever it would taste blood.

Gathering about the ring were the other lords and chieftains. They were clad in their armor weapons held ready, heads held high, and shields ready. Chieftain Strenn left them at this point and stepped onto the feild. He was one of the last to come and as he entered the ring the drum beat quickened. The coals of the forge were ignited and several pieces of metal were brought forth by the priests. Iron, Bronze, Mithril, and Gold for the crown and for the sword one piece of star iron, metal from the Gods themselves. Last of all came the High Priest, Meralf, his face somber and his staff held ready.

No one moved save the priests who worked the bellows to heat the forge and the drummers. Meralf raised his staff high and the drums came to a crescendo that filled the fridged air before falling silent. Then Meralf brought his staff down into the snow and a hundred horns sounded.

A great mass of war cries rose up from the assembled Chieftains and lords. They charged one another in a great mass of howling fury. With a great clatter of steel on steel, shields pounding upon shields, and men crying out in pain the melee was on. The Drums began to beat again and the War priests chanted as the metal workers began their task with alarming speed and diligence. The racket of the battle and pounding of the drums joined together to form a symphony of battle and blood.

No one could look away from the sight before their eyes as the most powerful men and women in the lands of the Nor Menn did battle with one another. One by one they began to drop, mostly the older, younger, and feebler leaders. Strenn went down ten minutes into the melee and was pulled away from the carnage by the Champions of Ragnarok along with the other losers.

Despite his defeat Strenn seemed unphased and turned his attention to battle even as Avariel Healers tended to his injuries. The fighting dragged on and on, stamina and cunning becoming the name of the game as more and more contenders dropped out with various degrees of injury. Broken shields were being cast aside and the remaining fighters were beginning to pair off trying to keep in the battle as long as possible.

All the while the crown was beginning to take shape, a circlet of mithril lined with flames of gold, ice sickles of iron and swords of bronze. The Sword meanwhile was taking shape as well a hand and a half sword like Ardon's. The star iron glowed white hot as it was worked by the smiths. They folded the steel again and again the flattened it out to spread its length again and again.

An hour passed and on and on the chanting, drumming, and fighting went on. Less than a dozen fighters were left and it was clear that they were approaching the limits of their endurance. They had many wounds, torn and battered armor, notched blades, and broken helms. No one had a shield now, focusing all of their strength into two handed blows with their weapons. It was mesmerizing to those who watched, they cheered on those still in the fray even if they had bested their lord.

Another hour passed and the fight was down to three fighters. Rhaegastar Dragonsfury, his ruby encrusted longsword mangled and bent, Robvin Krast, who was limping keeping himself up with his great sword, Valkar Hammerhelm, his hammer's head cracked and ready to fall off. The Crown was completed and was now being tempered, the sword was almost completed as well.

Ardon watched as Krast swung a heavy blow a Hammerhelm. Hammerhelm tried to block with his hammer only for the head to break off entirely. Rather than surrender he smacked Krast in the face with the broke haft, using it as a staff. The blow broke the handsome young Jarl's nose and sent him to the ground. The Champions quickly moved in to drag away the wounded Jarl but Hammerhelm had begun raining blows into the young lords chest. Many cried foul cursing Hammerhelm's lack of honor.

Before anyone could do anything however Rhaegastar was in the fray again and with one swing of his sword split Hammerhelm's staff in two. The blow caused the Jarl's blade to snap of at the hilt. Regardless he pushed his wounded nephew out of the fight. Hammerhelm came at Rhaegastar with the remains of his weapon eyes a light with fury. Rhaegastar knocked away the first strike with his gauntleted fist only to be knocked back by the second strike.

Then Krast shoved his great sword towards his uncle with his foot as the Champions dragged him away. Rhaegastar snatched it up and with a single swing to the chest sent Hammerhelm to the dirt to roars of approval from the crowd. Rhaegastar stumbled to his knee, like his nephew bracing himself with the great sword.

The Drumming came to a stop as did all of the cheering. The High Priest stepped into the ring and marched to the battered and weary Jarl. Rhaegastar turned to face the High Priest, barely able to stand as one of Champions took away the great sword and returned it Jarl Krast. The High Preist came to a stop before the Jarl and lifted the winged helm from his head. Pale blonde hair flowed forth free as the wind picked. All of those gathered about the field went down on their knees and knelt as the High Priest lead the Jarl to the forge. Despite his wounds the Jarl stood tall, refusing to bend to his pain or exhaustion again.

The Sword was almost complete now, flowing white hot, but with a hilt of dragon bone being fitted to it. A single long fang, wrapped in leather and cloth made the grip with the tip of the fang forming the pommel of the blade. The Crown meanwhile was waiting for the Jarl in the hands of the High Priests second, a man with a dark black beard and amber eyes. His name was Garren Hauk, an soon he would be the new High Priest.

The still untempered sword was given to Meralf, who bowed to its makers. Everyone knew what was about to happen and few could not hide their grief. Meralf turned to Rhaegastar Dragonsfury as a pair of beautiful Valkyr Caladria removed his battered plate and mail until he was bare chested. Meralf motioned for the the Jarl to kneel which he did. Then he raised the still burning sword and touched it to the Jarl's left shoulder blade.

"Jarl Rhaegastar Dragonsfury," he began his voice suddenly carrying more weight and all the stronger. "Do you swear before the all-father Odin and all the gods of your ancestors, upon your blood, honor, and soul to guide, defend, and rule your people with fealty and love, valor and honor, justice and loyalty, and wisdom and strength?"

"By my blood, honor, and soul I do swear," Rhaegastar answered.

"Do you swear to show no mercy to those who betray your people, to crush all the enemies of your people, and to enforce the laws passed down to us from Forseti?" Meralf continued moving the sword to the other shoulder, a dark burn marking the place the sword had touched.

"By my blood, honor, and soul I do swear," Rhaegastar answered.

Then Meralf lifted the sword from the Jarl's right shoulder, motioned for him to rise, and then offered him the sword. The sword clearly burned his hands as Rhaegastar took the weapon.

"Then prove your commitment to the gods," Meralf ordered. "Swear to complete the task laid before you, to invade Equestria and save our people. Swear it in my blood."

Rhaegastar nodded. He set a hand on the High Priests shoulder, looked him in the eyes, and raised the sword over the old man's chest. Then he plunged the sword through the High Priests heart, pulling the old man into the blade as if embracing him. Fire roared down the length of the sword as it tasted fresh blood. Smoke and steam rose through the air as Rhaegastar pulled the sword free of the High Priests chest and then eased the old man to the ground. The blade was now burned black, cracks of white however showed the intense heat within it.

Then Garren Hauk, the new High Priest took up his predecessors staff and raised up the crown as Rhaegastar knelt one more time.

"In the name of Odin the all-father," he said in a firm tone. "I hereby name thee," and as he spoke he lowered the crown onto Rhaegastar's head. "Rhaegastar Dragonsfury the first of his name, King of the Nor Menn and King on the Frozen Throne."

Crowned, the former Jarl rose to his feet while the new High Priest bowed before him.

"Long live the King!" Garren shouted.

"Long live the King!" The Lords and Chieftains, priests and Huskrals, retainers and commoners proclaimed with one voice. "Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!"