Flight of the Maiden

The sickness came again as he surveyed the battlefield. Once again he was the lone figure moving across the bloodied snow. It seemed that no matter how often he saw it, the sight of so much death, the sickly-sweet smell of blood and stench of human sweat would overwhelm him. He knew that most of the nausea he felt was due to dehydration and the effects of adrenaline and endorphins, but it always forced him to curse the gods of war. It was twilight here in the frozen North. It would be tomorrow before anyone else would dare trod the battlefield. The women would wait for the Valkyrie to come escort the souls of the brave dead to Valhalla before gathering the arms and armor of their men. These they would pass on to their sons, who could carry on the proud tradition of killing their neighbors in these senseless feuds. That had been his purpose here, to try to stop these incessant tribal wars and unite the Northrons to build an empire that would rival the Mesopotamians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians. Yes, he had seen these, and even helped them build their great cities and cultures. Now he wanted to help these pale giants mix their blood with their dark southern neighbors. But he had not counted on their stubbornness and long memories of slights, insults or attacks committed on their fathers' fathers. What was supposed to be a war counsel had turned into the largest battle in living memory. Valdstok, the most powerful warlord to be found up and down the coast, hosted three of the less powerful, but no less proud, warlords. These three took advantage of their host's invitation to try and rid the land of their rival. The treachery would have worked but for two things: the valor of Valdstok's mighty warriors, and the huge war hammer of the stranger. Here they called him Thom the Hammerer, though elsewhere he was known by various names. He called himself Davion. He had been moving across the icy field, picking his way between the hewn and broken bodies of the fallen in their bronze scales and horned helms, when movement out of the corner of his eye interrupted his reveries. A strange sight met his squinting gaze. A maiden tending to one of the fallen Nordic warriors. She held his head in her lap and appeared, at this distance, to be removing him from his armor. With long strides Davion moved toward them. He was about to speak to the girl when he noticed the strangeness of the situation. Not only was she here in this place of death at twilight where even normally fearless berserkers would not tread, but she seemed to be lifting this huge man effortlessly out of his armor. Furthermore, his armor was still strapped and buckled securely; his body seemed to pass right through it. It took several seconds for Davion to realize what he was seeing. Accustomed to being able to rationally explain any event with his advanced knowledge of science, truly unexplained phenomena always sent a chill of fear through him. Still, he recognized the warlord Valdstok under the blood-crusted and dented horned helm through which his head was now passing phantom-like, and he reacted. He shouted a vile curse and crunched through the scarlet-stained snow wheeling the great hammer over his head in a wide circle. He was as tall as most of these barbarians and even more thickly muscled. The cords stood out on his neck as he swung the war hammer toward the witchly maiden.