The Beginning Of Catastrophe

At the Windsorg checkpoint on the Nastrand–Fjorland border.

Fynel, busy with guard drills, had come himself, standing tall in the saddle and gazing far beyond.

With their true commander present, second only to duke and heir, the Guards stood rigid, reacting to every cough or tongue-click.

Then, from beyond the hill, came a long, sharp whistle like a bird’s cry. Though far, it rang clear—no natural sound, but a signal whistle.

‘They’ve arrived!’

Fynel nodded and ordered the gate unbarred.

The soldiers hastily removed the firwood bar.

“I’ll return shortly.”

With that, Fynel spurred his horse up the hill.

Over the crest, another whistle sounded—nearer, clearer, from the woods below to the left.

Fynel turned his horse into the trees. Behind a long-piled stack of logs, a man emerged.

With waist-long blond hair in braids and beard knotted thick, he wore a fur-padded vest and bore a sword and hand-axe engraved with runes of the old gods.

He reeked, face flushed, the skin beneath his eyes stained blue.

Fynel was tall, but this man stood a head higher. The horse reared at the giant’s bulk.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy, easy!”

Fynel calmed the horse, dismounted, drew his dagger only to lay it on the ground, and spread his hands wide to show peace.

“What is your name?”

The man rasped in a harsh dialect, his breath foul with drink.

“I am Fynel Lundgrid, Captain of Nastrand’s Guard. I come by order of Young Lord Christoph and Duchess Unsette, who await you.”

“Right, then. I am Norheim Sigurdsson, messenger of Odin Andersson, King of the Norger. Hear well our King’s words to yours.”

“Not king, but Young Lord. No matter—I’ll deliver it.”

“Nastrand’s offer, after long debate, is accepted. Before Odin, Freyja, Ullr, and Manafreya, we pledge our honor to keep it. We received the gold and silver.”

“Good. Then carry this: Christoph, rightful heir of Nastrand, pledges on his honor to keep the terms, to recognize the Norger’s lands and treat with you lawfully.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him true.”

“Then tell me, Norheim: when does your invasion of Fjorland begin?”

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!”

Norheim clutched his belly, roaring. Fynel tilted his head.

“Drink?”

Norheim pulled two horn cups and a clay flask from a great leather sack.

He snapped the flask’s neck off with his hand and poured its liquor into the horns.

“Never set foot in Nastrand till today. Fjorland, aye, we’ve raided countless times. To bear this charge is my clan’s honor—so I brought drink for a toast.”

Fynel gaped.

But there was no need to offend this genial giant. And Fynel, too, loved drink as much as any man.

“I wondered if Nastrand had men worthy of steel. Seems Nordenheim still breeds plenty to cross blades with.”

“……”

There was no malice in Norheim’s words—only genuine praise. Fynel knew it. This was the blunt manhood their lands had long lost.

“Take it. Like Mjolnir’s blow to the skull.”

Fynel drained the horn in one go.

As expected, fire surged from gut to body, bursting from his nose and mouth.

“Impressive! One draught! Old Hag Heorn may do nothing else well, but her mead curses like a storm! Hahaha!”

“Kh… fine drink.”

Norheim lifted his own horn and matched him.

“So answer me, Norheim. When do the Norger strike Fjorland? I must report it at once.”

Norheim’s eyes gleamed with drink as he grinned.

“This morning. The border’s already running red.”

“Already!? S-so soon?”

Fynel, seldom shaken, stammered.

“We can rise from sleep to war at a horn’s blast. And this war’s a chance—better to seize land before you arrive.”

Norheim smiled slyly.

“I see! I must ride back fast! Go safe, Sir Norheim!”

Fynel mounted quickly, swaying from the harsh drink, and Norheim roared with laughter.

“‘Sir,’ to a Viking? Freeze you! Till later, Fynel! Odin keep you!”

With that farewell, Fynel lashed his horse madly.

That morning.

On Fjorland’s southeast frontier, between Arendal and Kunslatten.

Beyond the rugged mountains lay the wilds—homeland of the unconvertible Norger.

Of course, strictly speaking, the Norger people had lived in this Nordenheim land from the very beginning, and the four duchies were of the same people as the Norger.

However, as time passed, through various wars and the absorption of foreign cultures, the duchies began to take shape. With the establishment of law, order, and rules, those who rejected them used the mountains as a shield, surviving through primitive farming, herding, war, and raiding. To them were added those who narrowly escaped the “Day of Judgement” that swept across all of Nordenheim.

Living in such rugged and barren terrain, they managed to survive several large-scale purges, preserving Nordenheim’s old traditions and their own temperament. Moreover, divided into countless tribes, they constantly waged civil strife and battles among themselves.

But three years ago, one tribe managed to unite them all. Their king was a man named Oden Andersson, a Viking nicknamed “the Raven Man.”

Yet none of the duchies knew this fact.

This was partly because the Norger themselves focused on strengthening their unity after unification and replenishing their forces lost in war. But it was also because both the Duchy of Bjoern and the Duchy of Fjorland considered striking them to bring more harm than gain, so they simply fortified their borders and essentially ignored them.

Thus, when their internal stability was restored and their battle spirit rekindled, the proposal from the Duchy of Nastrand was, for this new king and his warriors, literally the golden opportunity to build their own kingdom upon fertile and vast lands.

“Huh? What is that?”

At a border outpost where a banner with the dragon emblem of the Duchy of Fjorland fluttered.

A guard tilted his head, raising a hand to his brow to see more clearly.

Far away, something shimmered like a mirage.

The rolling hills stretched below the mountains.

Something of a color unlike the earth or trees writhed on the horizon, growing larger.

And when they realized it was countless shields, the earth-shaking march had already stolen the guards’ wits.

The outpost commander ran out of the barracks, saw the sight, and slapped a frozen guard across the face.

“Ride at once to Arendal Castle and Kunslatten Castle! To every village! Warn them immediately of the great Norger invasion!”

Finally coming to their senses, the guards mounted their horses and scattered in all directions, abandoning the post.

The commander knew the fastest way to spread the alarm.

He set a fire that soon engulfed the outpost. The poor-quality fish oil belched thick black smoke and fierce flames.

Other outposts and villages would see the smoke.

Fearing others might still be nearby, the commander quickly left the post, rode up the highest hill, pulled out a war horn, and blew it long and loud so the danger here would be quickly known.

Wooooom~~~~!!! Wooooom~~~~!!!

As he blew the horn, his eyes fixed on the black mass of Norger warriors swarming around the outpost.

This was not the raiding bands of twenty or thirty men from years past who plundered villages and seized women.

“Th-this… this has to be over three thousand! The Norger have come in full force!”

Before long, two mounted Norger warriors ascended the hill where he blew the horn.

One of them, hair tied long beneath a rugged helmet, dismounted, hefting a battle axe and shield.

And he simply stood there, watching the commander blow his horn.

At last, when the commander lowered his horn and drew his sword to fight, the warrior silently waited.

When the commander bent low with his sword drawn, the mounted warrior burst into loud laughter.

“Look at his waist, Lar! Look at how he grips that sword! Killing him will be easier than snatching an apple from a child’s hand!”

No insult could cut deeper.

The commander clenched his teeth and swung his sword at the waiting warrior.

“Oooh~!”

With just a step or two back, the warrior avoided the blade, then thrust his shield forward, blocking the commander’s vision.

The commander instinctively struck the shield with his sword—and only then realized his lower body was completely exposed.

But it was already too late.

The warrior buried his axe into the commander’s thigh with ease.

“Aaaarghhhh!!!!!”

The commander dropped his sword in agony, clutching his thigh as he writhed on the ground.

“Truly, Hegel—Old Hag Heorn’s slap telling one to stop drinking bites sharper than this man’s sword.”

“Hahahahahaha!!!”

The two laughed together as the commander crawled, reaching for his fallen sword.

But there was no second mercy.

The axe came down, splitting his skull in two.

His shattered brain matter splattered in all directions.