Heresy: The Book of Mammon

Prologue

Prologue



“I’d like to make it known that I take no pleasure in this.” Loki looked down at the parchment that the Druid placed upon his desk. Upon the yellowing page, the King’s law was written with authority and anger.

“It matters not, Jarl. The King has spoken and you are to obey this law, or be sent to the Pantheon.” The Druid offered him a grim smile. The two of them were enemies of politics since the day that the King was crowned, and now, the Druid had finally gained a foothold among the court. The Temple stopped the northern expansion efforts for now. The law wrote it plain as sun upon snow. There would be no more northern expeditions. Normally, a messenger would have delivered such a notice to him, but this law held particular interest to both parties involved. Magni wanted to deliver it himself, he knew it. It was a declaration of victory; it was an insult.

He shook his head and scribbled his name on the parchment. It felt as though he’d signed his only chance away, now and forever. He handed it to the grinning man, and the Druid took it without question. He looked down at the wrinkling page and back up at Loki. “I’m sorry it has come to this, Jarl, but the north is not meant to be annexed. Your belligerent expeditions could have cost us dearly. Perhaps you don’t understand our past, but Nidavellir is a sacred land. Those that died on those grounds would not be forgiving if we were to build over their burials.”

“Get out of my office, Druid.”

The man bowed low, the smile never fading. He turned and walked toward the door. “Don’t pursue this course again, Loki, or you will truly see what the Temple is capable of.”

“Is that a threat?”

The man laughed. “It is not a threat, Jarl but know that the Tribunal will be drowned in hardship if you attempt to undermine me again.”

The druid stepped out of the room, and slammed the door.

Loki shook his head as he rose from his seat. He turned to the window that offered the light of the sun. In the city below, the people starved. There was hope for them in the northern islands of Nidavellir. There was a chance at reclaiming what the winter had taken. The soil was fertile, and the forests were rich with life. There were untapped mountains there, surely filled with gold and iron. Now, the Temple had stopped the chance at healing the broken populace.

The wars among the clans rose to bitter, grinding stalemate. The provinces that encompassed the city of Gjaalarbron were writhe with starvation and bloodshed. Food supplies stopped coming, and what was stocked from the previous harvest was slowly diminishing. Though they had plenty to last until the thaw, what would they do when it was gone? It would be months before the harvest, if there even was one.

The warring clans had focused all effort and men on their own blood feuds. There would be no farming, or hunting, only bitter battles.

The Tribunal, his wing of the court, pushed ever harder at the King. Though they had much influence in his decisions, the Temple was always there to oppose him. Church had no business in politics. Despite all facts that one could show them, they continued to oppose any such expansion into the sacred lands of Nidavellir, the ancient islands where the men of old buried their dead.

The Tribunal had relinquished its control of the northern borders to the Temple. It was the law that he’d fought desperately to oppose, but the King did not listen. Hjalmar was quite a religious man himself, as most of the people were, but still, something had to be done. The Pantheon would be of no help. Though they examined every law that was written, the Temple managed to sink its teeth into them as well. They followed the ways of the church, rather than the ways of sensible courses of action. Though they often worked with the Tribunal when hardships came, everything was changing now.

The Druid, Magni had gained much support among the people, ever receiving donations and charities. Gold was power, he knew that as well as anyone. Though laws were often written for good reason, he knew that gold could easily buy opposition. The Temple now had such ability, and the Tribunal was no match for the church. Wrath of the Gods were often excuse enough for men to fall to their knees and beg for guidance that the Temple was only happy to give. Even the King supported the church rather than the people. What laws were made to protect and help the populace would be rewritten to give ever more aid to the dogs that claimed to be messengers of the gods.

Though he too followed the ways of the Gylfaginning, their holy book, his intentions were for ending starvation and power struggles for clans that had long since forgotten the reason they were fighting. The ways of the old were nothing more than blood sport of wicked kings. They allowed such wars to be fought only to seek pleasure in watching their subjects squabble for the scraps of the throne.

The laws that continued to allow such bloodshed remained. The king refused to renounce them, for he followed the ways of those before him. Perhaps it was nothing more than a game of gold, for with war, came profit, but he knew it was not greed, it was arrogance and ignorance. The king allowed clans to war for lands. If the clans were victorious, the land was theirs, and they would pay tribute to the throne. It had always been that way, since the second king reigned nigh on a millennium ago. It was time to change that law, but now, the Tribunal had no chance in seeking the miracles of politics. Those miracles were reserved for the church.

It was a dark time that had fallen on Xalimfal, with the never ending struggle against the Dwergar in the south, and the blood feuds, and now the Temple’s rise to supremacy, there was no other way to go about changing the face of their lands and the throne. Politics were the honorable and peaceful way to reach resolution, but he knew they would help him no longer. There was only one choice to be made. The power struggle in the court would no longer be between the Temple and the Tribunal. It would be between the Temple and the Throne, but he would need help.

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It was a curious looking blade of the finest steel he’d ever seen. It had fangs as sharp as any wolf, teeth like silver thorns that shimmered in the firelight of his forge. Gems studded it all over the gilded hilt that shimmered like gold flaked sunlight. The grip was chilling to the bone. The studded leather that wrapped around the handle was black ice beneath his hands and the studs bore into his palm as he gripped it. It was weightless, as though he wielded a feathery blade. The metal was thin as a razor could be, and looking at it blade-on, it nearly vanished.

Wherever his son found this sword, could only be a place of magnificence. He’d brought it back with him from the northern islands, and granted it to his father’s shop. The boy was ever thoughtful of his family, rather than his own personal gain. He was no warrior, just as his father was, he was a blacksmith. A damned good blacksmith, but a simple man as all artisans of the craft were. Despite his knowledge and command of metal, he’d never seen a blade of such marvelous craft. Whoever forged this, was a master of masters.

Though, he was certain that with time, and the correct metals, he could forge a blade of equal beauty, but like most blacksmiths, he had not the funds to buy such things. Iron was his only material, and though his blades were sharp as razor ice, iron never offered him beautiful weapons, but simple blades meant for a soldier. As swords were intended to be, his weapons were built for one simple thing… killing. They had not the gaudy embellishments of a royal touch, and they were not a symbol of one’s wealth. They were merely tools of a particular trade, and that trade was death.

He’d learned early on, a blacksmith only needed four things to be a good blacksmith: a hot fire, good iron, a damned strong arm, and someone that wanted to kill someone else, for blacksmiths were the purveyors of death. Without the desire to commit the act, they would find themselves as starving as the rest of the city. The warring clans had offered him much of their business, but with the rising cost of both iron and food, he found no luxury of wealth, only calloused hands and a grumbling stomach. His own hunger rumbled along with his three sons. They were together as they always were, beating, sharpening, and stoking, and now… close to starving.

The northern expansion had offered much promise to his trade, but when his son returned home from the islands, he knew that that promise was gone. The Temple had seen to it that no son of Xalimfal built upon those lands. What money they had from his son’s duties as the army’s outfitter, were dwindling away.

Though he looked extravagant with the blade at his side, the boy gave it to his father. He was proud of his son, as he was all his boys, and the act would not go unrewarded, that was if he could sell the damned thing. Dealings with the court had evaporated. The King’s army was quite well outfitted with blades and armor, and the demand had ceased. This blade was certainly not a soldier’s blade, and selling it to the King himself was as impossible as walking on water. Only one of extreme wealth, and self-interest would buy such a thing, and he knew that too was nigh on impossible. They would keep this blade in their forge for the rest of their days.