Truth of Obsidion (Rights of Realms Book 1)

889 C.E.

(Chapter song ‘Black Blade’ by Thomas Bergersen)

The sea howls as ships slice through the dark, churning, unrelenting waves.

Hulls groan and creak beneath the pounding surge, while the grunts of a hundred oarsmen rise in rhythm with the rolling thunder overhead. The raging storm beats down on the deck as each stroke of the long oars drives them closer to their inevitable demise.

The flagship surges ahead like a rising monster of the deep, steadfast in its mission to stop the invasion coming from the high seas. It stands like a wall before the enemy that now dots the storm-ravaged horizon.

Who in their right mind calls for battle on a night like this?

Bitter cold bites into the flesh of the men ready and willing to die for the cause. Icy fangs of rain tear at the oarsmen’s arms and faces, but they do not falter for a single stroke. The sting of wind pushes the men on deck, but it does little to weaken their resolve. As the enemy draws closer, their focus sharpens to one thing: survival.

The crowman lifts his glass to the horizon. As soon as he spots the colors, he shouts his findings from the crow’s nest atop the main mast to the ship’s deck below.

“THERE THEY ARE! OFF THE PORT BOW! PORT BOW!”

The lookout’s call jolts the deck to life. The men rush to the rails, and the captain leans to see the ships growing in the distance. When he counts the flags, his face turns nearly as pale as the sails—but he remembers why they are there.

The waves crash up the sides, sending blinding spray into the faces of the men, dread etched in their eyes. A s the Viking banners thrash in the wind, the grim promise of chaos is realized.

“TURN THE SHIP!” The captain roars, his voice cutting through the gale-force wind like sharpened steel.

The oarsmen growl in unison as they fight the sea’s fury, working together to turn the ship against the waves. The belly of the great warship churns the water, and the storm batters her every step of the way. Water pours off her deck as men—and the captain—hang on to ropes and the helm. Their raw strength positions the ship for the fight that will mean everything to them and the country they serve.

“SECURE THE ROPES! READY THE CANNONS!” he commands as he spins the helm with precision. His words fly across the deck, and men bolt into action.

His weathered eye watches the Norse banners as they draw ever closer. His heart quickens as the lead ship starts to turn in the surge.

Just a sliver of weakness—but he will not let it take hold.

Barrels of gunpowder are rolled and broken. Cannonballs are piled; black powder is packed tightly. In seconds, the longboat becomes a war machine, and the men become the cogs that run it. Everything works like clockwork to inflict maximum damage.

“STEADY, MEN! HOIST THE COLORS!!” The captain bellows, pointing to the mast. Two men scramble to raise the banner of the Empire. If not to deter, then at least to give the enemy pause before they fire shots they may come to regret.

Through sheets of pounding rain and flashes of lightning, the captain wipes the water from his face. He sees clearly that they have no intention of slowing their invasion. That alone is reason enough. They crossed the barrier they knew would get them killed.

“ARCHERS, TAKE AIM!”

“READY THE TORCHES!”

Lined along the deck stands the Empire’s most formidable weapons of defense. The Alliance—still shocking to many, including the fleet captain—had brought the men board. These tall, strange men stood in gold and silver armor. They dripped in riches beyond anything a sailor could imagine, but no one dares question them.

They stand two feet above most men. Even the strongest men remain silent around them. When their cat-like eyes meet yours, instinct tells you to look away. The Empire has required their services for years, but this marks the first of many battles fought at sea.

The tall men stand rigid, unmoved by the ship’s violent sway. The captain watches their calculated movements as they work in perfect synchronization, poised with arrowheads over the bronze cauldrons of burning oil. Their longbows are not ones mortal men can use easily. They are born to fight and do not fall easily.

For that, the captain feels a sliver of ease. The Norsemen have been a force the Empire was not ready for.

Among the towering warriors, Alder—king and general for all beings that the English barely understand—stands tall, ready to echo the captain’s order to the lines. He glances at the captain, who returns his look with a nod. Alder crosses the deck with ease, hands folded behind his back under a soaked black cloak. He takes his place in line, side-eyes his men, and studies them with sharp precision—already calculating the outcome of this fruitless fight.

Alder, like the brothers beside him, is an Elf. Sharp-sighted, with formidable hearing, they possess advantages few men can match. Though tall and broad, they move with light-footed grace. Alder’s green eyes cut through the darkness, and he relays what he sees to his fellow archers. They nod in silent agreement, hearing every word despite the roar of the waves and thunder.

The captain, watching the exchange and not seeing lips move, wonders if they speak more in their minds than from their mouths.

Alder captures every nuance of the enemy’s maneuvers and knows this battle will be a brutal exchange. His Elves are skilled, but he’s well aware of how battered the English weapons have become. The Norse hold the advantage in both the acquisition and repair of their arsenal.

He stares at the flags that threaten them, acknowledging that the Alliance the Elves made with the Humans was sealed in pact and blood. But lately, he wonders how binding the agreement truly is.

He scans the ship, feeling the hearts of the men around him. As the vessel rises and falls with the high waves, he side-eyes his second-in-command, Merion. Wind whips his graying brown hair behind him, and his gold eyes reflect the same amount of concern that Alder feels. Alder knows Merion also doubts the Alliance.

One of the oldest in the Northern Pride of Elves, Merion packed up and left for the Southern Pride to join Alder’s court—a gesture Alder still holds in high regard today. Equal in strength and value, he has been a steadfast friend and companion. When trust is needed, Alder looks to him more than to anyone else.

“They aren’t ready,” Alder mutters. Rain plasters his red hair to his scalp, and his pointed ear twitches beneath the wet strands. His black-armored glove rests on the hilt of his broadsword, and he silently prays to the God that he hopes will still listen. Though he’s unsure if redemption is even possible at this point in the war.

“They will be,” Merion replies, drawing in a heavy breath. Alder can sense uncertainty in his tone. “We trained them. They just need to remember who they fight for and who has their backs.”

“All this seems pointless. If they could see what’s coming—”

“We can’t think about that now,” Merion warns. “Thoughts like that will end their lives.”

“READY WEAPONS!”

“Quiet!” Alder hisses beneath the call of the captain’s second-in-command on the deck. “They’ll hear you. Morale is already low.”

“Morale’s been low for a long time, Alder. You know it,” Merion whispers. “We may have taken an oath, but at some point they have to be told. We cannot keep fighting these losing battles. I know Elves don’t break oaths, but this may be one we need to make an exception for before we die with them.” His hand holds steady on his bow as the truth drips off his tongue.

“I know.”

Alder’s authority carries weight, but as the years drag on and more brothers fall to the greed and grandeur of men, he knows the message has been lost. He reflects on this as arrowheads gleam in the darkness, poised and ready.

“We need the order.”

“Steady.”

“We’ll lose sight. Give the order.”

Alder watches the Norse flagship begin to list and turn. Waves crash against her port side, and cannon windows begin to swing open. She outguns the English vessel two to one, but they have won with less. The war flag rises. The orders are heard faintly on the wind. Alder can see the bodies lining the rails of the opposing ship.

The captain and his commanders send signals through the storm to the rest of the fleet. The giant ships surrounding the main English flagship brace themselves for the incoming Norse assault. The sea churns like a port of call thrashed by a hurricane, but if the gods are willing, the English will sail away alive.

“Alder!”

He draws in a breath and bellows, “FIRE!!”

Within an Elvish second, the arrowheads are dropped, lit, and fired into the sky. A heartbeat later, a second volley follows.

Then a third.

And a fourth.

The sky lights up as arrows streak through the air like flaming stars. They arc in fans over the sea between the ships, a sight that would strike fear and awe into any man that faced it.

Adler stands ready, watching his company’s arrows hit their targets. Ship decks erupt as fire ignites gunpowder, and wood goes up in flames. From his position, he can see men scrambling to douse the blazes while the English fleet captains shout orders to engage the first round of cannons.

Cannon fire blasts across the sea from the English ships to the secondary Norse ships. Masts are sheared off by flying cannonballs, and splinters rain down to the waves. Smaller Norse ships explode in planks and ash as sailors jump overboard, swimming to nearby decks.

It doesn’t take long for the Norse ships to fill the cannon windows and fire back.

“BRACE YOURSELVES!”

The mast shatters, forcing Alder and Merion to duck and turn to the impact. Splinters and chunks fly backward, and men shout as they scramble to get out of the way. The giant mast groans, tilts, and rips through the rails before plunging into the sea. The lookout fights the waves, calling for help as ropes are thrown to him

Alder strides forward, pointing to the Norse ships and shouting for his men to get back into formation. “WE CANNOT LET THEM THROUGH! WE CANNOT LET THEM TAKE OUR LANDS AND FREEDOM!” His eyes blink against the driving rain as he watches the Elves fall back in line, loosing more arrows into the storm-darkened sky.

Cannonballs puncture the hulls of secondary ships who begin taking on water. Below deck, crew members frantically bucket it out while temporary boards are nailed in place as the fight continues.

Captains from both fleets bellow orders as the unforgiving sea brings the armies together. As ammunition runs low, the Norse make their move. Black waves crash between the lead ships as the Viking hulls slam against the English vessels—and the order is given.

“PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!”

Chaos erupts as the English prepare for armed combat. Swords are unsheathed; planks are dropped across deck edges. Boots thump across them without care of balance, and ropes are swung wildly. The Norse waste no time boarding the English warship, crossing like ruthless pirates of the southern seas.

Men and Elves clash with brutal strength. Guttural calls echo across the decks; the fury of both sides is unleashed. Ships collide, and more are boarded, and the fighting is relentless. Alder, sword drawn, swings with a force that catches many of the Vikings off guard. It’s like they forgot the Elves were on the ships.

Axes and swords impale and slice through armor. Men scream and fall within minutes. Bodies are thrown overboard, left for the sharks. The water roils as shattered ships and broken men fall in a relentless rain of death. Masts snap and fall, crushing warriors and tearing through the Norse ships. Gunfire erupts, and men wail as bullets strike their chests. Merion points to the stairs of the helm deck. At the bottom is the broken corpse of the captain, lying face down—his blood washing off the ship in a river of rainwater.

Now, they’re on their own.

“END THIS NOW!”