Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

“They say that back in them ancient days with kings and knights, that was the Sword Age. Then we come to the New World, and cleared the forests and brought civilization to the savage, An Age of Axes t’what they call it now.

“We broke from the Old England Empire, – Like the Shattering of a Shield – they says.” The grizzled old bandit didn’t like to fancy himself a proper skald, but he knew a trick or two of holding a group mesmerized with the power of stories. Just had to keep talking while the boys got into position.

“Just ‘bout the time things seem to settle, fights done broke out like little whirlwinds here and there, over some something to do with thrallin’ folks. Best I can figure it must’ve been them damned Elven courts. The dust up is what they call the Wind Age, an as best as anyone knows, Murica was heading for out and out war with itself. The snake eatin’ its own tail. Brother fightin’ Brother, coulda been a bit nasty, such a nation so precariously holdin’ its own to turn in on itself like that. Well wasn’t nothing to be done for it though, and for better or worse, it never came to that.

“Twas the autumn of 1860 by the old reckoning. They call it the Sword of Surtur, them fellars in Europe do. Meteor, they say. Half the world burned, they say. The other half froze in the Fumble-Winter, what ever god carries the seasons, done fumbled them, yessiree. Ain’t got no one who knows for sure how long the winter lasted, ain’t but a bit of Troll magic that survived it any how, and without proper calendars them Elves was all but useless till the thaw.

“The thaw did come, boy howdy, didn’t now. Though them legends an’ ole camp trail stories say the before the Sword, a season was some 90 days or so.. ha! Imagine that a whole season passing in just a few months! Could’ve been, but don’t seem likely t’me. No sir, not likely t’me.

“The thaw came, an as you know, the winters gave way to summers, and the world done picked up, right were it left off, more or less….

“Out here in the great frontiers of the Western Territories, we ain’t got no truck with them Old Reckonin’ Calendars, y’all just picked right up on 1861 as soon as ya could, like y’all did’na just spend a few generation freezing to death.

“No sir, Out here, it’s the 15th year of the Age of the Wolf. An’ like a pack o’ hungry wolves, ain’t no man got mercy for wounded prey.

“So if you wouldn’t mind just placin’ your valuables in this here bag, we’ll be on our way, and your coach can finish it’s trip to Carson. But if’n you were thinking about being heroic, saving your lady friend there….well then, that big Troll here might have to toss a coin, choose between putting a bullet in ya, or casting a fireball. Hell.. he might even just eat ya.” The dusty old bandit spread his chapped lips in a rictus grin of tobacco stains.

The three gentlemen inside the stagecoach hurried to deposit their belongings into the bandit’s proffered satchel. The slight woman in the corner began to shake. It started as a minor tremor, Lady Yridel could feel the fires of the galdar coursing through her veins. The rage of a wounded bear, the anticipation of the hunting wolf. The words of power ignited in her mind with the fire-bright intensity of the Sword of Surtur.

Through clenched teeth the Elf hissed, “You know the stories, thief. Now hear the words!”

“Skeggold!” she bellowed with power and clarity. The sound and sight of the Troll’s blood spraying across the stage coach froze the talkative bandit in terror.

“Skalmold!” The Dverge’s horse at the back of the coach collapsed in shrieks of agony.

“Skildir ro klofnir!” The awestruck bandit dropped his bag of loot as bones in his arms shattered like dry twigs.

“Vindold!” The winds began to howl, “Vargold!” The sun went dark, as though consumed, and Yridel stepped from the coach, proud, powerful, a being of terrible destruction and beauty, heir to The One Eyed, an Elven Wizard in her might and rage, “Mun engi madr odrom thyrma…”