The Gathering Storm

Once upon a time, in the days that true heroes walked the earth, the world was ruled by four great chieftains. Athriel the Fair ruled the Nation of the East. He seemed slight and very unlike a hero, but he was swift. He could rush in upon his enemies before they knew what was about to happen. Like the wind, he was swift and sure and seemed to be everywhere at once.

Hotheaded Skoldor ruled all the Nation of the South. He had flaming red hair and rose to anger at the smallest provocation. His anger consumed everything in its path. Even his own soldiers learned to follow safely behind Skoldor so they would not be in his path. Easy-going Rael held the Nation of the West. His flowing golden locks sat easily above the deep blue eyes that could pierce into the very soul. It was hard to know the exact boundaries of the Nation of the West because they seemed to ebb and flow with the tides of the great sea on which it bordered.

Finally, there was dark and brooding Borion who ruled the Nation of the North. Some say his face was carved of rock for his expression never wavered. His eyes were the same in laughter as in weeping. It was, it is said, impossible to know what he thought or when he might strike.

With four such powerful chieftains, you might expect that there was conflict, and, indeed, their borders were never quiet. Borion responded to Rael’s shifting borders with hardened lines of defense. The suddenness of Athriel’s presence fanned the ardor of Skoldor and conflict raged. But all these great heroes paid common fealty to the one Lord greater than all, Chrivu the Mighty. Chrivu had no nation, no army, and no allegiance. Chrivu rode where he pleased and slept wherever he lay his head. Each of the four great chieftains had at one time or another challenged Chrivu for the right to rule all, but each had failed and barely escaped with his life.

Chrivu had disdain for all, for no one was as mighty as Chrivu. He drank the sea and pissed the rivers. He walked through fire as though it were nothing. When the wind blew in his face he sucked it into his lungs until the wind was exhausted. And when a mountain rose before him, he flattened it with his fist rather than walk around. Never before and never since has there been a hero like Chrivu.

There was a dispute between the rival chieftains, Chrivu might show up on either side of the battle and subdue the other. The balance of the rivalries might be shifted at any moment by Chrivu’s word. After the chieftains had suffered the uncertainty for a hundred years, they finally came together in treaty to talk.

“We must conquer Chrivu,” said Athriel. “He diminishes our prowess and respect among our people.”

“Indeed,” Boriel answered. “The people believe he is their king and not we.”

“None of our borders are safe as long as he lives,” said Rael.

“But how shall we bring him down?” fumed Skoldor. The chieftains shook their heads and then as one uttered a single word.

“Oawo!”

Oawo was an ancient wise woman who lived alone in the mountains. It was said that she was present at the birth of the ocean and was midwife to the desert. She was so ancient that when she was asked a question it sometimes took days before her jaw hinge became unstuck so she could answer. But the wisdom she imparted never failed. It was also rumored that she was Chrivu’s mother, imprisoned in the mountain so she would never challenge him. It was to her that the chieftains took their suit. The old woman prised her eyes open to look at them through the gloom of the cavern. Then her shaking hand withdrew a silver strand of her hair that had not been cut in two hundred years and held it out to them.

“You must act as one in order to master Chrivu,” she croaked. “He cannot be bound as other men can, but by the hair of his mother’s head. You must take this and wrap it tightly around him. This will immobilize him. Then you can take his head. But, beware. If he is free of this strand, he will regain his head and come back stronger than before and more terrible as well. Do not let him free, even after he is dead.” With that she fell silent again. The great chieftains took the strand of Oawo’s hair and left the cavern in secret.

On the appointed day, the four lay in ambush as Chrivu came from the forest toting a deer that he had killed for dinner. They waited until Chrivu had gorged himself on the venison and fell asleep, then they leapt to capture him. Chrivu jumped up grabbing his great battle axe to swing at the head of the nearest chieftain, but Skodor blocked the blow with his hammer while Rael rushed him with his sword. While Chrivu was occupied battling the two heroes, Boriel anchored the thread of hair around Chrivu’s feet and swift Athriel rushed around the great Lord winding the thread around his legs, arms, and shoulders. At last great Chrivu’s axe fell at his feet and he could no longer move.

Triumphantly, Boriel raised Chrivu’s axe and severed his head. They mounted the head on a pole which became the face in the mountain that so many have seen in the centuries since. The four chieftains dug a deep pit in which to cast the body, but before they did, Rael made a suggestion.

“Well I remember the words of the old lady Oawo,” he said. “I would not have Chrivu rise from the grave and regain his head. Let us, therefore, sever his hands and his feet so that if he should come to life, he can do no harm for he will be unable to do battle or to march to war.” This seemed right to the chieftains who swiftly carried out the sentence and buried the remainder of the body in the pit. The severed hands and feet, the four agreed each to take one to the furthest reach of his nation and bury it so that it could never be reunited with Chrivu’s body.

And that was the death of Chrivu.

It is said that Athriel was slain first. A hand came from nowhere and strangled him as he slept. Hot-tempered Skodor was trampled beneath the feet of a stampede of horses, but it was a human footprint that marked his head. Rael saw a hand swing a sword, but never saw who wielded it as he fell dead. And Boriel, as he looked over his nation from a high cliff, was suddenly kicked over its edge by a foot that came from nowhere.

Since that day, the severed hands and feet of Chrivu have been journeying to rejoin his buried body, for the four heroes failed to keep all the Lord’s parts bound by the strand of hair. When they reach the rest of Chrivu’s body, they will unbind him and reclaim his head from the mountain, and Chrivu will rise more terrible than ever.

We have seen The Terror coming, but I say to you, we have seen only Chrivu’s hand as it journeys to reunite with his body. And whosoever that hand touches will surely die.

***

All were silent at the telling of the monk’s story. The quaked in their bedrolls and edged nearer the fire. Then in the silence a hand dropped, seemingly out of nowhere, and landed on Steven’s chest.

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