Free Gateway to Nifleheim by Unknown

demanding an answer.
    “Let’s just say that Odin and I are old friends. I doubt he would mind me sitting in one of his pews.”
    “You speak as if you know him,” said Claradon, as he stepped up beside them wearing a clerical vestment. “As if he were no more than a man.”
    “Some say that he was,” said Theta. “A man, that is.”
    “Heresy, my lord?” said Claradon.
    “What’s that mean?” mumbled Dolan.
    “Not if it's true,” said Theta.
    “Truth is in the perception more than the fact,” said Claradon.
    “Who taught you that?” said Theta.
    “An observation of my own, but I believe it to be correct more often than not.”
    “Then you are a man of wisdom, Eotrus. Midgaard needs men with like that to balance out the abundant stupidity,” said Theta, as he glanced sidelong at Dolan, who in turn, stared at Ob, who huffed and took another large gulp from his wineskin.
    “Enough chatter,” said Ob. “Get down there, boy, and lead us in the oath. We need to get this done and get a bit of sleep before comes the dawn.”
     
    ***
     
    Rising up more than eight feet in height at each point of the octagonal dais at the building’s center was a cylindrical plinth intricately carved with runes and religious imagery. The great altar loomed at the dais’s center; the lectern off to the side. Two white robed pages stood near Claradon, one held a smoldering, perforated iron box of incense, the other, a golden holy symbol.
    “Hear me my brothers,” said Claradon as he stood behind the Odinhome’s lectern clad in the priestly vestments, robe, and sash of the revered order of Caradonian Knights, their sigil prominently displayed at his breast. His hooded robe resembled that worn by priests and monks, though it was tailored to accommodate the long sword that he wore at his hip and contained myriad pockets for carrying and concealing gear, large and small.
    A thick leatherbound tome lay before him. He reverently opened it to a bookmarked page, though he barely glanced at the words, so familiar to him were they. “The Warrior's Oath, from the Book of the Aesir ,” he said in a bold, strong voice, enunciating each word. “Now gather close and harken to my words, for they are passed down to us from the Age of Heroes.”
    “Good, he’s speaking the modern version of the oath,” whispered Ob to Theta. “We get nothing but the old one from Donnelin and nobody understands a word of it since it’s in Old High Lomerian. Who the heck speaks that nowadays? Nobody, I’ll tell you, so what’s the point?”
    The page passed Claradon the chain by which he held the smoldering incense box. Claradon took it and slowly walked to each point of the dais while mumbling some religious words no one could make out. He paused at the corners and swung the box several times, which caused the incense to waft about, its gray smoke billowing up around him. The odor, not unpleasant, soon filled the hall.
    “I say that the old version is good for the high holidays only, if even then,” whispered Ob. “But Donnelin will hear nothing of it. He just won’t get with the times.”
    “Ain’t he supposed to speak from behind the altar?” whispered Dolan.
    “More questions, Mister Chatterbox?” said Ob. “Only the House Cleric speaks from the altar. Anyone what else got reason to speak, stands tall at the lectern. It’s tradition.”
    As Claradon recited the first verse, the knights each dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. The sun still several hours from rising, near seventy men were gathered in the Odinhome to hear his words, though that number sparsely populated the great hall. Dolan respectfully lowered his eyes, while Theta looked around, studying the gathered men, taking their measure. Gabriel, Artol, and Paldor (Gabriel’s squire) sat in the front row of Heimdall’s section. Sir Glimador, Sir Indigo, and Sir Bilson sat in Thor’s area, and Tanch lounged in the last row of Frey’s section looking tired and gloomy.