The Tundra Wurm
The beasts they rode on were weighed fifty times more than them, but they beast they sought was much larger. The blowing snow had covered them from the toes of their furry mounts to their hoods covering their heads. These six beasts, carrying the twenty of them, three to a back, four on two of them.
They carried spears in their hands, but these weapons were not to hunt the beast they sought, but to fend off the ice drakes that sometimes prowled the mammoth herds. Their shaman had fortified them with the essence of storms and their weaponmaster forged the tips from the bones of the largest drake to ever be brought down by their village.
They sought a creature even larger than these drakes. They sought a beast that dwarfed even those mighty drakes. They sought the beast that lives under the permafrost. A great wurm of unbelievable proportion.
They would be leaving the mammoths behind, soon. The risk of the great beast coming to devour such a meal when they weren’t prepared was too much. They approached the rocky outcropping they know would be there.
Six of the men went back to the mammoths, and led them away the way they came. Eight spread out at the edges of the rocks. Their spears stowed on their backs for now. Instead, they now held the daggers their forefathers had passed down to them. Daggers made of ice that does not melt and does not break. They held them high as they removed their hoods and began their chant. The wind stopped as if there were a shield around the outcropping. The snow that covered the stone melted in a moment.
In the center of the flat stone, their weaponmaster drew the largest sword known to their kind. An ancient weapon, imbued with great power by the sorcerers of old. He raised it aloft with both hands and drove it into the hard stone. The shaman removed a pouch from his belt, and began drawing lines from the sword in spices. His four assistants stood around them, chanting and spilling from their own pouches.
The weaponmaster raised his blade, and drove it into the ground again, and again. The sword did not bend or break or show any wear. The stone beneath it wore away, where it had been worn away before.
A creaking, groaning noise began. It seemed to come from all around at once. As loud as it was, it only got louder. The sound of their chanting was overwhelmed, yet they continued.
Shards of ice and snow began to fly all around. A void like a sinkhole formed where it was, as the head of a wurm rose from the tundra. It’s maw surrounded by mandibles covered in spikes. It’s jaws covered in jagged teeth. It’s body was covered in spines, unlike the smooth scaled wurms in the southern sands or that rise from ocean waves. Its head was covered in eyes that aren’t truly eyes. Stalks that tell the beast where to go but don’t truly see anything.
The beast reared its head above and made as if to swallow them wholesale from the rocky precipice they stood on, but stopped just back from it. It’s head hovered over them as the weaponmaster continued to smash the ancient sword down into the stone.
The beast lowered its head, laying next to the outcropping. The shaman and his aides walked forward as the sword continued pounding into the ground, and the circle continued their chanting. The circle and the weaponmaster moved quickly together, following the shaman. The chanting continued with their icy daggers held above them, until they had all made their way just to the back of the head of the beast.
The weaponmaster, standing the farthest forward, raised the ancient blade, and drove it deep into the wurm’s scales. Again the shamans raised their chants, and the men raised their daggers.
Their journey had only just begun. They sought the North in another part of the world. The shaman channeled through the weaponmaster’s blade. The wurm followed the turn of the blade. The news brought from the soft southern men was troublesome. It had to be brought to the oldest city of men. It had to be known. This was the only way to return, just as they had come here in the ancient times.