by Cody W Urban
“Listen, lad,” Hákon said at the extent of his friendliness and on the brink of pushing his authority toward threatening punishment, “Ye pledged to do as I said, and this is included.”
“Sir, I pledged to be your crew, and serve you well I have for the past fortnight, and I would continue, within moral boundaries of course.”
Hákon turned to laughing and began to strut away, passing more crew loading armaments into The Dashing Dancer. “Ha! Morality he talks about,” he said to the random crewmember he passed by. And still strutting along his deck, he looked aside to Nicholas who now followed, “We are at war, Nicholas.”
“War,” Nicholas said heavily, hating war and knowing how conflicted he was about rising up and claiming his vengeance. “This I know, for I too seek a final battle with my enemies, but why are you willing to risk your life against so strong a force?”
“They pillage and burn our lands, stripping folks of their dignity and freedom,” he growled. They had just stopped near the bow where Ranveig polished her sword, casually leaning along the rail. “Far too many of us have lost kin and countrymen. Loved-ones and land. It is for the future of my people I would fight. A prognosticator once said our people would expand and see worlds unheard of and our fame would be legendary. I seek that future at the hand of undoing the Empire.”
Nicholas caught glances with Ranveig, who perked her ears to the conversation. She sighed, having been rather illusive during the time Nicholas traveled with this rabble. Without lifting her eyes from her sword, Ranveig said, “The Empire has cost me dearly and I gladly return the favor.”
Nicholas pondered a moment and realized he was instinctively standing against the current of fate as he had done so many times, and resolved to continue with his new goal of accepting where he was bound. “Make an accord with me, Captain,” Nicholas said. “I would that ye only strike the soldiers and their posts and I should join you. No unarmed citizens, no innocent people who are simply bound under Roman Government without choice. If we be at war, we behave as such, not as a band of brigands.”
“Though we capture booty to cripple Roman economy and make the message clear that we rule the north, eh?” Hákon replied with a gleam. Nicholas nodded. After a typical bellowing chortle, Hákon pronounced, “Agreed.”
4
To save us all from Satan’s power,
When we have gone astray.
A soft young woman in poor clothes lay gagged and bound, sweating with fear, on a cot backing away from a Roman Soldier. They were in a stone chamber lit by a couple candles. He looked down at her like a starving man drooling over a prime rib slab. He loosened his loins and began to step toward the cot when a cacophony of shouts shredded the silence and a signal horn blared. The Soldier looked about in surprise when suddenly the only wooden door smashed open and behind stood Nicholas in his Elven robe.
“Who the devil?!” The soldier gasped as he darted away. He grabbed his sword, and lunged angrily at Nicholas while tripping over his clothing. The woman shut her teary eyes and curled up as tightly as possible to not hear the scuffle and still the commotion wasn’t fully drowned. When the rustling and thudding finally came to an end, her heart stopped. She had lived in Addeville for a long time, under Roman rule, and having just been married, this legion officer decided it was his right to take her groom’s taxes out of her. Now, as all she saw was the black insides of her eyelids, she knew that the signal horn had meant an enemy attack. So she wasn’t ready to feel relieved as she assumed the stranger who broke in was likely some foreign savage who, if he could fell the officer, might take his place in having his way with her instead.
Then strong hands grabbed her arm, and though she expected them to move her with force, they only softly guided her arms around and before she knew it, the cloth that bound her wrists was cut. “It is all right,” Nicholas said. “You are safe, now.” She had no idea who this visitor was and she felt as though she sat before an angel. The woman was speechless as Nicholas led her from the room and into a hall where a crowd of people, many of her countrymen and fellow townsfolk, were taken captive by the Romans earlier.
Minutes later, Nicholas lead the host of prisoners from the Roman tower as his companies pulled back, all loaded with their booty. As the Norse mob clashed weapons in hand to hand combat with several guards who were now charging upon them after the horn had called them to action, Nicholas led the captives out into a courtyard on a stone path that went toward the dock.
Tryggr, having just taken down a guard, noticed an archer on a high balcony aiming down at Nicholas. “Nicholas! Crouch!” Knowing the trusted voice of Tryggr, Nicholas instantly squatted just as an arrow struck off the plastered wall behind him. He quickly drew his bow and launched a missile into the archer’s shoulder, certainly not wanting to take a life, dropping the enemy archer down quickly.
“Run. Be off to freedom!” Nicholas told the prisoners. Many of them scurried off, but the young woman stood unmoving for a moment and then she hugged him tightly.
“Tell me your name, kind visitor,” the woman asked.
“Nicholas,” he replied just as more ranks of Romans were storming upon the scene. “Be off! Make haste!”
She was last of the freed captives who dashed into the darkness waving back as she ran. “Fare ye well, Nicholas! I shall ever sing of your great deeds!”
He felt as though he had just fed his malnourished innermost voice, just as he felt when healing Juno and Sleipnir and rescuing young Pete. He knew he cared for others, but this was exhilarating. He wanted to relish the moment longer, but the red-caped fighters were closing in and he had to retreat swiftly mounted on Sleipnir’s back.
At the harbor, Hákon's crew made the knarr ready to cast off as he blew his horn and shouted, “Back to the boat, the lot of you! The enemy is on your heels!” The crew rushed and hopped aboard and instantly snatched an oar and made ready to row away with all haste. The only crewmember that simply strolled off the dock onto the ship as it shoved off was Nicholas. The troops held their shields overhead to catch the arrows raining upon them and Hákon lifted one over Nicholas. “How many lives did ye take?”
“I took many lives,” Nicholas replied and then gave his captain a cunning smirk, “and I set them free. I undid the wicked deeds the depraved Empire wrought upon innocents.”
“I mean, how many enemies did ye fell?”
“I wounded a dozen,” he replied and his thoughts turned toward Flavius and Vasilis. “There are only two men alive whose lives I’d take.”
With a laugh, Hákon slapped Nicholas on the back. “Ha! I fear calling you ‘Peacemaker’ may be a misnomer!”
Further to the bow, past the mast was the main shelter of the knarr and when Nicholas had entered, he found wounded fighters, including Snorre, lying close to a torch as others bandaged their injuries. Snorre coughed and grunted clutching his slashed thigh in pain. Baldric, a fellow sailor, attempted to patch Snorre’s leg, except Snorre kicked the sailor away and shouted, “Get away from me, you swine!”
Tryggr clutched him and then pinned Snorre’s arms back. “Silence! ‘Tis for your own good!”
A sailor approached with a red-hot sword. Nicholas tried to enter, but Hákon and other men crowded the way, keeping Nicholas back. “By Odin’s blessing, ye came out unscathed. No need to crowd those less fortunate,” Hákon told him and tried to pull him away. But Nicholas’s eyes were locked on the emblazoned tip and he then saw Snorre flex every muscle, ready to face the searing pain.
“Wait!” Nicholas called, and the gathering paused and waited for his next word. “I can mend him!”
Everyone looked at each other, some annoyed and cynical, others gasping in expectation of some magic. Snorre was of the former group. “What fiendish trick would ye play on me? No friend have I been unto you; no friendly action would ye take upon me.”
Nicholas began to move and noticed his cloak snagged from behind. He looked back and found Pete was holding on so that where Nicholas maneuve
red through the throng of sailors, Pete surely would be with him. Nicholas made his way to Snorre, knelt down, and opened his pouch of herbs. All eyes widened in anticipation, but Snorre scowled toward Nicholas’s compassion. As Nicholas rubbed a green paste over the wound, Snorre growled and shouted, “Leave me!”
Tryggr trusted Nicholas and, with others aiding him, held Snorre down to allow Nicholas to work. He finished and whispered in Elvish tongue over the wound, then pressed his hand upon it. Snorre throbbed and winced at first, but shortly his expression lightened and relief flooded the whole of his body. If Snorre was capable of crying, he would have shed a tear that magical moment. When Nicholas removed his hand, the gash was gone and only dried blood on whole flesh remained.
All eyes wondered at this man. Pete looked up at him in amazement. Nicholas glanced around and saw many other wounded men gazing upon him with their jaws dropped. All he could ask was, “Who’s next?”
5
The shepherds at those tidings,
Rejoiced much in mind.
The Dashing Dancer rocked about, breaking the whitecaps of the open ocean. Wind filled the sails speeding the adventurers on their way with little effort on their part. Nicholas sat, enjoying the free time and the cool breeze as they traveled northward in the spring. Juno nestled asleep beside him as he sketched on a scroll. As much as he enjoyed his time at sea, he regularly requested that the ship travel south where he could barter passage home, but Hákon was regularly diffident and dodged the topic altogether.
Hákon marched about near Nicholas, engrossed in their conversation and hearing Nicholas’s many tales. Pete sat nearby, silent as always, but watching and listening to Nicholas, his hero. “Then he knocked ye off the edge of the cliff to your doom and nobody at home should suspect you breathe still?” Hákon asked, assuring himself he had the facts.
“That is true to life,” Nicholas replied, always a bit shy as to divulge his past with anyone.
“And you breathe today from the aid of Elf magic?”
“Their ‘magic’ is all around us,” Nicholas explained, mostly to clear the air that he wasn’t a miracle-worker. “The herbs I bear can be found by any man and infused with life-giving capability by any with the wisdom and prowess.”
“I am reminded of a question I too oft forget,” Hákon said. “As a man of Lycia in the south, when had ye learned our northern language?” Nicholas replied in what seemed to be eloquent gibberish to Hákon. “Say again?” he asked perplexed, on the fringe of annoyance.
“It is Elvish,” he enlightened, “I said, ‘the song sung at the dawn of time is the Elven tongue and any mortal that can speak it can then know all men’s languages.’”
“Rare it is that ears of mortal man would hear the tongue of the undying, veiled people. Are you…” he paused, noticing for the first time that Nicholas was sketching what appeared to be a boat. “What is it ye scribe there?”
“An idea I have to help in raids,” he said and then displayed his design sheet. “The Dashing Dancer, though swift and mighty, is unable, such as any sail boat with a keel, to contact a beach. So, that is what I have been pondering. This vessel will not lay deep with a sail and can carry all crew swiftly to the shore. It could even be tethered to this knarr and be towed behind.”
Hákon relished the concept, praised Nicholas for his ingenuity, and when they had returned to the Shetland Islands, they crafted the prototype. A few months later, they sailed south to strike an unsuspecting sleeping Roman outpost on the coast of the town of Bayeux.
The invaders rowed quickly in their crude longboat. Driving it into the beach, they jumped off rapidly to sneak into a fortress. Hákon hopped off last beside Nicholas and halted him for a moment of laud. “I am impressed, m’lad,” Hákon told him. “Though I can tell improvements are needed, it shall be a craft used from here on. Until then, ‘tis only a glorified dinghy.”
“Well, this was my first go, eh,” Nicholas replied, turning to move along with the other silent invaders, until Hákon’s hand clutched his hood and stopped him.
“In my homeland, we have a saying,” he began and then recited, “Never walk away from home ahead of your axe or sword. Ye can’t feel a battle in your bones or foresee a fight.” Nicholas nodded patiently waiting for the point to be made until he realized Hákon was waiting for Nicholas to get it himself. He had his bow and quiver worn upon him, but he left his sword in the boat.
“Right,” he sighed and retrieved it.
Hákon took this moment and looked at the robe Nicholas wore, though part was crimson stained, the rest was striking white. “Why do ye wear that garment?”
“It is Elven made,” Nicholas explained, “waterproof, fireproof, durable and warm.”
“Yet dominantly white, not ideal for stealth at all,” Hákon criticized. “Being blessed by magic hands, I will allow it. Yet mark my words, should you compromise our mission, as furtiveness is gravely required, it will never be worn again.”
“Maybe I ought to leave it behind,” Nicholas replied.
“That may be best,” Hákon responded warmly and waited on Nicholas to remove it and toss it to the curmudgeon left to guard the boat, who kicked the coat aside and grumbled under his breath. “Not much of a warrior ye are, Nicholas. Forgetting your sword, wearing bright white into battle. If ever ye shall have that revenge of yours, you’ll need some sober instruction.”
Their operation was a smashing success that evening. Tryggr and Ranveig, leading a handful of men, made their way into the armory and withdrew with a great supply of weapons while Nicholas and Hákon’s group took a chest full of loot from the treasury. Snorre dropped a beam over the exit from the nearest soldier’s barracks, blocking them in while others in his group were ready to ambush other guards should the other teams be spotted. As it turned out, Ranveig caught sight of a high ranking politician wearing a great deal of gold rings and necklaces, stepping into his house deep in the fortified city, and she couldn’t help herself but try to break in and take his life.
The group was making their way back to the boat having gone completely unnoticed. But before Nicholas knew it, a horn blew and a great commotion arose. “Captain,” Nicholas turned and addressed Hákon, “I will go fetch the others if you will take the men and load the loot into the dinghy.”
“Aye, make haste!” Hákon replied.
Nicholas charged back in, rushing through the shadows and passing by homes where mothers held their children tight fearing a terrible battle. Snorre’s operation worked as a brigade of annoyed soldiers had to tediously chop their way out of the barracks that trapped them. As the additional guards raced to secure the fortress, the other warriors got the drop on them.
Nicholas found his way to where the politician’s home was. There Tryggr, Snorre, Ranveig, and others were presently trying to get in. “The town is alerted to us! We must depart,” he warned them.
“Nay! An Imperial official dwells therein this house!” Ranveig replied, more enraged than Nicholas had ever seen her.
“No good,” Tryggr gasped having rammed his spiked, armored shoulder against the door. “They must have barricaded themselves in and they made no windows to this dwelling.”
“Think,” Nicholas said. “There must be another way in.”
He looked up and they all took notice of the chimney. “Aye, when there is no other way, smoke has to be able to exit. There we can enter.”
Ranveig quickly scaled the side and dropped through the chimney, and Nicholas was shortly behind. Just as he meant to, right before Ranveig dropped her blade upon the trembling politician, Nicholas grabbed her hand. “Your point has been made to him, Ranveig,” Nicholas told her calmly and sternly. She was accustomed to his foreign altruism and knew there was little use arguing with him, though her sneer gave her message. “Let him go and tell the message to his people that the North belongs to free people.”
“They wouldn’t be so quick to grant ye such mercy,” she grumbled.
“This I know all t
oo well, my friend,” he said. “But if we desire such grace be present in the world, it has to start somewhere. Such as now.”
The gathering outside watched the door break open and the politician dashed off into the night. “Let him leave,” Nicholas stated strongly, stopping others from pursuing. “This house is yours to loot-“ he said just when suddenly an arrow was sticking out from right under his collarbone.
His body flooded with weakness, his head turned dizzy, and he crumbled to his knees. Some of his comrades rushed to his aid as others went into battle with the advancing Romans. Snorre threw Nicholas over his shoulders and retreated quickly as others raised their shields to catch enemy arrows. Nicholas’s head grew too foggy to comprehend the words being said to him, though he heard voices.
The next thing he knew, he was in the longboat and Ranveig grabbed his hand, and while her voice was muffled, he could determine she said, “Lo, I told you, Nicholas, they would not be merciful to you, why be merciful to them?”
Nicholas grabbed her hand and said, “Mercy is the only way this world will be won over; where man can be free.” He shut his eyes and his mind swam in a rough tide. What struck him hardest was a thought of Kenalfon, then his uncle, and then he felt a deep hypocrisy. He preached of mercy, when there was no drop of determination or desire in him to show mercy unto Flavius or Vasilis. Somehow, he had to reconcile this contradiction within, and he wasn’t ready to. Or at least he didn’t know how.
6
And with true love and brotherhood,
Each other now embrace.
It was the next day when Nicholas could be revived enough thanks to the rigorous remedies of his companions. Snorre removed the arrow and was forced to press a hot iron against the hole to stop the bleeding. Nicholas now gained enough wherewithal to administer the healing remedies to himself, though their powers never had as much potency as when one remedies another being. Kenalfon had explained that the power was derived from the purest essence of charity, not the type of simply tossing a coin to a beggar as a gesture of nobles oblige, but unadulterated love and compassion, of fellowship and connection between living creatures. Nicholas was in no condition to teach his company the ways of Elven healing, nor did he think a culture of warmongers ought to possess such knowledge lest the means fall into the hands of those who would dare abuse it to make armies invincible. The power, as Kenalfon had taught, was for good and harmony.
