Frowning, he laid back down, and curled into his ball once more in his corner. Within minutes, he had forgotten the open door—chalking it up to the wind—and drifted off to sleep.
***
Krin awoke to a sharp stab of pain on his cheek, and his eyes snapped open with a start. A glance at the small porthole, told him it was still dark out. He guessed he had only been asleep a few minutes before…
Reaching a hand up to his cheek, he felt something warm and wet. He brought his hand up to his eyes to see a small smudge of red liquid on his fingers. Blood.
What the…?
Something small and childlike giggled from somewhere in the cabin’s shadows. He sat up, scanning the room. The door was now closed. The bolt once again locked.
Was it a dream?
The giant’s snoring still rumbled in his massive throat like the growl of a mountain cat.
“Huh?”
Another giggle to his left. This time, slightly higher in pitch than the first.
A shiver slithered down Krin’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold sea air. Um, I don’t think you’re alone in here.
Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and searched the room.
“What are you doing?” came the low guttural snarl of the giant. Krin stopped dead. He looked at the man, who was still laying down with his eyes closed; head on a comfortable pillow.
“I’m just…I…”
“You realize you got nowhere to run on this tub, don’t ya?”
“Of course.” His eyes scanned back and forth, searching the floor for signs of any…
What? Children?
Krin shrugged. “Just had a bad dream, I guess.”
He moved over to his corner, and slid down the wall until he was curled once more in his horse blanket.
The giant shifted in his bed, then eyed him for several long seconds. “Well, I don’t much care. Just go back to sleep.”
The snoring resumed within seconds of the command. Krin’s sharp eyes darted about the room, seeking even the smallest movement in the cabin’s shadows. His ears strained to pick up traces of the strange laughter he thought he had heard. After a few minutes of quiet breath-holding, there was nothing but the log-sawing snores of the giant. He touched the side of his face once more, the blood had already dried. Only a raised welt existed as evidence of his nocturnal visitation.
He flashed back to the fight earlier that night on deck—his missing quiver and the bite to his leg. Something very strange was happening; he was determined to discover what it was. But for now, he decided to heed his captor’s advice and get some sleep. He closed his eyes and quickly drifted off yet again.
NINE
Port of Bremen
Germania Inferior
“Since we’re going to be traveling mates, you might as well tell me your name,” Krin said to the giant as he was shoved up to the Roman guard station at the outpost gates. Two guards stood outside the doors of the squat, wooden building. As they approached, one of the guards ducked swiftly inside, and through an interior door.
While they waited for the guard to return, Krin glanced back to the mast of the ship they had just left, berthed securely at the docks. The rest of their voyage had been uneventful. The bounty hunter’s prediction of when they would arrive at the Roman outpost of Bremen was off by several hours. The reddish-orange glow of the sun was fading swiftly to purple as it drifted over the horizon to the west.
“What’s it matter to you what I’m called?” the giant snapped. His impatience clear. Krin turned his attention to the soldiers of the XXII Primigenia Legionnaires that scrambled here and there, performing military drills along the southern wall of the encampment with crisp, stalwart strides. Their banner, depicting a stylized version of the mythic demigod Hercules, flapped boldly in the chill, northern wind.
The clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed past the doors of a small hut, just west of the stables; its kiln glowing orange in the dusky light. The unmistakable tang of manure clung desperately to the air, assaulting Krin’s nostrils with its acrid stench.
Krin felt a warm breath near his ear.
“To you, I could be Life or Death, Freedom or Imprisonment. Take yer pick. Makes no difference to me.”
Krin turned to find himself nearly nose to nose with the big man.
“I just thought if we’re going to be spending so much time together on our return to Lycia…” Krin matched his captor’s glare with his own defiant scowl. “I should at least know what to call you,”
After several more uncomfortable moments, the guard returned, and said something to the big man in a language Krin was unfamiliar with.
The giant grunted an irritated response, then handed him a rolled up parchment. As the soldier unfurled it, Krin leaned forward, and stood on tip-toe trying to see over the document to see what it said. Strange letters, that weren't Latin, nor any other alphabet he recognized, crawled across it. The characters were more angular in nature, as if they had been carved into the paper itself by knife. In many ways, they resembled the runes etched into the sword Glalbrirer, though not nearly as elegant.
The guard stared at the document for a moment, then silently walked back into the small room behind him. When he returned, he handed the paper back to the giant, then fixed Krin with a distasteful gaze. Keeping his eyes fixed on him, the guard said something to his captor in the unfamiliar dialect, then ushered them through the gates, and into Bremen—one of a handful of settlements on the borderland of what the Romans referred to as Germania Inferior.
In all of Germania, the Romans had only been able to conquer the small strip of land east of the Rhenus River, and struggled to maintain a fragile peace by constructing several permanent outposts along the river’s border. The Bremen outpost was a very crudely constructed town made almost entirely of lumber and stone. Krin gaped at the beautiful, but rustic buildings which lined the mud-slick street as the two marched the through town. Until now, growing up in the more arid regions of Asia Minor, he had only seen cities of stone and mortar. But his parents had come from a region very similar to this. Being here, now, elicited an unexpected kinship to them he had not experienced since their deaths. Biting back a sudden pang, he found himself wishing he could remember them better.
Since disembarking from their ship, he had been watching for the opportunity he was certain would present itself. No matter what he did or where he looked, none came. Krin was starting to panic. The town was heavily patrolled by soldiers, both Roman and mercenary. The twenty-foot high city walls were made of thick oak cabers that were spiked at the top. They were capable of withstanding the fiercest of attacks, and were virtually impenetrable. If he couldn't make a break soon, he would be on a return vessel by morning, and all would have been for nothing—the hardships, Garhet’s death—his quest would be lost if he couldn’t find a way out. And soon.
“Not that it’s any business of yours, but the name’s Ulfilas,” said the giant, keeping his eyes fixed on where he walked. “Ulfilas Scylding. And I’m from near these parts actually.”
Tales of the warrior clans from the northern regions sprang to Krin's mind. He had seen a few Saxons in his time and decided Ulfilas much too dark to be one of them. Nor did he seem to resemble any of the Vandals. The Visigoth, however was a different story. Although he had never actually seen one, this new breed of Goth warrior was quickly becoming a significant thorn in the emperor’s side. Krin recalled overhearing the drunken bragging sessions of soldiers back home. Could Ulfilas be a Visigoth?
Ulfilas’ grizzled, hairy features, as well as his rudimentary bone-laden armor, should have been a dead giveaway. The veterans of the Germanic campaigns had reported that style as the customary attire of such barbarians.
According to the stories he had heard, the Visigoths came from the northern regions of Germania. They were being pushed south by the Huns; many had been forced into serving Rome in exchange for land. The Visigoths were known as fierce warriors and trackers. If the giant
was a Visigoth, it would explain a great deal as to how he had tracked and found he and Garhet so easily.
Krin pondered this new realization as he was prodded down the street. As they made their way past the central hub of the settlement, they came to an inn at the center of town that advertised the “Best Beer” in the empire. Krin swore he could see Ulfilas begin to salivate at the sight of it.
“Come on, boy,” said the giant. “I’ve not tasted a good pint since we set sail on that infernal boat. Time to change that!” Ulfilas shoved Krin through the doors of the pub, following close behind. His massive frame filled the entrance, darkening the already dim interior full of rowdy soldiers, harlots, and inebriated town folk. Every eye turned in their direction...but only for a moment. No one seemed willing to look at the big man any longer than was necessary.
They’re frightened of him, Krin thought, looking up at his captor. What kind of man can scare a roomful of Legionnaires this bad? A lump suddenly formed in his throat. What hope do I have of escaping?
Ulfilas nudged Krin through the door, and into the tavern. A fire blazed in a great stone fireplace that took up an entire wall to Krin’s right. The room itself was long, and narrow with a low roof, buttressed by wooden beams that forced the giant to duck his head as they navigated around the a scattering of pine tables and seats. When they finally came to the table resting against the wall on the opposite side from the entrance, Ulfilas squeezed Krin’s shoulder tight, and nodded to a rickety three-legged stool. The big man waited for Krin to take his seat, then plopped down on his own, and howled for the barkeep. A short, rotund man from behind the counter scurried nervously over to their table, and bowed with his eyes averted.
“Two pints.” Ulfilas, held up two fingers, and beamed mischievously at Krin.
As the barkeep scrambled away to retrieve the giant’s order, a nauseating bout of worry blossomed in Krin’s mind.
“I don't drink alcohol.”
“Well, you’re about to start. I don’t like drinking alone.”
Krin’s throat knotted. The last time he had drunk beer, he and Justin had snuck into a tavern back home. For the following two days, his head pounded and guts twisted. He was so sick, Nicholas hadn't needed to punish him; punishment had already been meted. From that moment on, Krin had vowed never to taste the vile stuff again.
The barkeep returned, carrying the two pints in his shaking hands, the contents nearly spilling out with each nervous spasm. After setting the mugs down, he walked away without, Krin noticed, asking for payment. So Ulfilas was indeed known around here, and the people seemed terrified of him.
“To your health.” The big man chuckled, then hefted the mug to his mouth. “Drink up.”
With one giant gulp, the amber liquid drained into his mouth. A tidal wave of foam trailed down his bearded chin, and cascaded onto the table. Slamming the mug down, the giant yelled for another.
Krin nursed his own drink, fighting back an urge to gag with each sip of the foul-tasting beverage. The big man down another pint with gusto.
He keeps this up, he won't be in any shape to worry about me. He smiled, allowing his thoughts to coalesce. Finally. An opportunity? Some of Nicholas’ providence, perhaps?
He brought the metal mug up to his own mouth, and attempted another pull on his drink. He grimaced at the taste. Another idea hatched. All he had to do was appear to drink in order to appease his captor; the rest would be a matter of time. He would let Ulfilas drink himself into oblivion and he had simply walk out of the pub a free man.
***
After several hours, Krin’s enthusiasm for his plan was rapidly diminishing. Ulfilas was still downing pints of beer as often as Garhet devoured candy. The big man didn't show the slightest trace of inebriation.
Krin, on the other hand, wasn’t having as easy a time of it. After finishing his first drink, the entire world seemed sway violently out of control. He glanced around only to have the room spin like a child’s top. Grasping the table, he clenched his eyes shut, took three deep breaths, then opened them again. But the world still swirled before his eyes; without rhyme or reason.
It was one drink. One stinkin’ drink! He drew in another breath, and felt bile rising to his throat almost instantly. Get a grip! Don’t screw up your only chance.
If Ulfilas noticed Krin’s inebriated discomfort, he didn’t seem to care as he immediately ordered his captive another mug.
After another couple more drinks, Krin could barely stay upright on his own stool. Where the world had only listed back and forth before, now it was downright pitching and rolling. If he had eaten anything within the last twenty-four hours, he was certain he would have lost it two drinks ago.
He suddenly remembered Garhet’s bout with sea sickness a couple of days earlier. His stout frame hanging over the gunwale rail. His face the color of seaweed.
Garhet. The unbidden memory quickened his determination to win this strange battle of wills. If he could only get his legs to stop wobbling long enough for him to stand.
Taking a quick break from the fresh pint, Krin glanced around the rotating room. His eyes struggled to focus in the dim light. A single soldier—or was it two?—stumbled past their table, and cursed when his own drink slipped from his hand, and splashed against the floor. From what Krin could tell, there seemed to be a much larger crowd now than when they had first entered the tavern. The room was now packed with citizens of the rustic outpost. A group of soldiers, clustered in the corner near the fireplace, whooped and hollered as they shouted out slurred drinking songs to ill-tuned stringed instruments. A gaggle of scandalously clad harlots wrapped their arms around the necks of inebriated men, enticing them with their ample wares. And all about them, the tavern filled with the roar of laughter, curses, and boisterous stories of Germanic myth and legend.
Krin looked at Ulfilas, who continued to taunt him with a tombstone-toothed smile.
He’s enjoying this. He’s…he’s.... The thought drifted uselessly from Krin’s addled mind as his head bobbed down against his chest.
“Ssho, you…you can’t hold yer…yerdrink, eh?” the giant slurred.
A sudden ray of hope blazed through Krin’s alcohol-fogged brain.
‘Bout time! Big goon’s final…finally starting to…the thought ceased abruptly, and Krin scrambled to pick up the mental pieces that were slipping away like sand through his hand. …finally starting to get drunk! Now I'm gonna…I'm gonna….
“I can…I can too hold my…my…” Krin couldn’t quite string the correct words together. He needed to goad the bounty hunter into drinking more. Needed him to get so blind-stinking drunk, that he wouldn't be able to lift a finger to stop him from simply walking away. But Krin’s usually clever mind was drowning in an alcohol-soaked haze. “You know what I mean. Let’s have an…an...another.”
Ulfilas roared with delight, clapping his hands in a raucous cheer before waving at the barkeep for two more drinks. He then finished the one still in his hand, and howled.
“Alright t-then. But…but only one more. We have a...a boat to catch early in the morn...morn...tomorrow.” Ulfilas snorted.
Krin joined in the merriment, barking with laughter along with his captor. Then, he blurted out the thought that struck him. “So, what exactly is a ‘loon’, anyway?”
The big man's answer couldn’t squeeze out past his laughter.
Another soldier staggered into the tavern, supporting himself on the shoulders of a shorter man, cloaked and hooded. The two wove their way back and forth, bumping their way through sea of patrons with a string of ‘pardons’ and ‘sorrys’. As they approached, Krin’s table, the short man tipped over, crashing to the floor, which sent send his soldier friend sprawling in between the captor and his prisoner. Ulfilas’ pint, was upended by the sudden intrusion, sending its contents flying all over the giant’s head. The big man burst from his stool in a rage, grabbed the soldier by his cravat, and hurled him into the befuddled crowd.
Pandemonium erupted i
n the crowded pub. Fists flew indiscriminately, landing punches with anything they could connect. The giant jumped into the fray with complete abandon, tearing through the drunken horde with his mallet-like hands. In his umbrage, Ulfilas lost all interest in Krin, who huddled underneath the table for its scant protection.
The short man in the cloak crawled through the throng of fighting men to Krin.
“Come on, lad! Time to get out of here!”
Krin froze. Confusion, fear, and elation twisted in his belly like a cyclone. It was Garhetnor Bliix! Garhet was alive!
TEN
“Come on, boy!” said the dwarf. “We’ve no time to lollygag! Now’s our chance!”
A large bald-headed man crashed to the floor in front of Krin, his nose twisted into a bloody mess. A squad of soldiers, alerted to the brawl by the cacophony of splintering tables, thrown mugs shattering against cracked skulls, and enraged battle-cries, burst into the pub, their weapons ready. Krin waited for them to pass, then scurried on hands and knees for the door in a flash, his legs still wobbly from beer. The dwarf followed close behind, pushing his young charge forward, trying to keep him on as straight a course as possible considering his inebriation. Suddenly, they broke free from the chaos into the chill damp air of the seaside outpost.
Krin stood up and looked at his friend. “G-Garhet! It’shgood to shee you, my friend!” A million discombobulated questions swirled through his beer-dulled head, but before he could ask any of them, he felt Garhet’s strong hands on his arm, pulling him forward.
“No time for that, lad. We’re not safe yet,” said the dwarf. “Got to keep movin’.”
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 8
