BLOODAXE
By
James Tallett
Published by Deepwood Publishing, Inc.
Copyright © James Tallett, 2012
First U.S. Edition: February 2012
Cover by Lino Drieghe
e-book formatting by Guido Henkel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
To my dear old Dad, who’s a charming rogue with a twinkle in his eye.
Deepwood Books by James Tallett
TARRANAU
BREAKING AN EMPIRE
BLOODAXE
CHLODDIO*
LAECCAN WATERS*
UNFOLDING A NEW CONTINENT*
*Forthcoming
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A great deal of thanks to Sara Leggeri for all the help in getting this story off the ground, and to all of the readers who worked to polish Bloodaxe to its absolute best. And to Lino, for a brilliant piece of artwork.
Death
My coming has long been foretold. Or rather, my return. No one predicted my coming the first time. Not very surprising, since I was the orphaned son of farmers. I know, I know, clichéd beginnings. Not that my parents died from anything noble. Common pneumonia, caught during a worse than normal winter. And as for the farmer bit, well, there’s a lot more farmers than there are nobles. Stands to reason some of us are going to make a go at things.
A damn good go I made of it too. Looting, pillaging, winning battles, sacking cities, it was a grand old time. I was even given the title Bloodaxe by one of the cities I destroyed. I liked the imagery, and took it as my name. A great piece of propaganda.
Time passed, and I got bored with sacking. You see, the problem is if you sack a city, it gets destroyed, and doesn’t make any money for a long time. But if you capture a city, and tax it, why, it makes money every year. So I overthrew a couple feudal lords, bundled their lands up into a kingdom, and settled in as a monarch.
I never got too settled, of course. Got to keep the neighbours on their toes. But after a while I got a bit older, and decided my son needed seasoning. So he took over the raiding. Kid’s got the nickname Forkbeard. Not quite as spectacular as my title, but he does have a damn fine beard. Took after his dad in all kinds of ways, but mostly in the fine family tradition of pillage and plunder.
So, Junior’s taking care of the military, I’m running the place (I named it Rudvic, after my old mum), and some prat shows up and says I’m going to be killed in a coup and return when the kingdom once again needs a great military leader. Me being a kind and gentle monarch, I have one of the guards punt him out the castle gate.
Of course, this silly bugger of a preacher decided he’s going to keep running his mouth about my coming doom. Now, most of the populace had the good sense to treat him like the nutter he was, but some of them actually believed him. Thinking back on it now, I should have had that lot slain for being gullible idiots.
I was nice and didn’t, although that was partly because those same gullible idiots started treating me like a warrior saint who watched over the kingdom in times of need. I failed to point out that twenty years earlier, the kingdom hadn’t existed. Or that I had formed it by beating nobles over the head with my axe until they wrote me into their last will and testament. Which I made sure was executed. Immediately.
Even I have my limits though, and when the prat didn’t shut up after several reminders, I had him nailed to the castle gate. Upside down. Silly bugger kept preaching right up until the moment he died. And given the coup happened about six months after he was killed, and it was Forkbeard who did it, well, maybe I should have listened a little closer. And paid attention to the fact my son didn’t fall very far at all from the family tree. Took after dear old Dad a bit too closely there.
So, now I’m hanging around, wondering which god I nailed to the castle gates, and when he’s going to let me get off my ass and do some victorious returning. Although I’m not sure which kingdom I’ll be returning to. Mine fell apart in petty squabbles after my son proved he was as crap as a monarch as he was good as a fighter. And now my lands are all bits and pieces of baronies and earldoms and ducal courts, and there’s fourteen wars carried on at any one time and nine of them only using assassins and spies.
I thought I was ruthless, but these rulers today? They’ve made punitive taxation into an art form. Even the demons I run across are impressed. Bringing back my old style of pillage and plunder would probably be a boon to the ordinary peasants.
Anyway, enough wittering on from this old fart of a warrior king. But you’ll hear from me again. I’ll come back, and when I do there’s going to be a rocking party. I can’t wait.
Life
Being born hurts. A lot.
I felt like I was being squeezed through a rawhide bag by a former member of my personal bodyguard. The one who killed people by strangling them with an iron bar. Not wire. Bar.
After that, I got smacked around by a particularly ugly old crone, then cleaned up and handed over to a woman with enough gold cloth that she had to be a duchess. Not bad for a second time around. Much better than a peasant, although I had always liked dear old mum and dad.
I was small enough I figured it was better to be polite, so I said “Hello”. Turned out some of the connections weren’t working right, since all that came out was a squawk. And so it turned out I was going to have to go through a normal childhood, complete with all the annoying stages of growing up. Lovely.
Whichever god thought this was a good idea is going to wake up one morning with me standing over him with an axe. A bloody great one. And if I don’t find out which one it is, I’m going to start with Frethden, god of trickery, and work my way in from there.
I’ve been through childhood once, and it turns out the only reason I remembered it fondly was because I didn’t remember it at all. Learning not to crap your pants? I’m so very glad I now have complete memories of that.
Anyway, less faeces and deicide, and more storytelling. It turned out I had been born into the duchy of Trond, which was the smallest of the duchies that once made up my kingdom. Bigger than the three earldoms and two baronies that sat around it, but smaller than the other two duchies. Situated nicely in the middle.
Or not so nicely in the middle. The other two duchies didn’t like my new parents very much, and decided to do something about that. Specifically, they sent several assassins in the night, plus a rather large force of regular soldiers. And when you’re four years old, it doesn’t matter how many years of battle-hardened reactions you have, you still need to run and hide. At least being four meant I could hide in a tiny cubbyhole.
It turned out the gold cloth wearing woman who was my new mother was fairly skilled with a rapier. Significantly more so than my new father, who got himself skewered within moments. I’d have been sad, except I only ever saw him at a distance, or at state affairs. Not exactly a loving father-son relationship. So, new mum dispatches the assassins, including the one who got the duke, finds me, and decides to leg it, since there’s rather more soldiers around who belong to the other duchies than to ours.
She calls, I come, we’re whisked off through miles of secret passages and tunnels, and end up climbing out a trapdoor hidden in the back of the fertilizer shed of a local farmer. I liked that touch. Sneaky, devious. Gave me more respect for the duchess. What
I didn’t like was the damage a shaggy pony can deal to four year old buttocks. I’ve acquired battle scars in less painful ways.
I also didn’t like the irony of the gods. Because my Mum and I ended up living in a peasant village. On a hillside. Farming. Yes, I was once more a peasant farmer. I hadn’t liked it the first time I was growing up and I didn’t like it now. And how the hell was I going to fulfil my destiny of returning to save Rudvic if all I had to work with was some dirt and the clots who ate it?
Despite having been a duchess most of her life, Mum turned out to be a dab hand at sewing and cooking, and pretty good at farming too. I did all the heavy lifting, and she told me where and when to do it, and it worked out pretty well. Enough that I grew up nice and big and strong, with a long blonde ponytail down my back. For the looks, obviously. I’d have to hack it off as soon as I started fighting. No way was I leaving a handle for my enemies to expose my neck.
I got picked on by the village boys growing up. Well, once. After I kicked the first in the testicles, punched the second in the throat, and kneed the third in the face until his nose broke, they kind of left me alone. Good to see I hadn’t lost any of the old skills.
I wanted to make sure, and so once I hit the age of ten I started practice fighting. By myself, unfortunately, since no one else wanted to challenge me and there were no guards. Peasants are useless, and just about as bright as the animals they raise. Still, I could drill the strokes, especially axe, since there was a decent wood-splitter at home. And lots of physical workouts. Had to get nice and muscled.
Of course, this raised a lot of eyebrows. In retrospect, I can see why. There aren’t too many peasant ten year olds who know military chants and axe fighting drills. The one who was most confused was Mum, although she just watched. In fact, she began to spar with me, dragging out the old rapier from where it had been hidden. We tried to make sure there was some privacy for our sparring though, as there was still a reward on our heads. Being deposed nobility paid very well. For everyone else.
It turns out your views on age get all skewed when you’re born. I’d thought the duchess was fairly old, but she’d only been seventeen. Still in the prime of her life. And I could see how she had survived the assassins. Mum was very handy with a rapier, although the only reason she could beat me was because I was ten. Children’s arms just can’t perform some of the moves with an axe.
Life wasn’t too bad for the next three years. We’d get up, farm all day until supper, spar for an hour, then finish up any last tasks we had before bed. A bit repetitive at times, but kept her and I on our toes. During the sparring, she also filled me in on the history of her duchy.
Mum had been born into the smallest of the baronies, and only ended up with my father after his first wife died unexpectedly. And that death had set in motion the eventual attack, since the wife’s family blamed my father for poisoning her. Now, given she’d apparently been a hateful, ugly, shrew, I was totally in agreement with my father if that’s what he had done. But truth never matters in politics.
I was sad to hear that any legends about my return were lost, as was most of the historical accuracy about my reign. Apparently I was now some bloodthirsty barbarian with a penchant for lucky victories. I put a little marker on the list of things I was going to have a long chat to the gods about.
At least all the old gods were still around. They’d even added a new one, although since I couldn’t spell his name I called him Cheapskate. God of politics, assassins, bribery, and theft. And lawyers. That was the first modern invention I was going to destroy when I got into power. Blood feuds had worked just fine in my experience. And resolving them was a lot more fun.
Unfortunately, while Mum and I were living this idyllic existence in the mountains, along with thirty head of lowing peasantry and other cattle, the political situation in the former kingdom of Rudvic was getting nasty. The two duchies couldn’t decide how to split up Trond, and then the earls and the barons decided they should each get a piece.
I’d never heard of a five-sided war before, but they are quite devastating. The only people who won were the bandits, since they grew like mushrooms, popping up after every battle. Cowards, most of them, soldiers who had run away or lost. Not even the decency to band together and sack towns and cities. Instead they picked on farming villages. Like mine.
It all came to a head one morning in the village square, when I was thirteen. I could hear shouting and cursing, and then a scream or two. Bandits had shown up and decided they needed all of our produce. Right before the winter. Which meant we would all starve. That right there told me the bandits were dumb. A successful raider never killed anyone he didn’t have to. After all, you need to be able to raid them again.
My best success was raiding the same market town seven times in eighteen years. Wounded the guards, unless they fought too hard, then grabbed all the booty and the cute young boys and girls, and asked how much the parents would give me to have their children back. Made a fair few silver that way. And those that weren’t ransomed, well, slavers paid well. Better, often.
I digress. I was already six feet tall at thirteen, and knew I was going to be nice hefty lad. So I wasn’t too worried when I grabbed the wood-splitter from the hut, and snuck through the village to get a good look at what was going on.
Six bandits in the village square, chirping away about “your money or your life”. Gods they were uninventive. I was about to leap on them when I saw Mum walk into the square from the other side, carrying her rapier. She’d also dragged out her main gauche, a parrying dagger used in the left hand. She’d only begun sparring with that again when I was twelve, but I had many cuts that said she was handy with it.
Dear old Mum is a tremendous actress. Probably all those years in politics and noble households. So when she started threatening the bandits while shaking in her boots, the thieves laughed at her, and began taking bets on who got the first fun. Now, me, I’d grown rather attached to my Mum, even if she wasn’t the first one I’d had, so I used those taunts to work myself into a rage, the big angry kind that had gotten my warriors the name berserkers.
In a neat trick of timing, Mum had disarmed the first assailant and stabbed him through the neck right as I sprinted around the corner, axe coming in sideways on the nearest thief. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t split him in half, but I got through the spine, so I was still pretty happy. A follow-up with the back of the axe stunned another bandit, and I got a third with a right punch to the throat. Coupled that with a good loud roar, and everyone turned to stare at me.
So Mum took advantage and stabbed two bandits in the back. Idiots. Did they really think she was helpless after she had already killed one of them? Human stupidity amazes me sometimes.
Anyway, we left one bandit alive, although not before I’d kicked him in the cleft a few times. Lots of questions and a few beatings later, and he told us all about the political situation down the mountain. Basically, one duchy was gone, another was clinging on, and the earls were fighting it out for the winner’s prize, while the baronies had allied themselves or gotten eaten.
A royal mess, and one that was going to get a lot worse. I was going to join it. I just hadn’t figured out how.
After Mum and I finished talking to the bandit, we got rid of him, and Mum gave me one of those looks. The ones where you know you’re in for a serious conversation, and have no idea what it’s going to be about. I think they must come standard with being a female. And it’s a right doozy of a conversation when the first things she asks is “Who are you, really?”.
Now, I’m not about to tell her I’m a whatever year old spirit who was reborn to rescue the former kingdom of Rudvic. She’d think I’m crazy. I’d think I’m crazy, except I know it’s true. So I tell her I’m a demon come to Earth.
Mum takes one look at me and calls bullshit. I’m too bloodthirsty to be a demon. Right, cover story number one is blown. Time for number two. This story, I’m a god who has come to set things right and restor
e the old worship. Granted, this would work better if the old worship wasn’t still practised in a lot of places, but I was trying to think on my feet.
Didn’t work. She’s sharp, is my Mum. So I tell her the truth, that I’m King Bloodaxe returned to restore Rudvic to its former glory. Now, this time I get the stink-eye from her, but I think that’s more because I hadn’t told the truth the first couple times. Anyway, she accepts this story, which is good, because I didn’t have any others to tell.
Then she asks what her role is, and how I’m planning on rebuilding this kingdom. Hell if I know, woman, I’m thirteen and living in a peasant village. So I ask her if she has any ideas, or more importantly, contacts. She has a few, but most of them probably got killed in the wars. Lovely. So our current resources are a herd of sceptical peasants, an axe, a rapier, a main gauche, and two working brains.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering how I did it last time around, since I started from a peasant village then as well. Back in those good old days, being a strong warrior counted for a lot more than which man had sex with your mum. So once I got to fourteen, I wandered over to the first group of warriors I could find, clubbed the leader over the head in a duel, and took off from there. I usually fought in single combat, and often I didn’t kill anybody, although sometimes I did just to make a point. Or in one case because he had really bad odour, and I didn’t want to smell it all campaign.
But all I had to be was a strong warrior, at least at first. Now I had to deal with politics, and birthrights, and all these other things that were basically justifications for keeping crap rulers in charge. Back in my day, they’d have been roasting over a spit as the main course in somebody else’s victory feast. I like my day more.
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