by Paul Freeman
“Would there have been any point denying it? You are no fool, Erik. You knew why I was here the moment you set eyes on me.”
“As spies go, you are not without benefits.” He smirked.
“Could any other get so close to you?” She smiled back.
“No,” he answered. “So, tell me why His Majesty has sent you to ingratiate yourself with me.”
“The king is concerned with your action on the Thieves Citadel. He is worried that you went to war and invaded another nation without consulting him first. Your aggression has put him in an awkward position.”
“Another nation?” he spluttered, spitting wine across the floor. “A nest of villains and cutthroats. The only thing saving that wretched place for all these years was that cursed dream cult – which I’m happy to say no longer exists.”
“Yes, the Temple of Eor. You desecrated it and murdered all of the priestesses…”
“They were not murdered. They took their own lives.”
She arched her shapely eyebrows at his answer before saying, “Erik, his majesty has been asked for your head.”
“My head? By who?” he snarled.
“Never mind that. The other dukes are nervous.”
“Tell me who has petitioned the king for my death,” he said in a low, even voice.
Isabetha ignored him. “There are others who are not happy. The high priestess has influence in the Sunsai Empire, and other lands have worshippers of Eor. They all bring pressure to bear on his majesty.” She paused to sip some wine before continuing. “You’ll be pleased to hear he has refused those requests.”
“I am happy his majesty has finally found his own voice. His father would never…”
“His father is dead and not the king,” Lady Isabetha interrupted him. “Listen to me, Erik. his majesty could change his mind on a whim. Today he has sent me, tomorrow it may be the axe-man with an army at his back.”
The clay goblet suddenly exploded in Normand’s hand. Blood and wine trickled between his fingers. “Were you also instructed to fuck me, to soften me up?” he said through a clenched jaw.
“No. That was for me,” she answered.
“So what does he expect of me, if he does not want my head?”
“In public he is demanding that you withdraw from Eorotia.”
“No,” he said, not allowing her to finish. “I will not return the rats to their nest. I will not have my lands plagued by hordes of brigands and thieves.”
Isabetha spoke calmly. “In private he wants fifty percent of everything. He knows well that those mountains are bulging with stolen gold.”
“No.”
“Then you will die, Erik. The king values many things, but none so high as gold.”
Lady Rosinnio – Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle
Lady Rosinnio, wife of Crawulf, jarl of Wind Isle and all of the surrounding seas, sat in her sturdy, oak chair at the head of the feasting hall. In front of her, her husband’s chosen men sat around on long benches, drinking ale and squabbling amongst themselves. Beside her, Crawulf’s carved chair remained empty. The flames from torches sitting in sconces on the walls flickered from the wind sweeping though the stone corridors of the castle. Outside, beyond the safety and disputable comfort of stout walls, a storm raged, an icy wind whipping down freezing rain from the north.
It had been three days since they had defeated the invader. Three more days that Crawulf had not returned. In that time, although they had nodded respectfully, acknowledging her role in the victory, her husband’s chief men had refused to take orders from Rosinnio.
‘They will not be commanded by a woman, even less an outlander,’ Brandlor, Crawulf’s chief advisor had explained. Yes, respect for her since the battle had grown in their eyes, but she was not the jarl of Wind Isle, merely his wife. As a result, nothing had been done, as the chosen men argued amongst themselves. The gates to Wind Isle Castle had remained barred – no one went in and no one left. Rosinnio had attempted to argue that men should be sent forth to ensure any surviving raiders were captured or had returned to their ships. She had wanted search parties to look for Crawulf, for surely he must be in serious peril, or worse, to have been missing for so long, and at such a time.
They are nervous. They have been attacked at the very heart of their power and their jarl is missing. They are frightened, but will not admit it to each other or themselves. Brandlor’s words echoed in her mind. “What must I do?” she had asked.
“For now, wait.”
She was sick of waiting. She felt the presence behind her of the giant warrior, Rothgar. He had not left her side since the battle, glowering at all and any who approached her, even sleeping outside her door at night. She could do little else but picture him as a faithful hound. The thought brought a smile to her lips, even if she was puzzled by the huge warrior; a man she had wanted put to death for insulting and threatening her. I will never understand these Nortmen—never be one of them. “I wish to retire. I am weary and still feeling the effects of the poison,” she said to the grey-haired counsellor who hovered nearby. Always, it seemed, on hand to offer a word of advice. She could not help but wonder how much of it she should listen to.
“Yes, my lady. Bed-rest will aid your recovery.”
She nodded and gingerly extracted herself from the hard, uncomfortable chair. It was no lie that she still felt aches and cramps, the after-effects of being poisoned, but she had another reason for wishing to leave the hall and the watching eyes of her husband’s warriors. As she expected, Rothgar slipped into step behind her and her handmaiden as they made their way silently down draughty hallways. When they reached her chamber, Rothgar took up position outside of her door.
“Come,” she beckoned to him, biting her lip at the confused expression on his face. “I wish to speak to you,” she added.
He nodded and stepped into the room, clearly uncomfortable being inside his lord and lady’s bedchamber. Rosinnio poured wine into two cups and handed one to him.
“My lady, I…”
“It does not sit well with you, being served by your jarl’s lady?” she asked, finding herself enjoying his discomfort. “Come sit.” She sat on a wooden bench, inviting him to join her. He rested the great Nort-axe he carried against the wall, shifted his sword around his waist and sat, cup in hand, his eyes shifting from Rosinnio to her handmaiden and back again. “We did not make a good start, you and I…” she began. Rothgar shifted uncomfortably. “The fault was mine. It is taking me time to become used to the ways of Nortland and its people. It will likely take me a lifetime to even scratch the surface, but I will try.”
Rothgar nodded, a growl rattling in his throat Rosinnio could not decipher.
“You are loyal to your jarl, and quite possibly the bravest man I have ever known.” She meant the words. She had been awestruck by not just his courage at facing his enemies, even though they had far superior numbers, but by the sheer brutality of the encounter. It was her first and only battle. Rothgar had been by her side for the duration of it, as she strode into the courtyard—some would say stupidly, others inspired—he had circled around her, beating back all who approached; killing in a wild frenzy, until the invader had fled. “I would ask a favour of you.”
“My lady, I…”
“Crawulf must be found. His battle-chiefs will take no action without him. They have sat in that hall, bickering and drinking with no decisions being made. I am his wife, but they will not listen to me… will not take orders from a woman. So I am begging you.” She slid off the bench and onto her knees. “Go find him for me, bring him back.”
“And if he is dead?”
“Well, at least we will know.”
“I am thinking that may not be a good situation for you. Your life will be in the hands of a new jarl,” the big warrior said.
Rosinnio’s head bowed. She had assumed that if her husband was dead then they would just return her to her father. Was it possible that a new jarl would wish to end any possible threat t
o his position by ensuring Crawulf’s line ended with him… but they had no children. She would never understand the ways of the Nortmen.
She looked up fiercely then. “Well, then so be it.”
Rothgar stood up and nodded once. It was as much of an answer as Rosinnio would get. He reached a hand down to her to help her up off her knees, and then turned and walked briskly from the room, snatching his great, two-handed axe from the wall by the door.
“These Nortmen are a mystery to me and that one above them all,” Rosinnio’s handmaiden said.
“Yes, I agree, he is a strange one. I think though, he will do as I asked. He has a peculiar sense of honour, but one made of iron.”
“Or love.”
Rosinnio swung around to face her handmaiden at that. “Love?”
“Do you not think him a little in love with you? The way he has followed you, snarling at any who approach you.”
“No.” The former princess laughed. “Not that one. The loyalty he has shown me is merely an extension of the esteem in which he holds his jarl. If only the rest would act more like him.”
“I’m not so sure that would be a good thing,” the servant girl answered, before both of them began to laugh.
***
The black sea boiled beneath him and crashed over his head as Crawulf rode each tumultuous wave sending his flimsy craft high into the air and crashing down again. The wind whipped at his sodden beard and hair, icy cold on his skin and eyes. All around him the screeches of the Death Riders—dark dwarves riding black hounds with wings and red glowing eyes—hunted for the souls of lost seamen in order to enslave them in the dark caverns of the Nacht Realm.
He was alone as he fought the rage of Baltagor, Lord of the Sea and the servants of Boda, Mistress of the Shadow World—the Nacht Realm—as they stood united against him. He roared his defiance at all of them, even as salt water clogged his throat and stung his eyes. The howling wind along with the demons borne on it competed with the roaring sea to deafen him, and still he shouted back his defiance from the prow of his ship. He clung to the serpent’s head, knowing that his crew had all been washed overboard, the blood-red square sail hung in ribbons from the single mast, with strands of rigging whipping in the air. The strong odour of brine clung to his nostrils as each wave deposited more and more water into the boat. White horses, riding mountain-high waves, snarled biting and kicking as they washed over the jarl of Wind Isle.
A loud crack behind him told him that the mast was gone, as the planks of the deck snapped and splintered beneath his feet. A round shield flew past his head, wrenched free from where it had been secured to the side of the boat, with those belonging to the other crewmen. Crawulf raised his sword and laughed.
“He’s waking!” Words drifted on the wind, floating past and into his consciousness.
He opened his eyes and saw the woman of the house jump back when she saw him stir. She had felt the grip of his fingers around her throat once before and was wary to get too close ever since. He growled and nodded, and then shifted himself so that he could sit up. The woman handed him a bowl of boiled oats before hurrying away.
“I was dreaming,” Crawulf said. His head spun as he regarded the bowl in front of him.
“Aye, we heard,” the fisherman answered. A younger man chuckled as he looked up from his own bowl of porridge. “You cried out,” he explained with a smile on his face. “I am thinking it was not such a pleasant dream.”
“The black dwarves of Boda were tearing my flesh with their claws searching for my soul,” he answered grimly.
“Did they find it?” the boy asked.
“That which is not there will never be found,” Crawulf snarled.
“Everybody has a soul,” the fisherman answered. “Just some are blacker than others.”
Crawulf spooned the porridge into his mouth. “I am feeling much rested, although my leg is still useless,” he said between mouthfuls. “Can you take me somewhere? You will be paid well for your trouble.” He could still taste the salty seawater, smell the brine and kelp over the earthier aroma of the reed-thatch above his head and the wattle-and-daub walls surrounding him. He shivered at the memory of the dream, despite the heat thrown off from the fire at the centre of the room.
“Aye, if you wish.” The fisherman dug something out from beneath him then. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in cloth. He handled it as if its contents would bite him at any moment. He stood up and approached Crawulf. “This belongs to you I’m thinking. We found it in the cave.”
Crawulf took it from the fisherman’s hands, snatching back the cloth. A smile crept across his lips at the sight of his sword. The weapon handed down to him from his father, and to he from his. “Aye, this belongs to me.”
“We want no trouble,” the fisherman said.
“You will have none,” Crawulf answered. “You saved my life, where others would have left me to die. You could have looted my carcass and waited for the tide to fill the cave again and wash me out to sea. Instead you brought me into your home and cared for me. I am in your debt, and you will be well rewarded.”
“You didn’t come off no shipwreck, did you?”
“No, no I did not.” Crawulf said, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Father! Father, come quick!” they were interrupted by the cries of the man’s second son.
Suddenly the small hut was awash in light as the main door was flung open. A young man stood in the entryway, panting and heaving. The skin of his face was covered in a sheen of sweat, which stuck his hair to his forehead. “Father…” he began again before stopping abruptly. His back stiffened as thick, red liquid bubbled out of his mouth.
Crawulf watched open-mouthed as a blade erupted from his chest. Time froze for an instant, before reality crashed in with violent intensity. The fisherman screamed, “Noooo…” His second son, sat, rooted to his chair, his mind clearly not comprehending what his eyes were telling him. A high-pitched wail of a grieving mother pierced the air, shaking Crawulf out of his reverie.
The dead boy’s body was flung aside as pandemonium erupted inside the house. A man, wearing mail armour under his heavy cloak and an iron helmet on his head, burst into the room. The blade he carried in his hand shone crimson in the firelight as he jabbed it at the fisherman’s head. Another followed behind. Crawulf could hear others shouting and roaring behind them. The wailing of the fisherwoman was suddenly cut off abruptly. Crawulf barely registered her body slumping to the earthen floor, her blood splattering the rushes.
As quickly as he could, Crawulf shook the cloth off his sword and swung his legs off the bed. Agony lanced through him from his shin and all the way up his back. With gritted teeth and watering eyes, he ignored the pain, to stand awkwardly on one foot. The first of the intruders, his weapon now dripping crimson from the blood of the father as well as the son, swung towards him. Crawulf blocked the arcing blade with his own and stabbed with a sharp vicious jab at the man’s face. The blade caved in his cheekbone and pierced his brain, killing him before he had time to cry out. Crawulf wrenched his weapon free, letting the man slide to the ground. A second snarled a curse at him as he raised his sword to strike. Crawulf lost his balance as he attempted to take a defensive posture with only one good leg. The stumble saved his life. He felt a tide of air as the warrior’s sword flew past him.
Another scream snapped his attention away from his opponent for the briefest of instants. The fisherman’s second son lunged at the warrior with a spiked hook on a pole, catching him unawares. He drove the fishing implement into his chest, the ferocity of the blow driving through his boiled leather armour, to pierce soft flesh and grind bone. The warrior fell with a look of shock on his face.
More crowded into the small hut, beating down the fisherman’s son by weight of numbers, although a number took sore hurts from the enraged boy as they dragged him down. Crawulf found himself hoping the boy lived through the ordeal. He stood impassively, waiting, while the men formed a line in front of him, har
d men, men who had seen battle and death. If he was to die this day, it was better to greet the gods with a sword in his hand and the blood of his enemies on the blade. Far better than shivering to death in a dank cave.
“So who wants to die first?” he snarled. The effect he had hoped for was somewhat lost when he accidentally put weight on his bad leg and an involuntary grimace wracked his body.
“Well, well, well, look at what just washed up into our nets.”
Crawulf squinted at a newcomer, framed by sunlight as he stood in the open doorway. “Well met, Jarl Crawulf,” he said, a humourless smile formed on his lips. “Take him!”
Crawulf’s sword was useless to him as he was bundled to the ground. He roared in agony as he was manhandled by at least four men. Fire erupted in his leg until he blacked out from the pain.
Tomas: The Great Wood
The Great Wood loomed in the distance as the first flush of dawn bled a crimson glow into the sky. Tomas kicked his horse on, requisitioned from the monk’s stables, towards the dark wall of trees. Cradled in his arms was Aliss, appearing to sleep soundly, thanks to the healing charm placed on her by Brother Joshan. Appearances were not all they seemed, and he knew somewhere, deep inside her subconscious, that she suffered greatly. Joshan, his old friend and one time mentor had said she was beyond help, her injuries too severe. He also knew that there were other ways of accomplishing things, darker paths that men like Joshan feared to travel.
The wood stretched across the countryside for hundreds of leagues, as long as it was wide. Its hidden depths harboured many secrets few men had even heard tell of, let alone seen. Rumours and stories abounded about what lived in the very darkest places of the forest; occasional sightings of malformed creatures and beasts to terrify a man’s soul added to the mystery and power of the place. It was a place to be avoided by folk if at all possible. Apart from the demons and ghosts who lay in wait for unwary travellers, it was also home to some of the worst kind of men in the Duchies, brigands and villains using its reputation to hide themselves from honest folk. Tomas knew this well – he was once one of them.
