by Alex Sapegin
The drivers directed the carts towards the raspy serf arabas parked on the edge of the tethering post and unharnessed the horses. Let them rest from the yolk, the dears. The hirdmen, once they had hastily wiped the sweat off the horses’ sides and hung sacks of oats on their snouts, drifted off in different directions.
Keeping in mind that they were no longer in the fields, Hag assigned a guard of five men. Petty thieves didn’t ever take a vacation. They could steal the feathers off a hawk and get away with it, and there was no such thing as too careful.
The stately figure of a female northerner stood out from the group of women. (The warriors had taken their wives, girlfriends and relatives south with them.) It was Hilda, a widow.
She was the wife of Bjorn, Hag’s older brother, who died six months ago in an unlucky crusade. Hag took her under his roof. Three months had gone by since then. They had begun to live as husband and wife, not caring a lick for the judgments and gossip that went on behind their backs. The plucky young women, seeking grooms for themselves, talked more than anyone. “And you wouldn’t believe how far it goes! That’s the second time she trapped a traveling sea-king! The witch! She hasn’t even mourned and is busy pulling the wool over his eyes! Give the sheets a chance to cool!”
Hag only bore his teeth with contempt at the husband-hunters. He loved Hilda with all his heart. Blindly. He had fallen in love with her at first sight, when his brother had brought his wife home from the Lynx clan and led her into their parents’ house. Hag then came back from a successful crusade against the elves and was at home, unpacking the spoils with his mother. This we’ll keep, that we’ll set aside as a gift, and this we’ll sell at the market. His brother burst into the parlor and in a hung-over voice called the family and introduced his bride. Hilda, dressed in a green frock with wide sleeves and magical amulets sown on around her robust waist, and strings of river pearls in her golden locks, proudly lifted her head and looked at her new relatives with her green eyes. Her mouth was stubbornly set, not smiling, and she was flaring her nostrils and slightly trembling as she puffed up her chest with pride. “The new little Dragon will be a great addition to our nest!” the mistress of the clan approved of Hilda. Hag realized from the moment he laid eyes on her that he was doomed. He drowned in her defiant eyes, got stuck as in a swamp.
He didn’t let anyone in on his feelings for his sister-in-law with a single word or action, secretly hoping that Bjorn would cease to be. Die. Drown. He would never have raised a hand against his brother himself and would have been the first to slaughter his enemies. Secretly dreaming of Hilda, he never even looked her way. Fornicators were exiled from the clan in shame, and thieves were executed in the Black Bog. There had been no murderers in the clan in the last three hundred years. Four years passed. Hilda gave birth to a daughter, Hag’s niece, Myra. Many things came to pass, great and mundane. Hag tried to spend more time on crusades. His father stopped paying him any mind and soon, almost openly, demonstrated animosity towards him, envying his middle son’s success and the glory he’d gained in battle. Hag departed from his father’s house, now a stranger and unwelcomed, he was sent away by envy.
And then one day, in a routine crusade, Bjorn’s drekkar was chasing a merchant barge of gray orcs. Departing from the chase, to the chagrin of themselves and the Dragon clan, the orcs veered off to the north, and a snekkja came out from the pre-dawn fog to meet them. The ship’s sail was decorated with a sun symbol, and the figure of a fire-bird on the bow. Arians. They had wandered quite far from their homeland. They were all ready for battle. The Arians sprinkled the orcs with long arrows fired from their heavy composite bows and quickly sailed in for the kill. A short pursuit and the grappling hooks flew, pulling the ships in. With a dull moan, the wooden connector bridge fell to the deck of the orcs’ ship.
Exiting the fog, Bjorn’s hirdmen saw that someone else was already taking charge of their prey and they tapped their oars in a friendly gesture, but good fortune then turned her face away from them. The Arians, although they had incurred some losses during the grappling with the merchant orcs, still managed to fend off Bjorn’s vikings. Twenty Arian warriors jumped on board the “Flying Valkyrie” and the fun began, which ended with the hirdmen’s slaughter. When they were through, only forty hirdmen were left of an original eighty. The Arians cut the cords and chains that connected the two ships, scorched the merchants with flaming arrows, and left with their spoil. Bjorn, who had killed three, had taken two strong blows with a sword. Arians’ swords were light but unusually solid. Gmarin, the dwarf, later examining them in Sogneborg, declared the foreign smiths’ creation superior compared to the dwarfs’ simple imitation thereof. That blade was now in Hag’s sheath.
There were no more sorcerers among the hird. One had caught an arrow to the eye; another got it in the neck with a sword. The Arians killed them off first. Three days later everyone’s wounds became inflamed. The hirdmen, despite all their skills, could not stop the infection that even the most useless sorcerer could have cleared up in three hours. On the fourth day, Bjorn died, along with another four wounded men.
The drekkar reached its home fjord with a lowered pennant, which meant that the sea-king and the captain had perished. A sorrowful procession met the vessel. They managed to bring the bodies of the fallen home before the icy spell of a deceased sorcerer’s amulet lost its power. The warriors’ bodies were wrapped in white cloth and piled on a funeral pyre, built on a large raft.
The intoxicating flame carried the souls of the fallen vikings to Valhalla. People stood on the shore watching the flame consume those who, just four weeks ago, had been alongside them, enjoying life.
Hilda stood on the shore, holding her daughter with her head lowered dismally. She was alone. She hadn’t had time to bear Bjorn a son. His father refused to keep a widow without a son in his house. Everything that her family had given her could fit in a single cart. The clan mistress, old Freira, tried to talk sense into the head of the clan, but the father was inexorable. He loved Bjorn, his first-born, most of all. He was waiting for a grandson, in which case Hilda could expect much from him, but Norn ordered otherwise.
Hag made up his mind to take a drastic step and approached her:
“Will you come with me?” he asked. “Don’t say no just yet. You can perform the funeral service, and then you’ll be the lady of my house. I’ll take Myra in as my own daughter.”
He had greatly feared that Hilda would be burned along with her husband, while he feared she would refuse him, but she agreed.
“I will,” she asserted.
“Why?” he asked like an idiot.
“I’ll go. Not because I fear of being alone, but because I’ve always loved you, from the first day I saw you in your father’s house. I’ll go because your mother and father have always known it. Don’t ask how they knew. They knew everything. Bjorn didn’t love me—he had affairs with grass widows, and he envied you. Which is why your father threw you out. He thought Bjorn would be less jealous of your glory and success in battle. But what are you going to tell your family?”
“I’m not going to tell them anything. And if my family or clan is against it—I’ll leave. Dragons should be together, but my home is your nest!” he spoke the ritual phrase.
The clan didn’t say anything about it at the Lower Thing. His father didn’t care; his middle, unloved son had already lived in his “long house” (ship) for two years and had led a hird which half-consisted of his personal squad on raids. Hag hadn’t yet regretted his decision for a second.
The story with the Arians then took an unexpected turn. It turned out that all the Arians’ vessels—skeids and snekkjas—began to be seen in waters where gray orcs’ (the vikings of the east) drekkars usually sailed. The orc clans from the far-away islands cast off from their long-time dwelling places and migrated south….
“You look disturbed. Did something happen?” Hag asked his wife.
“Myra’s missing, I haven’t been able to find her for fi
fteen minutes already. Tell the warriors to search every inch of the tethering post.”
Hilda nervously fingered the belt on her waist. Her face was covered with a blush of emotion. Her green eyes looked at her husband pleadingly.
“Calm down, we’ll find her!” he kissed her on the cheek and summoned Olaf his foreman, a phlegmatic warrior, whose expression called to mind a sleepy bull’s. Olaf really did, in his figure and his habits, resemble a bull. Only he had a hidden agenda, as did many in Hag’s guard. He was tough, strong-willed, and didn’t give concessions even to his top ten men. A strong warrior, Olaf had long ago earned some authority by his skills, tactical shrewdness and, where necessary, fist and strong word. He could conduct trade, bargaining until his voice got hoarse, somehow knowing all the prices and the demand for each commodity. Possibly, in the future, Olaf would leave the hird, and then Hag would have a very good merchant friend. No wonder the merchants welcomed Olaf as soon as they laid eyes on him. Like one of their own….
“Olaf!”
“Yes, sea-king!” Olaf appeared immediately.
“Get a dozen men and go up and down the tethering post. Myra’s missing.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Olaf, again! I’ll find her—I’ll give her a good licking when I do!”
Olaf smiled. He heard Hag’s promise to whip the girl several times a day. She was a walking scourge, not a child! She was constantly keeping the whole squad on their toes. She was always turning up lost, missing, getting herself into places that weres impossible to get into in the right mind. Loved by all the warriors, she played with them like dolls in her play carriage, often making fools of hairy mustached men and making them the targets of friendly ridicule, managing at the same time to stay out of their way.
Hag decided to move to the side of the city gates. Who knew, perhaps Myra had decided to play with the peasants’ children?
“My fangs are small but sharp, but I don’t look like a berserk, since there’s no foam. Where’d you come from? Are you an expert in berserks or something?” he heard from behind a wagon with high sides.
Hag stepped livelier and ran onto the free square. A tall man was sitting on a thick log, leaning his back against a post. As far as he could tell, he had been speaking with the girl for a while already, since the subject of their conversation had turned to berserks, the girl’s favorite heroes. But what was that about fangs? Hag tensed up. What did he say, he has sharp fangs? He had yet to meet a vampire! He had to bring this interview to a close.
“Oh! There you are you little fidgety one. Come over here! I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ll take a switch to your backside, that’ll teach you to run off! Geeze, what were ya thinkin’?” Hag said, coming out from behind the wagon and cutting short the girl’s conversation with the stranger.
“I found an owc! Hag, I found an owc!” Myra cried, skipping and hopping towards him.
An orc? Well, that’s where the fangs came from then! The stranger stood up, patted the dust off his coat and wiped the dirt off his boots with some grass. He was a couple inches taller than Hag, wider in the shoulders, but of a thinner build. His wide-brimmed hat had been covering his face, but now Hag could see him clearly.
A non-human, how interesting! Hm. The Viking, who had seen mixes of all kinds, was for the first time ever having a hard time figuring out this person’s race. He wasn’t an orc: his sharp fangs weren’t an indicator of orc blood, and there were a host of other signs that it wasn’t an orc, from the shape of the skull to the color of the skin. And although his fangs stood out a little from his lips when he opened his mouth and were obviously sharp, it really didn’t look like he had orcish ancestors. He wasn’t an elf—didn’t have the right type of face or shape of eyes. It was possible he was a vampire, but his blue eyes without whites didn’t point in that direction. Yes, his eyes… neither orcs nor elves had eyes like that: he had human-shaped eyes. Hag would have even said he was a northerner or an Arian, as the non-human’s build most closely resembled that of a Norseman-Viking or an Arian. He stands and conducts himself like a nobleman, his back straight and his chin held high. He was good looking! He examined the stranger’s figure more closely.
The stranger looked to be about twenty years old. He stood out because of his tall stature, wide shoulders, and ash-colored hair. His right arm was a bit curved at the elbow—ready to take hold of the sword that wasn’t on his belt, but the marks from the sheath on his belt and the side of his leather pants testified to the fact that a sword had been there. The non-human’s hand movements and stance indicated that he wasn’t a swordsman, which meant a sword wasn’t his weapon of choice, but his fingers, now they told a story….
The thin aristocratic fingers of his right hand showed the characteristic calluses left by a bowstring. Also his left sleeve was crumpled and worn from wearing a bone shield on top, and the breadth of his chest and shoulders, as he had noticed earlier. He didn’t present a great threat as an individual, although, first impressions might be deceptive: Torir, too, looked more like a ham than a fatally dangerous warrior. What a mysterious non-human this was. This was getting interesting. He had to find out. Hag decided to introduce himself and extended his open palm:
“Hag Tur, Seaman!”
“Kerrovitarr, Dragon!” the non-human answered, shaking his hand. Hag noticed it was a good strong handshake. Mixes were more often than not stronger than humans. It was the gods’ way of leveling the playing field for them.
“Dragon? What, is he mocking me, the cur? Or is he stupid enough to not have noticed the embroidery of my clan? There are no more Dragons! And he’s got a name for himself too! Who but a northerner could call himself that? And you, swine, you’re no northerner! Otherwise, you wouldn’t have uttered such words!” Hag thought, squinting at his undershirt, at the clan embroidery on the collar. His blood was rushing to his head. “We’ll just see about that… was it an intentional insult or…? Let’s have some fun on the road!”
“You don’t look like an orc, Kerovitar Dragon. Oh, no resemblance at all. Although, you don’t look like an elf either!”
“Kerrovitarr,” the blue-eyed man corrected Hag.
Hag smiled, noticing that his opponent didn’t yet have a clue. “Well now, what’ll he say about that name? Let’s go over that title of his….” And Hag went over it:
“Kerr, in elvish, is “ash”. Vitar is an orcish name. It means “killer” and also “warrior”, but that depends on the time and season of his birth. Such names are given when warriors undergo their rite of passage and when the applicant passes the test and goes through initiation by the shamans. Put it all together, and you get you—the Ash Dragon Killer, well, or the Dragon who Kills with Ash, or perhaps the Dragon Ash Warrior!”
Myra was jumping nearby, expressing her euphoria at this interpretation of the non-human’s name. The blue-eyed man made a face and tried to correct himself; apparently, he’d realized his mistake. “Don’t anger a Dragon, boy. Oh, you don’t want to do that!” The long road south, constant stress and pressure, no fights or skirmishes—he had to take this all out on someone. He couldn’t take it out on his own people, but this degenerate, with his clan-bashing nonchalant comments about Dragons, was a perfect fit. Here, Myra almost pulled his pants down, what a laugh that would have been! They wouldn’t have let him live it down for a year. He had to blow off some steam and punish this imbecile, so that he would know how to call himself a Dragon. He wouldn’t kill him, but he would beat some respect into him with the tips of his boots. Olaf’s troop silently stepped from the camp and cut off the non-human’s retreat path.
Here, Hag remembered the dragons’ Younger Edda, which had been hammered into his head by his tutor Miliberilem, an old elf, extremely old and gray, which was in and of itself surprising. Beriem, as he called himself, had taught Hag the art of war and leadership for ten long years. He liked this light-haired guy who had been left to his care by Earl Sigurd Ice Blade of the Dragon Clan. The boy sucked up knowledge l
ike a sponge, and Beriem had no short supply thereof and wasn’t at all stingy. He piled data from all different fields of study on the young student: writing, fencing and archery, tactics and strategy, ship-building and sailing, cartography and navigation by the stars, maths and languages. They barely touched on magic; Hag didn’t have much of a gift. He wasn’t a mage, but the spark of a conjurer was in him and he could see people’s auras with true vision and cast a healing spell or a small curse. The Dragon’s Younger Edda was a whole subject of itself. Hag puzzled over it. It had been more than a thousand years now since they spoke Edda, but his teacher kept on teaching him this ancient subject. “You’ll use it! Trust me!” he said. Now it was coming in handy!
“Enough with the politesse, young man. It’s not worth it to get bogged down in the complications of various translations. I’ll suggest one last possibility. I think it’s correct.” Hag paused for a few seconds and as he was leaving tossed back: “Vitarr, in the Younger Edda of dragons means “crystal”, and Kerr is “mountain”. Nice to meet you, Crystal Dragon,” Hag took the bull by the horns.
The blue-eyed man made a face, and Hag realized he’d hit the nail on the head with his translation! He, too, knew Edda? Maybe even the runic alphabet too? Great! An educated non-human! But that didn’t change anything—his boldness needed to be quelled. It’s a great honor to call oneself a dragon! And not just anyone has the right. It was time.
But instead of fear and uncertainty, an icy calm and a haughty expression came over the guy’s face, and such a strong confidence in his abilities that Hag felt a wave of cold shivers go down his spine. Something was wrong here! The sorcerers Tim Crooked and Sveiny Wave quickly ran up from the camp. Their eyes darted all around taking in the scene. Their faces showed concern. Hag sent Myra off behind the warriors. Let her be safe from harm. What had gone wrong? Everything! Loki was having a field day!
