To his relief, his captors offered him nothing to eat. He did not wish to partake in this shameful pilfering of the destitute, but hungry as he was, he was not certain he could have resisted had they thrown him a crusty heel. Instead, his riding companion grabbed him by the collar and half shoved, half carried him into the long hall. It was dim and smoky within, the odors of animal and man oppressive, but Deglan closed his eyes with near ecstasy at the warmth of the room.
A few old men and women occupied the hall, their faces resigned to the unfortunate presence of their guests. Hakeswaith was kicked through the door, his ugly face bleeding from multiple small wounds. Together, they were herded into a corner of the hall and told with gestures to sit upon the floor. Deglan did as he was bid, reveling in the chance to be indoors, near a fire. He leaned back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him, wincing as the circulation returned, setting fire to his cramping muscles. Hakeswaith said nothing, probing gingerly at his split lip and welted forehead, results of their abduction.
Last night, the warriors had ridden boldly into their little camp, surrounding Deglan and the whaler in seconds. Deglan knew little of the fjordmen language and Hakeswaith had but a few words, none of which helped him when three of the warriors had come down off their mounts and beat him into submission. Not that Hakeswaith offered any resistance from the onset. Even had the man not been a coward to his marrow, there was little that could have been accomplished by fighting back, save die. Deglan had received a few kicks and cuffs as they herded him towards the horses, but otherwise had been unmolested until this most recent strike to the side. Ten men had taken them captive, but now there were only eight, two having ridden off after a few hurried words of alarm not long after the journey began. They never returned.
The remaining eight now filled the hall, shouting demands and slumping down on the long benches surrounding the central fire. Soon, more food and drink was brought to them. These ravenous curs were going to leave the thorpe with nothing. Deglan noticed that only the menfolk served the warriors, keeping their younger women out of sight. Clever, but with the amount of mead the warriors were quaffing they were likely to grow lusty regardless and then the rapes would begin.
After eight thousand years, human cruelty still sent Deglan's mind reeling into deep contemplations fueled by bitter anger and despair. None had gone hungry in the Age of Summer when the elves ruled from the Seelie Court. At least, none in Airlann. Here in Middangeard, where Irial Elf-King held no dominion even in those glorious days, the mortal children still died in droves, knowing little but Winter and famine. Wives and daughters were still ravished by hands slick with the blood of their husbands, their fathers. A hard life, a hard land, and it bred hard people.
Indeed, these men were such a brutal sort that Deglan was unsure why he and Hakeswaith were still alive. During the overnight journey he had listened closely to the few exchanges between the warriors and, even with his nearly complete ignorance of their language, he caught a handful of words which rang familiar. Words which even now, as the men stuffed themselves, continued to float through the gibberish of their talk.
Svartálfar.
Jarl.
Arngrim.
So, Deglan found himself at the mercy of men pledged to a warlord who hated dwarrow. Surely these louts knew the difference between a dwarf and a gnome. Deglan did not much fancy the idea of dying, but having his head cut off because some oaf with a grudge mistook him for a dwarf was unconscionable. No, if they meant to kill him he would have died at the campfire, not taken for a jaunt on horseback. And since they weren't feeding him, their destination must be close. Perhaps. He could do little but guess. Whatever was in store for him, he could take it. This was not the first time he had been taken prisoner. Bruised testicles, the occasional punch, and mead spilled down his back was nothing compared to the mines of the Goblin Kings.
He tried never to think on those torturous years, but sometimes, even centuries later, a deep sleep would betray him, offering no succor, only vivid dreams of chains. His unconscious mind would plummet back into a suffocating world of tunnels and whips, the cackling of goblins and the fear of cave-ins. Flyn declared Deglan's hatred tiresome, but he had earned whatever enmity he chose to hold in his heart, earned it during the sixty-odd years he had spent in the iron mines of King Sweyn the Third. Somewhere north of Black Pool, Deglan and three thousand other slaves labored, forced to dig for ore destined for the foundries of the goblins. Iron was deadly to all Fae, including goblins, but the fanatical armies of Red Caps wielded the poisonous metal with glee to better slaughter the enemies of their human overlords.
Not wishing to waste the lives of his devoted servants in the mines, Sweyn valued his gnomish slaves. They were a subterranean people and did not succumb to madness while living underground the way humans so often did. The king's loyal goblins likewise thrived in the deepness of the Earth and were exceptionally efficient taskmasters, taking great pleasure in the domination of their cousins.
But while the goblins held the lash, it was the dwarrow who kept the workers imprisoned.
Mercenary dwarfs flocked to Airlann after the Usurpation, to gloat at the fall of the elves and glut upon the revitalizing effects of the Source Isle so long denied them by the Seelie Court. It was dwarrow blacksmiths who brought steel to the Tin Isles, forging the chains which hobbled Deglan and his fellow slaves. It was dwarrow sellswords who stood sentry in the mines, paid with the stolen treasures of the elves. So no, Flyn's valorous ideals did little to sway Deglan's long held hatred. He had nurtured it over decades swinging a mattock into the blessed Earth, feeling the venom of the whip and the eroding agony of endless hunger.
Fortunately, a schism in the succession of the Goblin Kings eventually weakened Black Pool. The city was divided and the conflict between Hogulent the First and Only and the self-styled Goblin Queen quickly drained their coffers. The dwarrow, unpaid, abandoned their guardianship of the mines, leaving the goblins alone to manage an army of slaves. There was a reason the chroniclers later dubbed the Fae uprising the Pig Iron Rebellion. The fight against tyranny had begun the moment Penda Blood Coin supplanted the elves, but the path to victory, the path which eventually led to the Restoration, it began in the mines.
It rankled Deglan that some histories credited the dwarrow with the liberation of the mines, when in truth, all they had done was leave their posts. During the war, Irial had let the lie persist, probably even spread the rumor himself, the crafty elven bastard, knowing the allowance of the little falsehood would allow the dwarrow to change their allegiance. They may never have come to the side of the Rebellion if they knew there to be ill will. Irial painted his dwarven cousins as heroes and thusly, forced them to live up to the legend. Faabar used to tediously opine that the entire dwarrow race should not be condemned for the deeds of a few sellswords, but Deglan preferred to boil his grudges in a stew. It was more sensible to hate all dwarfs, all goblins, rather than try and figure who was worth trusting amongst the lot. One lapse in judgment could be lethal, he had learned that in the mines. He certainly was not about to begin looking for the fjordman with a heart of honey in this rabble of raiders.
While the warriors caroused, Deglan took advantage of the chance to rest and closed his eyes, unconcerned for whatever might happen next. The recollections of his past enslavement, normally an unpredictable haunting in his dreams, now served to steel him against his current plight. Deglan fell asleep knowing he could endure whatever these bearded bastards doled out.
He was roused with a kick. Through the door of the long hall, day was still strong. Several of the warriors were rolling themselves drowsily off the benches. So, this stop had been for rest, not rapine. A mercy for the denizens of the thorpe. This time.
Hakeswaith was already on his feet, his cuts clotted and beginning to scab over. The whaler kept his head bowed, so that the permanent snarl of his bent jaw would not be mistaken for defiance. They stumbled out into glaring white, the cold an in
visible yet solid force. Deglan was hoisted up onto a different horse by a different rider. It seemed the pleasure of his company was best shared. Hakeswaith too was made to ride double, but he was placed behind his appointed guardian, a testament to how little the raiders feared the short fisherman. Putting heels to their mounts, the riders passed quickly through the village, leaving only a few steaming piles of horseshit behind for payment.
The riders took advantage of their rested steeds and set a quick pace. The horses were a shaggy, hearty breed, well suited for the grueling slog across the frozen plains. Soon, they came to what must have passed for a road in Middangeard. In truth, it was nothing but a well-traveled track, a natural rise in the terrain allied with the constant passage of man and beast to defy the snow. Guiding their horses onto the track, the men again spurred them to greater speed. The track provided a decent vantage of the surrounding land and Deglan noticed broad patches of shining ice scattered amongst the fields. They were the faces of frozen ponds, growing larger and more numerous as the miles crunched beneath the horses' hooves.
Daylight was beginning to fade behind a shroud of steely clouds when the column reached the end of the track. It led directly to the edge of a vast frozen lake stretching across the horizon. The warriors did not hesitate and urged their mounts onto the ice. Deglan had thought the drifts of the plains had seemed unchangeable and endless, but they were nothing compared to the expansive loneliness of the lake. Flat, stark, unwelcome cold in every direction. Water, sullen and primeval, imprisoned by the grip of Winter, as far as could be seen. The wind grew stronger, encouraged by the retreating sun, and Deglan found even the memory of warmth banished. Gritting his teeth, he could not help but grunt as the cold clamped down on his bones.
Just when he thought he would shatter from shivering, he caught sight of the opposite shore. As the column drew closer, Deglan soon realized he was wrong. It was an island, or would have been had the water not hardened, making it accessible by foot. It was a sizable swath of land, seeming to grow directly out of the encircling ice. A few holts clung to the edges, but the island had been heavily forested and the birthplace of the trees had become their graveyard. A great fortress made entirely of timber sat enthroned upon the island. Even from a distance, Deglan espied the impressive ring of earthworks supporting the upright beams of a high palisade. Behind the curve of the wall loomed a wooden tower house, its bulk gradually tapering with each level until it ended in a peaked roof.
The riders reached the island and the track once again appeared, leading towards a squat gatehouse built into the wall of the ring fort. At the foot of the earthworks lay a wide trench, circumnavigating the fort save for a narrow land bridge in front of the gate. At a hail from the riders the gates began to open, creaking as they were pulled wider. As Deglan's horse crossed the mound of earth bridging the trench, he glanced down and bit back a curse.
Dead men stood in the moat, gaunt and still, some little more than skeletons. Their bony fingers clutched rusted weapons and rotting shields. Dented helms sat upon their brows and ragged mail draped their loathsome forms. The trench was thick with them, all imprisoned by a layer of ice that encased their feet. One turned its head and watched Deglan pass, the empty sockets of its eyes staring at him with cold vehemence.
Draugr. The corpses of men called to rise by the song of the vættir.
So, the jarl of this fortress ensured his men continued to serve him even in death. His ability to marshal them here at his holdfast and ensnare them in the moat bespoke sorcery. Deglan's shivering intensified as the column passed through the darkness of the gatehouse and emerged behind the walls.
Within the fortress, the track became a proper road, cobbled with stones and covered in wood shavings. The tower house stood at the junction of the road Deglan traveled and another that ran perpendicular. The roads divided the sprawling circular interior into four equal sections, each containing four longhouses built to form a square. Warriors came and went from these longhouses, utilizing the open yards between to train and tend their horses. The sixteen longhouses could serve as barracks for over a thousand men, Deglan estimated, though it did not appear that many were currently occupying the fort. He saw women too, even a few children, each going about some chore.
The column made directly for the central tower and Deglan craned his neck as they rode beneath its shadow. The fjordsmen were not skilled masons, but their woodcraft was truly impressive. The tower's posts and lintels fit soundly together, the framework sturdy and level. Every surface was carved with elaborate decorations. The heads of dragons and ravens emerged from the ends of rafters at each corner of the steeply sloped roof.
Thralls emerged and took charge of the warriors' horses as they dismounted before the large double doors. Deglan was again pulled from the saddle, though this time care was taken that he did not fall. Hakeswaith was made to stand beside him and together they were led into the tower.
It was dim within, the air thick with heat and wood-smoke. Almost the entirety of the first level was a single chamber, a grand hall with a high ceiling. Curved archways of carved wood surrounded the room and supported the floor above. Impressive hearths, pregnant with fierce fires, were set into the walls and adorned with mantles carved to depict the hunting of beasts. Twelve men occupied the hall, some lounging on the benches, others sitting upon the trestles. They laughed and joked with each other, their voices deep and cruel. They were big and well-muscled, a few with shaved scalps, the rest with hair wild and long. All were bearded, clad in the skins of wolf and bear. Broad swords and long knives hung from their belts, while long-hafted axes stood propped against the walls or resting upon the tables. They smelled of murder.
“Berserkers,” Hakeswaith whispered tremulously.
Deglan waited for their escorts to punish the whaler for speaking, but no blows fell. The warriors had adopted the same timid manner displayed by the peasants of the thorpe, the predators now acting the prey. No one spoke. Indeed, it seemed as if their guards were hoping not to be noticed. The berserkers grew silent as the warriors approached, though they did not bother to so much as look their direction. They continued to lounge about, but there was a subtle change to their posture, a menace in every small movement. A yawn. A scratch. A shifting of weight. Each concealed a threat of sudden, unstoppable violence. Deglan felt that each moment he remained in this room, he tested the forbearance of these killers.
A door at the rear of the hall thudded open and another large man entered, this one made all the bulkier by a voluminous cloak woven entirely of black feathers.
Arngrim Crow Shoulders.
A dark beard, streaked heavily with grey, grew from his hard jaw. A sword was sheathed at his side and he kept a hand resting on the pommel as he approached, his sharp eyes taking in the room without moving. As Crow Shoulders strode past the berserkers, Deglan was struck by the strong resemblance between the jarl and the twelve men. He now noticed that two of the berserkers were identical twins and all of them looked at Arngrim with that face of begrudging respect worn only by a man's sons.
A woman followed the warlord at a respectful distance, dressed in the simple smock of a thrall. She kept her head bowed as she progressed through the territory of the berserkers and several of them shared leers and grins. So, not their mother. Her hair was a deep brown, long but tied up into a serviceable tangle. Deglan found the age of mortals difficult to judge, but the woman was still well within her child-bearing years.
Arngrim Crow Shoulders stopped in front of Deglan and Hakeswaith, exchanging a few words with the warriors who had captured them. Questions, followed by quick answers. Arngrim appeared displeased, but it was difficult to discern for sure through the jarl's frown, which was etched in stone. He dismissed the warriors and they left the hall with haste.
Crow Shoulders stared at his new captives for a long moment, but between the two of them, only Deglan held his gaze. Hakeswaith had become fixated on the ground between his feet. Cocking his eyes towards the woma
n at his side, Arngrim spoke. The woman raised her head, but did not look directly at anyone.
“He demands your names,” she said in the language of the Tin Isles. There was no trace of accent. Yet another daughter of the Tin Isles forcibly taken from her home and spirited across the seas to live enslaved in this cold pit.
Deglan addressed Arngrim directly. “I am Deglan Loamtoes, formerly a Staunch of the Wart Shanks pledged to Goban Blackmud, Gnome-King. Recently I took residence with the Knights of the Valiant Spur and was the herbalist for that Order. Currently, I am in service to the Guild of Anglers in Gipeswic, who would pay handsomely for my return. The man with me is Hakeswaith, also in service to the same masters and equally valued.” The whaler did nothing to add weight to this claim. He only stood by, quaking, eyes downcast.
Still, the gnome army, coburn knights and the rulers of a wealthy city were not trivial allies to name. With luck, this man was no ignorant fool and would see the wisdom in keeping Deglan alive. The woman relayed his answer to her jarl, hopefully with some accuracy. When she finished, Arngrim growled another question.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 43
