The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN'

by Peter Emmerson

  Not pleading for his life as could have been expected, but rather, pronouncing a curse on whoever was to be the one with the temerity to take his life. I remember his words as though they were spoken yesterday.

  “I curse the man who would lay a blade across my neck. I curse not only him but his entire line; for all will die by my sword, my same sword, which will forever sing for the taste of his descendant’s blood. My spirit will reside in my sword, and I will not rest until the last of his line is forever extinguished. If, however,” he continued, looking directly into my Father’s pale green eyes, “you― will allow me to fall upon my sword, allowing me an honourable warrior’s death, I will serve you and your family until your line ends.”

  “But you sir, have not been an honourable warrior, so why should I afford you an honourable warrior’s death?”

  “Because Baron, I have the right of birth to demand it.”

  “And pray what is that birth line?”

  “I am the Archduke Ulrich III of Carinthia, eldest son of Duke George Heinrich, himself the third son of Emperor Frederick I, Barbarossa. I was expelled for a minor accident, which involved the unexpected demise of a serving girl more than thirty years ago. I was deposed by my father, and my seat is now filled by my demented younger brother. Would you not feel ire towards all mankind were you treated in this way?”

  “So for thirty years or more, you and your followers have been exacting revenge for your punishment upon anyone who lives a decent life?”

  “Of course.”

  “And now you expect me to allow you the right to an honourable death?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you are deluded sire, royal birth or not, you are to be executed in the manner as ordered, as a common criminal, and it will be on the morrow, at first cock crow.” My Father stood up to leave.

  “And you, Herr Baron, Count of Livonia and your family will forever be cursed.”

  Both my Father and I staggered at the raw power behind his final outburst.

  Catching the edge of his seat, Father steadied himself before sitting down.

  I fell to my knees, my head spinning and my heart pounding, I could hear the sound of my pulse hammering in my temples.

  “Take him away!” Father commanded. I could detect a tremor in his voice.

  The following morning the outlaw leader was brought in chains to the block in the market square.

  A small crowd had gathered; laughing, joking, and hawking their wares. A miniature impromptu market sprang up. I saw an old woman wheeling a barrel of beer almost to the foot of the block; she opened it and began ladling out cupfuls to a queue which appeared almost by magic. A group of urchins threw stones at a mangy dog which had appeared, no doubt looking for scraps; the dog ran off yelping almost as loudly as the urchin’s cries of success.

  Bets were placed as to whether the Archduke would cry out for mercy or absolution. Much talk was made of his curse, word of which had leaked out.

  It was unusual to hold an execution so early in the morning; many more would have gathered at noon to enjoy the spectacle of bloodletting, but even so, the numbers were substantial.

  For his final journey he walked between his guards, arrogant and without fear.

  No one was prepared to execute the brigand leader, he looked too much like a devil and the curse was a powerful one.

  The official executioner had become mysteriously ill, and was unable to attend. In the absence of anyone prepared to complete the act, my Father, Baron Albert was expected to step up.

  “Let me at least fall onto my own blade, Baron, that much I’m sure would not be too much to ask,” the man whispered to my Father as he was led in chains from the ox cart that had been his transport from the town jail.

  “For sure, that you may do, I grant your request. I will allow you to die by your own hand. In the absence of an executioner, I have no choice but to allow you to fall upon your blade.”

  “Have you not the stomach to behead a man, Baron?” taunted the brigand.

  “I have not, nor shall I ever have, ‘tis not the way that I will take another’s life. If I am to kill a man it will be in face to face combat; no other way is acceptable to me, or to my God. Nor would I ask one of my knights to undertake that which I am not prepared to do.”

  “Bring me then my blade, but know you this- my curse will stand. I will serve your family, this I have promised. But take heed, that sword from the moment of my death must not be grasped by any other than those who are of your seed. Should any do so, you may be assured that I, in this blade will drink deeply of their blood.”

  My blood ran cold at his words, crazy though they sounded.

  The huge sword was brought and passed to him; he placed the wolf head pommel on the ground, the point to his own chest.

  The outlaw cousin of the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI, then fell upon his sword with a triumphant cry, and a huge smile on his face.

  I said he fell; it was as though he threw himself upon the blade. He exhibited all the intense and pent up pleasure one would have expected to have seen had he been leaping upon a brothel wench.

  I witnessed that wizard pouring his life essences into the sword. It was not a handsome sight to behold. The whole event had turned into perhaps the most frightening occurrence I would ever experience. My Father had expected me to observe the beheading as a part of my learning experiences, what I perceived was surely a scene from the depths of Hades itself.

  For this was no normal execution.

  This was the magical, devilish transfer of life from one vessel to another. The worst part was that there was so much blood; it brought back the horrific memories of my mother’s death bed. His blood gushed from the wound where the long blade had penetrated his heart, flowing into what could only be described as a lake surrounding his body.

  At that moment his spirit left his body. The entire area was lit up even though it were daylight, by flashing blue lightning.

  A further blue light sprang from out of his open mouth. His eyes and his ears likewise poured forth blue flames which were absorbed by the blade. The blood which had flowed so freely from him was likewise absorbed. I am sure that every drop the wizard’s body had held flowed into the sword. The light from his mouth too, was then drawn into it. For a moment there was silence, the loud crackling sounds ceased as the last of the flames disappeared.

  What followed was even more frightening. His body dissolved into dust. Then it too flowed like water into the sword. Within moments, all that was left was the sword, lying on the ground.

  Amongst the crowd of people who stood watching open mouthed, were a number of women, hardened executions attendees. They were the kind who can always be found at every hanging or beheading. They were present purely for the perverse pleasure of watching another person die, and die in a dreadful manner.

  They ran from the town square, much to my amusement, screaming in absolute horror. The urchins had disappeared; usually they were last to leave after gleaning for anything of worth, which might have been dropped.

  My Father ordered his squire to retrieve the sword, and walked swiftly from the spot; he too was severely shocked, and obviously wanted away from the scene as quickly as possible.

  As the squire lifted the sword, the huge blade spun in his hands. With a life of its own it sliced at his neck, the young man fell dead in an instant. His blood, flowing freely from the open wound, was then absorbed by the blade.

  I stood dumbstruck as another of my Father’s men, not realising or taking into account that which had occurred attempted to pick up the sword, only to be dispatched in a similar manner. Whether it was foolhardy of me, or if I were commanded by some unheard order- I stepped to the blade and lifted the heavy weapon. I carried it home without anything untoward happening to me.

  I followed my Father from the town square; the sword rather than being covered in gore was as clean as if it had just been polished.

  Behind me what was left of the crowd quickly and sil
ently dispersed; crossing themselves continuously, and averting their eyes from the scene and the two desiccated bodies.

  They left the bodies where they lay.

  The unfortunate’s families would surely retrieve the corpses; no one else was prepared to touch them.

  ―

  It was my Father’s wish that I were to be married on my sixteenth birthday.

  Constanz was the daughter of a distant cousin of my Father’s with whom he wished to cement an alliance. All marriages were to form alliances he said, how else could families be joined in bonds which could not be broken? She was a year younger than I. Compared to my sweet tempered and beautiful Helga, my gentle little serving maid; she was a horse faced, moaning harridan.

  But I married her as my Father desired.

  I lay with her, and together we created a son.

  I then returned to Helga, who also became with child.

  I was distraught when Helga and the baby were banished from the castle; for it was unseemly for the future Baron’s bastard daughter to be openly displayed, or so loudly preached the Abbot of Riga. His revenge upon Helga and I, at last exacted.

  I never saw Helga or my child again.

  After that, I drank much wine. I spent all my time with the fighting men, learning more of their craft, learning their ways, becoming one of them, taking my father’s place. Forever away from the castle, hunting outlaws and deer, my back and my arms grew stronger, my eye truer, my temper however became shorter. Being away from the castle where I had loved my Helga, took away the pain of my loss but a small amount.

  I wore the cold face constantly.

  My Father died from a simple cut on his hand, it became inflamed and from it ran a yellow poison which also spread through his body.

  He died just four years after Ulrich.

  I inherited the sword on his death.

  I inherited his title on my nineteenth birthday.

  Taking the sword from a chest where my Father had secluded it, I thereafter always carried the huge blade over my left shoulder, in a nondescript dark brown leather scabbard.

  I named the sword Ulrich after its former owner. Ulrich became a part of me; for the sword and my bloodline were joined by that dark curse.

  I learned not to use the sword in practice though, for it was unseemly to slay indiscriminately one’s sparring partner.

  ―

  I caught them a short while later, my dear brother and my horse faced wife in bed.

  Had I not loved my brother, had I not disliked Constanz, I would have slain them both. As it was I gave them to each other.

  To my brother I gave my seat, he was wiser than I, more astute in the wiles of man, he would govern well.

  To my wife I gave my distain.

  To the snot faced brat I had fathered I gave nothing except my father’s name, Albert. To the child that I loved, the daughter I had sired with Helga I gave the last of my tears. For no matter how much I had searched, she and the only woman I ever cared for had disappeared.

  ~

  It was not long after, that Con and I joined the Schwertbrudern, the Brothers of the sword of Livonia. Der Auftrag der Eidechse. (The Order of the Lizard.)

  I was bound for the Holy Land.

  The mercenary Lizard knights were in the employ of the legendary, Brothers of the Order of St. Mary of Jerusalem. The Teutonic Knights as they were more widely known were the protectors of the port city of Acre.

  Over the next seven years Ulrich and I grew to know each other.

  I also learnt how much the sword craved the taste of blood.

  30.

  DARCIA, QUEEN OF THE STIRGOI

  The Western Carpathians.

  1213AD.

  Ulrich began to vibrate, breaking Daniel from his reverie, he touched his hand to the pommel to quieten the blade, and then following the sword’s silent, magical commands, he swung off the track. Following even more silent directions he dismounted.

  He led his horse with Milo following, along a faint track to a crack in a rock face.

  The gap was too narrow for the horses to pass through.

  “Tether here the mounts, we continue afoot.”

  They made their way the twenty or so paces through the crack, the far side opening onto an enclosed dell, the grass beneath their feet, lush and green.

  Ulrich guided Daniel across the basin to a cave opening. Drawing the blade from its scabbard, Daniel led the way through the low entrance.

  The sword remained quiet. The cave was dark. As they moved inside and stood up, a smell, so fetid and foul hit them from all around, catching in their throats. Milo coughed and spluttered, bringing up the contents of his stomach. The floor beneath their feet had no substance; the crust crunching and subsiding, as with eyes streaming they walked carefully but swiftly across it.

  From above their heads they became aware of a chorus of rustling and scratching. The rank liquid continued to rain down. Unable to restrain himself Daniel ran his thumb along Ulrich’s razor sharp edge, blood welled immediately. The blade absorbed the red flow, Daniel cauterised the cut on its flat edge as the sword came alive, blazing with a bright blue light.

  The rustling above their heads grew louder.

  Looking up, they could see that the roof of the cave was full of giant bats, their eyes burning malevolently. The sharp teeth in their wolf like mouths chattering as the bats became aware of their presence, they woke in numbers. A few dropping from the high roof, fluttered on their leathery wings around the pair. Screaming as one brushed its wings across his head, Milo almost collapsed to the floor in horror. Daniel caught his servant and drew the terrified lad to him. He raised the blue flaming sword above his head, his intention to make a swift return to the cave exit.

  But Ulrich had other ideas. The sword dragged them both further into the cave. The roof climbed upwards reaching cathedral proportions and opening wide to either side. The floor beneath their feet became solid, rock covered with a light dusting of sand.

  The bats did not extend their activities to this part of the cave. The size of the cavern was so great that even Ulrich’s flaming blue light could not reach its far corners.

  As they crunched across the dry sand they could hear the bats behind them, fluttering and screeching, but none followed.

  “We must away from here before nightfall, or that lot will make free with our mounts,” Daniel said quietly.

  “How will we get out? - What is this place? - How is it your sword can light our way?” Milo’s voice was rising almost to a falsetto as he fought to control his panic.

  “Hush lad, if we pass through this I will make all clear to you.”

  Milo was shaking in fear, still clinging to his master, tears running down his face, his breath exploding in sobs.

  “You’re no lad are you?” Daniel said, convinced at last. His arm around her waist was sufficient for him to determine the feminine softness of her body. “Fear not lass, we will prevail. Ulrich will not only light our way, but also render to us its protection.”

  They saw them, at the periphery of their vision, a mass of ghostly people; following.

  “Grüße , Ulrich, hat es schon lange.”

  The voice was female, powerful and heavily accented. It came from the far end of the cave, where the roof joined with the floor in massive natural columns. Daniel strained his eyes to discern its source but could see nothing.

  ------------

  Insubstantial hands snatched at his clothing, at his body, at his arms and legs, but they passed through, but he could hear them…

  They were whispering… whispering… now he could discern the words… “Ulrich, Ulrich, Ulrich,” a chant, a mantra. The words were causing shivers to run down Daniel’s spine, Milo was overcome with horror, she could hear the whispers, “Ulrich, Ulrich, Ulrich.”

  ------------

  With his right hand the Baron drew his Ottoman, he held Ulrich high above his head in his left, providing illumination. Mira collapsed to the ground at his feet,
covering her face with her hands and sobbing. Daniel faced the woman who glided towards him from the shadows. She was tall, taller even than the Baron, her body statuesque, and her face pale; almost chalk white, her lips red and voluptuous, and her clothes dark and all encompassing. Her feet could not be seen, her arms were raised as if to embrace him.

  Ulrich’s blazing light went out leaving them in darkness.

  “Durchlauf! - Erhalten Sie von hier jetzt oder sterben Sie!” (Run! - Get thee from here now or die!) He screamed at Mira, dragging the girl to her feet and thrusting a sheathed Ulrich into her hands.