Then the worst pain Rael could imagine rips into his abdomen. Somehow, the bear’s middle set of paws has managed to penetrate under his hauberk, and the long black claws sink into the flesh there. The bear rakes its claws backward, as a cat may when pushing dirt onto its own excrement, and then jabs its claws into his gut again to repeat the process. Rael can feel his entrails being ripped asunder and pulled from his body, and his blood runs hotly onto the cavern’s floor.
So here I die, he thinks almost academically.
The bear snaps its jaws near his face again, and Rael finds himself looking directly into the creature’s huge brown eyes. With one last thought for his own life, Rael brings his arm up from the side and jabs the small knife directly into one of the brown and white orbs. The raking at his guts and the snapping of jaws stop at once as the bear roars again. This roar is different; though still deafeningly loud, it is more like the scream of a wounded or terrified animal, for no doubt this beast has never been hurt in such a way before. A clear jelly of sorts and burning red blood, thinner than a man’s, spurts from the point of impact onto Rael’s mailed hand. Still roaring, screaming, the bear backs off of its prey and shakes it head maniacally, perhaps in the hopes of dislodging the offending blade from its left eye.
Rael managed to push himself up on one elbow, and he calmly surveys his situation. His lost sword is only mere inches from his free hand, though in the terror of the moment he couldn’t find it. His legs tingle with pins and needles, and he surprisingly feels nothing from his chest or abdomen. This is odd for the red, black and brown mess of his own guts and blood that seems to be spread about everywhere. Rael knows he has mere moments before his strength leaves him and he dies. The small amount of healing provided by blinding the bear in one eye will not keep him alive for long.
Rael grasps his sword hilt and pushes himself upward, finding thankfully that his broken shield-bearing arm is now mended. Through either great force of will or strength born of spilled Dahken blood, Rael climbs shakily to his feet. More intestines and other things he dare not contemplate spill from his destroyed gut to the cave floor, and he brings his sword in a quick upward strike to sever one bit that seems entangled with the mess. He feels the edge of his own sword, white hot for just a moment, and then the feeling passes.
The bear still howls and jerks this way and that, but it is aware that its prey, the thing that has wounded it so terribly again stands. As Rael nears the beast, it takes a half-hearted swipe with one great paw, almost as if imploring the Dahken to simply leave it be. But Rael has no intention of such, for his life can be measured now in mere seconds. The strength imbued upon his muscles by the horrific mortal wounds already fades. Rael brings his sword down and across in a motion meant to hack into the beast’s right shoulder, but the bear counters with another swipe of its right forepaw, knocking the blade wide to Rael’s right. Even still, a few drops of the bear’s blood drop, the sword’s edge having bit into the pad.
With strength enough for one last stroke, the Dahken returns his sword to the fight, but this time the bear cannot see the strike coming for its blind eye. Driven by his last ounce of strength, the longsword’s blade hacks cleanly through the bear’s left front leg right below the shoulder. Even as he falls to his left upon the ground to die, Rael feels his ruined entrails mending as the creature’s blood spurts over him, driven by the beats of the thing’s heart.
Though it may yet bleed to death, this monster will not admit defeat, and again it is upon him. This time it does not pin him with his weight, but snaps its massive jaws about his head. It is all Rael can do to turn his head away at the last moment. He is blinded by the rows of teeth that destroy his face, puncturing his own eyeballs and crushing his nose. He sees nothing, yet lightning bolts explode across the blackness of his vision as nails drive through the back of his skull. Over the labored, growling breath of the bear, Rael hears the sounds of bone snapping, and he doesn’t know if the sound comes from his neck, skull or both.
Rael stabs his sword up and across his prone form, and it finds flesh into which to sink. The thick hide is nothing against his longsword and the strength of his blood, and the steel sinks at least a foot into the cave dweller. But the thing will not give up; it holds onto its mortal enemy with all the strength of a wounded Dahken itself, and Rael pulls the sword free. He jabs it again and again into the bear, deeper with each attack. He can feel the creature’s blood pouring all over the both of them.
Its jaws still clamped around Rael’s skull, the bear shakes its head violently from side to side, and Rael’s arm falls limply with a sudden crack of bone. He can feel no part of his body, make no muscle obey his command. It is as if none of it is there anymore, and Rael wonders how he ever made it move. Just as he resigns himself to his death, the blinding pressure about his head is suddenly gone. He can still hear the bear’s breathing, but it is slower and less urgent. No growl accompanies it. After an indeterminate amount of time, Rael’s vision suddenly snaps into being, and he again feels his limbs and body.
He pushes himself into a sitting position to find that he is completely unharmed. Every wound seems healed as if it never existed, and Rael pulls off his right gauntlet. He runs his naked hand over his face and head, finding everything to be exactly as it should be. He looks to his left to see the bear laying on its right side, blinded eye and stump facing the Dahken. Its remaining five legs stretch out before it, and the great bulk of its body lifts and drops only the slightest bit. The thing watches Rael with its good eye. It blinks once, and the eye only reopens half as much.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Rael says, running his bare hand down the bear’s snout. It growls softly in response, but makes no move at all. “I did not come here to slay you, but you left me no choice. You fought as valiantly as any warrior, and I am not sure that I deserved to win. I will pray that Urso finds a place for you with Him.”
The bear blinks again, but this time its eye does not reopen. As its soft growl fades into silence, Rael stands and takes a long, hard look at the gaping hole on the far side of the cave. He feels that it still calls to his blood, but instead he turns to see if his horse still awaits him outside.
12.
The snowfall has turned thick while he battled the bear. Huge fluffy flakes fall thickly atop what has already accumulated, but this is not Rael’s concern at the moment. Six men are gathered outside the cave’s mouth, one of whom holds his horse’s reins. The other five hold long spears with steel or iron tips and all bear swords of various sizes upon their waists or backs. They are all garbed in heavy boots and thick wool tunics and breeches, and four of them wear leather atop those. Rael has seen a few Northmen, and there is no mistaking these men as such with their long red or blond hair and their tall, burly frames. They’re young; perhaps only a few years into manhood if the thin hair on their cheeks is any indication.
Rael cannot avoid being seen by the party, for the cavernous tunnel obscures his view until he bursts into the open. For that matter, he had made no attempt to be stealthy, for he had not expected company of any sort. The men all stare at him silently with their spears in hand, and the one holding his horse’s reins moves his free hand to his sword hilt. Rael’s mare begins to dance nervously even while the poor beast shivers in the snow.
“Friggan spuk nik,” says one, his face covered with blemishes leftover from boyhood. He is the tallest of the lot, likely six and a half feet overall with thin red hair that falls down past his shoulders. He is much taller than wide, but somehow Rael thinks his somewhat lanky frame still contains a good deal of strength. Hard angles of a pronounced jawline, chin and nose form a strong face, which he either keeps clean shaven or is unable to grow much hair. He is the only one of the six wearing steel armor – a set of plain armguards. Green eyes with a hint of hazel near the pupils gaze back at Rael appraisingly.
“I do not understand,” Rael replies, and then he holds out his arm. “I am Dahken Rael.”
The speaker, Rael supposes the
leader, touches the bare skin on the back of his hand which holds the spear and says to the others, “Hik eist yur kine mansrok.” Two of the others respond in low tones so that Rael cannot make out their words, not that he would understand them anyway, and one of them looks rather doubtful. The leader then says haltingly, “West turn?”
Rael cocks his head sideway in momentary confusion at the young man’s words, unsure as to whether he is to turn west or if there is some other meaning. Realization hits him and his eyes open widely in understanding. “Yes, I speak Western,” Rael replies.
“Bear? In?” the Northman asks, jabbing his spear toward the cave mouth.
“No, it is dead,” Rael says with a shake of his head, receiving a confused look. He then says while laying a single finger on his sword’s hilt, “I killed it.”
“Hak dakad brenan,” the Northman says to his cohorts. Two stare dumbfounded, while one snorts derisively. The other two and the leader speak to each other hurriedly, and their words overlap. After a moment, the conversation seems to lead to an argument, and finally the leader points to Rael and howls, “Tatti ap hak. Hak ir hact blud uck uskadt. Ag jelka fratal.”
The more argumentative Northman, short and wide with blond hair, looks up at his leader stoically, but defiance shows in his crystal clear blue eyes. He starts to open his mouth as if to argue further, but is silenced as his better throws his own spear down into the snow with disgust. The wooden shaft with its point sinks into the snow, leaving only an outline of the weapon on the snow’s surface. The leader unbuckles his sword belt, letting it also fall into the snow, and he turns to storm into the cave unarmed.
“Ajak!” cries the blond Northman, and his leader stops and again turns to face his group. The blond man adopts a look of sullen defeat before trudging past Rael into the cave, his spear held tightly in both hands so that its point leads the way.
“He see bear,” the tall red haired man says.
As Rael waits for the blond Northman to verify his claim of killing the bear, he looks down at his booted feet and wonders how he must look to these young Northmen. As if the gray skin of his face is not odd enough, add the near black hair of a Westerner, steel plate armor, sword and shield to match and cover them all in dark red blood from head to toe. No doubt, men like him do not come through this part of the world very often.
Just as Rael begins to find the silence rather awkward, the investigating Northman returns. In addition to his spear, he has something in his hand that Rael cannot see for the filthy rag that is wrapped around it. The men turn their backs to him and confer in hushed tones as the blond man hands his leader whatever he recovered from the cave. Rael catches a few furtive glances his direction as the men discuss, but he thinks their red haired leader does most of the talking. Finally, they turn back to him.
“I Kryjek,” the leader says, and he extends a long fingered hand. In it is the filthy wool rag, and Rael now recognizes his small knife as the object that was obscured within it. Kryjek asks, “Yours?”
Rael merely nods, and the Northman nods slightly toward it. Rael retrieves his tool turned bear blinder and slides it into its rightful place at his belt. Looking back at the expectant Northmen, Rael asks, “What now, Kryjek?”
“Now we skin bear, and you see Horjek.”
* * *
When Kryjek said they would skin the bear, Rael had no idea that meant he would have to carry the bloody heap himself. Apparently, as the slayer of the huge beast, it was his honor alone to bear the skins back to the Northmen’s village. He attempted to have his mare bear some of the load, but she whinnied and reared up at the smell of the predator. As such, Rael carried them all draped over his shoulders. They weighed as much or more than his armor, which made trudging several miles through a foot of wet snow perhaps the most arduous task he’d ever experienced.
At least the snow had stopped falling. The sun has dropped below the mountains, deepening the cold in the air and filling the passes with a strange gray gloom.
The last hundred yards or so is the hardest. The men lead him up a curving track between two gray rock faces that open away from each other about halfway toward their destination. Rael sees a wooden stockade style fence that stretches at least two hundred feet across the pass, and there are several wooden towers spaced along its length. He sees men in the towers, Northmen armed with bows and spears.
A wooden gate opens and waits patiently to swallow the seven men, and knowing this is his destination, Rael puts every ounce of energy into simply planting one foot in front of the other. It seems that he’ll never get there; it’s so far away. They pass through the gate, and once it closes behind them, Rael can go no further. He can no longer bear the weight of the skins, and he allows them to push him down to his knees, sinking into a mix of snow and mud. With one final effort, he shrugs them off his shoulders and back to land in the slush behind him, and then Rael falls backward onto them. They smell awful, and he does not care.
Rael closes his eyes, half dozing, and listens to the odd language of the Northmen. He hears Kryjek calling out to others and the surprised voices of those within the village at which he didn’t bother to look before collapsing. Voices of men and women come closer all about him and make exclamations while the men of his group speak to them. Rael half wishes he understood their words, and some of them already sound familiar, as if the same story is being told over and over. The other half is just enjoying the rest. Someone taps his right boot, and Rael opens his eyes to see Kryjek towering over him.
“Stand?” Kryjek asks, holding out his arm to the Dahken. Rael sighs inwardly as he sits up to take the Northman’s hand. As Kryjek pulls Rael to his feet he says, “Come see Horjek.”
“Who is Horjek?” Rael asks.
“Chief.”
Kryjek immediately starts off through the village, leaving Rael to catch up quickly. The other men of Kryjek’s party stay behind chattering away with the other villagers, many of whom point at the Dahken and inhale in surprise. As he walks, Rael takes in the sights and sounds of the village, and finds them to be very little different than from the West, with the exception of the tall and wide framed Northmen and their red and blond hair, green and blue eyes. Most of the homes here seem to be little more than clay or mud brick huts with thatched roofs, though some are fashioned from gray stone. He hears pigs and horses, and chickens occasionally shoot across the muddy dirt road. Children run here and there, involved in their own games, but the adults stop and watch as the gray skinned Dahken follows the tall Northman. Rael glances over his shoulder to see that they have gained an entourage.
Kryjek leads them to a building made of timber much like the stockade wall. Long dried mud fills the cracks between the logs to help keep out the cold of the northern clime. The roof seems to be the same construction, and plumes of warm smoke rise in several places from it, evidence of fires burning within. Two burly Northmen with thick red beards and great two handed swords flank a door which is little different from the gate allowing entrance to the village itself. Rael would have assumed this building belonged to whatever leader these men have just from its size alone; it’s perhaps double the size of any other edifice within the village.
“Kryjek ir adjat,” says one of the guards, his voice thick and rough like his beard.
“Kundag hajog. Haj miste Horjek,” replies Kryjek, and the guard shrugs. They open the doors to allow entry, and as Kryjek ushers Rael through, some of the following villagers speak hurriedly to the guards.
Inside, Rael finds that one room, sixty feet across and forty deep, makes up most of the building’s interior. Dirty brown animal skins of all sorts cover the floor, which Rael assumes to be just the ground itself. About halfway into the room and offset to the right and left, two large fires roar and provide an impressive amount of heat, and square vents set into the roof allow the smoke he saw outside to exit. Columns, nothing more than cut trees three feet or more thick, support the roof in key areas.
A few doorways exit this mai
n room, but it is the display at the far side that catches his attention. Adorning the far wall are three massive, pure white animal skins spread out flat so that each one covers an area about ten feet by ten feet. Side by side, they cover almost the entire back wall of the room. Rael identifies them easily enough by the fact that each skin clearly has six appendages extending from its main body. Beneath the middle skin is a throne, for lack of a better word, constructed solely of bleached white bones far too big to be human. The throne’s back stands eight feet in the air, and three large skulls adorn its top.
“Wait,” Kryjek says with an open handed gesture, and he crosses the room to disappear through a doorway in the back corner obscured by a light brown skin.
Rael idly wonders what awaits him next, but somehow he knows that his fate is not in question here. He’d heard stories of the Northmen over the years, and they usually involved ignorant savages who drink the blood of the dead and cook Western children on spits. While these people did appear savage, as their home would seem to require, they seem far from ignorant. How many Westerners know the language of the North?, he thinks.
Grunts accompanied by the thumping sound of a heavy load being dropped to the covered floor sound behind him, and Rael turns to see that two of Kryjek’s men have brought the bear skin inside. A third stands with the animal’s sticky skull in his hands, and it’s now that Rael realizes how many of the villagers have followed them. At least a score have already filed inside, and these move to make room for the dozens more that wait outside. They whisper in hushed tones to one another, and there are plenty of nods and gestures as whatever story they’ve been told moves through the crowd.
Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Page 9
