The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  “To underestimate an enemy is to be half defeated before the battle commences,” Germanus had told him on many occasions.

  “Is this the reason you speak my language, because it’s so similar to the languages of Roman Gaul?”

  The Dene captain shrugged. “I have a gift with tongues, which is one of the reasons that my king sent me to your most pleasant island. We can speak Latin, if you prefer. As a boy, I was tutored in this language by a Roman priest who had come to our land, Dene Mark, to convert my people to the Christian faith.”

  The Dene chuckled at a sudden recollection. When he spotted Arthur’s curiosity, he offered an explanation. “The silly fool had almost convinced us that he wanted to be drained of blood—and then eaten.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Arthur gulped.

  “I can laugh at the humor of the situation because my people are now familiar with the Christian Mass. But when the priest first arrived, my father and his king thought the priest wanted them to drink his blood and eat his flesh. Of course, our king was revolted and insulted by the request. The priest almost lost his life for implying that we were cannibals.”

  Arthur laughed lamely.

  “I’ll never forget Father Stephan’s face when he realized how we had misunderstood his words. He almost fainted with shock.” Stormbringer shook his head contemplatively, a slight smile on his lips. One hand caressed his reddish-blond beard.

  “The priest tarried in the Dene lands for many years and taught the sons and grandsons of Halga, the king of the Dene, and any other noble children whose fathers wanted their sons to benefit from a wider education. Latin enabled me to communicate with both enemies and friends from all the southern lands, regardless of their native languages. The peasants have embraced Christianity eagerly, so even our slaves remain peaceful and are well behaved. Christianity encourages both endurance and submission, however, so we aren’t entirely Christian.”

  Arthur learned much about the Dene and their attitudes towards the world through listening quietly to Stormbringer’s conversation. His people had slaves; they had reached the Frankish lands by sea for trade; and they were able to grasp the importance of education. Stormbringer had also indicated that he was a nobleman, whatever the Dene interpretation of aristocracy might be. He might have learned far more from the captain if their attention had not been caught by a call from a tall, whipcord-thin warrior working as the ship’s lookout. The crewman had climbed to the apex of the prow, where a wooden serpent’s head reared above the decks and spat eternal defiance at the waves. The lookout was now gesticulating furiously as he pointed towards the distant horizon.

  “Master Valdar,” the lookout called, addressing the captain by his given name, a nomen which Arthur filed away for future use. The conversation that ensued was in a language that sounded deceptively like Saxon but was delivered far too quickly for the Briton to follow, although he caught an ominous reference to the word storm. Fortunately, the tall man was pointing to a line of black clouds scudding along the rim of the horizon.

  “What’s that?” Arthur asked, with one cold hand shielding his eyes from the glare reflecting off the slate-grey water.

  “A winter gale,” Stormbringer snapped, before spitting out a list of crisp commands that set the Dene warriors scurrying to complete their foul-weather orders.

  “The food in the bowl is for you and your friends to share. I’m sure you understand it’s impossible to heat it,” he told Arthur over one shoulder. “That storm might become dangerous very quickly, so we’ll batten down in case it changes direction and crosses our path. We could turn and run towards Britain or Gaul, but they’re too far away to ensure our survival. We could be driven off course, and that would lead to worse problems. But for now, your companions must eat. Immediately, hungry or not, because there’ll be no chance if we meet up with that little kiss from the gods.”

  Blaise, Maeve, and Eamonn were awake and listening to the hurried conversation with varying degrees of comprehension. Arthur nodded and hunkered down near the tiller, calling to his friends to join him and to remain out of the path of running warriors as they secured any loose items on board the vessel with ropes of plaited flax and hide, especially the large bladders of fresh water. As quickly as possible, Arthur explained the situation to his friends.

  “What’s in it?” Maeve asked suspiciously, as she sniffed the glistening brown and green slop. The crew and its captives had been at sea for over a week now, but the Dene had taken in a store of fresh food and water for the journey home, so the captives had a goodly supply of stale bread, cheese, cured meat, and dried apples. To supplement these staples, Stormbringer’s men were forced to subsist on what seafood they could catch as they traveled, and very unappetizing it appeared to be.

  “That bit looks like a baby octopus!” Blaise exclaimed with revulsion as she pushed with her forefinger at a tentacle that had risen to the oily surface of the stew. “I’m prepared to eat cockles, fish—even oysters—but I can’t look at those tiny legs with suckers all over them. Urgh! I could never eat them, even if I was starving.”

  “I can!” Eamonn interrupted, and plucked the tiny octopus out of the bowl and tossed it into his mouth. He chewed vigorously . . . and chewed . . . and chewed.

  “It might be tough but it’s still edible,” he pronounced as he made a valiant attempt to swallow. “Just don’t look at it when you put it into your mouth.”

  Maeve and Arthur used their fingers to lift some unrecognizable pieces of dried fish and other seafood scraps out of the bowl. They ate tentatively but with determination, for they knew they would weaken and become ill if they failed to sustain themselves.

  “You have to maintain your strength, Blaise, so don’t be so stubborn!” Eamonn made no attempt to disguise his irritation with his recalcitrant and argumentative sister. Very little love was lost between the siblings, but Arthur was convinced that his excitable Dumnonii friend would die to preserve the life of his kinswoman. And so Arthur persisted and held the bowl under Blaise’s nose until she fished through the meat and ate some large chunks of unrecognizable vegetables. Her face was a study in revulsion as she forced the food down and then gulped rainwater out of a leather flask that Stormbringer had left for them.

  “It’s seaweed!” she gasped, once she had caught her breath. “I’ve eaten it before when I was sick and my nurse forced me to take it to build up my strength. And there’s sand in the stew. Who’d willingly eat seaweed?”

  “Anybody who had nothing else to keep them alive,” Stormbringer interrupted from his position beside the tiller. His expression was scathing. “If the winter is very cold in my country and the harvest is poor, my people will eat seaweed when the sea is kind enough to deliver it up . . . and then thank God for his mercy. Otherwise, the older people must go out into the snow when the food supplies run low.”

  “But they’d . . . they’d die.” Blaise’s voice trailed off as she looked at the iron expression on Stormbringer’s face.

  “You’re right—they go out into the snow and they die! Now, enough! This is all the food that anyone will have today, and my own men will go hungry because the storm is likely to strip us of our supplies. Once you’ve eaten, you must tie each other together and lash yourselves to some part of the ship that is unlikely to be washed overboard. The base of the mast would be the safest place, perhaps? This gale that lies in our path is out of season and, as such, it will be dangerous and unpredictable. If we can’t outrun it, we’ll need every person on board to be at the oars.” He nodded towards Arthur and Eamonn. “Are you prepared to row for me? I lost some of my men when we were taking you prisoner, so I’ll need your help on the rowing benches.”

  Arthur glanced across at his friend.

  “I could manacle you to the oars and force your compliance, but I need men who are willing to row for their lives, not slaves who are terrified of death. And I don’t need prisoners whose reluct
ance could fuck up our chances of survival. Do you understand?”

  The crudity hung in the air to underline Stormbringer’s urgency, so both young men nodded and rose to their feet.

  “I meant what I said, girls! Lash yourselves down and cover yourselves with blankets or hides that will give you some protection when the waves start to batter us. The sleet and whatever else that Loki throws at us will freeze you rigid if you’re exposed or washed overboard. Move quickly now, because I don’t have time to watch out for you.”

  As Arthur and Eamonn were pushed and shoved into their places in the oar stations, they took the opportunity to stare behind them at the advancing sky. An impossibly heavy mass of black, billowing cloud with a rolling straight edge at its head seemed to boil in the upper air. Although it was just past noon, the freshening wind was steering the storm towards them at an incredible rate as its center continued to swell. The air currents around the ship were already gusting, causing the great sail to billow and snap until the forward momentum of the Dene vessel began to slow. The hull screamed and shuddered along every plank.

  Stormbringer pointed upwards and shouted something incomprehensible at two crewmen who began to climb the mast until they reached the spars holding the giant sail in place. Once they were hanging over empty air, they struggled to lash the sail into a long roll that they secured to the spar with lengths of rope and strips of hide. Freed now from the sail’s drag, the ship swung sideway into a small trough that brought curses to Stormbringer’s lips when a larger wave filled the scuppers with freezing, salty water. Then, almost magically, the prow of the ship turned directly into a wind that had now risen to gale force. The man at the tiller at the stern of the vessel put his back into the task of forcing the ship to remain head-on into the wind.

  “To your oars,” Stormbringer bellowed, as another large wave broke over the prow of the vessel with a hard blow that caused the hull to shudder. “Helmsman! Steer straight into this bitch or we’ll founder! Put your backs into it! On my mark, bend your backs! If we have any hope of passing through the storm, we’ll need you whoresons to row as if the Ice Dragons are lusting for your souls.”

  He paused. The air was thrumming as if the gale was an angry insect.

  “Row, you bastards, row!” The shrieking wind was already alive with noise as the moan of the sail’s rigging, the howl of disturbed air, and the dull thud from waves breaking over the prow gave Arthur a taste of the destruction that could be inflicted by the sea gods.

  “Faster! Dig into the waves!” The helmsman cursed as the tiller was almost pulled from his arms by the ocean’s force as it battled against the rudder. Stormbringer had to add his extra weight and strength against the straining blade of solid timber.

  Bizarrely, the warriors began to shout a measured chant; Arthur thought they had all turned into madmen. Bearded faces were split with wide, manic grins, and the song was a roared challenge to the might of the ocean. Then, after a few seconds, he realized the oarsmen were rowing to the beat of the chant. As loudly as he could, and inventing words in his own tongue, Arthur joined the refrain as his muscles dug into the task.

  He soon learned why these tall men were so powerful in the shoulders, upper arms, and thighs, while the rest of their bodies were lean and hard. The bite in his muscles as his long oar struck the water, dug in, and then scooped itself free with flesh-tearing force sent a wave of hot pain screaming through his upper body. His thighs tensed as the power expended at the oar coursed from his toes to his groin.

  He knew instinctively that only flesh and muscle could drive the ship through the face of this storm, and then only with luck. The forces of nature were so powerful that the combined efforts of thirty rowers would be barely sufficient to make the ship respond.

  Maintaining a momentum in this chaotic weather seemed an impossible task at first. Soon, each rower found himself engaged in a solitary battle with the elements as he felt the long, slow swell of the ocean’s sinews trying to tear the oar from his trembling hands. After ten strokes, Arthur could almost have imagined himself alone in the lung-tearing and bone-wrenching battle with his oar. Around him, the other warriors applied their strength to their own tasks in the same deadly isolation, while Stormbringer helped the helmsman at the rudder. The ship’s commander threw his weight and his height against the wooden bar that hung above the deck. His powerful back bent like a great bow of bone and muscle, pitted against the might of the sea and the storm.

  Because he had his back to the prow of the ship, Arthur had been obliged to turn his head painfully to one side to watch the advancing gale, but he still managed to keep one terrified eye on the captain. Stormbringer’s expression remained unchanged throughout the inhuman struggle, but he showed no trace of fear, even when the waters boiled around his vessel and she began to take in water. He continued to shout his orders to the crew in a calm and controlled voice.

  “Here she comes, brothers! Don’t lose the beat! For your lives, drive the bitch down!”

  The severity of the storm increased, and the Dene vessel was hit with a sudden, crushing wave that rose over them like a mountain. Up went the prow until the serpent’s head seemed to roar defiance at the storm gods above them.

  Then the ship came down into the empty trough behind the wave with a crash that not only threatened to drag the oar out of Arthur’s hands, but also jerked his body down to a sudden halt that sent a thrill of agony from the base of his spine to the muscles of his neck.

  “Jesus Christ, save us!” Arthur screamed as he spat out a sudden gobbet of blood from where he had bitten his tongue. And now the air was full of sleet, blown horizontally by gale-force winds that shrieked like all the blue hags that had ever lived.

  Objects tore loose from their bindings and flew through the air to strike warriors or the ship. The benches on which the warriors crouched were wet and freezing, while the oarsmen were soon ankle-deep in gelid salt water. Yet no man, Briton or Dene, would cease his defiance or falter with the steady beat of the oars. If they weakened, they would rot in an icy sea, unmourned and unsung.

  By now, Arthur had caught the words of that chanted refrain, and he roared it out as fiercely and as furiously as the bearded madmen on the benches around him, even though he scarcely understood what he sang. In a world of wind, fiery ice, and mountainous seas, the rowers alone were real in the maelstrom of the ocean’s boundless strength.

  Above them, the sun was extinguished and even the distant stars were blotted out, as if they had already fallen into the cataracts at the edge of the earth. Arthur was unafraid, and his blood sang to the beat of his oar as if there was nothing else but this primal struggle against the forces of nature. If they were lost, the gods would know that they had risked their lives bravely in a gamble with eternity. All else was foolishness.

  Chapter II

  WHEN LOKI JESTS WITH MEN

  There is one safeguard known generally to the wise, which is an advantage and security to all, but especially to democracies against despots—suspicion.

  —DEMOSTHENES, Philippics

  When Arthur came to his senses, the Dene vessel was bobbing on clearer water and he was bent over his oar like a drunken barroom brawler. He was chilled to the bone and doubted that his legs would hold him if he attempted to stand.

  From where he sat with his back to the prow, he could see the gale as it scudded away from them. As impossible as it seemed, the Dene ship had experienced only its edge, for Stormbringer had expertly steered the ship away from the worst of the storm. Had they experienced its full force, every soul on board would have perished. Now the Dene ship began to be lashed by squalls of driving sleet mixed with cold rain, so that Arthur thanked his own god and the Roman Mithras that he hadn’t yet been called to join his ancestors in the shades.

  Somehow, against the will of the gods, Loki’s Eye was still afloat and under control. But the pace was much reduced by the sheer weight of the
water that slopped around their legs and streamed from the scuppers.

  When he straightened his aching spine, Arthur was conscious of the presence of every iron plate sewn onto his leather tunic for, when their weight was compounded with soaking wool and wet leather, his clothing seemed almost too heavy for his overstretched muscles to bear. Still, because he deemed himself a man and refused to be shamed by his bodily hurts, Arthur rested his oar and checked the safety and condition of the men around him.

  The breathless Dene warriors leaned on their oars in various stages of exhaustion as normalcy returned to the ship. Stormbringer appeared above them on the upper deck and shouted orders with much laughter and a show of strong white teeth. From the few words he understood, Arthur deduced that Stormbringer was congratulating his men on their survival. Then, at a sharp order, the warriors began to draw their oars into the vessel. Arthur was happy to follow suit as he watched two of the sailors climb the mast to unfurl the dragon sail. With sighs, curses, and winces of pain, most of the crew lay on the rowing benches, their chests still laboring as lungs and hearts returned to a normal pattern.

  Loki’s Eye wallowed under the accumulated weight of water that slowed her pace to a crawl. Using helmets, leather buckets, or any of the variety of utensils floating around the warriors’ legs, everyone on board began the dreary task of bailing water from the ship. This unpredictable storm could turn in its tracks and attack them from the rear. Carrying such a weight of water, Loki’s Eye could easily founder from the first great wave that crossed her bows.

  Impossibly, and against every scream from their tortured bodies, the warriors bent their backs to the task. Arthur forced his shaking arms to dig the helmet he found into the swirling water and empty it over the side.