The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  “I have been ill for some months, and I’m weary almost to my death. I must rest for a time, Gareth, or I’ll sicken further and will be an additional burden to you while you are undertaking your journey.”

  With some reluctance, Gareth nodded in agreement. He wasn’t a fool, and he recognized the gauntness revealed in Taliesin’s face, his expression drawn and lost, as if he had stretched his spirit so thinly that it was near to tearing apart.

  “A man can only do what he can do. Still, we need your wise counsel, Taliesin, so I’ll regret that you’ll not be traveling with us.”

  “I’ve no idea how long it will take before I’m fit to depart on the journey. But I swear by the oaths I made to Lord Artor as he lay dying that I will join you once I have recovered sufficient strength to undertake the journey. I won’t desert Arthur in his time of need, nor will I fail to help you to find him.”

  Taliesin smiled shakily at the young warrior.

  “I suggest you maximize any skills you have that will ease your way into the north. If you are asked, you must claim to be a Roman-raised Briton who has been driven out of his homeland and is now attempting to sell his skills to the highest bidder. Thousands of other mercenaries have similar histories. I doubt that anyone will suspect you of having ulterior motives. I know from my own travels that innkeepers welcome singers and storytellers, just as villagers seek hardened warriors to assist them during times of threat. The larger inns also welcome toughs who are prepared to deal with troublemakers or to manhandle fractious drunkards. I suggest you call all men friends until they prove they’re enemies, but always watch their eyes and hands carefully. Words are cheap in the lands you’ll traverse, and few men speak with total honesty. Expect treachery, even while you hope for generosity.”

  “You give wise advice, my lord. But I have no knowledge of the arts of storytelling or music, so I’ll have to rely on my skills with my sword and my bow.”

  “You can profit from your skills with weapons, Gareth. Your swordcraft and knife throwing can be used for entertainment or for the education of young lordlings. You can also hire your services out as a bodyguard, if you choose to tie yourself down for a time. Your need for coin will ultimately influence your decisions, but try not to handfast yourself to any single king or lordling, for Arthur could be forced to languish in the north for years. No master will cheerfully relinquish a good fighting man who enters his employment. If God is kind to us sinners, I’ll be arriving in the Saxon lands in about a year and a half, so you can expect to hear of me in the north around then. I’ll ensure I become known as the Harper of the Britons; listen at inns for some word of me.”

  Gareth’s throat felt constricted. “A year and a half?” he gasped. “That’s such a long time!” He thought of the quiet halls of Arden Forest and the sweet scent of Nimue’s home, and he felt a sudden yearning for a home of his own that might eventually give his life some purpose.

  But a year or more would seem like a lifetime if he was forced to survive in hostile places.

  “The road you must take is long and dangerous, Gareth. The north is an alien place filled with dangerous enemies, so you must be brave if you hope to complete your quest and fulfill your oath. No man will blame you if you decide to leave Arthur to whatever fate Fortuna has planned for him. Your father made you swear your life away to Prince Arthur before you’d even met the boy, but such an oath cannot be totally binding on you. You’re still too young to throw your life away on pointless dreams of glory.”

  Gareth sighed, so Taliesin was certain that his advice would be ignored.

  “That isn’t so, Taliesin! Arthur treated me like a man and as an equal, and he never saw me as a pale imitation of my father, even if that’s all I have become. I must honor an oath to my friend.”

  Gareth felt no compulsion to explain to Taliesin why Arthur was his first and only friend.

  The harper clicked his tongue in growing irritation, for he’d become tired of the demands of pointless loyalty over the long years.

  He recalled a story recounted by Myrddion Merlinus about one good and faithful servant who possessed marked similarities to Gareth Minor. Botha, the arms master of Uther Pendragon, had been oath-bound to that monster in the years before that terrible man had gained the throne. Again and again, Botha tried to protect his honor without breaking his oath. Ultimately, he had died when the task proved impossible.

  Taliesin vowed to himself that he’d never put Gareth in the same untenable position that had killed Botha.

  “You’re nothing like your sire, Gareth. I knew him well and spoke to him often, so I can swear that my words are true and aren’t offered out of pity. Your father couldn’t accept that his master and hero had died from his wounds. He wouldn’t face up to the inexorable march of the years or the strength of our enemies. I’d hope that you’re far too clever to blindly accept such nonsense. From our brief acquaintance, I can tell that you’re a man who sets great store by the truth. Remember what I say, my young friend, for Taliesin offers his hand to you as a warrior—and not as the reflection of a dead man.”

  Then Taliesin offered Gareth his hand in the old Roman fashion. In the warmth of those strong fingers, Gareth felt the constriction in his chest begin to loosen. He wept like a child for the man his father had ultimately become.

  And, for the first time, he also mourned for the boy he should have been.

  The Village below Heorot

  The Hall of Heorot

  Chapter VII

  THE HALL OF THE DENE KING

  Per Ardua ad Astra.

  (Through struggle and adversity to the stars.)

  —THE MOTTO OF THE ROYAL AIR FORCE

  The captives were made aware of their real status in the Dene world from the moment that Loki’s Eye made its swooping dive towards a pebbled beach below the hillside crowned by the great hall of Heorot. With a small grimace of apology, Stormbringer asked each of the Britons to extend their arms so their hands could be bound tightly in front of their bodies.

  The consternation of the warriors around him put Arthur on his guard, for these strong and clever men seemed nervous and almost shy. Arthur distrusted any court where the ruler was feared by his own aristocrats, so his eyes searched for his sister’s cool, clean gaze.

  “Aye, brother! Perhaps this Dene king isn’t cut from the same cloth as Stormbringer, so you’ll have to be careful,” Maeve hissed, while her guard was engaged with polishing fingerprints from the metal boss of his shield. “That means keeping your mouth shut, Arthur. Think before you speak!”

  Stormbringer leaned over Arthur’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “You mustn’t show any fear when you stand before the king. Our people put a high price on courage and fortitude, so any pleas or tears will only heap scorn upon you. For my part, I’d prefer to leave you unbound, but my master expects you to be in chains and he’ll think more highly of you if he believes you are too dangerous to be left loose.”

  “All I ask is that you look to the safety of the girls, Stormbringer. They are children, and they’re still too young to be raped by grown men. We both know what happens to pretty slave girls . . .” Arthur’s voice contained a raw edge of distress.

  “Their value lies in their youth and purity, so no man will touch them until our king gives his consent,” Stormbringer promised, but Arthur could see a shadow on the brow of his captor.

  “What aren’t you saying, Captain? Do you doubt your king’s capacity for mercy?”

  The Sae Dene shook his head fiercely. “I’ve told you repeatedly that our king, Hrolf Kraki, will decide your separate fates. My king is a warrior. He took his father’s throne back from Snaer through force of arms, so the tyrant was fed to Hrolf Kraki’s pigs while he still breathed. Be careful what you do, or say. I have no part in his decisions. Because I have captured you, I might be able to intervene to some extent, but the king would be angere
d if I attempted to dictate to him on any matter which is rightly his province. I won’t anger him unless my honor is compromised through my silence.”

  The message was clear: Stormbringer doubted his king’s capacity for mercy—and he was upset by what might happen to the British girls.

  The captain paused and mitigated his words carefully. “Our king is not unkind, but his experience has made him hard and untrusting. And he has sometimes been known to consider advice which is . . . unfortunate. He survived banishment during Snaer’s reign after that tyrant stole the throne. Traitorously, Snaer received assistance from the Hundings, the Germanic tribes who swore vengeance against the Dene kings after the leaders of that tribe were crushed in battle. Such hatreds are the normal pattern of life in northern lands. This land cannot support two peoples, two kings, and two cultures, so only one can be permitted to prevail. Hrolf ensured that many of the Hundings perished for their various treasons.”

  He smiled grimly. “Snaer blighted my master’s youth, ensuring that our king hates slavery on principle—although ours continues to be a slave society. I’ve found that he won’t normally punish a man he believes is deserving of mercy. For my part, I’ll do everything I can to speak kindly of you and your friends.”

  After living in close contact with the Dene captain on Loki’s Eye, Arthur had observed the Sae Dene’s worth in situations of danger and imminent death, so he knew that Stormbringer wasn’t easily frightened. Hrolf Kraki must be a formidable and unpredictable man if Stormbringer was wary of endangering his own position.

  There’s something wrong about this king—something that Stormbringer isn’t prepared to voice aloud. And what does he mean when he refers to unfortunate advice?

  Before Arthur could voice his concerns to Maeve, strong hands gripped his shoulders and lifted him bodily out of Loki’s Eye as if he weighed no more than a child. The vessel had been run aground on the shingle, so the Britons stayed dry as they were herded along a narrow path that wound upwards to the king’s hall. Arthur heard the jeers and laughter of a crowd of bucolics, staring at the outlanders with curiosity and amusement. Men, women, and children had gathered in their gaily dyed wools and sturdy leather boots to view the strangers at close quarters.

  Over the chatter and noise, one stentorian voice could be heard. The crowd scattered like chaff before a strong wind, while Arthur’s mouth gaped.

  “Valdar, you bastard! You’ve survived again and, no doubt, you’ve returned weighed down with gold and slaves. You’ve got Loki’s luck, you son of a whore . . . and you’re still a good-looking bugger to boot. As usual, you return with beautiful women.”

  A large leonine man strode down the path from Heorot, his arms spread widely to lift Stormbringer off his feet as he embraced him. If Arthur had been asked to describe what a Dene king should look like, this man would be a perfect example.

  “Frod?” Stormbringer’s voice was incredulous and, yes, excited at the arrival of this man with such an odd name. “Frodhi! You turn up in the damnedest of places at the most opportune times—but look at you! You’ve gained weight!”

  “I’ll have you know, you half-arsed Sae Dene, that everyone else but you tells me that I’m a fine figure of a man.”

  Stormbringer snorted, then his humor evaporated and his usual lack of expression returned. Frodhi continued to grin amiably.

  “How’s Hrolf Kraki? He’s your cousin—so if you don’t know, who does? We’re all kinsmen, but you’re in the line of succession, not me, since my mother is the Crow King’s blood relative. You’ve always managed to keep Hrolf sweet and malleable, even when he’s half crazed with his woman.”

  “He’s his usual curmudgeonly self and spends his entire day looking for traitors in the corners of his hall and thinking of new ways to wring the last pieces of gold from our farmers.” Frodhi evidently had a healthy lack of respect for the king—or was in the fortunate position of being a favorite in the royal court.

  He was an exceptionally handsome, strong, and vigorous man, aged somewhere in his thirties if the white, wirelike lines at the corners of his eyes were any indication. His white-gold mustache was both ferocious and luxurious, while the chin that he kept shaved was cleft and strong. His thick hair curled to his shoulder blades, a perfect foil for his golden-tanned skin.

  Both Maeve and Blaise reacted to his animal magnetism, shown in their heightened color and bright eyes. Arthur felt at a total disadvantage in the company of this handsome, witty barbarian, so he searched avidly for any sign of weaknesses in Stormbringer’s cousin.

  His eyes are too close together, Arthur decided. And he’s obviously too interested in joking and foolery. Stormbringer is the better man!

  All thoughts of the coming meeting with the Dene king disappeared in the excitement of the moment.

  “And who are these captives? Damn me, Valdar, you always manage to find the pretty ones.” Frodhi bowed courteously at the waist to both girls, and when Stormbringer introduced him, he took their bound hands in his and kissed their knuckles.

  In turn, the girls giggled and blushed attractively.

  “And what of these young roosters? The big one looks like a Jute!”

  Arthur bristled with insult, so Stormbringer explained the ancestry and reputations of Eamonn and Arthur.

  “So you are the Last Dragon! The title has a nice sound, doesn’t it? But it’s also a little too final for my liking. It implies that someone is going to end your career rather abruptly.”

  Frodhi laughed uproariously and then apologized. But Arthur sensed a scratching deep in his consciousness, faint as the stirring of a mouse’s tiny claws. He was instantly on his guard.

  This man isn’t a true jester—and he isn’t as mild as he’d have everyone believe. But even when Frodhi said his farewells to Stormbringer, with a promise to drink beer with him later, Arthur attempted to keep his facial expression blank and his thoughts to himself.

  With a cheerful wave, Frodhi bounded upwards towards Heorot, his long hair flowing in the light breeze.

  Arthur squinted upwards at the dim sun. By his estimation, the hour must have been close to noon, but sunrise had arrived only an hour or so earlier. The inhabitants treated sunny days as unofficial festivals, and the crowd was in the mood to be entertained.

  At the epicenter of the crowd, the Britons blinked in the fitful sunlight with bowed heads and tied hands. They shared feelings of failure and trepidation, for they had been taken alive, a shameful thing.

  Do we look so strange to them? Arthur wondered and, with deliberation, rose to his full height and stared arrogantly at the crowd around him. When his gaze caught the eyes of a watchful commoner, the peasant became embarrassed by the contact and eventually looked away.

  Taking Arthur’s lead, Eamonn followed suit, while Maeve tossed her scarlet head and tilted her chin proudly as if no bonds restrained her. Blaise pulled her skirts out of the mud on the roadway and straightened her tunic. Then she stared at the mob to show her contempt. We must act as if we are the masters and Britons rule the known world that lies beyond the Dene lands, thought Arthur. Our arrogance and pride must be the armor that demands respect from Dene society.

  But the Dene common folk had cause to be proud as well. Arthur made an instant comparison between these strong, athletic bodies and their smaller British counterparts. Again, most of the Dene women were taller than Eamonn, who was much the same size as the immature and beardless youths of this strange land. Similarly, the Dene girls stood taller by far than many warriors in Britain, and their fair coloring made the captives seem exotic and dark by comparison. The darkest hair color among the Dene villagers was pale brown, and most of the people present seemed to possess blue eyes of a shade which was rare in Britain.

  “Their feet are huge,” Arthur muttered to Eamonn under his breath. “In fact, they’re like big hairy animals. We mustn’t act as if we’re beaten before we begin. S
tormbringer told me that his people came from a land of deep snows. People of small stature would die in the snowdrifts, and the lack of sunlight seems to have leached the color from their skins. Only the tall and the strong lived long enough to breed.”

  “But the king’s cousin seems quite reasonable,” Eamonn muttered. If Hrolf Kraki is like him . . .”

  Then Blaise broke into the men’s conversation to hiss out her opinion. “I don’t believe we have anything to fear if Frodhi and Hrolf Kraki are alike.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Arthur grumbled darkly while scuffing his toes on the muddy roadway.

  “It’s all right for you, Arthur. You’re tall enough to look directly into the eyes of these man mountains,” Eamonn retorted with a flash of his old humor.

  Now that the journey had been completed, Eamonn was freed from the long, despairing greyness of the voyage. He grinned like the boy he still was. “I get a good view of Dene bellies, and I can tell whether they’re flat or paunchy. Unfortunately, most seem to be flat.”

  From the Dene perspective, these four outlanders were very strange in appearance because their coloring was so dark as to be almost fabulous. Arthur spied a number of grizzled warriors who wore grey-streaked red beards, but not a soul among the noisy and curious throng seemed to have red hair on their heads. Maeve’s red-gold coronet of curls was a source of great wonder to the Dene. Several daring women reached out to touch the rich, glossy curls when she came within reach, although Maeve drew back from their impudent fingers. Similarly, Arthur’s mane, rather than his great height, was a source of interest. Only Stormbringer’s intervention prevented some of the more adventurous members of the crowd from snatching a souvenir and, in the melee, one crude young man pulled the pins from Maeve’s coronet so that the russet-blond locks unraveled and tumbled past her knees. The crowd gasped at the marvelous sight, while the youth relinquished the hairpins to Stormbringer with good humor and the crowd’s applause.