by M. K. Hume
As he strode back to his companions with the guardsmen trailing in his wake, Arthur’s face was stinging, but glowing. The cool breeze on the droplets of water in his eyebrows and hair chased the last of the night from his brain, and he felt wholly alive, even if he was about to face death. Back in the area where the prisoners had been confined, he discovered that Stormbringer had arranged for food to be delivered. A large, wrapped bundle of sheepskin accompanied the food containers.
His companions were fully awake and eating with gusto, while making jokes about Arthur’s tardiness. “I told you he’d smell the food, no matter how far away he was. He’d rather lose a toe than miss a meal.” Maeve’s remark caused more laughter than it merited, telling Arthur that everyone was a little on edge by what the coming day promised.
“I’ve kept some of this muck . . . I think it’s meant to be porridge.” Blaise spoke without her customary snap, as if she, too, understood how their separate fates rested with the fighting skills and courage of their brothers.
“There are herrings, boiled eggs, and a large hunk of cheese as well. An odd breakfast, but it’s very tasty,” Eamonn added as he bit into a herring. He chewed vigorously and swallowed. “Join us! There’s warm milk too!”
Arthur seated himself within the makeshift circle and accepted a wooden bowl of honey-sweetened porridge from his sister. Ravenous, he then devoured a number of herrings, two boiled eggs, and half of the pungent cheese. The others watched him as he ate, their eyes dancing with amusement.
The moment that Arthur finished eating, Maeve unwrapped the parcel that had been delivered with their meal. She’d been desperate to discover what Stormbringer had sent them, and her fingers had itched to slake her curiosity. From its weight, she had reasoned that it concealed weapons.
But which swords and knives had been sent by the Sae Dene?
“Look, Arthur! Stormbringer has returned all your weapons!”
“Is my Dragon Knife among them?” Arthur felt his heart leap.
Yes! There it was! As perfect and as beautiful as on the day it was first forged by a humble blacksmith with a heart full of gratitude for the young Artor, Arthur’s father, more than sixty years earlier. The dragon appeared to be asleep on the hilt while it lay curled up and quiescent in its fine-gold plating. But if turned just a little the garnet eye stared up, filled with purpose and malevolence.
Beside the Dragon Knife was Bedwyr’s gift to the young man, the sword wrought with much thought and many prayers by a master metalsmith trained by the Romans. The very long gladius was both power and art. Eamonn’s sword had also been wrapped in the sheepskin, and the pristine condition of both indicated that they had been lovingly cleaned and prepared for the task they were about to undertake.
“We have our weapons at last,” Arthur declared reverently. “Everything will be different now. No matter how large or how tall our enemies are, or how skilled they might be, Hrolf Kraki’s best men will underestimate us because of our youth. They can’t know that Britain has tempered most of her true sons in the crucible of warfare by the time they are old enough to lift their weapons. We can win, Eamonn, I know we can win, and all we need to do is to have faith in our abilities.”
He picked up the Dragon Knife with his left hand and felt it vibrate under his fingers, as if it had returned to life once it recognized the touch of its master. In Arthur’s other hand, Bedwyr’s gift of love, his own sword, snuggled into his fist with a deep, vibrating purr when he swung it. Point and counterpoint, knife and sword were complementary, for one weapon was forged out of gratitude and the other was hammered out of love. “There’s nothing I cannot do—now that this knife has been returned to me,” he vowed.
“The sun is rising,” one of the Stormbringer’s guards interrupted. “Our masters have sent word that the contest will begin shortly, so you must ready yourselves to be called to the arena.”
Maeve turned towards one of the guards.
“Do you care who wins?” Maeve asked in Saxon with a veneer of calm. “I know your master is doing everything in his power to help us, but do you and the other guards have any thoughts about what will happen today?”
The man shuffled his feet and lowered his eyes under the girl’s uncompromising stare. “Yes, we do! All Stormbringer’s men are concerned for what might happen. Our master is brave, and he’s a true leader of men who has taken us through many battles. He’s won booty aplenty for us, so his leadership allows us to stand tall in Heorot. I’d do anything short of treason for my lord Valdar! I’ve wagered on the blond lad, but I haven’t decided whether to lay coin on his dark friend. Regardless of what I think, my comrades are certain that the king and the witchwoman intend to kill you.” He smiled bashfully. “Wodin knows it isn’t right—but many good men have been sent to their graves before their time simply because a king didn’t like their faces. The blond boy knows how to rub the king’s fur the wrong way. Begging your pardon, miss, you fair upset the witch with your home truths. I would have cheered, except you and your brother had landed my master right in it, if you know what I mean. But the boy has Loki’s own luck, so I figure he’ll take out the Troll King—although he’s so much smaller.”
The guard paused for breath.
“I hope I’ve chosen the right words to explain how we feel, mistress, but the Saxon tongue doesn’t come easily to my mouth.”
“I understand what you mean . . . only too well! I hope you win your wager on my brother, but you would also be wise to set coin down on his friend.” She smiled at the guardsman. “I can assure you that my companions will both win their contests, regardless of who is sent against them.”
She paused and the warrior had to strain to hear the last words. “As will I,” she sighed.
• • •
ARTHUR WAS DRESSED in the armored tunic and boots that Stormbringer had sent, and had completed his warm-up exercises by the time Stormbringer and Frodhi arrived. The Sae Dene captain, beautifully armed and dressed, was carrying a large bag over one shoulder.
Surprisingly, Stormbringer’s cousin was clad in rather nondescript clothing, as if he sought anonymity within the crowd. Fat chance of that! Arthur thought. Frodhi will stand out regardless of how he dresses.
With a flourish, the Sae Dene opened the drawstring of his bag and exposed three helmets for selection by the two combatants. One helmet in the Dene style bore heavy embossing and the long, curving horns of a steer. Arthur’s fingers only stroked it briefly before he rejected it. “It’s too ornate, Eamonn. There are too many decorations that can catch a blade and turn it downwards towards the wearer’s face and body. This thing is only fit for ceremonial occasions.”
“Well! So much for your father’s old ceremonial helmet, Valdar. I told you any man of sense would reject it. No self-respecting warrior would ever wear such a thing in battle, so you now owe me a finger of silver.” Frodhi’s voice was triumphant and, somehow, his irreverence gave a festive air to what was a serious and dangerous occasion.
“Then which one would you choose?” Stormbringer asked as he held out the others.
“You should choose first, Eamonn, because your size puts you at a greater disadvantage.” Arthur waved his friend forward. “Either of these helmets will serve my needs.”
“I’ll take the one with the wide nose guard.” Eamonn smiled. “My sister never tires of telling me how big that part of my face is, so it needs special protection.” He picked up a shining helmet that was almost bare of decoration except for an exaggerated nose and cheek guard that protected the top half of the face.
“Consider your visibility with this one, Eamonn. It’s a very good helmet, but I’ll wager it has a blind spot that could bring you to grief. I’d be happier if you practice with it now, while we still have time to reconsider our choices.”
“So you’d choose to use this Sae Dene helmet?” Stormbringer asked, holding the conical headpiece up for
Arthur to admire the wings that gave the helmet an arcane beauty. However, although the bronzed gull wings could have caught a sword blade and inflicted harm on the wearer, the accoutrements had been finished with an upwards slant designed to hug the head of a warrior. An attacking blade would be deflected away from the wearer, regardless of where the blow fell.
“I’ll gladly wear a Sae Dene helmet because I’ve never met warriors who use the sea as well as you and the other Sae Dene do. I’ll think of the gulls as I fight, and how they steal what they can’t kill. Like them, I must be brave and brazen when I go about my own hunting today. Now isn’t the time for posturing or arrogance!”
Frodhi laughed and slapped Arthur hard on the back, a blow that caused the Briton to stumble. “Gods, but I like you, lad! You’ve got that arrogant, spit-in-their-eye view of the world that I admire. And it’s a good helmet, Arthur. When did you first use it, Valdar?”
“My father gave it to me on my majority when I was sixteen. I thought myself a true man at the time. How we live and learn, cousin.”
Stormbringer spoke with a nostalgic regret that dampened the optimistic mood in an instant. Wisely, Frodhi changed the subject.
“Do you want to know anything about Thorketil, the Hammer of Thor, who is your opponent? I can give you some of his background, if you want it.”
“Yes, please, Master Frodhi. Any information you can provide might help me to obtain a useful edge.” Arthur asked his sister to plait his hair to form a cushioning coronet that would sit under the heavy helmet, while Frodhi chose how best to describe Thorketil.
“Clever!” Stormbringer said reflectively as Maeve eased the winged helmet into place on Arthur’s head. “Look, Frod! Rather than use lamb’s wool, Arthur’s long hair makes an effective layer of resistance between his skull and the iron of his helmet.”
“I’d heard that King Artor was reputed to do the same.”
“Aye, cuz!” Frodhi nodded seriously. “It’s a subject that’s worth thinking about. Have you noticed how many men suffer from brain fever after battle, having taken a blow on the helmet that doesn’t immediately kill them? They seem to die later, almost as if the brain has been damaged by the invisible force of the blow.”
“Yes, I have. It’s like the effect on your skull when you accidentally hit your head on a tree branch. I remember being chased by you when we were youngsters and having just such an accident.”
“One of many,” Frodhi joked while both Eamonn and Arthur looked at each other quizzically, surprised at the frivolous direction the conversation had taken.
Arthur wanted to shout out his need for an explanation of the strengths and weaknesses of Thorketil, but his debts to Stormbringer stopped the rude rejoinder in his throat.
“I’ve cleft the odd skull in my time and found the brain to be a wet, grey slop,” Frodhi commented without warning. Maeve almost retched, so he apologized immediately. “I forgot that girls have weaker stomachs than men.”
“Perhaps if you are hit on the front of the head, the brain moves to strike the skull bone at the back,” Arthur interrupted with mounting impatience. “I’m sorry to be rude, Stormbringer, but what has this anatomy lesson to do with my battle against Thorketil?”
“The name of Hammer of Thor is evocative,” put in Eamonn tactfully. “I imagine him to be a large and skilled warrior.”
“True,” Frodhi replied. “Thorketil is a giant of a man who stands at least four inches taller than any of us. He’s a freak of nature in more ways than one, and he’s also heavily muscled. As a man mountain, he destroys his opponents by sheer physical force. Of course, his reputation as a warrior and harbinger of death precedes him, so most of his opponents are terrified before he even unsheathes his sword. Further, he is also amazingly fast for such a huge creature. You must remember what I say, young Arthur. We call him Troll behind his back, because he looks as if he would be at home in the deep forests, in caves, or in those dark places where trolls are protected from the sun. But Thorketil won’t turn to stone in the morning light. Nor is he stupid.
“His face looks unfinished . . . almost as if he’s wanting in his wits,” the Dene nobleman added. “He had a hard time of it as a boy because most of us thought he was one of those unfortunate giants who are slow-witted. He is no beauty, but he’s clever and far more intelligent than he appears.”
“Oh, that poor little boy must have suffered terribly,” Blaise said.
“Uh! Well, I suppose he did.” It was obvious that Frodhi had never before considered the effects of relentless bullying on the child that Thorketil had been.
“You speak of my opponent as if he’s invincible,” Arthur interrupted slowly, his mind already probing for any weaknesses that might be used against his enemy.
“Yes! At least he has proved to be invincible in the past,” Frodi continued. “In his youth, the boy had reason to hate more handsome warriors and was teased for being an ugly monster so often that he gradually became more and more bitter and enraged. If he does have a weakness, you’ll find it in his temper, something that he usually keeps firmly leashed. A resourceful opponent could use words to harm Thorketil more effectively than any weapon.”
“That’s not a very heroic plan,” Arthur objected, his sense of fairness affronted.
“And there’s no guarantee it’ll work anyway,” Frodhi added. “Thorketil’s been chosen by Hrolf Kraki because he’s a devastating warrior. Gods, Briton! My royal cousin has eyes to see for himself. He’s seen how strong you are and he has a fair idea that you’re likely to be very well trained. We Dene aren’t stupid, you know! We realize that you’ve had the benefit of trade and communication with the wise ones of the Middle Sea, and we’re quite aware that you consider us to be barbarians. Don’t you understand that the Crow King will throw his most invincible warrior against you? He’s determined to prove that you Britons are inferior to us, because he’s a little afraid that you might be superior. Do you follow my reasoning?”
“I think so,” Arthur replied slowly. “Hrolf Kraki knows that Britain and the other countries of the south have more knowledge and a higher standard of living than the Dene, so he has to demonstrate his superiority by killing me.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” Stormbringer replied for his cousin. “I’d suggest you wait until you see Thorketil before you decide how to mount your defense against the man. Most of our information will make sense when you eventually see him in the flesh.”
“As always, the Crow King seeks to crack a walnut with a battle-axe,” Frodhi went on. “He’s shown his fear so clearly that every fool at the contest was able to see it.” Frodhi was obviously scornful of his kinsman’s strategy, further sparking Arthur’s curiosity about his opponent.
“Oh—there is one thing that hasn’t been mentioned,” Stormbringer continued. “Our king has now decided that you are to fight Thorketil in the second bout, and Eamonn will provide a tasty prelude to the main event. I think he hopes to demoralize you, because your cause will be irretrievably lost if Eamonn should fail in the first bout.”
“I suppose that Maeve and Blaise are considered to be the honeyed sweetmeats.” Arthur’s voice was thickly laced with grim sarcasm.
“Exactly! My king expects this afternoon’s entertainment to amuse the people and reinforce their belief that Dene warriors are unbeatable. With this prospect in mind, Hrolf Kraki can afford to be generous in his choice of an opponent for Eamonn to confront. Besides, like many Dene, he judges Eamonn to be less powerful because he’s short in stature.”
“Which is stupidity again on Hrolf Kraki’s part,” Frodhi said. “The first thing a successful warrior learns is that appearance is only a part of what makes a dangerous opponent. It’s typical of him, but our kinsman has always been impressed by size.”
Then Frodhi winked broadly, so that even Arthur smiled at the double meaning. The girls giggled demurely behind their hands, and Eamo
nn laughed naturally for the first time since they had left Britain. Only Stormbringer remained glum and thoughtful.
Once the moment had passed, Eamonn and Arthur looked expectant and nervous by turn, eager to discover the details of Eamonn’s opponent. But neither man spoke.
“Your opponent is Rufus Olaffsen, Eamonn, and he is one of our most competent warriors,” Stormbringer stated in a firm voice. More important, he is a man of unquestioning obedience and is oath-bound to Hrolf Kraki personally, as well as to the Scyldings and the ruling class. He will obey his king without question and will sacrifice his life for his master without a second thought.”
“Lovely!” Eamonn muttered. “I’m to fight a mindless savage who is determined to protect his king from my threatening presence—no matter what!”
“He’s not quite as tall as the other bodyguards, which is no disadvantage for you. I know little about him, so I can’t speak for his intelligence.”
“A capacity for blind obedience doesn’t speak well for his thinking processes,” Arthur said.
“I can say without fear of contradiction that Rufus is a man of honor,” Frodhi told him. “It is true that he’s not a superior warrior. But he’s extremely skilled and has survived battles beyond count. Don’t rule him out because he’s the kind of man who has a great admiration for Hrolf Kraki and has dedicated himself to his king’s interests.”
“We’ll find out for ourselves once the combat begins,” Eamonn concluded.
“Aye! I hope that you’re the darlings of the gods of Asgaad and the Christus, because I happen to like you, both as persons and as warriors! Whatever happens today, you can trust in my personal regard. I’ll champion you as far as I can.”
Stormbringer straightened his body armor with his customary efficiency. “The hour marches towards noon and my king is waiting impatiently for his entertainment to reach its climax.” He turned to face the two young girls. “There is one important matter for you to consider, young ladies. The Dene place a high value on stoicism, so you mustn’t show any weakness, no matter how terrible the contests may prove to be. Present calm faces to the witchwoman and show no fear, because she’ll feast on your terror.”
