by M. K. Hume
A flash in Thorketil’s eyes warned Arthur that the Troll King was about to use his shield to smash him to the ground. From somewhere unknown within himself, Arthur dredged up enough strength to defy the combined forces of Thorketil, gravity, and Fortuna herself.
“Words!” Arthur whispered into Thorketil’s ear. “I am the Last Dragon, so the gods will never allow you to kill me! No troll can put me under the ground, not even one who lives in the sunlight.”
Even as Thorketil swung the huge shield to strike Arthur on the back, Arthur’s reflexes took over, and he made his move. Quickly, so fast that the onlookers could barely anticipate his sudden disengagement, Arthur allowed his torso to slide away from the close body-to-body contact. The weight of Thorketil’s huge sword, too heavy for any normal Dene to lift, forced it to fall downwards towards the ground while pulling the surprised Dene warrior off-balance.
Arthur acted instinctively. He rolled away on the uneven ground and leapt to his feet with renewed strength. Skipping behind the giant, who had taken longer to regain his balance than the lighter Briton, Arthur slashed just once with the Dragon Knife and felt the blade bite deep into the tendons behind Thorketil’s outstretched knee.
Thorketil knew instantly that he was finished. His hamstring was severed and he would never stand on the field of combat again, nor hear the acclaim of the crowd as it washed over him. He realized that the boats would sail in the spring without him and the red work which had given his life purpose and respect had been stolen from him forever.
On his knees, Thorketil bared his throat, screamed once in unbearable anguish, and then begged for death as his blood began to turn the packed brown earth into red slurry.
“Kill me! You’ve beaten me—so cut my throat and have done with it. I am nothing without two good legs, and I won’t crawl in the dirt like a back-broken lizard or beg in the marketplace for the amusement of the crowd. Please, Briton? Allow me some pride!”
Arthur looked towards Hrolf Kraki, who was slouching on his throne in obvious irritation. With some effort, the king hid his chagrin in an outward show of boredom.
“Kill the bastard and we’ll get this whole mess over and done with.”
Arthur felt a surge of revulsion at Hrolf Kraki’s callousness, because the king seemed untouched by Thorketil’s tears and the obvious loss of everything that mattered to the warrior.
The Crow King’s eyes were hard and dry.
“This man has been crippled to advance your interests, master,” Arthur asked with real concern. “You are the king, my lord, but Thorketil is owed something more than a casual rejection. Why should I stain my soul with the blood of an honorable warrior?”
Hrolf Kraki’s malignant frown would have melted glacial ice, but Arthur stood his ground and faced down the king’s obvious hatred.
“If you want to claim the life of an honorable servant, then you must use another man to carry out such an ignoble task. We honor such men as the Hammer of Thor in my homeland, so I must suppose that the Dene people place no value in valor, sacrifice, and nobility. I’ll not kill your champion—for he is a true man, a remarkable warrior, and a loyal servant to his king. If you want him dead, then you’ll have to kill him yourself.”
The growl from the crowd was low and deep, as if a wild beast had turned its hungry eyes upon the king. Hrolf Kraki shifted in his seat as he recognized their change of mood, but Aednetta’s fingers dug into the large muscles across his shoulder as she encouraged him to regain control over the disastrous train of events.
Arthur joined the other captives below the throne. Unfortunately for Hrolf Kraki, Arthur had spoken in Dene and, while his pronunciation had been execrable, the closest townsfolk had heard and understood every word. Those who hadn’t heard Arthur’s response demanded a précis of his words of defiance from their more fortunate fellows, so the young man’s rejection of the king’s ignoble order was speedily passed back through the audience. Ordinary Dene folk were observing their king through newly opened eyes, while nodding their heads respectfully towards both Arthur and his erstwhile enemy.
With a sudden surge of fury and blind to the harm he was doing to his own reputation, Hrolf Kraki demanded that his guards should drag Thorketil away. The crowd groaned and Arthur saw two spots of redness appear on Hrolf Kraki’s wind-burned face.
Aware that any loyal Dene was obligated to save the king from the consequences of his callousness, Stormbringer hurried to provide an alternative solution before the guard obeyed Hrolf Kraki’s orders. The warriors’ faces were frozen and expressionless as they tried to hide their repugnance for the task they had been allotted.
“As your loyal servant, my king, I would ask a boon of you. I ask that you give Thorketil and Rufus to the Sae Dene in recognition of the many services they have given the Dene during your reign. Thorketil doesn’t need two strong legs to serve in your ships, not when he is such a powerful and knowledgeable warrior. Rufus would also be invaluable to us, and I believe his wounds will heal in time. If you are in agreement, I will find many opportunities for these heroes to continue in your service.”
Only too conscious of the mood of the crowd, Hrolf Kraki considered the diplomatic and strategic advantages of complying with Stormbringer’s request. He realized immediately that the Sae Dene’s offer was an excellent means of saving face and defusing a possibly dangerous outcome. Still, resentment towards Stormbringer bloomed in the king’s heart like a poisonous flower.
Still begging for death, Thorketil was carried away by four of Stormbringer’s warriors, so Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He might have won his bout with Thorketil, but he had been lucky: lucky to withstand the feelings of defeat that had almost overwhelmed him; fortunate that Thorketil had tried to browbeat him with words at a crucial stage of their contest and, most important, lucky that years of training had prepared him for a risky maneuver whereby he disengaged his own weapon from its place of safety below Thorketil’s heavy sword.
Arthur thanked God that the Hammer of Thor’s shade would not join those dead who already came to his bedside in the minutes before sleep overtook him. Those long-dead visitors implored him or cursed him with empty eyes.
“This contest is over, Stormbringer. I expect you to bring your captives to my hall to face my judgment as soon as the forecourt is clear,” the king ordered. His voice was perfectly steady and composed now, although Hrolf Kraki’s hands suggested that he desperately wanted to kill someone.
With sinking hearts, Eamonn and Arthur limped after Stormbringer, who had taken the precaution of removing their weapons, which were spirited away by one of his warriors. Arthur hated to lose both of his blades, while his left hand still itched for the feel of the Dragon Knife in his palm. But, for safety’s sake, he accepted that his weapons should be kept as far as possible from Hrolf Kraki’s reach.
Instinctively, Maeve understood that the next turn of the sun would be crucial to the salvation of the Britons and the position of Stormbringer, who was now their patron. She had watched Aednetta’s features as Arthur’s contest of strength had played out before her and, although the witchwoman’s face had remained impassive, her telltale blue claws had displayed her growing impatience more clearly than any words. Even Aednetta’s exultation when Hrolf Kraki had ordered Thorketil’s death had been obvious to Maeve’s observant gaze.
The real struggle with the witchwoman was yet to come.
Stormbringer, the captives, and a slew of warriors waited within the long, echoing vastness of Heorot for the king to explain his wishes. All the witnesses showed some signs of trepidation as Hrolf Kraki settled himself onto his ornate throne with Aednetta seated gracefully at his knee.
A heavy silence fell when Hrolf Kraki raised one hand to impose order on the throng.
“You! Arthur pen Artor, or whatever heathen name you give yourself. You and your friends have won the trials of strength by the truth of your bodies. I am forced to accept t
he wishes of Heaven and the laws of this kingdom, but I am most displeased. I’ve lost the services of two good men because of your impudent and insulting ideas, expressed openly, concerning my adviser, Aednetta Fridasdottar.”
Hrolf Kraki paused, and Maeve watched as Aednetta’s nails traced patterns on his knee in encouragement.
“Your disparaging comments were unwarranted and unwelcome. You sought to ruin the reputation of my counselor and bring my rule into disrepute. You may have avoided earthly punishment in combat on this occasion, but your sister has yet to answer for her inflammatory insults.”
“Lord King, my sister—”
Arthur tried to interrupt, but Hrolf Kraki cut across him.
“Be silent! Your sister claims my counselor is in league with my father’s murderers. There’s no excuse for such slurs and, while Aednetta Fridasdottar doesn’t choose to vent her revenge on a child, I’m not so generous.”
Gesturing to her brother to maintain his silence, Maeve moved forward to stand below the king’s dais in a pool of light from the setting sun. She appeared to be small and slender, with beautiful red hair that hung to her knees like a curtain of the rarest silk from Constantinople. No man present was impervious to that wonderful hair, regardless of his age or his contentment with his wife or his family. Maeve’s beauty turned the witchwoman’s obvious charms into a tawdry counterfeit of innocence that was blatant and contrived. Each man yearned to touch Maeve’s hair and feel the river of vibrant life that coursed through every strand. Each man longed to protect her and win regard from her direct green eyes. Even Hrolf Kraki had felt her charm, and Aednetta’s claws almost drew blood from his knee as she sank the nails of jealousy into his flesh.
“Lord King and master of the Dene,” Maeve began to speak in the Dene language in a clear, bell-like voice. “I regret any pain that I may have caused you. But I will be forced to repeat my words again, because the only excuse for such impudence is the truth of what is said. I had an inspiration yesterday, suddenly and without warning, so I spoke of my beliefs with complete truth. But if I was wrong, I must be prepared to suffer for my actions.”
Maeve’s eyes never wavered from the king’s face. He felt the truth in her words, like ribbons of gold thread, and, for a moment, he was ashamed of his callous actions during the noontime combats. More important, he felt regret for his treatment of Thorketil, and wondered, irrationally, why he had acted with such arrogance and cruelty. For a single pivotal moment, it seemed to Hrolf Kraki that he hadn’t always been a man with such a capricious temper that led to frequent fits of rage. Impaled by the young girl’s clear and innocent regard, he saw Stormbringer behind her, the same Valdar Bjornsen who had always been his friend. How had he become such a tyrant? Why had he changed, both as a king and as a man?
Then Aednetta startled the king out of his reverie as he turned to look at his counselor. All unmanly thoughts were swept away.
Maeve felt the king lose interest in her, and his body changed subtly as he became rigid and predatory once more. But she knew she had reached him—if only for a few moments.
“Even now, my lord, you have placed yourself in the power of Aednetta Fridasdottar. She encourages you to act in ways that were once foreign to your nature. What do you truly know about your wise counselor, and how strong have your relationships been with your allies in the months since the witchwoman came to Heorot? You must remember, Hrolf Kraki, that there are greater threats to your people than Grendel’s mother. You’ve been led astray through the lure and power of a woman’s eyes.”
Maeve saw a redness flare in the king’s expression as he lumbered to his feet. Quick as a young deer, she turned to the assembled nobles and spread her arms to beg for their support.
“Answer me then, loyal jarls and warriors of Heorot. Has your king shown his usual wisdom since the witchwoman first warmed his bed? Do the men of the Noroways stand firmly at your backs while they defend Dene interests? Will your allies in Skandia come to your aid when the Hundings begin their attacks on the outer settlements? Answer me fairly! Is Hrolf Kraki as he once was—a wise and generous king?”
The Dene warriors shuffled their feet and tried to avoid one another’s eyes lest they should be accused of conspiring to act in a treasonous manner.
And so Maeve turned away from their cowardice with a shy smile. “I can see how it is, my lord. It appears that the Dene have forgotten how to think and act like men.”
“Enough, woman, of your lies.” Hrolf Kraki’s voice was shrill and almost womanish in his anger.
“Then you should cast your gaze on those loyal warriors who refuse to meet my eyes, or yours! I’m only a girl who is sorely lacking in knowledge of the world, but I saw into your soul only a moment ago and recognized a man who had dreamed for many long years how he would take back what had been stolen from him through blood and death. I saw you, late at night, as you hungered for the death of Snaer, the man who usurped what was truly yours by right of birth. No coward convinced the Dene to rise up and smite the tyrant. For many good years, a true and strong man has ruled them with generosity and hope while caring for his people, for that is his duty.”
She paused to draw in a rasping breath.
“Look at them. Look at your warriors! And then look at yourself! How far have the Dene fallen? Even Stormbringer, the Sae Dene, is now mute under the power of this wicked woman.”
Hrolf Kraki snarled, but he was busy assessing the faces of those men who refused to meet his adamantine gaze.
“Your allies will desert you if you don’t cast her off. Or they will attack you, for they will deem you to be ensorcelled. Even as I speak, word comes by ship that your end approaches if you don’t begin to act like a man. You may kill me if you wish, my lord, but my words are true. The Dene will perish and Aednetta Fridasdottar will dance upon your splintered bones.”
Just as Hrolf Kraki rose to his feet, with spittle darkening his beard and one pointing finger shaking under the force of his passion, a messenger stumbled into the hall, clutching a torn and burned banner to his breast. The dyed cloth with its rampant dragon was thick with dried blood, while the man who carried it bore serious wounds that stretched from his hairline to his jaw. They were still bleeding sluggishly, leaving the courier pallid from loss of blood.
He fell to his knees in an untidy puddle of torn clothing, ruined armor, and tangled hair, while the dragon banner was humbled as it lay on the wooden floor of Heorot.
“See, Lord King?” Maeve shouted over the hubbub of consternation that rose towards the rafters. “This messenger has come to your palace, bringing word of the treachery that will soon spell out your doom.”
“Let the courier speak,” Stormbringer demanded. “By his wounds, he bears a message of trouble. By the Lord High Jesus, let the courier speak!”
“I bear a terrible tale of treason and murder, my lord,” the courier managed to rasp in a voice almost destroyed by the tumult of the battle that he had survived. Every man present was silent and shamed.
“The King of Gothland has attacked Skania, and many towns and villages have been laid waste. Traitors bearing your name told us that you ordered the towns to be opened to the enemy because you had signed a treaty with the Goth ruler. When our elders were so foolish as to believe these lies and opened the gates of our towns to the enemy, they were all put to the sword. My master, Leif, has sent me to beg aid because he still holds on to much of our lands and awaits the arrival of your warriors. We have placed all our trust in receiving assistance from you and your warriors, my lord.”
The wounded man sat bolt upright in distress. His breathing was labored and he seemed to be on the point of collapse. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward.
“Who has committed this treason? Who has betrayed my people through the misuse of my name?” Hrolf Kraki roared, and Heorot’s rafters shook with his anger. Aednetta tried to soothe him with her bl
ue-tipped hand, but he shook her off impatiently. “Who has conspired to destroy the Dene?”
Maeve spoke so quietly that her bell-like voice shouldn’t have been heard. But it was.
“You have, my lord! You and Aednetta Fridasdottar have betrayed the Dene!”
Her brows drew together in puzzlement, as if the king’s questions had surprised her. “I was sure that you understood me.”
Chapter XIII
WHEN KINGS FALL OUT
Each man is the smith of his own fortune.
—APPIUS CLAUDIUS CAECUS, PROVERBS, 599:34
So this is Gesoriacum! What a shithole!”
Gareth kicked a bale of wool with a particularly savage swipe of his booted foot. Unfortunately for Gareth’s toes, the wool was densely packed and had been laid on a base of crude wooden slabs to protect it from seawater. His foot struck the inserts with a sharp crack.
“Shite!” He hopped on one foot and glared at Germanus, daring the older man even to consider smiling over his foolishness.
“I’ve thrown up for a whole night and shared the ship’s deck with horses that liked the voyage even less than I did, while they defecated over my cloak. Oh, yes, you may laugh, you doddering old bastards! But I hate the ocean, if that voyage is anything to judge it by.”
Lorcan snorted with his usual irony. “A cloak can be brushed clean, even by a spoiled brat like you. Any other man would be grateful if he was gifted with the opportunity you’ve been given to see strange and wonderful places.”
“Shut your mouth! Please?” Gareth snapped in his sulkiest manner.
“Can’t take the heat, eh?” Germanus observed. “Good heavens, boy! You’ll feel like your old self after a day and a night without a deck moving under your feet. We’ve much to be grateful for! The horses made the crossing successfully—even Lorcan’s mule—and we’ve come to this port during a period of relative quiet. The ship wasn’t too verminous and the voyage took very little time. No princelings appear to be killing any of their enemies—or their own subjects—and neither has the Byzantine army moved out of northern Italy to conquer the Frankish lands. All told, things seem to be very quiet in the land of the Franks.”
