Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  Satisfied that Bergamot's wounds were not serious and that all her teeth were firm in her muzzle, Finn picked up the cheese, brushed the pieces off, gave one to Bergamot, and nibbled on the other.

  Inge trussed the bandit up like a boar on a pole, ready to be carried back from the hunt.

  "That is some impressive jewelry for a bandit, or fredlause," Inge observed and took a closer look at a medal attached to the gorget.

  "That is a berserker's medal," Finn declared, handing the last chunk of cheese to Inge. "He is a champion warrior, blessed with miraculous power to fight for the Visekonge and God. Blades will not cut his skin and fire will not burn him when under His divine authority. Plus he has the strength of Samson. We are fortunate he was not in a blind rage."

  "Jah? What does it mean if he wears the seal of the Visekonge?" Inge asked.

  "That..." Brother Finn stopped and pointed at the trussed, unconscious man, "that he is possibly the best warrior in all Akiniwazi."

  "And we just beat him? Humph! So much for berserkers meaning much of anything," Inge said, dismissing the accomplishments spoken of by the medal.

  "Look at him. If it had not been for me calling for divine assistance, he would have slain us both. We were not the first fight he had today. Most of the blood on him is still somewhat fresh, and likely not his own," Brother Finn pointed out.

  "I did not notice," Inge said.

  "Therefore, I suspect he fought several men today, and we were just a little beyond his endurance or God’s permission."

  The man awoke with a groan.

  "What hit me?" a bewildered voice asked. It sounded far younger than his appearance.

  "Your fate hangs in the balance, Berserker," Finn warned, standing up. "I demand the satisfaction of some answers, or we leave you to God's will." Finn gestured grandly to the scenery. He knew the threat such a flourish made. Bergamot growled at their captive, unwilling to forgive the blows.

  "When I get free, I will slay you traitors. I will find you wherever you go," the berserker said, no trace of fear in his voice.

  "We are not traitors, only friars from Kynligrspiejl walking the shore," Inge said.

  "Kynligrspiejl?" The bandit gasped at the name.

  "Jah? What of it?" Friar Inge said crossing his arms over his pudgy belly.

  "Oh! Mother Mary! Forgive me! I did not realize who you were!" the man apologized.

  "Who are you?" Finn demanded.

  "I am Declan av Storrmithirdalr, Huskarl of Tronerving Leif Gregorsson, Berserker of the Visekonge, and I need your help!

  37. The Battle of Eitrfjord

  “What do you need help with, Meistari Declan?” Finn asked, using the berserker’s formal honorific, unsure whether or not to trust the man who had just tried to kill them.

  “I need help in rescuing the Kronadottirs, Solveig and Mirjam.”

  “The… what?” Inge stammered, unable to believe what he just heard.

  “Jah. They have been captured by vikings and brought ashore near here,” Declan said.

  “What are they doing here on the carbuncle’d backside of the Union?” Friar Inge exploded. “Should they not be sipping tea and irritating scabby young suitors in Dyrrvatn Kastali?”

  “Of course they should!” Declan exclaimed, struggling to undo his bindings. “Could-? Would-?” he let out a grunt of frustration. “Will you free me? I am not going to harm you. I need your help and time is short!” he fussed.

  “Why is time of the essence?” Finn asked. He stood over the prone warrior.

  “I cannot say,” Declan said, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Then we cannot help,” Inge refused.

  “But you must! It is your duty to obey!” Declan glared at him, astonished.

  “To that claim, I see no proof, nor do I have any reason to trust you. I have been told tall tales before, but none quite so outlandish as this,” Finn said shaking his head.

  Declan did not respond and struggled all the more with the lanyard, but he could not free himself from the bonds Inge had tied. He grunted and growled, trying to break the thin rope before letting out an explosive sigh.

  “Greithr! I will tell you! Please release me,” he grumbled.

  “Do we look like we fell off the turnip cart?” Inge interjected.

  “No! On my honor, I will tell you everything. If you are men of God and from Kynligrspiejl, I suspect you might be the only men I could trust with this. May God strike me dead if I try to run or harm either of you.”

  Inge looked at Finn. Distrust plain on his face, but curiosity was the stronger.

  “Greithr,” the portly friar said at last and began untying the knots. “From your lips to God’s ear then.” He looked heavenward. “You heard the oath, Lord, help him keep it or follow through.” A flicker of a smile passed over Finn’s lips at Inge’s irreverent but fervent faith.

  Freed from the bindings, Declan rose, dusted himself off and walked into the shade to cool off from the baking sun. Brother Finn handed him his waterskin. Declan sniffed it and then drank long swallows. After he drank, he held up the waterskin and looked a question at the two priests.

  “You may,” said Finn. “We have another full skin.”

  “Bless you,” Declan said and poured the rest of it over his filthy body. He no longer reeked as strongly of sulfur and blood. Finn noticed the bright red skin on the man’s arms and legs that looked like burns. Friar Inge busied himself picking up the scattered food from Bergamot’s pack.

  “What burned your skin?” Finn asked.

  “The water from the stream ahead is noxious. It is probably the reason they call it the Eitrfjord. Something killed every plant in the area. Probably that water,” Declan said.

  Finn searched in Bergamot’s closed pack for some ointment an apothecary had tithed a few weeks back. He gave it to Declan who smeared the rancid smelling grease on his legs and arms, grateful for the herbed oil’s cooling sensation.

  The three men sat and broke bread together while Declan told his saga.

  “We arrived at Eitrfjord two days ago for the last leg of our mission, to fetch the Crown’s secret horde under Kynligrspiejl.”

  Both Inge and Finn were shocked at the revelation. Neither had known that such a thing existed.

  “We could only risk the crossing on a moonless night, to keep us hidden from prying eyes. According to the pilot of the Silfryxen, the channel he needed to navigate was narrow and required a calm lake and the sharpest lookouts. If the wind and waves were strong, we could easily be sunk and our wreck would reveal the secret channel. The first night the winds kept us away, and the night after, it was not dark long enough. So we waited to make the three hour journey unseen. Just as the sun was going down over the cliffs surrounding the fjord, vikings came…”

  “Ships in the mouth!” shouted the watch.

  The cry plucked at everyone’s nerves like a harp string. Time was short in so many ways, and now to have another delay was maddening.

  A week after Mirjam’s warning there had been many suspicious boats that seemed to spy on them, but none followed. The deck was kept bare. All warriors stayed below. If anyone did ask, the Silfryxen would pretend to have stopped for repairs in the shelter of the fjord.

  At the mouth a set of five karvi passed through the skerries. A small fishing fleet perchance? Declan was not sure as he viewed through the porthole of Leif’s cabin. Eitrfjord was a dangerous area and no place to fish. The yellow tinted waters warned most people away.

  “Smoke ho!” shouted the lookout again. On the other side of the bluff at the mouth, wind driven black smoke streamed ahead of an approaching ship. This could not be coincidence, Declan thought, as he watched the fleet of karvi stop tacking with the wind and enlist their oars. Way too many oars.

  As the karvi rowed closer, a small steam tug entered the fjord.

  “Why would there be a tug behind all these karvi?” Leif wondered out loud.

  As they watched, a log raft tow came into view. Millions
of board feet, chained together in a massive raft that dwarfed the tug. Several men walked upon it.

  There was a knock on Leif’s door.

  “Enter,” Leif said.

  The kaptein came in, his face grave.

  “We have been discovered, and they have blocked us in with a raft of logs,” he said.

  “Can we run around it?” Leif asked.

  “If I were that viking, my Tign,” the kaptein said pointing at the porthole, “and saw my prey ready to run, I would undo those log chains and let them scatter. That tangle would be more than capable of sinking us.”

  Leif pursed his lips. Declan felt the familiar thrill that came before every fight.

  “Discovered and trapped all at once,” Leif let out a chortle of incredulity. “Declan, ready the men,” he ordered.

  “Jah, my Tign,”

  Declan strode across the passageway to rally his men.

  “Vikings! Get up and gird yourself for battle!” he shouted

  The announcement was met by relieved and joyful oaths. “Assemble in the hold in half a quarter! Today is a good day to kill for your Tronerving, or die trying!”

  As the men clambered to put armor on, Declan rushed to the warriors a deck below. He slammed the compartment door open.

  “Rise up! Rise up! Villains are here! To arms! For the glory of the Tronerving! Huzzah!” he bellowed at the men. The soldiers’ blood, cooled by weeks of stagnation, boiled again and they rumbled with eager anticipation. Declan felt the same flush. No more waiting, hoping they remained hidden like filthy spies. Now was the time to thrash the enemies of the Crown.

  “Assemble in the hold in half a quarter!” Declan ordered, giving the men scant minutes to prepare themselves. He ran back up the stairs to the Tronerving’s cabin.

  “Your men will be ready in a quarter hour, my Tign.”

  “Excellent,” Leif said strapping on his armor. “The kaptein and his men will defend the boilers and engine by way of the aftcastle. We shall fortify the hold and the forecastle.”

  “May I suggest we use half our men to try and hold the deck?” Declan asked. “Perhaps we can thin these villains out.”

  “Of course. We have a squad of archers for a reason. Run them through before they even board us,” Leif agreed.

  “I will keep half our men in the hold as a reserve to counter any boarding parties.

  “Good idea. I want you in reserve as well,” Leif said.

  “My Tign?” Declan was confused.

  “No reason to risk you early in battle. If we keep the huskarls to defend the forecastle and the rest of our warriors to defend the hold, things should work out,” Leif said.

  “As you wish, my Tign.” Declan felt deep misgivings about waiting with his men below. The sailors should do well enough in the defense of their quarters and the ship’s works, but the treasure and the Tronerving were his responsibility. He knew Leif was right, despite his desire to be first in the fight.

  Long minutes crawled by. Waiting was the real pain of battle, Declan thought.

  Being stuck in the hold with his men anticipating boarders was hot, boring and tense. To top it off, his archers were on deck without him, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every man wanted to sheathe his axe in the body of a viking, but they must maintain position.

  Finally Declan heard his archers loose their bows on the closest karvi. Then came the return fire. The volume returned was many times over. Dozens of arrows whacked into the hull. A hailstorm of arrows swept the deck, then the screaming began as men went down. Three wounded archers managed to drag themselves below.

  “Greithr! They will take the deck, but we control everything else,” Declan whispered to his men.

  With a familiar “bang-rattle-crunch” the grapples hooked the deck railings. As the vikings began to board the Silfryxen, the boiler was purged through the relief valves. The deafening hiss made the renegades on deck yowl with pain. Declan wondered what the steamwright was thinking. This was the type of mistake that lost battles. The ship was safe from explosion, but no pressure meant there was no escape even if they wanted to run. An option that far outweighed thwarting the vikings’ quick escape if they took the ship. It was now a fight to the death for the Silfryxen.

  The clash of combat was heard from the aftcastle as the sailors engaged the vikings for control of the officers’ cabins and upper deck. Every warrior and huskarl quivered to enter the fight, but they held their positions.

  They did not have to wait long.

  The ship’s crew had already lost control of two decks. The first viking did not come down from the open top deck companionway, but rather burst through the aftcastle door. A party of five dirty vikings, dressed in black with no heraldry showing, rushed in. They were shocked to find twenty-five warriors and huskarls at the ready.

  “Warriors in the hold!” yelled a viking before an axe split his skull. From behind the boarding party many curses could be heard and the hold door slammed shut. The vikings were trying to barricade the warriors in.

  “For Gregor!” a huskarl bellowed. The cry was taken up by the rest and they charged into the aftcastle and up the companionway to the deck.

  Declan found they were outnumbered many times over, with even more vikings climbing up ropes to join those already swarming the Silfryxen’s deck. The vikings had not expected the huskarls to recklessly charge from two directions. Axes and polearms used by the Visekonge’s men were far superior to the saxe, spear and tomahawks most of the vikings used. In seconds the blood of the fallen slicked the deck, making it a slippery mess.

  Vikings, unaccustomed to the ferocity of well-trained warriors, were overwhelmed. They were prepared for some trained troops, but never expected huskarls or so many. Panicked viking archers fired blindly into the boiling fight, striking their own boarding parties more than the Sveinnaettir troops, yet they continued to replenish their fallen from the karvi below.

  The orange and purple twilight was making it harder to tell friend from foe as they became drenched in the blood of the fallen. It was clear the Silfryxen’s defenders would be overwhelmed if reinforcements were not stopped. Declan chopped grapples free with his axe, his shield collecting several arrows. Far too few vikings drowned after losing their grip on the boarding ropes. The rest climbed back aboard the karvi ready to try again. By the time Declan reached the other end of the Silfryxen, new grapples had replaced those he had cut, and more vikings joined the attack.

  In a pique of fury, Declan climbed onto the rail and launched himself into space. He landed in the slackening sail of a karvi and slid down its length to the crossbeam. Finding himself surrounded by vikings, he prayed.

  “Lord, make me Your instrument of righteous fury. Bless me with Your holy anger and miraculous power. To You, oh Lord Jesus, and to the service of my Tign, I give my life. Amen.”

  The familiar volcano of strength shot up through his spirit and he let loose a terrifying roar.

  He could only remember a pastiche of what occurred after his roar, save for a blinding red rage that flowed through him. Every nerve tingled, and he felt as if he were in a dream. As the karvi started drifting away from the Silfryxen, he found himself alone, surrounded by dead vikings. The boat nudged into its sister. Declan looked up and saw the amazed faces of vikings who had witnessed the slaughter he had committed. There was terror in their eyes as they frantically tried to push him away with oars. He gave them a ghastly leer. With another blood-chilling howl he ran the length of the karvi and leapt, flying over the gap as easily as a man would step over a gutter, landing among them.

  Viking blades did not cut his skin. His axe sliced through bone and chain like they were water. The karvi’s mast fell as he cleaved through it in a single blow. Somewhere above the carnage, Declan’s mind floated, a stranger to what his body did, yet in complete control. Everything moved in a slow parody in comparison. Vikings threw themselves overboard to escape, preferring to drown rather than face him. The fallen sail became a spreading in
ferno threatening to consume him.

  The Silfryxen’s forward crane had toppled in the fight and hung over the side. Declan jumped and caught a rope dangling from it as the burning karvi spiraled away from the battle on the slow current. He swung back and forth like a hunk of curing meat, archers began taking shots at him. His bear shirt streamed behind him like a cape causing them to miss as Declan pumped his legs, throwing himself into higher and higher arcs, feet passing through the flames. With a last pump, he threw himself into the air and landed hard on the deck of the next viking karvi. His blood slicked back and legs steamed from escaping the burning boat.

  Once more, he faced twenty men alone and emerged victorious.

  “Declan!” The shriek of his name snapped across the water like a whip.

  Solveig? Solveig was in danger!

  Where did that scream come from?

  She had been in the aftcastle with the sailors. They had forgotten about her. The last karvi of vikings rowed away to the head of the fjord with Solveig and Mirjam as their captives, abandoning the rest of the vikings on the Silvryxen. Declan struggled through the corpses and set the sail for pursuit as best he could. By the time he had his karvi turned to give chase, it was clear he would have to run them down on land.

  As he manned the tiller, a groan reached his ears, like an old man stiff from a long sleep.

  “Well fought, Meistari Declan,” the voice rasped.

  He looked at the boat full of mangled bodies. One was beginning to stand, a glowing green spark in its eyes.

  “Thank you for my army, for it will serve me well,” the demon growled. “Now… rise!” At the command, green flashes rose up from the water beneath the boat, coming through the hull and into every corpse. The bodies that could, rose to their feet and began drawing their fallen weapons. From the stern of the Silfryxen, screams could be heard as the dead began to rise there, too. Declan lashed the tiller and turned his axe to the butcher’s work once more, dismembering every draugr that came within reach.

  Ahead, the vikings had reached shore and were running into the poisoned forest with their young captives. Without a priest, all Declan could do was dismember the draugr or throw them over the side and let them sink. Severed hands crawled like insects. Arms and legs flopped about like fish pulled from the water. Although he chopped the bodies apart, the manitou began to overwhelm him. Severed hands pinched and squeezed anything they could reach, heads flipped themselves about by their jaws, biting at anything that entered their mouths.