by John Gwynne
‘No, you can’t,’ Haelan blurted. ‘Orgull gave it to you.’
‘That is fair,’ Trigg said. ‘I’d have won it anyway.’ She stooped and picked up the weapon, wiping its shaft clean on a hay bale.
A horn call echoed through the barn, all of them looking to the entrance. Swain strode away.
They stood outside, the horn call ringing out again.
‘What’s that about?’ Haelan asked.
‘Look,’ Swain said, pointing north, across the river towards the Desolation.
Haelan stared, frowning. In the distance a cloud hovered low over the land.
‘What’s that?’ Haelan asked.
‘Dust. Look to the land beneath it,’ Swain replied.
At first Haelan saw nothing, then he caught movement. A line of riders emerged from the wasteland, approaching Gramm’s hold, metal glinting in the sunlight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ULFILAS
Ulfilas felt a wave of relief fill him as he saw the river come into view, a dark, shimmering vein winding across the land. Beyond it was Isiltir. And goodbye to this pox-ridden land of ash and stone. And giants. And bears.
‘It is always good to return home, after a long journey,’ King Jael said to him as they cantered down a gentle slope, the hooves of two hundred mounted warriors raising a cloud of dust behind them.
‘Aye, my King.’
‘And a successful one,’ Jael added, quieter this time.
The meeting with the Jotun had gone well enough. No one had died, and King Jael’s spirits had seemed much improved on the return journey. Ildaer, the Jotun’s warlord, had appeared most impressed with the gift of ancient weapons that Jael had given him. Impressed enough to hunt down a runaway princeling, though? Ulfilas wasn’t so sure about that. And he couldn’t shake the sense of wrongness about the situation. Giants were the enemy, as they had always been, for time without end. Ulfilas had grown to manhood beneath the shadow of Forn Forest, where the threat of giant raids had been very real – admittedly the Hunen, a different giant clan from the Jotun but giants were giants, warlike, savage and not to be trusted. So making deals with them was just wrong.
But who am I to judge? These are strange days . . .
‘What’s wrong?’ Jael asked him.
‘I was thinking on the wisdom of making alliances with giants,’ Ulfilas said.
‘A polite way of saying I’m a fool,’ Jael replied. He smiled, but there was a sharpness in his features, no warmth in his smile.
‘Never, my King.’
‘I hate giants,’ Jael said. ‘And wish every giant clan dead, have dreamed that since the Hunen slaughtered my mam and da, burned out my home.’ He paused, the flare of his nostrils giving away a measure of his anger. ‘But I wish to be king more.’
‘The greater good, then,’ Ulfilas said.
‘My greater good, at least,’ Jael said with a grin. ‘And who knows, my dream may yet come true. We have seen the Hunen of Forn broken, destroyed. That is one less giant clan. But I need the Jotun.’
‘Do you think they’ll find the child?’ Ulfilas asked Jael.
‘Maybe –’ Jael shrugged – ‘if he has reached this far. He may be dead. He may be alive and still in Isiltir, hiding in some woodsman’s shed. Many would help him, out of misguided loyalty to a dead king. Or he may have escaped north into the Desolation. I do not know, but I will not rest until I see his dead body at my feet. While Haelan is out there, alive or dead, there is a challenge to me. He is a rallying point for every naysayer. He must die, and be seen to be dead by all.’
Warbands had been set to scouring Isiltir, circling ever wider after the fall of Dun Kellen. Ulfilas guessed that Jael was probably correct when he said that Haelan was already dead. Probably lying in a ditch somewhere, food for crows.
‘We’ll find him,’ Ulfilas muttered.
‘Aye, we will. Us or the Jotun. Little travels through the Desolation without their knowledge.’
I believe that. Ulfilas glanced back at the hills they were finally riding out of. At the edge of his vision, far beyond the column of Jael’s shieldmen, there was a flicker of movement, a shape outlined against the horizon for a moment. It looked like a bear.
Making sure we leave their lands.
He turned his eyes forwards. To the east the bulk of Forn Forest loomed, dark and brooding. The river was closer now, dark shapes of boats appearing upon it. To the south-east was a bridge, beyond it a hill with a timber hall at its crest, a palisaded wall circling it. Buildings sprawled down the slope, almost right to the river’s banks.
‘A desolate and dangerous place for a hold,’ Jael remarked.
‘Aye. Who would be mad enough to build here? Forn Forest to the east, the Desolation to the north.’
Dag the huntsman dropped back to join them. ‘That is Gramm’s hold. He’s been here a good long while: twenty, twenty-five years.’ Dag had a set of scars down one side of his face that stretched from skull to jaw, looking like the raking of claws. Part of one ear was missing and the hair on that side of his head only grew in patches.
‘Has he, now?’ Jael said. ‘Perhaps he needs reminding who really is king.’
Hooves clattered on stone as the warband crossed the bridge, the river’s dark waters clogged with dressed timber, cut and ready to be shipped downstream. Faces peered over the palisaded wall as Jael and his shieldmen cantered onto a road that skirted the wall, taking them past the usual array of boats beached for repair, smokehouses, tanners’ yards and grain barns, eventually bringing them around to the southern approach to the hold. Ulfilas noted the glint of sunshine on iron along the wall. Ten armed men, at least.
‘More like a village than a hold,’ Jael said to Ulfilas and Dag.
‘It is, my lord.’
They rode alongside sweeping fenced meadows where herds of horses ran. Impressive, powerful horses, Ulfilas noted, remembering now the reputation Gramm’s hold had for more than just timber. Ulfilas eyed them covetously. They would make fine warhorses.
‘Magnificent. They are wasted up here,’ Jael said with a grin.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Ulfilas replied.
The road sloped up the hill, the hold’s gates open and they cantered through the gateway into a wide courtyard. Guards with long spears stood on the palisade’s walkway, a handful more around the courtyard’s edge. Well-equipped guards, Ulfilas thought, taking in their coats of mail and weapons – all of them with swords hanging at their hips, spears in their hands. And all with an axe strapped across their back. Unusual. A dozen guards that I can see around the gate. Five more in the courtyard. Must have been another ten on the palisade wall as we passed. How many more here? Is this all of them, a display intended to impress us? They would have seen us coming, had time to prepare a welcome. Ulfilas smiled as Jael’s shieldmen filled the courtyard, which was big, but nevertheless hard-pressed to contain two hundred of the King’s shieldmen, all on proud warhorses. I think we will impress them more.
A figure emerged from the feast-hall and stood at the top of wide steps. He was thick muscled, though with a large belly as well, tall and fair, streaks of grey in his hair and braided beard. He wore plain breeches and a woollen tunic tied at the waist.
‘Greetings,’ the man shouted. ‘I am Gramm, lord of this hold, and I bid you welcome.’ He looked at the banner carried by one of Jael’s shieldmen, snapping in a stiff breeze from the north. A lightning bolt on a black field, a pale serpent entwined about it.
‘You are Jael’s men, then. I say welcome again. Come, enter. I will find you some food and drink.’
Ulfilas dismounted and climbed the steps, dipping his head to Gramm.
‘We are more than King Jael’s men,’ Ulfilas said, accenting the word King. ‘We are his chosen shieldmen, guarding him on this journey to the north of his realm.’ Ulfilas swept a hand to Jael, who sat tall on his stallion, wrapped in a sable cloak, looking as regal as any king that Ulfilas had ever seen.
Gramm stoo
d frozen for a moment, something sweeping his face. Ulfilas felt the hairs on his neck prickle, the possibility of violence suddenly thick in the air. Then the expression on Gramm’s face was gone.
Ulfilas frowned, disconcerted.
Slowly, clumsily, Gramm dropped to one knee.
‘You do me honour,’ he said. ‘Be welcome in my hall, King Jael.’
Jael dismounted and climbed the steps of the hall, resting a hand on Gramm’s shoulder, bidding him stand.
‘Welcome to my hall,’ Gramm repeated.
He looks flustered, but then it is not every day that a king comes calling.
‘My thanks,’ Jael said.
‘If I had known of your arrival I would have prepared a feast and fine beds worthy of a king and his company.’
‘It is not a planned visit,’ Jael said. ‘In truth I am riding the northlands of Isiltir in pursuit of rebels and brigands. We came upon your hold by chance. It seemed to be a good opportunity to meet someone I have heard much talk of.’
‘You honour me,’ Gramm said.
‘My apologies for descending upon you unannounced,’ Jael said. ‘We will not be staying long, but something to wash the throat and fill the belly would be welcome.’
‘My mead and meat is yours,’ Gramm said the guest-greeting. ‘Food and drink for our guests,’ he shouted, waving his arms in the air.
All was chaos for a short while as warriors dismounted, a swarm of children appearing from nowhere to take reins and tend to horses. Gramm put his arm about one lad and bent to whisper in his ear. The boy cradled a dog in one arm, a ratter. It was bleeding from a gash on its shoulder.
‘Go fetch your da,’ Ulfilas heard Gramm say.
‘Yes, Grand-pa,’ the lad replied and scurried off across the courtyard. Ulfilas caught Dag’s eye and nodded after the disappearing boy. Dag slipped away through the crowded courtyard.
Gramm barked orders as he led Jael and Ulfilas into his hall, other warriors following.
The hall was big, two long tables running down the sides, leaving a path down the centre. Embers still glowed in a fire-pit. Another table ran the length of the back wall. Hanging from the wall above it was a huge bear pelt, its mouth open and snarling. A giant’s war-hammer was mounted above it.
It’s obvious that the relationship with their Jotun neighbours is not that friendly.
The food that came out of Gramm’s kitchen was good – simple but hot and lots of it. A fair-haired child offered Ulfilas a jug of mead but he refused it, taking cold water instead. As Jael’s shieldman he was always on his guard, but here that sense was heightened. He felt unsettled.
‘That jug looks too heavy for you, child,’ he said to the girl with the mead.
‘Grand-pa says we should lift more than we can handle,’ the girl said, freckles wrinkling as she concentrated. ‘He says it makes us strong, inside and out.’ Her eyes flickered to Gramm.
‘A good lesson,’ Jael said, smiling good-naturedly.
‘Life’s hard in these northlands,’ Gramm said. ‘Now run along, Sif,’ he added to the child.
‘You have children, then?’ Jael asked.
‘Aye,’ Gramm muttered.
‘And grandchildren,’ Jael added, his eyes following the girl as she took her jug of mead to a table full of Jael’s shieldmen.
After Gramm’s initial surprise at meeting the King it seemed that his nerves had calmed. Jael was courteous and charming, as Ulfilas had seen him on countless occasions. Now Gramm was telling Jael of how he had built the hold with his own hands, braving close proximity both to Forn Forest and the Desolation to take advantage of the timber and the river.
‘A bold endeavour,’ Jael remarked.
And one that has paid off, Ulfilas thought as he looked at the size of the hall.
‘You have carved out a fine living for yourself,’ Jael said. ‘Profits must be high indeed to provide for so many.’
Jael is no fool – he has no doubt seen all that I have seen, and more.
‘Trade is good, I’ll not deny,’ Gramm said.
‘And your warriors – I’ve not seen so many in a single hold, and uncommonly well equipped,’ Jael commented.
‘Life is dangerous this far north.’ Gramm pointed to the bear pelt and giant’s hammer hanging on the wall. ‘They are not there for decoration, but as a reminder. We are close to the Desolation and to Forn Forest. A cold winter is often all that’s needed to lure giants across the river or entice creatures from the forest with more legs and sharper teeth than is entirely good for us. Warriors with sharp swords are a necessity here, not a luxury. And besides, what with all the goings on further south –’ his eyes flickered to Jael – ‘there has been an outbreak of lawlessness and thievery the likes of which I have never seen before. Brigands seeking to take advantage of Isiltir’s upheaval. My lands have been raided more than once.’
‘That will all end, now. I will see to it. Isiltir has a new king, and I mean to bring peace to the land. These brigands’ days are numbered.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Gramm said.
‘And talking of the goings on in the south, where do your loyalties lie?’ Nothing about Jael’s tone changed, but the hall seemed to quieten, an indrawn breath waiting upon Gramm’s answer.
Gramm looked at Jael with an undecipherable expression. ‘We are a long way from anyone here. Isolated. Priorities change when you live on the edge of the wild. In truth I have little interest in the goings on in Isiltir. Family. Food on my table. Trade. That the giants stay on the north side of the river. Those things are highest on my list. But if a choice had to be made, then I am a man of Isiltir, and my loyalties lie with its King. Of that you need have no doubt.’
‘That is good to know,’ Jael said. ‘I thank you for your honesty.’
‘It’s all a man has,’ Gramm shrugged.
‘Indeed.’
Ulfilas saw a shadow appear at the hall’s open doors: Dag the huntsman. The man nodded to him and then stepped from view.
‘And let me return the favour and be honest with you,’ Jael said to Gramm. ‘It would please me greatly if we could work together.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gramm asked.
‘I need information. If I know where my enemies are hiding, then I can end these dark times that you speak of. We would both benefit.’ Jael stopped eating and stared at Gramm.
‘Hiding?’ Gramm said, pausing as he ripped a chunk of bread from a loaf. Slowly he looked at Jael, returning his gaze.
‘Aye. These northlands are vast, with countless places that a cunning enemy may hide. But you are well placed to hear of them. If you could send me information of the whereabouts, the movements of these brigands that you speak of, it would be helpful information. And I always reward those who are helpful to me.’
Gramm remained silent.
‘There is one in particular that I speak of, who I am searching for,’ Jael continued. ‘One enemy who may be hiding somewhere in these northlands. A boy and a warrior.’
‘They don’t sound so dangerous. Hardly a band of brigands,’ Gramm said with a smile.
‘No, but nevertheless, it is important that they are brought to me. I will catch them. The boy is eleven summers, red hair. The warrior young – no more than twenty summers. A survivor of the Gadrai.’
‘I thought the Gadrai were servants of Isiltir, loyal to the King,’ Gramm asked.
‘Not this one. For the most part the Gadrai fell in Forn Forest, slain in combat with the Hunen. Not as skilled at giant-slaying as their reputation would have you believe.’ Jael chuckled at his joke, as did some of his shieldmen. None of Gramm’s people did.
‘But this one still lives, or did, when Dun Kellen fell. He is a traitor, a renegade. Have you seen anyone matching their description, or heard any news of two such roaming the land.’
‘No,’ Gramm said.
‘I would appreciate it if you would help me find them.’
‘I will do what I can,’ Gramm said, going back to his bre
ad.
‘Of course you will. You seem like an honest man, so I should take you at your word. Unfortunately my experiences of late . . . Well, let us say that I find it difficult to trust anyone. My own fault, granted, but I often suffer with feelings of doubt, mistrust. I am feeling them now.’
‘I can only give you my word, my assurance—’ Gramm began, but Jael cut him off.
‘Assurance. Yes, just what I was thinking.’ Jael touched Ulfilas’ arm.
Ulfilas launched himself over the table, scattering bowls, food, jugs, as he lunged forwards. There was a high-pitched yelp and then Ulfilas was holding the serving-child, Sif. He drew his knife and put it to her throat.
A woman screamed, tried to reach Ulfilas, but Jael’s shieldmen stood, forming a wall about Ulfilas and the child.
‘No,’ Gramm yelled, standing, his chair falling behind him. Other men were shouting, the sound of swords leaving scabbards.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Jael said, standing too, slowly, wiping food from the corner of his mouth. He walked calmly to Ulfilas.
‘She is your grandchild, and family are your first priority, as you have just told me. I think she will come with me. My guest. She will be looked after, not harmed, so long as you do as I ask. An assurance. Do you understand me?’
Gramm just stared at Jael, muscles bunching in his face, his fists.
‘Do you understand me?’ Jael repeated. ‘I’ll not ask you a third time.’
‘I understand you,’ Gramm said flatly.
‘Good.’ Jael looked at Sif. ‘Stop snivelling, child,’ he said. ‘She is dear to you, I guess. But just one amongst many, and only a girl. I think I need more assurance than this.’
‘If you think I will parade my grandchildren before you, you are a fool,’ Gramm snarled.
‘True, I would be. Far better to just take another.’ Jael called out and figures appeared in the doorway – Dag, holding the lad that Gramm had sent off earlier. The boy was bleeding from a swollen lip, still clutching his ratter under one arm.
‘Swain,’ Gramm gasped, and the woman who had run to the girl cried out and sank to her knees, sobbing.
