RuneWarriors

by James Jennewein

  Yes, his lordship was fond of knitting, as he’d explained to Grelf, because he needed a meditative outlet to calm his violent nature. Which was perfectly fine as far as Grelf was concerned; he cared not a fig what a prince did in his leisure time behind closed doors. But then he’d witnessed the shockingly despicable and violent acts his master had committed with the knitting needles themselves, and this had given him grave doubts that the knitting had any calming influence whatsoever.

  “Yes, Grelf? What is it?” The voice was dark with irritation. Grelf saw the half-completed sweater that lay in Prince Thidrek’s lap, but knew better than to offer a compliment.

  “Sire…” Grelf began, suddenly unsure of his words.

  “Well—out with it.”

  “A scouting party, sire…information has been uncovered….” His voice trailed off. Catching a sharp look of impatience, Grelf drew closer and whispered the rest of his news directly into his lord’s ear. Thidrek’s eyes shot open, electrified. Could it be? Was it possible?

  “I’ll need more men. A lot more. And I’ll want a meeting with the Berserkers. As soon as possible.”

  Grelf gave a nod and waited, seeing bits of firelight aglitter in his master’s eyes.

  “This is big, Grelf. The chance of a lifetime. The stuff kingdoms are built upon…”

  “Yes, sire, leave it to me,” said Grelf, bowing eagerly. “I’ll arrange everything.” Now happy to have an excuse to leave the room, Grelf backed out and pushed shut the door. He paused, taking a breath to steady himself, and then went flitting down the passageway, flush with a kind of boyish thrill about that which lay ahead. After all, it wasn’t every day that the greatest power of the gods fell within reach of man.

  Grelf had never seen a meaner, viler-looking group of warriors in his life. The Berserkers—eight of them, each over six feet tall, one more vicious looking than the next—stood gathered a few yards away on the crest of a hill, the pink light of dawn glinting off the battle-axes, spears, and daggers they held at their sides. The streaks of red and yellow war paint smeared across their cheeks and noses gave them an otherworldly appearance, as if they were already dead and therefore could not be killed. Scarred, toothless, with many missing fingers—and one missing a whole arm—these men emanated a kind of casual brutality that made you glad they were on your side. (At least Grelf hoped they were to be on his side—you could never be sure of another man’s loyalty until it was too late.) They also gave off an odor so ripe, it made Grelf want to hold his nose and turn away in disgust. But he knew better than to insult their lack of personal hygiene, for fear he might lose an appendage or two of his own, and he felt fairly certain he’d like to keep his arms and legs attached to his body for as long as he could.

  Prince Thidrek, tall and slender as a knife, stood calmly among the beastly lot, showing not a whit of fear. He rubbed his thumb against his clean-shaven chin, speaking in a low murmur to the tallest of them, who was clearly their leader, a glowering guy whose right eye was missing and who sported a scar in the shape of a skull on his left forearm.

  Grelf busied himself with watering the horses for a bit, thinking back over the events that had led him here. He’d sent a horseman the night before with a message for the Berserkers to meet His Lordship this morning here on Spiker’s Hill, a neutral spot not too far from the forest where the Berserker clan made their home. Thidrek’s messenger had promised there’d be no other soldiers in attendance, and he could see that this precaution had put them at ease. He caught sight of more Beserkers in the woods, no doubt waiting to see if the negotiations went to their advantage.

  Not that Berserkers feared anyone or anything. They were a peculiar clan of men who kept to themselves mostly, peaceable away from battle. But when called to fight, there were no men more fearsome. It was the concoction of bog myrtle and frenzy-inducing mushrooms they ate before battle that caused them to foam at the mouth and go berserk. (As Grelf knew, the word berserkir meant “one of bearlike strength who drinks the blood of wolves.” But it being hard to get one’s hand on the blood of wolves whenever one wanted to, they sometimes had to make do with bog myrtle and mushrooms to get their juices flowing.) For hours at a time they lost all reason, howling like wild animals, biting their shields, and indiscriminately butchering everything and everyone in their path with blind ferocity—even women, children, pets, and livestock of friend and foe alike (the loss of a man’s livestock at times being worse than that of a wife). No doubt about it, when the Berserkers went berserk, blood did flow and you’d best be gone or lose your own head into the bargain.

  Grelf heard a sudden clang of iron and voices raised in anger. He turned to see that two Berserkers were brandishing their weapons, and that Thidrek and One-Eye were in something of an argument, their words sharp and heated. One-Eye had taken a menacing step toward Thidrek and was kicking the ground with his boot, kicking up the snow. The prince calmly stood his ground but kept a firm hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt, ready to draw and strike if need be.

  “Must we be so beastly in our doings?” asked Thidrek, a touch of disdain in his voice. “Showing such lowly lack of faith?”

  “Faith?” One-Eye said, and he spat out an oath to tell Thidrek what he could do with his faith.

  “What’s become of trusting a man’s word?” asked Thidrek with a hint of judgment in his tone, and he finished off with a light chuckle.

  “We trust in silver,” came One-Eye’s reply. “Silver speaks louder than words.”

  Thidrek moved not a muscle. He held One-Eye’s gaze for a long, tense moment, and then he said, “So be it.” And from beneath his cloak he drew out several small coin purses. He tossed the largest one to One-Eye and the others on the ground for the rest of the men to pick up. The Berserkers looked on keenly as One-Eye opened the purse, drew out a silver coin, and inspected it in the sunlight. Then, satisfied of its authenticity, One-Eye grinned and banged a balled fist to his chest, this being the common gesture of trust and good fellowship that men gave when business had been concluded satisfactorily.

  Breathing easy once again, Grelf watched as the prince and One-Eye grasped arms and shook, relieved they had at last come to an understanding. The other Berserkers followed suit, he saw, banging their chests, pocketing their purses, and walking off toward their waiting horses, muttering oaths so colorful that Grelf made a mental note to write a few of them down back at the castle so that he might commit them to memory and reuse them on special occasions to impress friends and irritate foes. Such was his love of the well-chosen phrase.

  Their war mates from the woods now joined them, and they all rode off to the sound of thundering hooves. Grelf and the black-cloaked prince watched them go.

  “I trust your negotiations went well, my liege?”

  “Well enough,” Thidrek said. “I now have a score of the fiercest mercenary soldiers at my bidding. I’d say the day’s begun to my advantage.”

  Grelf agreed that it had, and they mounted their horses and rode off in the other direction, toward the castle and a destiny that Grelf could scarce wait to discover. With the wind blowing hard against him as he rode, it occurred to Grelf that most leaders, through sheer force of character, could instill the kind of loyalty in their men that would make them want to fight and die for their liege lord. He wondered how long the loyalty would last when it was paid for in silver rather than earned by honor.

  Many men were soon to die, many innocent men, Grelf knew; but when and how many, it was too soon to tell.

  Like most men who covet power, Thidrek had not amassed the lands of his fiefdom by his own effort; he had inherited them. His father, Mirvik the Mild, had ruled the land in a spirit of kindness and generosity, and so was beloved by the people. Beloved by all, in fact, except his own son. Thidrek had felt his father too weak, too sensitive, too lenient. He especially loathed the fact that his father had ended the practice of beheading, Thidrek believing that merciless brutality went a lot further than lenient compassion in buildin
g a thrifty working class. Above all, Thidrek had hated his father’s name. The word mild represented everything he hated about Mirvik’s forgiving ways, and he forever wanted to erase it from the minds of his subjects.

  And so, upon his father’s death, when Thidrek took command of the fiefdom, he’d taken the name “Thidrek the Terrifying” in order, as he said, “to set the right tone.” From then on he’d ruled with an iron fist, torturing those even a day late with taxes and reinstituting his beloved beheadings. He even hosted Saturday execution matinees with free admission for those under ten. For while it was good to be respected, he reasoned, it was better to be feared, to have your subjects quavering at the very sound of your name. Yes, to have them shaking in their boots, that’s what he craved.

  He knew that fear had the power to turn fiefdoms into kingdoms. His spineless father had lacked the ruthless impulse to crush his enemies and acquire neighboring lands; hence, Mirvik the Mild had never been a king. But that did not stop his son from audaciously taking the title prince. As he told Grelf, “A prince is a king-in-waiting, and after a well-planned reign of terror, my waiting will be over.”

  But Grelf, ever crafty, was of a more politic nature. He’d heard rumblings of revolt and convinced Thidrek to ease up on the executions, if only to keep people guessing what he would do next. Keenly aware of the power of language, Grelf knew words to be the greatest weapons of all. To reshape His Lordship’s image, he’d suggested with consummate tact that Thidrek’s insistence on being called “the Terrifying” might be lathering it a bit thick. Stubbornly resisting, Thidrek at last agreed to drop the name from all public speeches and royal documents. Yet in his heart he still believed this to be his full and proper name, and whenever he heard Thidrek spoken aloud, he would—due to force of habit and his colossal conceit—sound the words the Terrifying to himself and hear them echo inside the vast and empty chamber of his soul.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A DARKNESS BECLOUDS DANE’S FATE

  Lut the Bent had all but forgotten the harrowing birth dream he had had about Dane so long ago. The redhead’s flashing smile and sunny disposition—his innate good-heartedness—had made Lut feel nothing but a deep, abiding affection for the boy. But shortly after Dane had had the fight with his father, a vague sense of foreboding again descended upon the seer, and then, just before the Festival of Greatness, the doom dream came again….

  Lut stood in his village, horrified as a glistening river of blood rolled toward him. He saw a half dozen human heads stuck on spikes, the eyes and mouths shrieking in pain as their own headless bodies danced before them. Women opened their mouths to scream and black smoke poured forth. And then a humongous wolf-monster, black as pitch, rose from the sea and descended on the town, its jaws devouring everyone in sight. As the children fled, the wolfen thing gobbled one, two, as if they were mere morsels. With one whipping blow of its tail, it obliterated the flaming huts, sending fiery debris shooting into the night sky to form stars. And then Lut saw Dane, the red-haired one, riding atop the wolf-monster! The boy rode as if on horseback, in full control of the beast, his gleaming sword held high. Dane and the wolf-creature then bent their heads in unison to look down at Lut. Lut backed away, frantically trying to escape, but the boy gave a chilling cry, and next he knew, the wolf-thing was upon him. Snatched in its jaws and swallowed, Lut felt himself plunging into the very belly of the beast, tumbling amid the blood-wet bodies of others who had been eaten, engulfed in screams and—

  Lut awoke, his heart hammering, his body bathed in sweat, barely able to breathe. He sat up, trying to clear his mind, but the nightmarish images wouldn’t leave. He bolted down some warm ale to settle his nerves and clear his mind. Each of the agonized faces in the dream, he realized, was a person of his village. Worse, it was the same dream! The same one that had visited him on the night of the boy’s birth so long ago! And the same dream he’d been having just the night before and the night before that!

  Three nights in a row now, the same horrid nightmare had visited him, each time more vivid than the last. Lut shuddered. He could no longer ignore it; there was no doubt anymore. The dream had deep significance. But what exactly did it mean? Alone, the wolf could have signified any number of things. The coming of an invading army. A deadly avalanche. A nasty bout of crotch rot. But the redhead riding the beast! That had to be Dane! Did it mean, as Lut feared, that the boy was ill-fated? That he was destined to bring death and destruction to them all? Lut didn’t want to believe it—it was too disturbing; but he knew there was only one way to know for sure.

  Turning to a small altar, he lit a tallow candle and a sprig of rosemary and took out a worn sealskin sack. Opening it, he drew out the sacred runes, small discs of elk bone and antler, each the shape of a large coin and worn smooth on both sides. Each runebone had letters of the runic alphabet carved into it, each of which corresponded to key aspects and elements of the Viking world.

  For Norsefolk, reading the runes was the most reliable way to interpret dreams and thereby divine the future as writ by the gods. Handed down by his forbears, divination was the most sacred act a seer could perform for his people, said to allow men to listen to the very whispers of the gods.

  As always, Lut the Bent went about his runecasting with great reverence. Cupping the runes in his hands, Lut bent over his furs and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing, clearing his mind, becoming an open vessel. He began to chant the names of his forefathers, calling upon the gods and beseeching the runes to speak. And then, when an inner voice told him it was time, Lut tossed the runes into the air. One by one they fell and came to rest on the earthen floor, the symbols that had fallen faceup forming a message. Lut opened his eyes, and there he saw, illuminated in the flickering candlelight, the future written in the bones. His awful dream was true! The boy indeed would bring catastrophe to the village and everyone in it, though the when, where, and how of it were not revealed.

  Lut’s mouth went dry. He felt a dizziness in his head and tightness in his chest. He knew it was his duty to pass this foreknowledge on to the village elders—and to Voldar—but for a moment he considered not telling anyone. After all, wasn’t it possible he was wrong? That he’d misread the signs, and it was all a colossal mistake? He was old, he knew, and prone to periodic bouts of befoggery and forgetfulness. Lut sighed in deep resignation. No, he wasn’t wrong. Painful as it would be, he had to go to his chieftain and tell the truth about the boy. But how would the great man react? His own son a danger, fated to destroy his own people?

  Lut knew Voldar would have no choice but to banish the boy from the village, send him out to fend for himself in the wild, like other ill-starred children Lut had seen abandoned in his youth, a gruesome sentence that few survived. And with the Festival of Greatness being held the next morning, the timing could not have been worse. But so be it. Lut was old and nearing death, he knew, and so his final act on earth would be to honor his people. To do what must be done and say what must be said. To cast out one life in order to spare the lives of many. For generations they had lived and died by this code, and so it would be again.

  Pulling on a sheepskin for warmth, he rose and shuffled to the open door of his hut. Outside, a light sprinkle of rain fell, veiling the moon in a silvery glow. Yes, he would tell his chieftain, he would have to. But first he would have some rye cake and cider. And sleep. Yes, more sleep. He was aged and weary and in desperate need of sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DANE RECEIVES A NEW NAME

  At last the day came for the Festival of Greatness, gray blustery dawn skies turning sunny and warm. Dane rose early, meeting his friends in town, as he always did, to watch the festivities unfold.

  The games being a great source of entertainment, Norsefolk came from miles around to watch, and to snack. That morning, Dane watched as a dozen longships from outlying villages came ashore, bringing scores of onlookers both young and old. Gathering then in the village, the women shared gossip and recipes for pickled herring, whi
le the men drank copious amounts of home-brewed ale, told raucous stories, and headbutted each other senseless. A few laid wagers on who could vomit the farthest. And all this by nine in the morning.

  Being spirited young men, Dane, Drott, and Fulnir eyed the women in their foxtail furs and feathered finery, bowing politely to the older, already-married ones and acting even friendlier to the younger yet-to-be wed ones. It was customary to marry in one’s middle-teen years, life being so short and there being no reason to wait on starting a family. (Average life expectancy was so brief, a man of thirty was considered all washed up.)

  Male elders sat by themselves on the north side of the field, it being expected that the sexes sit apart during high ceremonies such as sporting games and divorce proceedings to keep fighting and hair pulling to a minimum. And as the females filled the rows of benches on the far side, Fulnir went from girl to girl, chatting them up and asking the prettiest ones if they’d dance with him at the feast that evening, Dane all the while marveling at his boldness.

  Drott, ever bashful in the presence of the fairer sex, took a slightly different approach. When he saw a girl he liked, he threw stones at her to get her attention. If she scowled and ran, he knew she wasn’t for him; but if she picked up the stone and threw it back at him? Well, then he’d really found a girl worth knowing. On this particular morning, as the ladies paraded past, one of Drott’s stones found the rump of a rather hefty girl. She whirled and, spotting Drott as the culprit, spat an oath and threw a stone right back. A look of joy spread across Drott’s face. Then, to his surprise, she gave an animal growl and charged like a wild boar, yowling and running straight at Drott, intent on doing him bodily harm. Drott gleefully ran off, the girl in hot pursuit, leaving Dane smiling and shaking his head as the two disappeared into the crowd.