RuneWarriors

by James Jennewein

  “Hey, he’s delivering food!” said Drott, eagerly grabbing and gobbling up a berry. “Klint—gimme a mixed codfish platter and a tankard of your finest ale!” It was silly—like most of the half-formed notions Drott blurted out—but it gave Dane an idea. If the bird could deliver berries, maybe, just maybe…

  With the others busy divvying up the food morsels, Dane gently took hold of the bird and began to whisper in his ear. He drew something from his tunic and, opening his palm, displayed it to the bird. Klint cocked his head and took interest. Then, taking the item up in his beak, the raven gave a screek! scrawk!, hopped off the ledge, and flapped away, swooping out over the courtyard and the castle walls, heading northward, soon disappearing from view over the ramparts. Dane lost sight of him a moment later and turned back to the men, who sat eating the tidbits Klint had brought them. It was a long shot, he knew, but maybe, just maybe the bird could fetch more than nuts and berries.

  In her cell in the tower Astrid lay curled in the corner, too tired to weep. Her attempt to kill Thidrek having failed, she, too, had lost hope. She’d fallen asleep and dreamed of her father and mother and a snowball fight she once had as a little girl. Then, from down in the courtyard, she heard the faint squawk of a bird. She could have sworn—quickly she went to her window and looked down. No bird in sight. Strange. For a moment it had sounded like the familiar call of Dane’s own Klint, the bird that he’d had since he was a boy. And then she saw workmen with axes and hammers, building a platform. This could mean only one thing. A beheading or a wedding. Or both.

  Blackhelmet and Redhelmet stood atop the ramparts, gazing down into the courtyard and out over the castle walls to the valley below, ever watchful for the slightest movement. They held their bows at the ready. They’d been awake all night, doing the usual midnight-to-eight o’clock shift. They were tired and bored and looking for something to occupy their weary minds. Blackhelmet saw it first. A bird, it was, a large black raven, and it swooped down into the courtyard, making a long, looping figure eight. For some reason it seemed like an interloper.

  “A silver piece says I hit him,” said Blackhelmet to his cohort.

  “What? The bird?” said Redhelmet, scoffing. “Five says you don’t.”

  “Make it ten and I’ll snag him in one shot.”

  “You’re on.”

  Blackhelmet drew back his bow, sighting down the arrow at the black bird, following its line of flight as it soared over the wall and out toward the valley. Blackhelmet waited for his moment, then let the arrow fly. Bzing! It hit the bird’s wing, slicing through its feathers and out the other side. The bird dropped like a stone.

  Blackhelmet said nothing. Redhelmet dug in his coin purse and counted ten pieces of silver into his cohort’s hand. He hated to lose, but at least they’d killed something on their watch that night, and he could sign out with a feeling of accomplishment, no matter how small.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE SITUATION DOES NOT IMPROVE

  Thidrek’s men had spread the word, and duly terrified of being thought disobedient, all the Norsefolk from the surrounding villages came in droves to witness the event. Shortly after dawn peasants began to appear along the roadsides leading to the castle, children in tow, oxcarts laden with food. By noon the courtyard was jammed to the ramparts with onlookers, anxiously awaiting the festivities.

  The day was to start with several beheadings, the royal pronouncement had promised, and then Thidrek’s wedding, followed by a grand feast and, if Thidrek’s mood permitted, dancing. Some came for the food, some for the pomp and circumstance of a royal betrothal. But mostly, Thidrek believed, it was the executions that really packed them in. “There’s something about the spray of blood and the sobbing of women,” he’d say, “that grabs ’em like nothing else.”

  Grelf, being intimately acquainted with the ways of commonfolk, knew only too well the real reason they came. They were scared stiff he’d execute them if they didn’t show up. But Grelf, who wanted to preserve both his job and his life, never burst his master’s bubble. He told Thidrek exactly what he wanted to hear and carried out his orders with dashing alacrity.

  Except for the order to execute Astrid. Yes, Thidrek had been so angered and humiliated by her betrayal, he’d ordered that she be beheaded and that her head and torso be impaled on a pike and displayed along the battlements with all the others who’d talked back or somehow displeased him. But Grelf had thought this politically unwise, and after some discussion he’d convinced Thidrek to go ahead and marry her anyway. Despite her little assassination attempt.

  “But she’s a common strumpet!” Thidrek had barked. “A guttersnipe!”

  “Exactly,” Grelf had purred. “A commoner. And what better way to show the people you are of the people and for the people than by marrying one of them? Very good for the image, sire. And though this Astrid may be of common blood, she is of uncommon beauty. And that, too, reflects well upon you. It never hurts to woo and win the fairest lady in the land. Shows you’re top of the heap. Makes men respect you and womenfolk swoon. Need I say more?” And then to cinch it, he unrolled the poster he’d had painted. It was dominated by the daunting visage of Prince Thidrek, the very picture of imperious power, and above that, painted in large dark letters, the words TEN BEHEADINGS AND A WEDDING.

  “Well, sire? What say you? Does it…please you?”

  Thidrek looked at his image on the poster, then bemusedly at the words above it. He smiled. “‘Ten Beheadings and a Wedding.’ Not bad, Grelfie, not bad at all.”

  A few hours later, Thidrek stood in his chamber, admiring his image in the mirror, quite liking the figure he cut in his grand black satin cloak and waxed mustache. Grelf the Gratuitous stood beside him, issuing gushes of praise and approval, making sure that his lordship was feeling as invulnerable as possible.

  On a day like this, with so many beheadings on the docket, even a smidge of insecurity could be deadly, and Grelf had to be careful. He’d seen Thidrek at executions before and knew only too well the intoxicating effect they could have on him. He could get so swept up in the excitement, he would order the execution of any old lackey he’d taken a momentary dislike to, just for the sport of it. Grelf was too smart to let that happen to him.

  “If I may say, sire, Your Lordship has never looked better. There’s not a man in the land more in command of his masculinity than you, sir. You positively reek of class, culture and—if I may say—cunning, sir. A fearless cunning that puts you in a category far above the rest.”

  “Bootlicker,” said Thidrek with a smirk, unable to take his eyes off his image in the mirror. Grelf began backtracking.

  “I—I was being totally truthful, sir—” Grelf sputtered. “I meant every word—”

  “Well, don’t stop then! Get toadying with all due dispatch! Fawning sycophancy is what I live for, Grelf. You of all people should know that by now. I positively thrive on it. It’s the air I breathe, the water I drink, the chariot I ride. And you’re Grelf the Gratuitous! The best bootlicker in the land! So c’mon!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, sir. You—you radiate a kind of animal magnetism, an attraction like no other. Indeed, you give off an—an aura of perfection that is almost godlike.” He caught himself. “Did I say ‘almost’? It is godlike, it absolutely is. Your aura. You, sir, are a paragon of perfection unparalleled on this plane of existence.” Grelf stopped to take a breath, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his hand.

  Thidrek turned to face Grelf, eyed him for a moment, then gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Oh, Grelfie, what would I do without you?” Thidrek swept out of the room, Grelf feeling that, for now, he still had job security.

  The boy carried the basket down the winding stairs, watching the rats scurry off into the darkness. The deeper he went, the colder the air grew, and a dank odor penetrated his nose. He noticed dark stains from the moisture that seeped through the ancient stone walls, as if the stones themselves were weeping. He, on the other hand, had nothing to
be sad about, if he actually ever stopped to think long enough to be sad. He had long ago stopped reflecting on much of anything, for reflection gave way to troubled dreams.

  When the boy reached the dungeon, the guard stepped aside, letting him walk right up to the bars and look in. The men inside, the ones he knew would that day die, were oddly cheerful for those so soon to meet their doom.

  A sturdy young man came to the bars, anxious to talk. He had red hair and a broad smile. Recognizing him as the one he had shot with his arrow just days before, the boy busied himself with opening the basket and said nothing, having learned from Thidrek that it was best a boy speak only when commanded to by his lord and master. He reached into the basket and began throwing the tunics in through the bars.

  “What’s this?” the young redhead said. “We gotta wear uniforms?”

  “Lord Thidrek likes victims to wear clean shirts. Blood spatter looks better on white.” He began passing them inside, while the young man continued to stare.

  “Well, ’tis a good day to die,” said the redhead.

  “You should be dead already,” said the boy, with an edge of irritation.

  “Oh, yeah,” said the red-haired one after eyeing him more closely. “You’re the one who shot the arrow, eh? Glad your aim wasn’t true.”

  And now, with his marksmanship impugned, the boy was compelled to speak. “If I’d wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Dane had an impulse to chastise the boy for being a braggart, but realized that, perhaps, the boy had deliberately wounded him, had let him live, and so must be somewhat sympathetic to his plight.

  Dane smiled, studying the boy’s features. The freckles. The soft sandy hair. What was he? Nine, ten years of age at most? What was he doing with trash like Thidrek? Had he no family? In a flash Dane saw it on the boy’s face, the conflicted expression in the eyes, the mouth that needed to speak. Dane took a chance.

  “Lost your parents, huh? Must be hard.” The look on the boy’s face when he met Dane’s eyes told him all that he needed to know, and Dane continued as if his life depended on it—because it did.

  “I lost my father, too,” Dane said. “Thidrek, the dastard, did the deed himself. Got him in the back, he did, coward that he is. And every night I dream of revenge. To end his life with my own hand. The only way I’ll be at peace. But I can’t kill him if he kills me first. And killing him wouldn’t just bring me peace—it’d free all the other people he’s enslaved. Even you, boy. Even you.” Dane paused. The boy’s eyes were fastened on his.

  “But Thidrek has given me a home,” he said, his jaw trembling. “He has fed me. Clothed me. He has promised that one day I shall ride beside him in battle!”

  “Is that what you wish?” Dane asked “To serve a tyrant who rules through fear and cruelty? You could have killed me, but you didn’t. And that tells me there’s good in your soul yet, that you’d rather fight evil than ride with it.” The boy was silent, thinking about Dane’s words. He turned to go, then looked back.

  “Them dreams you talk of? I have ’em too.”

  “My name’s Dane. Dane the Defiant.”

  The boy looked at him a moment, making a decision. “Mine’s William,” he said.

  “No nickname?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “How does William the Brave sound?” Dane asked.

  The boy seemed about to smile but abruptly turned and strode away. Dane listened to the boy’s footsteps on the stone stairs, knowing now that he’d been right about the boy, that the boy hated Thidrek as much as he did for just the reason he’d surmised. But would the boy actually do anything about it?

  Dane then heard a murmur of voices and turned to see Ulf the Whale and Fulnir helping Lut the Bent get to his feet. Though pale and weak and barely able to stand, Lut seemed determined to make a speech to the men, and they respectfully gathered round the old one, waiting for him to speak.

  Lut cleared his throat and, in a cracked whisper of a voice, said, “On this, likely our last day alive, I am glad hearted…for I feel privileged to have known you men…and knowing you as I do, I have come to regard you all as sons of Thor…. Though not godly in flesh, in your hearts you have lived fully and bravely. You have loved well and fought for the love of your kinsmen…and in my eyes, that makes you as fine and good as the gods above. Yes, you are all sons of Thor, and my heart swells with pride to have seen the starlight in your eyes and to have walked among you, lo these many winters….”

  After a long and powerful silence, a hand was raised. It was Drott’s, once wise and now dim again.

  “Uh, Lut, quick question. Did you mean everyone?” Drott asked. “I mean…am I one too?”

  “Yes, my son…” came the old one’s reply, “even you.”

  And Drott’s smile beamed the brightest of all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THIDREK RULES!

  It was nearing noon. The courtyard was jammed. Upward of a thousand villagers were on hand, the ticket takers said, with hawkers walking through the crowd, selling all sorts of items bearing Thidrek’s likeness—tunics, pennants, even undergarments. One food vendor was handing out “official Prince Thidrek figurines” with each meal, carved wooden dolls made to look like Thidrek with a T painted on the back of a long black cloak.

  The selling of what was termed “merchandise” at public events was a new phenomenon in these parts, something Grelf had dreamed up to help smooth his lordship’s transition to the throne. Just one of the many new ways a despotic ruler could boost his popularity and create a revenue stream he could profit from personally. Creating a cult of personality was hard work, Grelf knew, and you had to work every angle. To that end, he’d plastered Thidrek’s image everywhere, and for maximum effect, he’d ordered local artisans to create a huge banner forty feet wide bearing Thidrek’s likeness and the words THIDREK RULES! and had it hung across the upper balcony seating. Although most of the villagers on hand that day couldn’t read, the basic idea came through with dazzling clarity.

  The place was abuzz with activity. Against one wall of the courtyard stood a giant platform, a kind of stage upon which all the main events would be presented. It was gaily decorated with long twirling strands of flowers and ribbons, the pink and yellow blooms of the flowers contrasting nicely with the black-and-bloodred-colored uniforms of Thidrek’s guardsmen who patrolled the walkways above, armed and ready to kill anyone who might do anything to disturb the day’s festivities.

  A band of musicians stood in a roped-off area beside the stage, surrounded by the sea of commonfolk, who were now growing restless with anticipation, having waited all morning for the show to begin. So when Grelf appeared onstage and the music stopped, a cheer went up from the crowd. Grelf waited for them to fall still, and soon the only sound was that of his voice addressing the assemblage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Grelf shouted. “Boys and girls! How good of you to gather on this fine day! Welcome to Ten Beheadings and a Wedding!” Another huzzah and the waving of pennants. “A day that promises to bring the color and pageantry of many fine executions! Brought to you in part by Prince Thidrek”—so cued, the crowd cheered again—“and many fine local tradesmen who’ve so generously agreed to endorse the proceedings!” Ever the innovator, Grelf had also convinced some of the local innkeepers, cobblers, and tinsmiths to sponsor parts of the event, allowing them to hang what were called “advertisements” around the inside of the castle courtyard in exchange for certain cash gifts that he and Thidrek had then redirected into their own purses, all done for the good of the people, of course. “And we hope you show your support by frequenting their establishments after the show!”

  Grelf paused and threw a look to the musicians. They struck up an introductory fanfare and then, on his signal, abruptly went silent again. “And now, it is my great honor and privilege to present—your lord and leader! That god among men! The potentate whose personage graces the earth each day he walks upon it! No longer a mere prince—beho
ld your new ruler! The one! The only! King Thidrek the Terrifying!”

  Thidrek took the stage to rather underwhelming applause. A few pennants waved. A smattering of people chanted his name. One could see that Thidrek was dismayed at this less-than-roof-raising reception, though he tried not to show it. Grelf sensed disaster and snapped into action. Behind Thidrek’s back, he gestured to the crowd, trying to boost their reaction. Some louder cheers were heard. And then, grabbing a nearby basket of Thidrek merchandise, Grelf began throwing the dolls into the crowd, causing something of a frenzy, since people always want to get something for nothing, even if it is just a worthless figurine of a ruthless and despicable ruler.

  The hubbub seemed to please Thidrek, and he gave a great gallant bow to the crowd. They fell silent. Thidrek spoke.

  “My friends! You honor me with your presence. As promised, we have a big day planned. A celebration of love and death, not necessarily in that order. But first, a few pronouncements…” He drew out a small vellum scroll. “Will the man with the green wagon please move it—it’s blocking the entrance…and some of the Thidrek-themed merchandise may not be suitable for young children—they have small parts that could be swallowed—so I caution any parents out there to be advised….”

  A few babies began to wail as parents took away their toys.

  “So! Let’s get this party started!” shouted Thidrek. “First, let’s put your hands together and welcome the men whose lives we’ll be taking today!” He gestured grandly as out of a nearby doorway Dane and the others were led in, guarded by four particularly nasty-looking Berserkers. This drew the requisite applause level that Thidrek was seeking, and a sickening look of pleasure appeared on his face. “Yes, let’s really hear it! These men are making the ultimate sacrifice—for you! C’mon, let’s give it up now!” Thus prompted, the people responded with great waves of applause. Thidrek seemed to feel that this ovation was an outpouring of the people’s appreciation for the entertainment value he, their beloved leader, was so generously providing. But in truth, their wild applause was but an expression of the terror in their hearts, the fear that someday it might be them up there about to lose a key appendage.