by J. W. Webb
Corin shrugged indifference, commenced fastening the broad belt to his waist. This came from Permio, almost six inches thick with silver studs. Quite pretentious, but he liked it. It not only protected his stomach but also sported a bracket for his shoulder harness that kept Clouter erect. Aside the bracket hung the scabbard of Corin’s sax, Biter, and his horn-handled hunting knife.
The latter he’d won in a game of dice in Morwella some years back. There was also a small dagger hidden in the lining of his left boot. This too had come in useful on numerous occasions. As had the two he kept up his right sleeve, and the other one he hid inside his shirt. You can’t own enough sharp things in this world.
Corin glanced lovingly at his longsword. Clouter was well balanced, razor sharp, and over five and a half feet in length. Most opponents shat themselves and legged it when they saw it, which saved Corin considerable effort.
The longsword had been gift from Lord Halfdan of Point Keep to replace his worn-out blade. The High King’s brother had been fond of the wild-eyed Corin. He’d rewarded him well in the years of his service. Clouter had seen a great deal of use during the Second Permian War, and later whilst serving Silon of Raleen. Corin cherished its fine workmanship. Apart from Thunderhoof and his golden wolf-brooch, the longsword was his only possession of worth.
Corin left his woolen cloak on the unmade bed, as it looked warm outside, and made his way down to the kitchens seeking sustenance. No one was about, so Corin grabbed a large ham from the pantry and painfully squinted his way out into the sunlit courtyard.
Finnehalle was a hive of activity. Carts clattered their way up and down the cobbled streets, and traders shouted their wares at Corin as he trudged by, doggedly munching his breakfast. The market square was full of stalls and banter. Everywhere the noise of people’s chatter and barking dogs filled his senses. It did little to ease his throbbing head. The smell of stale fish drifted up from the quayside accompanied by the salty breeze.
Corin felt better. The warm sunshine brightened his mood, banishing morose thoughts. Today was another day, after all. But when he overheard a couple of traders discussing thunderstorms, he hurried by not wanting to listen.
Several of the village folk glanced warily at Clouter, remembering the tall fighter from the evening before. Corin ignored them. He casually tossed the remnants of the ham bone to a grateful hound in a corner. Evidently, word of last night’s brawl in The Last Ship was already spreading through Finnehalle. No great surprise.
Corin recognized a few of the villagers, but most faces were strange to him. There was no sign of the three Morwellan troublemakers. Lucky for them.
Corin spied his patron struggling back from the market, laden with cheeses and bread. He greeted the innkeeper cheerfully enough, thanking him for his kind hospitality and patience the night before. He even offered to replace the damaged furniture. Burman wiped a sweating brow and told him not to worry.
“You look haggard this morning,” he beamed annoyingly. “Enjoy the day, master Corin, it certainly is a beauty. But have a care,” he continued in a whisper. “Those Morwellan thugs are probably still lurking in the neighborhood. They will want revenge. You made fools of them last night, and they won’t have liked that.”
“Let them lurk,” replied Corin with a shrug. He reached out to grab the innkeeper’s shoulder. “Did you hear those horns last night Burmon?”
“Horns? No, I slept like a troll,” answered the innkeeper. “Good day to you—horns indeed.”
“Aye, good day, landlord.”
As Corin entered the busy marketplace, memories of his childhood flooded back. He recalled his mother chiding both him and his brothers as they ran amok among the wagons and stalls. They were dead now, all dead. Taken from him on that brutal bloody morning. He trudged on.
Reaching the last market stall Corin turned, stared dreamy at the sparkling water of Finnehalle harbor. It was a fine autumn day and the Western Ocean shimmered, reaching out and merging with cloudless sky beyond. To the south, sheer cliffs spilled wailing seabirds into the brine. Corin’s eyes followed their whirling dance, taking pleasure in the sight.
It was then that he noticed the foreign ship. It lay anchored in deep water a short distance from the shore. A two-masted vessel with yards and rigging, it towered over the small fishing craft of Finnehalle like a lion amongst cats. The yards were neatly furled and the proud figurehead was embossed with the emblem of a golden sea eagle. Although somewhat out of place in Finnehalle, the brigantine looked splendid in the morning sunshine. That must be the Starlight Wanderer, thought Corin, remembering the name from his conversation with Silon yesterday. He turned briskly away. Corin had no desire to speak with the merchant today.
Silon was his past, as had been Lord Halfdan and the commission in the Wolves he’d held out to Corin. Those days were gone forever. It was time for a new start, a fresh chance to make a go of life. Finnehalle would take him back. He was fit and strong, able to turn his hands to most things. Work wouldn’t be a problem.
Then there was Holly—still single and lusty (both excellent qualities, in his opinion); Corin reckoned he was in with a good chance there. A decent honest Fol girl wouldn’t fleece him like those Raleenian hellcats had. Elanion take Silon, his daughter, and their schemes…
An angry shout shattered Corin’s thoughts, and he looked over at the stalls. A heated exchange had broken out between a stroppy leather trader and a colossal foreigner dressed in furs and gold. Corin studied the outlandish stranger, wondering if he had come down from the wild land of Leeth in the remote northeast. But the barbarians of that land had an unkempt look about them. This fellow carried himself like a nobleman.
Curious, Corin strolled over to the stall and feigned a shallow interest in the goods whilst listening with both ears. The giant’s booming voice was clearly terrifying the diminutive trader. A formidable figure, he sported long fair braids in hair and beard. At his side hung the largest battle-axe Corin had ever seen. It was double headed, at least two feet across, the wooden shaft the thickness of a small tree and at least a foot longer than Clouter.
And as for its owner...Corin squinted up at him. What was he, eight, nine feet tall? More like seven and a half. Scary, though. Corin wondered what would bring such a one to this far-flung region; the giant surely didn’t expect much profitable trade here. Most sailors tended to steer clear of the rocky, dangerous coast of Fol. Instead they fared south to trade in Fardoris, or else Port Wind and Calprissa. Finnehalle was usually overlooked.
“What’s occurring here, then?” Corin interrupted the quarrel with a sharp glance at the trader, whilst eyeing the giant’s formidable axe in admiration, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his sax.
“This worm has cheated me in coin,” growled the giant. His voice was foreign sounding but not unpleasant, quite cultured for such a beast of a man. “I’m at a loss whether to chop him into little pieces or merely stamp on him like a beetle!”
The giant winked at Corin. The trader, missing the joke, winced at this, and his bug eyes pleaded with Corin.
“What do you think, warrior?” The stranger’s pale eyes gauged Corin shrewdly and the longswordsman knew this man was no fool.
Corin thought for a minute, then smiled. “Perhaps you should cut off a finger or two? Maybe crack the odd rib. Can I assist? I’ve a sharp knife or two readily available.”
“Masters, please!” the horrified trader wailed, pitifully flapping his arms about like a courting crow in springtime.
“Well, then,” continued Corin, his eyes never leaving the outlander’s massive axe. “May I suggest you reunite our large friend here with his coin, and we’ll hear no more about it? The traders of Finnehalle are renowned for their honesty, are they not?”
The leather trader grumbled, complaining to several of the old gods about the manners of his customers these days. Nevertheless, he hastily cast a few silver coins down on the table. The huge stranger snatched them up quickly, very quickly for s
omeone his size. Corin noted that, too.
“There’s a good fellow. That wasn’t too hard was it?” The blonde giant guffawed, slapping the scowling trader on his bald head with a palm the size of a dinner plate. The trader was propelled backwards over the table to fall face first onto the dung-covered street.
“Whoops, sorry old lad.” The outlander turned to Corin with an evil grin. “My thanks, longswordsman,” he growled, rubbing his golden beard. “I have no wish for trouble on this sunny autumn day.” Corin smiled back. The giant possessed a genial manner despite his fearsome appearance. He was in his middle years, weather-beaten, with cheerful blue eyes and a blunt freckled nose.
“My name is Barin of Valkador.” The big man grinned. “Well met.”
“So you are the master of the Starlight Wanderer!” exclaimed Corin.
“Aye, you know of her?” asked Barin.
“Very little,” replied the longswordsman with a shrug. “I believe you have a certain merchant from Raleen onboard. A former employer of mine that has requested I dine with him, this very evening.”
“Oh, has he, indeed? What a presumptuous fellow!” snorted Barin with mock indignation. “So you must be Corin the adventurer. Silon has spoken of you. Well met, I say! This calls for some sustenance. Fancy a bite to eat and some ale, Master Corin?”
Corin shook his head, then shrugged. “Oh, why not,” he replied, questioning his wisdom, and the unlikely pair made their way back toward the nearest tavern.
***
Valkador (Barin’s home) was a remote island far to the north, near the realms of everlasting ice. It was a short distance from the coast of Leeth, but the relationship between the two lands wasn’t good. Some years ago, Barin had clashed bitterly with Daan Redhand, eldest son of the King of that wild country. This heaped fuel on a bloody feud that had waged ruthlessly between the islanders and the brutal Kings of Leeth for over a hundred years.
Barin’s prized possession (aside his brig) was the massive double-headed war axe called Wyrmfang. (Corin considered that a rather ponsy name for such an impressive weapon but kept his lips together on the matter.) Barin told him he’d named the axe after some notorious dragon that used to lurk nasty up in the ice woods. Corin didn’t believe in dragons, but he let that one go too.
Despite his bellicose appearance, the Northman claimed he preferred trade to warfare. Judging by his apparel, he had no shortage of funds. The giant informed his new friend that he was on his way back from Sedinadola on the northern coast of Permio. He often traded there, selling furs and amber and purchasing silk, jewels, and spice. Neither man mentioned Silon again. Instead they wiled away several hours consuming hearty fare and speaking of their travels. Corin asked the axe man what he knew of the rumors Leeth had allied itself to Caswallon. Barin’s answer did little to reassure him.
“Haal of Leeth is hungry for glory and gold. He has long coveted the wealth of the Four Kingdoms,” Barin growled into his mug. “That King and his filthy sons prowl Kelthaine’s eastern borders like ravenous wolves, Corin. I fear it’s only a matter of time before they attack in force.”
Corin nodded. “Silon suspected it were so.”
Barin grunted, slurped, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This is a pleasant little village,” he said, gazing out the window and squinting in the glare. “You’re from these parts?”
“Aye, I lived in Finnehalle once,” replied Corin thoughtfully, and then added under his breath. “There are problems here also, Barin. Morwellan renegades are stirring up trouble. I had a slight altercation with three of them last night.”
“Morwellans, heh, well I’m not altogether surprised,” replied Barin with a nod. “Morwella is in a state of flux. Outlaws and rogues have become only too common in that land, and their boldness grows daily. Word is Daan Redhand sailed his ships into Vangaris last month, seizing booty and women. Though the city guard fought the raiders off, they still managed to set fire to the port.
“They say Duke Tomais is in failing health and still mourns the loss of his wife, and now his daughter Shallan is grown wayward and headstrong. There’s faerie in that one, they say.” Barin shook his head in resignation. “Morwella’s days of freedom are numbered, Corin. Nor do I see Kelthaine rushing to her aid now that master Caswallon sits at the helm.” Barin brooded into his tankard, clearly not wishing to speak more on the subject. Corin didn’t press the matter. Instead, he yawned and looked out the window.
It was quiet. They were the only customers in the tavern, and outside the noise of the marketplace had dwindled to a distant murmur. Time was wearing on. Barin’s scowl deepened until he could contain his thoughts no longer. He glanced at Corin, straightened his tunic, and farted vehemently.
“Those sons of the King of Leeth are the vilest of men, and of the three, Redhand is the worst.”
“I have heard of Daan Redhand,” replied Corin softly. “I once fought alongside a Morwellan called Hagan who knew him. He is a dangerous foe, Barin.” Corin drained his ale before glancing around at the empty room, almost expecting trouble.
“Redhand slew my sister’s son,” muttered Barin. ” There is bad blood between us.” Corin was sympathetic, thinking of Crenna, but chose not to respond. He turned away, gazed out the window.
Barin’s shrewd glance caught the shadow of past pain in Corin’s distant gaze. He sipped his ale thoughtfully for a moment, then coughed.
“So, longswordsman, tell me why you chose leave this quiet peaceful corner of the world.”
“Corin shrugged, his gaze still on the marketplace outside. “It’s boring, uneventful, or so I thought back then. Needed adventure, see the world, and all that stuff. Always been restless by nature.”
“So you enlisted in the Wolves in Kella.”
“Eventually.”
“A tough bunch.”
“We had a certain reputation, and I had a desire to kill people.” Barin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his lips together. Corin continued.
“The Wolves were frowned on by the other regiments. Even the High King despised us. The rankers (and most officers) were lowborn, you see, unlike the Tigers and Bears, who recruited only from nobility. Spawn of the gutter, we Wolves were, even felons and thieves were welcome in the Wolves if they could handle a blade.”
“I heard they were the loyalist and toughest soldiers in Kelthaine,” said Barin before taking another sip. Corin shrugged. “You don’t strike me as the cruel type, Corin an Fol. Hard, bitter, not cruel.”
Corin turned and pinned Barin with his blue-grey gaze. “Witnessing my family’s murder tainted my angle on things.”
“That would do it. I’m sorry, Corin.”
Corin shrugged. “It was sixteen years ago.”
“Who were the culprits?”
Corin drained his tankard, then flung it hard through the window, spraying glass on the yard outside and startling two women talking close by. The innkeep (who until now had been ignoring them) came over red-faced and alarmed, but after seeing Corin’s expression decided to let the matter be. He too had heard about the wild man in the ’Ship last night.
Corin stared at the broken window as one surprised by his actions. After a moment, he spoke again. Barin said nothing, just watched his new friend.
“They cut my father down and butchered my two brothers that sunny morning, then they raped my mother and sister and the other women present before dragging them off to their ships to become slaves.
“They didn’t get far. A rogue wave drowned the bastards but took the women too. At least they were spared from more suffering. I’m grateful for that much.”
Barin nodded, let his blue gaze sweep the room. “Raiders—from where?”
“Crenna.”
“Ah…then you were lucky to survive. Usually they butcher every living thing within a mile of habitation.”
“They tried to butcher me.” Corin’s smile was venomous. “I killed three with my father’s blade, then someone clouted me from behind and I lost c
onsciousness.”
Barin ordered more ale. When the innkeep arrived, he looked hesitant and wary. Corin placed a silver coin on the table. “Sorry about the mess,” he told him. The landlord said nothing but deftly retrieved the silver and departed.
“So you left Finnehalle and fared east.” Barin took a long pull at his ale and belched.
“Not at first,” Corin replied. “Finnehalle was lucky, though my kin were not. Most folk survived, for the raiders were few in number. I expect they were a rogue crew that split from the other ships.
“I was only fourteen, Barin. Wild, angry. But I had a friend. Two, really—Burmon across the quay in The Last Ship was good to me. His daughter and I were…” Corin took a sip of ale. “Then there was Polin the smith. He was an old soldier that kept forge just outside town. A good friend. Dead now.
“I raised havoc for two years, Barin, eventually even patient old Burmon had to have words. I left Finnehalle, took in with the smith.
“Polin told me about the Wolves, and at sixteen I was eligible to enlist. He gave me sword and council, and off I went.”
Barin scratched his beard and picked snot from his nose. “We’ve much in common,” he said. “One day I’ll tell you my story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“It’s dark, Corin, very dark. A green-eyed witch cursed my kin to share a certain doom. She was comely back then, married to my grandfather but lusted over my father. When he spurned her, she—” Barin’s eyes were on the table. Suddenly he grinned. “What a cheerful pair we are.”
Corin smiled. “I better go. Time presses.” He made to depart, but his large friend produced a curious set of dice.
“Care for a game first?” Barin asked.
“Why not?” responded Corin. He was fond of dice. Besides, what else did he have to do?
They discussed lighter matters as they played, drank, and farted their way through that sunny afternoon. Barin spoke of his pretty daughters and blue-eyed wife, who he described as plum ugly and ill-tempered.
