by Richard Nell
“You have claimed this man’s position, yet here he stands. Only a chieftain’s blood unmakes him. You and you alone will pay your debt of honor today, or the gods will strike your men from this field.”
Many of Husavik’s warriors—new and old—exchanged a look at Ruka’s threat. The young chief answered in a mocking tone.
“I have seen statues of your gods in Orhus, shaman. Even Vol’s cock has crumbled.”
Surprised laughter and perhaps pleasure at this boldness swept the Northern line. Egil could see Aiden’s face redden with rage, but Ruka only waited. He let the laughter mostly die before he turned and smiled fiercely at the men, something like excitement in his eyes.
“So be it.” He raised his arms. With eyes closed, Ruka looked up to the bright sky, and the air around his body shimmered. Sparks flew from his hand as it had in Egil’s house. Blue-black steel emerged and seemed to ‘grow’ from his grasp, reaching higher and higher until Egil realized it was a huge spear, at least the length of two men.
The sparks widened and lowered until they met Ruka’s body, which flared even thicker as smooth plates of iron formed over the cloth—first on Ruka’s arm, then down his shoulder, chest and back, linked together by tight-weaved mail.
Still the fire descended. With a roar like a furnace blasted with air, Sula glowed with light. The space around the animal wavered with heat and the warhorse snorted and shook its head as its body wrapped in grey steel mesh. Two iron horns grew from a skull-shaped ‘helm’ on its head, others from its side just below Ruka’s feet. The warhorse stomped and lifted its forelegs and snorted air.
It crashed back to the earth and pawed, not a trace of panic despite the insanity of what had happened—only anger at the surprise. Ruka’s other arm seethed with fire until a round-shield of thin metal blocked his left side. He leaned forward, and Sula jerked forward into a trot.
Aiden and his men stared, slack-jawed. No doubt so did the new warriors of Husavik, but Egil couldn’t look that far away from his master.
Ruka roared atop his now-armored warhorse, raising his spear in challenge as he charged. Sula’s hooves pounded the earth alone across the field towards a hundred men.
Egil stared, feeling somehow outside himself. He had sung many songs for chiefs and would-be heroes performing deeds of valor, and he had embellished them all. But this time, he thought—watching one man charge a tribe—exaggeration would not be required.
* * *
“Woah, boy, calm. Calm.”
Ruka soothed Sula as best he could as they advanced. The warhorse balked at the fire and new weight, and Ruka nearly slipped and dropped to the earth when the animal bucked. That would have rather ruined the effect, I think. He almost laughed.
His feet dangled almost uselessly now, his armored thighs hindered in their squeeze. He would have to deal with that later. And the plates were too narrow, and uncomfortable, because apparently Pyu had made him fat. Had he not thought to strap himself to the saddle with leather cords, he’d have surely fallen.
But bravely done, Sula, I never doubted you.
In truth he’d doubted greatly, and feared the horse would panic and freeze or throw him when the sparks flew and the feeling and weight of the armor surrounded his flesh. Ruka had built the barding as thin and light as possible, wanting it as much for intimidation as protection. But between this and his own heavy armor, Sula’s burden had doubled.
Wind howled by Ruka’s bear-head-shaped helm. He tried desperately to match the rythym and stop from bouncing in the saddle, and for good or ill it seemed the speed of the animal’s charge was only mildly affected.
The enemy line grew before him. The baffled and perhaps terrified men directly ahead clutched spear-shafts or axe-handles and looked to their chief. At least two mastered themselves and held out the points of their spears forward.
Break, Ruka prayed as he closed. Panic and spread out, curse you, or even brave Sula may not charge, and my plan will fall to ruin.
Warhorses were brave, not stupid. When Sula saw a line of spears in his face he would turn, or stop, and whatever madness in his master’s heart be damned. The men needed to split.
Ruka lined up his own spear at the nearest man and hoped the length of his weapon would save him. After that, Sula’s wild rage and courage would hopefully be enough to carry them both forward through the line.
Time became measured in the moments of near weightlessness as Sula’s hooves left the ground. Water-drops fell in his Grove, and all the world became two men with spears, and the weight in his hand.
Some of the men shouted and fell away or threw rocks or axes, which missed or bounced off Ruka’s shield. In the final moments, he managed to see the frozen panic of the man who stood in his path. And then Sula turned.
Ruka’s thrust missed its mark utterly. The few spearmen in the enemy line stayed together and did not move.
Sula turned, but he did not stop. With a snort he swerved and crashed his mighty, now-armored chest into the closest man who hadn’t raised a spear.
The stricken warrior grunted and hurled aside to his fellows. Sula’s legs trampled past him and leapt through the second line just as easily, crushing a man’s shield into his face before stomping over him.
A few useless sword and shield swings bounced against the barding, and then Sula was through, turning without command and slowing to a rigid trot, head raised high behind Husavik’s line.
Ruka checked himself for injury and found none. His hands shook, and Bukayag woke with a mocking smile.
“Spear, or sword,” he said as if to himself, curious about the weather. He looked at the small cluster of ruin Sula had wrought and laughed.
You can have them, brother, all but the chief.
Bukayag growled with pleasure and lifted a spear. “Die,” he rasped, and hurled at the closest man.
Even from horseback, the strength was monstrous. Bukayag’s javelin tore through a layer of good chain and pierced a warriors chest, still flickering with flames. Bukayag drew another and skewered his next victim straight through his shield.
The men were shouting now in rage. Others found their courage and charged from the line both ahead and behind him.
Bukayag drew a sword and rode Sula around them hacking at heads and arms, then sped away and charged again at the line’s edge with a spear. When yet other men broke formation to trap him, he fled and threw more javelins, laughing and howling with every kill or failed attack from his enemy.
When at least fifteen men had abandoned the line to help surround him, firing their weak bows or throwing useless axes or spears—Ruka reminded his brother to blow their horn.
The Northerners startled in confusion, unsure whether to run back to join their shield-wall, or keep chasing the mounted shaman. But they had little time to decide. Aiden and his men began their charge.
* * *
Egil watched Ruka’s mad assault with the same awe as everyone else. He watched him break through the line and fight his way free, killing many of those who gave chase. He is truly a demon, he thought. And I will never be free of him.
The new guardians of Husavik hesitated, or looked to their uncertain chief, watching the men who tried to face Ruka die, or at least fail.
Their good order fell apart as both ends of the line huddled and clumped together, not sure which way to face. Then Ruka blew his horn, Aiden drew his rune-sword, his eager pack of killers drew theirs, and forty men charged together.
Egil felt his horse surge in instinct but held the reins, then ignored the disappointed huff from Ivar. He risked moving forward slowly for a better look, knowing Ruka would expect him to see Aiden’s duel clearly.
The Northern chief had regained at least some sense and the men around him formed their shield wall. His undisciplined line had crumbled though and now formed three separate groups. Aiden’s line crashed screaming against them all.
The ground was entirely flat, the charge fast and brutal. Men against the two ‘side’ clusters cried out and buckl
ed against it, many falling on the outside, and the rest trying desperately just to hold their foes in place. Aiden and his fiercest retainers had slowed, and now hacked furiously against the enemy chief’s cluster.
Through all of it, Ruka’s mad laughter pierced the din. Men skewered with javelins littered the field, some still alive and groaning, half crushed from Sula’s charges, knocked senseless and trampled beneath his hooves. When he was free, Ruka charged at the would-be chief’s failing shield wall. Men seemed to all but close their eyes as they swung at him, or simply turned and ran.
Aiden smashed shields apart in a rage to get at his foe, sometimes reaching with a bare hand to simply pull men out of formation while his followers deflected sword and axe blows. Chief Erden, who had till now stayed between the lines, was finally hurled forward by his men.
All fell away naturally to the flanks until he and Aiden stood on both ends of a circle. Even in the North, men of ash respected a duel.
Ruka must have seen too and blew his horn again, and the fighting trickled and ceased as Aiden’s men backed away.
Aiden himself said nothing. He seized an offered shield from a retainer and clanged his runesword against it. Seeing his men’s fear and failure, Chief Erden yelled and rushed bravely, slashing wildly then bashing forward with the boss of his shield.
Aiden blocked the first and met the second with his own guard, throwing his weight behind it and knocking the smaller man away. Without waiting he followed and slashed apart chunks of wood with his blade, every blow staggering Erden around the clearing.
Aiden followed him chopping with frightening precision, and even to Egil it soon seemed clear he avoided the kill. Blow after terrifying blow threw his enemy off balance, thrashing him around the circle like a child.
“Chieftain of Husavik?” Aiden finally cried, then cut down hard and knocked the young man’s sword from his hand. The big man’s chest heaved as he he spit, looking about at the men around him. He was unwounded, almost untouched.
“Chieftain of Husavik,” he said, slowly and calmly again, lips curled. He dropped his shield and seized Erden by the throat. He shoved his sword straight through the man’s armor, through his breastbone, then waited until the last gasps ended, and the death twitches ceased.
Most of Erden’s retainers dropped their weapons to the dirt at once. Ruka dismounted and scattered some as he walked to Aiden’s side.
“Do you claim his position, Aiden, son of Tora?”
The big man sneered. “It was always mine.”
“Then the gods say this township belongs to the South.” Ruka looked at Aiden, who nearly matched his height. “These men fought bravely. Will you spare them, and accept their fealty?”
Aiden glanced at his foes, and with menacing calm stepped on the throat of a dying man beside his foot. Egil flinched at the crunch.
“Who amongst you will re-claim your honor,” Ruka called. “Who will serve this mighty chief?”
Egil expected ‘serve, or die,’ was understood. The sweat covered and red-faced warriors nodded and swore their grateful, eternal loyalty as a group.
“Then it is done.” Ruka’s sword and shield vanished into shimmering air and many watching gasped. He untied his cloak and spread it on the ground, then looked up to the heavens as he had before on horseback, and raised his arms. “Mighty Vol, Even-handed. I, Bukayag, son of Beyla, ask you justly reward your faithful champion, and the brave warriors who fight at his side.”
The men looked on, glancing up at the sky as if for some miracle, and Egil felt the urge to mock them.
Had he never met Ruka he would have rolled his eyes, but now the impossible seemed possible. Just as Ivar and every man on the bloody field outside Husavik, he watched the white-clouds for a floating demi-god, or a flying horse, or some other ridiculous, immortal thing. And just as before, the impossible came.
Sparks and flame erupted from the air, this time above Ruka’s head. The sun glittered off something flat, polished and grey. Along with the rest of the crowd—who had moments before been ready to kill the other—Egil watched and blinked in silence as perfect, clean, pieces of silver rained from the sky, bouncing and clinking as they filled the cloak in a pile.
“Vol blesses your courage,” Ruka smiled. “Aiden, Chieftain of Husavik, your years of faith will be rewarded. Distribute this first token to your men as you see fit.”
Aiden dropped instantly to a knee, his old warriors following at once. “Forgive my weakness, shaman. I ask for nothing.”
Ruka placed a hand on Aiden’s shoulder, then stilled and waited until the men looked to him.
“The children of Tegrin have tested men long enough. The time of faith and suffering without hope has ended, cousins. Now with courage comes reward.” He closed his eyes, and the flames of Vol or maybe Noss burned an outline around Aiden’s body, as it had before for Ruka and his steed.
Smooth, polished metal rings draped across the huge man’s chest and limbs. He jerked in surprise, just as Sula had, then rose, eyes blinking in the false light. He stared as even his wrists sheathed in god-forged armor. Egil noticed the clasps and ties of the separate pieces—all made exactly to Aiden’s form. It ended with a blue-tinged breastplate inscribed with black runes.
Ruka studied it as if reading the symbols for the first time, and looked pleased. “Rise, Champion, bearer of Vol’s favor and gift. Behold, men of ash, Aiden, son of Tora, Chieftain of Husavik, Shield-Breaker.”
The big warrior blinked wide, watery eyes, staggering as if he may fall again to his knees. Even before he spoke, Egil could see the utter belief, the pure fanatical devotion growing in his face. “Please…shaman, tell me Vol’s will, I beg you. By…holy oath, before these men and Edda and all the gods, I will see it done.”
Ruka nodded in approval, and Egil watched his pleasure and his bearing and his damned charismatic mask. And despite everything, despite all logic and all the things he’d seen, somehow, somehow he knew this was all a trick. It was all a trick.
Ruka closed his eyes and looked to the heavens, as if hearing divine command.
“North, Aiden. The Gods beckon. They call you North.”
Chapter 46
After the battle, Ruka and Aiden entered Husavik with their retainers behind them. They stayed clustered and ready for violence in case the Order had more warriors or some other deception. But they found no men, nor even boys. The streets were empty.
Matrons and their daughters stood guard at every doorway of every house. They held seaxes or axes and barred the entrance to their homes.
Egil gawked because he had heard of such a thing, but never seen it. All the remaining mates, fathers, brothers and sons of Husavik would be hiding inside, hoping Aiden and his men didn’t push their way through and slaughter them.
“Peace,” an old woman shouted. One by one the matrons tossed axes and seaxes onto the road as the warband passed, taking up the call. “Peace. Peace.”
Aiden strode past them all towards his hall and said nothing. Egil was surprised when some of the women smiled, even waved, as if happy and unafraid and taking part in the old ritual only out of solidarity with their neighbors.
He realized for many of them, their absent mates and sons were returning victorious, having followed their old chief into the country to hide. But not all.
Many women stood frozen and pale. When a new Southern chief won his title in a duel or battle, he and his followers often killed the rival men and boys. The able-bodied might escape, or the women might send their children away on horseback if they had the wealth. But the old, the poor, and the unlucky would often perish.
Egil watched the angry, jealous eyes of some of the men and knew there would be blood. Some who had left with Aiden, he expected, had been replaced. Many of these replacements now lay dead in a field, but not all, and the Southerners perhaps began to understand their replacements were their new ‘allies’, and marched beside them a sword-stroke away.
Aiden reached his hall unchallenge
d. A mother of no more than fifteen stood before the wide, double-doors. She carried no seax, but rather clutched two infants. Her brow shone with sweat and she swayed slightly as the men approached, her eyes scanning the now god-steel clad Aiden.
“I am Ida, First Mother of Husavik,” she said, almost panting with fear.
Aiden glanced at her little boys—the children of his dead enemy—then met her eyes. His expression of contempt looked much the same as it had for the ‘chief’ before he slaughtered him.
“I do not know you,” he said in his quiet way. “Agnes, daughter of Gerta, has survived sixty winters in Husavik, and birthed fifteen sets of twins.” He blinked, looking round at the watching matrons, then back to the girl. “Yet you tell me the women here have chosen you as First Mother?”
The girl’s lip trembled but she raised her chin. “The priestesses, it was they who decided…”
“Priestesses are not the heart of Husavik,” Aiden snarled. “Mothers are.” He walked to the center of the town circle. “I serve the gods, and this town. Tell me who speaks for you, Matrons. Tell me your will. I will slaughter any man who denies it, that is my vow.”
The young woman trembled but said nothing. An old, but still healthy looking great-matron stepped from her doorway. She waited until the other women had clucked their tongues, knocked on their houses, or nodded in approval.
“I have that honor, Chieftain. I am First Mother here.”
“Agnes,” Aiden nodded in respect. “A chief must have a matron. Mine is old, and long ago left for the North.” He shrugged. “I’ll need another.”
The First Mother smiled.
“My womb is long dry, so I give up that honor. But Husavik needs strong children.” She looked at the terrified girl standing before Aiden’s hall, and pointed. “Ida’s mate is dead. She is headstrong and arrogant, but young and fertile, and we will guide her. Will you accept her?”
To ask this was custom, and polite, but Aiden had no choice and neither did Ida. He nodded, and the First Mother’s face tightened.
“She has two sons. Do you accept them?”
