by Richard Nell
Aiden glanced around at his warriors and the matrons frozen in doorways, and renewed his look of disgust. “A chief punishes men, not boys. I accept them.”
The women seemed to take a collective breath, some moving finally from doorways, as if the ordeal had ended. But Aiden held up a hand, and the gathering stilled.
“Now tell me, First Mother.” His quiet voice hardened. “How many women in this village have taken more than one of my retainers as their mates?”
The old woman’s eye twitched as she glanced at Ida, then spit orange root from a toothless mouth. She looked carefully at the warband’s faces.
“Seven, Chief.”
“Have them step forward.”
The old woman took a deep breath and nodded. The other women looked to her with helpless panic, but she ignored them, and called out seven names.
All those who stepped forward were young, childless, or pregnant. They had no doubt been freshly made Matrons when their mates picked up and left them to follow an outlaw chief, with no idea if they would return.
Aiden’s Southern retainers knocked their swords against shields or stomped their feet or rumbled a sound deep in their throats. They stepped apart and formed a circle around the town center, until only fourteen men remained inside.
Egil had never seen this either. He watched the fear on the Northern men’s faces and couldn’t help but feel pity, for they had no doubt followed a new chief from their homes with little choice, then to their great shock and pleasure received new, young mates with land and households. And for a few years, at least, they must have felt blessed. Then Ruka and Aiden killed their chief and tossed the coin of fate again. Now they would surely die.
Aiden’s retainers ground their teeth or jerked with rage, the pleasure at the duels apparent in their eyes. All were true warriors. All had come from around the Ascom just to serve a famous chief, and their scarred bodies were thick with muscle. They held their shields with practiced comfort, and each wore an earring that showed they had killed before in a duel.
Their Northern counter-parts seemed ordinary men. These were citizens of Orhus, or at least more civilized towns where few ever dueled to the death over honor. Their frightened eyes roamed the town in horror, looking perhaps for some escape or answer.
Their women, though, could do nothing. Rejecting either man would dishonor them. For the insult, the Southerners would kill regardless. If the women instead rejected the Northerners, the men would have to fight or else be considered worthless and dishonoring their new chief. For that, they would be killed.
“One at a time. You fight to the death.” Aiden stepped to the center. “Burned or buried, brothers?”
“Buried,” called the Southerners together in a single voice.
The Northerners glanced at each other and around the town as if locked in some terrible nightmare. Some mumbled “Burned,” quietly and huddled together.
The first of Aiden’s warriors stepped forward with a growl, his opponent shakily. A woman watching wept and placed a hand over her mouth, and turned towards her house as if to go inside.
“You will watch.” Ruka’s voice shook the gathering. He had been silent during the exchange, but Egil looked and saw a rage swelling in his eyes. Even Aiden flinched at the call, and a few children cried at the sound. Egil saw what he thought was genuine anger in his master’s face and shivered, though he was unsure why it had come. “You played your part,” Ruka hissed through his teeth. “You will suffer at least this.”
Both duelists glanced at the young woman, emotions splaying clear across their faces. Finally they looked to each other. Aiden stepped aside and nodded, and they both charged.
It ended almost before it began. Blood and guts spilled to the gravel before a single shield broke, and Aiden stepped into the circle and plunged his sword into the dying Northerner’s chest.
Two of his followers dragged the corpse away as a cry of despair left the girl’s lips. Her mother or perhaps sister held her from falling, and Egil noticed the slight bulge of her belly.
“Next.” The chief kicked dirt over the blood.
Two more men stepped into the ring of bodies and fought on the stained gravel. This time they broke two shields, but another Northerner died. Dirt and rock covered the spot. The chief called, and two more men fought beneath a growing twilight.
Every new duel brought the death of another Northerner, quickly or slowly, bravely or in terror. Soon the few survivors cringed at every sword-stroke, pallors worsening as they waited their turns.
Then six men lay heaped in a pile as torches lit and the men fought by moonlight, and the last Northerner stepped onto a circle stained with his countrymen’s gore. His enemy howled and charged and soon broke apart his shield.
He took another and wiped his sweat, and even Egil felt anxious for the man. He kept his guard high and sword poised and soon lost another shield.
The Southerners howled for blood and to see the thing finished, a dishonor wiped clean. Egil saw their hunger for it—the primal, communal stain wanted expunged with their brother’s deeds. But the last Northerner fought well. He kept his focus, blocking and moving his feet until his third and final shield broke.
Without it, he was surely a dead man. Still he danced around the circle, parrying and narrowly avoiding his death until the crowd of men jeered, and his opponent charged to finish him. He reeled away as if caught and stumbling for escape, then with a strength and speed he had not once displayed in the duel, he swept past the larger man’s guard, and cleaved through half his thick neck.
All stood silent as the favorite writhed in dying agony on the ground. Aiden stepped forward without pause, and pierced the man’s heart.
“It is done,” he said, then looked round at the angry faces of his original retainers—warriors who had fought beside the fallen man for years.
“He fought like a coward,” said one of the other Southerners as he stepped forward and spit. “He offends me. He fights again.”
Aiden stood silent as he considered, but Ruka jerked forward. Whatever rage had consumed him seemed only to have grown during the violence. His movements were forceful, his neck muscles taut.
“The duels are done. Your man is dead. Accept it.”
The Southerner looked surprised but held his ground, eyes glassy with grief. He pointed his sword at the small, exhausted Northerner. “This man has offended me. He killed my brother with trickery. I will have satisfaction.”
Ruka growled and drew his sword, golden eyes bright and bulging in the fading light. Egil saw the killer only ever held at bay—the thing inside his master that swallowed life with joy.
“And your words offend me.” Ruka’s chest heaved, and every man near-by seemed to take a step away. “Can offense be forgiven, cousin, or can it not? Choose.”
The warrior gaped and looked to his chief, who stood very still until he shrugged. Seeing no protection, the Southerner blinked until his grief-filled eyes lost some wetness. As they did, next to Ruka’s menace, the man seemed to shrivel.
“It can,” he said, “the day is red enough.”
Ruka shook the rage from his eyes and plunged his sword back to its scabbard. The little Northerner dropped to a knee.
“I pledge my sword to you in thanks, shaman. Please accept me.”
Egil twitched at the scoffs from Aiden’s men. No Southerner would ‘ask’ for acceptance—they would simply offer. Ruka glanced at the chief, who only smiled as if amused.
“What is your name?”
“Eshen, shaman.”
Ruka watched the man as if curious. “Surely you see I am Noss touched, Eshen, and not a chief. I hear the will of the gods and so men heed my words. But there is no great honor in serving me.”
“I am no great man, Bukayag, son of Beyla.”
Ruka grinned at this, and some of his anger perhaps began to fade. “A free man serves who he wills,” he said. Then with frightening speed, he reached and knocked the kneeling man’s blade from h
is hand. He seized his forearm and used it to lift him to his feet. The air shimmered with heat and fire as a blue-tinged, long, wavy dagger almost slithered into Eshen’s hand. The dark handle held two silver runes.
“Spider’s Fang,” said Ruka, again as if reading it for the first time. He watched the huge eyes of his new retainer with obvious pleasure. “Noss, too, chooses His champions, often the clever, or the cunning. May it serve you well against your enemies.”
Eshen nodded in reverence, and Ruka released him. He walked away from the pile of corpses, calling back over his shoulder.
“You have the night, Aiden, and tomorrow. Bring your other women and children here, and whatever supplies you have in your other camp. In two days, rain or sleet, the faithful go North.”
* * *
After the duels, the warriors of Husavik went to their rest. Most matrons welcomed their former lovers with open arms—men embracing their children and mates before doors closed and happy families re-united.
Egil could only imagine the ‘welcome’ for the duelists.
Two years before they had left Husavik to follow Aiden into outlawery, and for whatever reason their matrons had not followed. Now these men returned to the same women, mostly teenagers, some impregnated by other men. Before even a greeting their former men slaughtered the new—the women’s mates for two years—then walked through their doors for ‘re-union’. Now they would leave them again.
Egil put Ivar to his rest in Aiden’s hall, then stood by the outer trench and relieved himself. For just a brief moment before the mad future of death ahead, he had wanted to be alone.
“Such a waste.”
Egil jerked and just barely missed pissing on his fine, leather shoes. He finished and turned to see Ruka by a cart heaped with the dead. His master’s expression matched his tone, and Egil thought he understood his anger.
“Don’t worry, lord, we’ll find you more warriors.”
Ruka looked into the night and appeared not to be listening. He shook his head as he poked and prodded at the bodies, as if to take a better look at the injuries.
“They were so close,” he said, voice sounding more sad than angry. “If only the women had waited. A few months with a cold bed and seven more men might have seen paradise.”
Egil looked around the circle and saw no one listening. He could see no reason for Ruka to deceive, but nor were regret or concern things he expected to hear from his master while they were alone.
“They would have had no choice, lord,” he said, though this seemed obvious.
Ruka looked up from the pile of dead men in confusion, though, and Egil reminded himself that for all the man’s brilliance, he had never truly lived in a town with others. He didn’t know many of their intimate customs.
“The women’s mates were outcasts, lord, and they were young. The old mothers would have chosen for them as soon as possible. It’s…tradition.”
Ruka’s golden eyes flicked in acknowledgment. “Honor.” He spat the word. “Tradition.” He breathed out and walked the town’s central road, gravel crunching beneath his feet. “You’re all slaves, Egil. But I will free you. I will drag you from this place kicking and screaming if I must.”
His master looked to the clouds and closed his eyes, breathing deeply as if tasting fine pork. He clasped his hands behind his back, and smiled faintly.
“You will enjoy paradise, skald. But you will miss Ascomi air, I think. Enjoy it while you can.”
Egil nodded as if this comment made some sense to him. But, as was often true with Ruka, he did not understand, and had no idea what to say.
By evening Aiden left for his old camp with a small pack of warriors, and in his absence asked the First Mother to host a feast in his hall for the others. Egil sat at Ruka’s side throughout.
Many of the men now watched ‘the last runeshaman’ with an awkward, open reverence. He did not jest or make smalltalk as any chief would. His eyes looked far-away, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, as if even as he spooned mutton broth to his lips he listened to the gods.
Largely the townsfolk of Husavik seemed pleased with the day of blood. Many of their men had returned, their famous chief back in his hall. A strained silence gulfed some duelists from their mates, and Northerner from Southerner, but some, it appeared, had begun to make peace.
As the wine flowed the men around Egil spoke of their wild battle and Sula’s charge. They lamented the state of the world, and described their time as outlaws. They spoke of the silver Aiden had yet to gift, and soon the crops they could perhaps hire men to work this season, and the fine prospects in their future.
Egil did his best not to show his amazement, or scoff at all their ‘plans’.
Had they not heard their new ‘prophet’ call for the end of the world? Did they not know what ‘paradise’ meant? Did they not truly understand?
He supposed the end of all things could scarcely be imagined by normal men. Whether or not that meant they believed or not, he had no idea. Perhaps they thought it only in some distant future, too far to be planned for or seriously considered. He supposed he too had believed things in his youth he did not follow. All his life he’d believed Edda heard men’s words, and still he had lied, and broken oaths. Had he believed he’d escape judgment, he wondered? Or did he just not care?
Throughout the feast he watched the door, waiting for Juchi and for some reason afraid she’d walk in and see him at Ruka’s side.
Whether or not she actually accepted their situation as hopeless and without choice he did not know. No matter what she said he feared she would look at him and see a traitor—an ungrateful coward who spurned her love the moment his ‘master’ returned.
Would she hate him soon, he wondered? Would he know the moment when it came, or would she learn to fool him?
The thought felt heavy and painful, and he blinked and hid the water in his eyes. He expected one day she would simply take Ivar and run, knowing Ruka only wanted Egil. It was precisely what she should do, and if Egil were a better man it’s what he would have suggested. But he did not want them to leave.
Gravel crunched outside beneath boots, and men and women’s voices echoed from behind the wooden walls. Egil felt both relieved and terrified.
Aiden threw open the doors, and followers old and new greeted each other politely. Some embraced, and the hall filled with motion and speech as the men gave women seats and sat together in groups on the floor. Children and dogs ate and played, oblivious to the excitement and fear of their elders and masters.
Juchi entered with the others smiling bravely. She walked passed Egil and squeezed his hand before sitting with the women.
Warmth enveloped Egil’s body at once at this simple gesture, though he nearly wept at the cruelty of fate. He decided if a man was to be stripped of everything in the world he loved, then it should at least happen quickly, and not in tiny pieces over time. An execution should be swift.
Many of the mothers came to offer Aiden their congratulations—no doubt especially those with young sons. He smiled at them and offered his support, promising to protect their land and kin. The men, too, crowded around him. They drank and boasted and mocked each other’s roles in the battle, or the ease of their duels. The Southern warriors laughed and boasted the loudest. Some of Ruka’s surviving retainers, now sworn to Aiden, watched and listened and said little. The Northerners mostly drank.
“Who will harvest my matron’s crops?” said one man after enough wine, a little too loudly.
“Aye,” agreed a few others.
Aiden held up a hand for calm. “Every man will be given silver for his matron’s house. They will handle hiring farmhands and whatever else is required.”
“And who will protect that land? And our sons and matron’s property?”
“Aye. And what if the Order comes? They’ve still an army near the Beltway. Only a matter of time before they learn what happened here. Might be all of us couldn’t stop them.”
“And if we
’re to go,” another man raised a skin, perhaps only half in jest, “give us a few more nights to sire sons first, aye?”
The men laughed, but Egil could sense their discomfort. Most were afraid to truly voice their thoughts and what they wanted, and felt safe only in jest. Aiden glanced at Ruka, who said nothing, still staring far away.
By now the women had heard this talk and stopped to listen as well. In the silence, the First Mother’s voice rang across the room.
“Husavik’s sons have been gone too long already. Will the gods not give them another few nights, perhaps even a week or a full moon with their families? Have they not earned at least that reward?”
All eyes in the hall soon dragged carefully to Ruka. Egil instead watched Juchi. He saw her grin, saw her hope grow again now that perhaps the men could sway and temper the Noss-touched demon’s madness. But Egil knew better. He looked away.
Ruka swayed in his chair and blinked, as if pulled from some reverie. He looked around the faces of Aiden’s hall, hearthlight flickering in his golden eyes.
“A day? A week? Why not another season?” The giant’s face rippled with scorn. “Why not watch another generation of your kin die of starvation? Why not huddle in your beds in terror, afraid you won’t last the winter, afraid of drought and disease and Northerners and the Steppes?”
At this he stood and hurled his chair back across the room, which stilled and silenced. He looked for dissent, for argument, daring someone to speak. None did.
“The gods will not save you, cousins. They care nothing for cowards. But I tire of watching it. I go North. I go to see that your children have more. I go to end the fear and suffering that has plagued us all our lives.” Here his tone changed, anger and judgment flickering in his voice like the hearthlight in his eyes. “But if you prefer, then wait. Stay in your homes and sleep in soft beds next to soft flesh while the future withers. Stay still, stay silent, and watch death as it comes. But you will never see paradise.”
With this, Ruka looked away again as if drained. His eyes returned to a far-off stare at a darkened window, and wood cracked and splintered on the fire. Two dogs snarled as they wrestled over a bone.
