Five Bloody Heads

by Peter Fugazzotto

  Big Haran brushed dust from his trousers and went back to the camp. After a little while the others crouching by the stream gave up on trying to clean the blood from their clothes and went to find mead, all but Molgi. He rubbed at his cauliflower ear.

  He had been with Cruhund since the days of Cullantown, right up to when Spear Spyrchylde had burned the fortress to the ground and brought the wrath of the Dhurman legions. Molgi could be trusted to watch Cruhund’s back.

  “He talking big again?” asked Molgi. He scratched at his thin beard.

  “Given him too much rope,” said Cruhund.

  “You know what they say.”

  “Why wait for him to do it to himself?”

  “Every day his greedy little eyes get greedier.”

  “Only so many days left for him but I need him for a bit longer,” said Cruhund. “Gather a few men. Collect on what Grymr owes us. Trade the extra horses. Should be a heavy bag. Back at the keep, we’ll play out a length of rope. See how Big Haran ties himself up. So don’t linger too long at Grymr’s Hold. Don’t want you to miss out on the fun. Take Red Tail with you. Recruit a few more swords while you’re at Grymr’s. We’ll want to make sure we’ve got the numbers on our side.”

  Most of his mercenaries would not come after him. He filled their hands with coin and their bellies with drink. They had seen the edges of his temper. Just in case, he would keep Berin Lightfoot and Three Finger close. Those two would discourage most any grumbling from turning into action.

  Cruhund’s doubts about Big Haran were confirmed. He was one of the newer recruits and held sway over a handful. That’s why Cruhund kept him close.

  No undying loyalty in his border horde even after all he had given them.

  He had seen the way they looked at him. His mouth filled men with repulsion. A bloody explosion. Rotted black at the tips, jagged, a good part of them simply gone, and on top of that the seep of rotting flesh and infection. Constant pain that quickened his bark and the sudden bite of his sword.

  Soon Big Haran would feel that bite, unless he settled into his place.

  He ran a tongue over the rot and chaos of his teeth. “One of these days I’m just going knock all these fucking teeth out and replace them with gold. Imagine that, Molgi.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SPEAR AND HIS crew camped in a dark and unwelcoming ravine beneath crumbling cliffs.

  This was one of their hideouts, a spot an hour up the river and another half an hour south along the muddy track of a fetid creek. The camp was deep in an old forest frequented only by squirrels and birds, though the further one traveled up the creek, the deeper into the shadows, the less frequent the song of the sparrows. Even the scavenging crows found nothing to keep them in those dark woods.

  Before twilight came, the bandits gathered around a smoky fire, waiting while red-haired Kiara scooped ladles of oatmeal porridge into wooden bowls. They squatted or sat on logs dragged around the fire pit, bent over, each staring glumly at the food before them.

  Spear could barely stomach it. The porridge, even though it had been boiled, smelled of mildew. The bits of squirrel meat in the bowl were stringy and tasteless. Kiara had overcompensated with salt and each sticky spoonful was hard to swallow.

  “A little more of the squirrel meat. I barely got any,” said Seana holding up her bowl. Since their argument of the morning, she had not spoken a word to Spear, and that suited him fine. He did not want to talk to her anymore about her discontent. He did not want to know how deeply it ran.

  “Delicious squirrel,” sniped Longbeard. He plucked a small glistening string of overcooked flesh from his bowl and slurped it between his lips. He smiled at Spear. “Oh, the life of a bandit.”

  “I hate to admit it but I actually miss the life of a soldier,” said Biroc, a hand falling onto his large belly and the folds of fat beneath his beard trembling. “Sure, the fighting and drudgery sucked, and the grub might have been even crappier than this, but at least it was plentiful.”

  Kiara shot him a dirty look.

  “Would do you good to miss a few meals here and there.” Bones pointed his spoon at Biroc’s gut.

  Biroc’s laugh was forced. “At least I’m not the last one to the fight.”

  Biroc and Bones had been original members of Black Arrow’s crew, those who had stuck around even after Spear poked his sword through the mirthless leader’s chest. Half had left soon after that to sell their swords to a warlord, but the others, including Biroc and Bones, had stayed on, not really caring who led them as long as they had their plunder and, in Biroc’s case, plenty of food and drink.

  Biroc and Bones, displaced veterans who had served more than a decade in the army of Dhurma, came as a pair: the nearly grotesque fat man whose his lips forever glistened, with some kind of animal fat; and the bony old grandpa who would spend his evenings on the edge of the fire, reciting forgotten poems beneath his breath. Same decrepit man who would unleash an unholy flood of curses as he pounded his axe in the faces of his enemies.

  “What fight?” asked Longbeard, shaking his head. He tossed his bowl to the ground where it clattered between his feet. “Chasing after clan peasants isn’t a fight and it isn’t getting us rich. Only a fool’d think that.” This time his gaze intentionally avoided Spear. “Porridge and squirrel? Peasants eat better than us! We need to go after bigger game.”

  “I ain’t no hunter,” said Bones. “Too much walking.”

  “He’s not talking about hunting,” said Seana.

  “We should go west, where the border touches the North.”

  Bones scoffed. “That’s One Eye’s territory. He don’t take kindly to competition. You’re full of bad ideas.”

  “Maybe we offer up our swords,” said Longbeard.

  “To One Eye?! What’s that going to get us?” asked Bones.

  “I don’t know, but it’s gotta be better than a few coins and stringy squirrel meat.”

  “I’m going to go check the traps,” said Spear, putting his bowl on the log beside him. His left knee crackled as he rose and he almost buckled with it.

  “We just checked them an hour ago,” said Seana.

  “Well, I’m going to check them again.” He grabbed his spear and arched. He had only been sitting for a quarter of an hour and his lower back already had tightened up. He rubbed it with the backs of his wrists and then shuffled off. He crossed the small stream that ran through their camp and made for the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  Spear welcomed the shadows that the trees provided.

  The soft earth yielded beneath his feet, the soil loose with duff, barely clumping together. The air hung in cold pockets beneath the broad branches of the trees. An evening fog had begun to form, misty tendrils that gathered like an invisible army of watchers. He climbed a steep embankment, following a deer path abandoned long ago. He grasped black pines to bolster his steps. The rough bark felt comforting against his palms. The trees had substance, solid objects in the fog of journeying. Despite the strong smell of decay in the forest, signs of new life abounded: the bright green fronds of ferns, yet unfurled; shiny black beetles pouring out of a rotten log; glowing yellow mushrooms spreading where a tree had splintered.

  Spear found the first trap: a propped up box of twined sticks. There was no bait in the trap. He scoffed. What the hell did they expect to catch?

  He was sliding down a small slope towards the second trap when he heard the crack of branches beneath unseen feet. He brought his spear into both hands and turned towards the noise.

  Longbeard drifted from the mists, a forced smile on his lips.

  Spear surveyed the trees behind the young Northman. He had come alone.

  This was good. No grand mutiny. No angry line of bandits. Or it could be bad. The blow of an axe far from the ears of the others.

  Longbeard nearly matched Spear in height, but where the younger man fell shy, he more than made up for it in his mass of muscles. His reddish-yellow beard, long and shiny, was kept neat
with braids and oil. His hair was tied back in a draping pony tail, released only at night when he would spend fifteen minutes brushing it out with an ivory comb, the like of which Spear had only seen carried by women.

  Longbeard had recently come to the bandit crew after having been cast out of his clan for murder. Spear never heard the same story from Longbeard about the incident, and it sounded like it may have been more than one incident; and in each case, Spear could not quite figure out how the young Northman had been so offended that his only recourse was murder.

  But Longbeard was fierce with his axe and stood solid behind his shield, so Spear had decided early on to accept the volatile youth into his brigands. Lately, though, Spear wondered if he had made a mistake.

  “A fat, juicy rabbit would be nice.” Longbeard rested one hand on the smooth trunk of a young tree. His other hand fell to his wide leather belt, near where he kept his knife.

  “Probably should move on to one of the other camps. This one’s desolate.”

  “I know you.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Spear.

  “The story of the warlock, Fennewyn, was told around many a clan campfire. Maybe the others didn’t listen, but I did. You and Shield Scyldmund, the last of the Hounds of the North…”

  “There are others, and I’m not sure I’m one of them anymore.”

  “Night came back for you. One of your Hound brothers? Can’t just rub away a scar. Stuck with you forever.”

  “That was long ago.”

  “Long ago?” Longbeard laughed. He bent to the twine noose set between branches. “Even a little bird would be nice. Hungry. We all are. Anyway, the tower of Fennewyn was only a handful of years ago.”

  “A lifetime to me. Forgotten.”

  The sky had become a muddy gray, barely visible through the spread of branches.

  “Nothing in these traps,” said Spear. “We should head back. See if they left anything for us.”

  He started towards the camp.

  “Won’t follow you forever,” Longbeard said suddenly. “Can’t expect it of us. We need to eat. There’s coin out there for us.”

  “We’ll wait along the road for pilgrims. We’ll get our take from them.”

  “You’re a fool. What have we seen this spring? Two caravans weeks apart.”

  “It’s early still,” said Spear. “Come summer they’ll flock like sheep ready for the culling. Don’t doubt me, boy.”

  “I know you struggle with your past, still scarred from your time smashing the heads of your fellow clansmen in Cullantown. But I don’t care, and neither do the others. Look, you old fool, you either need to lead us to coin, or we’ll just leave you out here. You know I could eat you up.”

  Spear’s fist tightened on his spear. “You dare to talk to me like that, a Hound of the North, Spear Spyrchylde.”

  Longbeard laughed, his lips more of a sneer than a smile. “Your name can only carry you so far. We don’t care about stories anymore. We need action, not words.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE BANDITS GATHERED around the fire, their jokes and boasts sharp against the night. Charred squirrel bones littered the edges of the pit. Empty bowls tilted between their feet. A small barrel stood on a flat slab of granite. Laughter rose above the crackle and hiss of the still-strong fire. The smoke released the menthol of green pine needles.

  Spear huddled beneath his damp cloak. He would have liked to have been closer to the warmth of the fire, or better yet holding Seana against his chest like in times suddenly distant. Instead, he sat apart from the others, arms wrapped, knees squeezed together.

  He could have nudged his way closer to the fire but after he had returned from checking the traps, empty handed, it had been easier to quietly sit just outside the circle of the others. Longbeard, on the other hand, sat right in their midst, his hand pouring generous cups of mead from the barrel stolen from the back of the pilgrim’s wagon.

  Old Bones rose from the campfire, bowed legs unsteady, and held out his cup for a refill. “One thing I miss about the clans. Fine mead. A steady supply. A man could grow young again with enough of it.”

  “Me,” said Biroc licking his lips, “I miss eggs in the morning. And mutton stew. And chicken! And fresh bread!”

  “A bottomless pit!” Bones slapped his knee. “No doubt the reason the clans banished you.”

  “Wasn’t like we weren’t willing to follow the rules.” Biroc held an arrow in his lap, his fat fingers reworking the fletching. “What I wouldn’t do to sit down to a late summer’s feast again.”

  Bones kicked a log in the fire sending a spray of sparks towards the dark clouds beyond the crown of pines. “Bunch of killers, they called us. What did they expect? Northmen are supposed to be killers! So what if we killed for Dhurma for a spell? Like the clans aren’t born of blood?”

  “The clans are dead.” Longbeard pointing a thick finger at Bones. “What are they to us anymore?”

  “We can hold our own,” said Spear. He stared into his empty cup. “More pilgrims will be following the witch. We’ll get our coin.”

  Longbeard scoffed. “So you say. So you’ve been saying! So you’ll say forever! And look at us. Camped in the mud, sleeping beneath branches. Bellies aching with hunger. Scrounging for squirrel and bird meat. How many months now with the promise of coin? This the road to glory and wealth?”

  “No one keeping you here. If you don’t like it, you can walk.”

  “I’ve got a different mind to things. And an axe not afraid to spill blood.”

  Any laughter or side conversation vanished. The damp wood hissed in the flame. Orange light flickered up the dark trunks of the pressing pines. The creek that ran through the camp ravine gurgled. Spear could suddenly feel the press of the log through his wool trousers, the sharp edge against the back of his thighs.

  None of the bandits moved but Spear felt as if the circle has suddenly widened, his companions slipping away from him until all that remained was Longbeard, his eyes narrowed to slits, his whiskers oiled and brushed, opposite the fire.

  Spear did not know who he could count on if weapons crossed. Night, definitely, but he did not sit at the fire. He had vanished in the shadows like he did every evening. He could have been in the darkness at Spear’s shoulders or hidden in the trees behind Longbeard. Just as likely he could be far away from the camp, wrapped in that cloak, talking to himself, out of ear shot, too far away to be of any help.

  Seana sat off to Spear’s right, a dark unreadable shape, and she made no move for sword or dagger. He wondered if she would stand with him. After all that had passed between them she should. Or maybe that was reason enough for her to decide to do nothing.

  Little Boy and Kiara sat close to Longbeard and did not hide their hands finding the hilts of their blades.

  Biroc most likely would stand with Spear but his strength lay with his bow not his sword. Bones, the survivor, would take no sides.

  “Old man, you lead us to a slow death,” said Longbeard. “You promise us coin but you give us nothing. We chase after peasants! Can’t get rich that way.”

  Seana leaned in, her face lit by the fire. Her cheeks were flushed from the mead. “We should hunt down Dhurman patrols.”

  “And how much coin do they have? We need to go after settlements and the merchant roads. Bring them under our control,” said Longbeard.

  “I didn’t come here to rob farmers. I came here for revenge!” Seana’s face flushed with excitement. “Dhurmans left my clan in a river of blood and they need to pay for what they did. We need to go after the Dhurmans! The soldiers! That’s why I came here!”

  Longbeard laughed. “Even they’ve left this miserable sodden shit hole. When was the last time we saw anything other than rival bandits?”

  “What are we out here on the border?” she said. “We fight for nothing! The dream of coin is false. False!” Her gaze rested on Spear for a moment. “We’re connected to nothing. Lost…lost in this desolate wilderness!
We’ve lied to ourselves for too long. Are we even Northmen any more? We no longer know who we are.”

  “We’re fucking free is what we are!” shouted Longbeard. “I go back to the North and the clans and how soon before they draw blades on us? Accuse us falsely. I’ve had my share of that. Don’t need no clan rules! I take what I want!”

  “So what would you have us do?” asked Bones. The old man already positioned himself behind the larger Biroc. He was only a few steps from the safety of the tree trunks.

  “Join up with the warlords,” said Longbeard. “They need swords. We’ve got swords a plenty.”

  Bones laughed. “Biroc and I served many a general in the south.” He pointed one of his arrows at Longbeard. “Boy, you think the warlords will be generous? Think they’ll even fill your belly? Hard times back when we were supposed to be paid. By the wealthiest empire in the world! You think it’s any richer serving these warlords on the border? No cities to plunder. No armies to loot. What’ll you get? A flea-infested leather vest nicked from a corpse? A dull sword? A dented helmet? And you think coming in new, you’ll get any respect? Last in the food line, first sent to the skirmish. That’s how we’ll be welcomed. Half of us will die that first day. Expendable.”

  “What about the keep?” asked Longbeard turning to Spear. “You know Cruhund, right? He was your second. Why don’t we go to him? His crew is smaller. I am sure he needs more swords by his side. Bandits like us. But not out in the fucking woods. We could have a fortress!”

  “I’d never bend a knee to that dog!” said Spear, slamming his fist.

  “Won’t bend a knee? Can’t get us coin? Well, then, what’s it going to be, Spear?” Longbeard’s lips, caught in a snarl, trembled.

  “Who do we serve here?” Seana opened her hands and slowed her words. “Our own greed? We don’t belong in these blasted lands. We need to get back to where we belong.”

  “We don’t belong nowhere,” muttered Bones in a voice just below the crackling of the fire.

  “I’m done with this,” said Longbeard, suddenly standing. He grabbed the handle of his axe. “Time has come, Spear.”