She scowled at the raven up in the thatch over the fireplace. She turned her glare back at Finn, seated on the bench with the girls, laughing and playing a child’s game, his head covered by his scarlet cap.
Something is amiss here….
Karl
A village maid sits by the well, wrapped head and shoulders in a white linen cloak, her bucket empty, slowly chipping at the ice that rims the water. She wears a wreath of lavender, a strong floral scent drifting about her. The dull stone knife she wields hardly dents the frozen cap, chipping bits and flecks. Chip, chip. Her breath hangs around her head like a cloud. She huddles on her stone seat, her head hooded and hung low over the frozen water. Tiny whirlwinds of snow spin in the village square, dancing across the empty alleys between the low, stacked stone homes, the moon low in the sky, extending the gloomy shadows from the passages between the buildings.
The village is shuttered tight, doors barred, the hearth coals banked so only a trickle of smoke lifts into the clear night sky. The woman sits facing the well, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Chip, chip, chip. All appears quiet, the village slumbers, nothing stirs….
Yet, reflected moonlight suddenly flickers, blood-red eyes deep in shadow. In the darkened alley behind her a shape slinks closer, silently creeping low in the gutter. More shades move forward, inching closer to the unaware girl quietly chiseling away at the icy water. Chip, scrape, chip. Long, dark forms slip free of the gloom, eyes and sharp fangs glittering in the moon light. A lead beast crawls into the open moonlight, breaking the silence with a deep, throaty snarl. It’s a full-grown wolf, a silver maned pack leader as large as a man, barring its teeth in a grimace, a bit of drool dangling from its jaws. Crouched in preparation for a leap, its growl is joined by a chorus as its pack begins to creep from the shadows and circle the unfortunate girl.
With a graceful motion the girl stands and shrugs off the cloak, revealing that she is a warrior suddenly brandishing his sword, raising it high over his shoulder. He smiles at the packs’ eyes sparkling in the dim light, as he has been waiting this long night for such a sneaking attack.
Jorn the Wyrm Slayer swings as the lead beast leaps. His swift blade strikes the wolf’s head from its shoulders, but the momentum of the attack slams the brute into the warrior’s chest and pushes him off balance. Blood spurts from the severed neck, covering the warrior in gore. Jorn stumbles, kicking the carcass aside. Two more snarling beasts jump to battle, growling and snapping at his arms and neck. Jorn scrambles, waving his sword back and forth to hold them at bay.
Throwing off a woolen blanket that disguised his hiding place on a nearby, low-slung roof, Vermund draws his bow and places an arrow in the side of Jorn’s nearest tormentor. It yelps in surprise, turning to snap at the dart now firm in its side, rolling away in pain. A second shaft is released before Jorn can regain his footing, finding the eye of the second wolf and dropping it dead to the frozen ground. More wolves enter the square, smelling the blood of their dead comrades and circling Jorn warily, not yet aware of the archer on the rooftop.
Shaking the blood from his blade, Jorn laughs and taunts, “Well, well, pups, come for an easy meal? Surprised this meal bites back, eh? Come on, let’s dance a bit more….”
Vermund notches another arrow and lets it fly, striking a wolf in its haunches, crippling it and setting the beast to wail. Another jumps forward at Jorn who up slices through its hide, lops off a leg and part of its jowl. Wounded, the two wolves roll before him, easily kicked aside when they get too close. Jorn aims his blade at the remaining pack and backs up against the building under Vermund. Drawing his bowstring taunt, Vermund waits for a good target, his arm trembling. Unsure of an enemy above, the wolves quiet to stalk Jorn, stepping from the patches of black shadow into the moonlight, and then snap, one falls with a dart through its neck, and snap, a second crumbles in silence as a shaft buries deep into its chest. The sound of the bow alerts the pack to their second opponent on the roof. Sensing their numbers dwindling, the whimpers from the wounded causing unease, the pack retreats from Jorn, hissing and spitting and snapping at each other. Vermund stops another with a last arrow to its throat, and carefully sets his bow aside. The wounded beasts roll and whimper in the square.
“Jorn, here I come,” he slides down the roof and drops to Jorn’s side, drawing his short sword to stand shoulder to shoulder with his companion. Vermund lands on a pile of fish nets spread beneath the roofline. The skirmish lines are drawn and seem to be at an impasse, the wounded wolves limping away and the remaining animals hanging back, waiting….
A low-pitched grumble announces a change in the brawl. Wide and humped back, a black shape lopes down the hill into the village, raising up on its back legs as it enters the square. The hulking shape towers over the men’s heads and it howls angrily.
“Thor’s hammer, he’s a big one,” Jorn grips his sword with both hands. Dropping back to all fours, the beast lumbers forward, swinging its head from side to side, a guttural roar displaying yellow stained teeth. With a tilt to its hoary head, it gauges the warriors backed in their corner and the weapons they brandish, readying a charge. Jorn yells, an incoherent snarl of defiance. The beast huffs and raises up on its back legs to tower over the men trapped against the stone wall. It stamps forward, grinning and snorting at the two trapped men. Jorn and Vermund smell its odor and feel the heat of its breath.
“Now!” Vermund shouts.
From the open shed where the fish drying racks hang, four men leap from hiding. Paired and prepared, each duo holds a solid oaken bench between them and rushes the standing bear, pushing the heavy benches into the beast’s chest under its shoulders, gripping the far end tightly to stay out of reach of swinging claws and snapping jaws. Knocked off balance, the creature slams into the wall next to Jorn and Vermund, who strike at it with their swords, drawing blood. Dropping to his knees, Vermund grabs a loose end of a fishing net from the ground and tangles it about the beast’s legs, before ducking under the benches to escape its reach. Jorn whacks its paws away from the archer beneath its feet and dives to follow Ver under the wooden braces. Angered, the grizzled beast rakes the benches with its claws carving deep gouges in the wood. The wood shudders in the men’s hands as chunks are ripped free. Jorn jumps to face the remaining wolves and keep them from attacking the men pinning the bear to the wall.
Shouting hoots and battle cries, the remaining crew of the Verdandi Smiles races into the square carrying long, oaken oars to further pin the massive bear, or swinging axes and short swords at the skittish wolves. A few blows are landed by the well-armed men, and as it becomes apparent they are outnumbered, the wolves turn tail and run, their wounded quickly dispatched by the Vikings. Men jump close, grab the net from about the bear’s feet and drag it higher up the beast, entangling its limbs in the mass of string and rope. Two oars are immediately struck to kindling by swinging paws. The beast heaves against the wooden braces and netting, a few men step close to stab and pierce its hide. Blood marks appear in the shaggy fur where blades bite and sting. The bear, spitting and howling, shatters another oar, only to have the splintered end driven into its heaving chest. Cries of pain echo across the bay. The warriors grow quiet, expectant.
His iron helm tight on his head and bossed shield in hand, Karl strides across the square.
“Baenoth!”
The great ursine creature snaps its jaw at him, spittle and blood flipping into the air.
“Hear me, Baenoth. I am Karl Alfenson, son of Ironfist, and these are the greatest warriors to stand for Tangle-hair. We east men are not simple fisher folk to be frightened by you and your miserable dogs. This place, this land lies under our protection. You shall not harm these folks!”
Stepping forward into the bear’s reach, Karl uses his blade to poke the beast in its side. With a scream of rage, the creature swipes its weighty paw down at him, Karl catching the bone shaking blow on his shield, the beast’s claws digging deep into the linden wood next to the centered iron boss.
It snaps its jaws and struggles against the net and boards that hold it. The boards groan with the weight and struggle. With its claws stuck in the shield, Karl jerks his shield close to his chest and draws the beast’s limb away from its hoary side. He looks up directly into the bear’s brown eyes, his jaw set. “You will fear my name.”
Grunting with effort, Karl swings his blade like a windmill vane, a big circular blow gaining momentum in the arc and landing squarely on the bear’s out-stretched limb. Passing through sinew, muscle and bone, the blow severs the paw completely away. The beast yelps in surprise. Karl’s men leap into the fray, hacking with their axes and swords. Shuddering, the bear falls forward, its great dead weight dragging the benches and oars down with it, pulling loose from the warriors’ hands. It tumbles and rolls, cradling its damaged forelimb, tangled in the staves of wood, nets and fishing ropes. A whimper escapes its throat. Karl discards his shield and grips his sword in both hands, aiming a swing at the beast’s head. The warriors step back, and with his blade Karl points up the hill to the pine forest.
“Leave now Baenoth,” Karl waves his men from the path out of town, “or stay and die this night.” His men mutter in agreement. The bear whines, its hulk trembling under the pile of broken boards and shattered oars.
“Leave this place and do not return. Know that we watch for you.”
There is a pause while the creature silently works its jaw, as if it weighs the situation in its fen consciousness, even measures its chances in a continuing battle…but the fighters around him stand undamaged, seasoned warriors with fine, sharp steel and bossed shields. Karl watches the beast look about as if it is counting—yes, he thinks, now you see that there are many more than those who hunted in your marsh.
The bear growls, shakes off the netting and broken staves, and creeps toward the cleared pathway, head ducked low between its thick shoulders. Its fur is tangled with splinters and matted with gore. Karl holds up his hand, his men obeying his unspoken command. Ragged and defeated, the beast limps away in an odd, three-legged gait, lurching up the hill trailing blood from its wounds, and disappearing into the pines. A cheer sounds—the men shout and taunt the retreating beast, then break into spontaneous laughter and congratulate each other. Karl pulls his iron helm from his head shakes his hair loose.
“Nice work, Vermund!”
“A few more arrows and we would have had no work tonight!”
“Not only wyrms should fear Jorn—I think he is wolf killer now!”
Big Havar pokes good natured fun, “You know little mate, you make a good woman after all!”
“You have no idea how good it is to get rid of those stinking flowers!” Jorn laughs. “I thought I was going to sneeze and spoil the trap!”
The men move around the square, slicing their blades into the wolf carcasses to ensure none still live. The smell of fresh blood and spilled offal lingers. Subtle light from a false dawn begins to chase away the dark in corners and alleyways. Karl personally thanks Vermund and Jorn, acknowledging their brave actions before his crew. Shutters and doors in the village crack open as the fishermen and their wives carefully investigate the noise. Vermund collects and cleans his arrows. Hagbard, Sorli and Rurik drag the dead wolves down the alleys and at the edge of town.
“We should skin those beasts and hang them like flags at the entrance to the village,” Karl suggested, “…as a reminder.” Sorli nods in agreement as he drags a body away.
Karl walks to the shallow well and cracks the ice with his boot. He wets a bit of cloth to clean the gore from his blade. He smiles—his plan went better than he expected, not a man hurt or lost. Jorn and Vermund have a few scratches, but nothing that won’t heal quickly. Stupid beasts, he shakes his head. Goorm, Kol and Erik begin to separate and detangle the nets, ropes and shattered wood.
“I think we will need to make new benches for MacDonnell.”
“Aye, and a few new oars as well.”
“Maybe not the oars, less rowing, eh?” A few barks of laughter rose from the men.
“Captain,” Hamdir clears his throat and lifts Karl’s shield, his face somber. “Captain, you should look at this….”
Involuntarily gasping, Jormander bends close to examine, and Karl crosses the square, his grin fading. Where the severed bear paw had hung from its claws now hangs the hand of a man, neatly severed above the wrist, its fingers gripping the claw driven holes in the linden wood.
A big, broad hand—a big hand from a big man.
Chapter 7
Finn
Finn opened his eyes.
Awake, he found himself leaning against the door in their pit house shed. Cub snores in the middle of the floor, legs splayed wide, blankets kicked away, and Sorven lays fitfully on his far side.
He looked down at his own body in slumber, an arm thrown over his head, his breath slow and regular. An odd feeling, to watch one’s self lying at one’s feet, but he has grown accustomed to the sight, night after night waking in the Realm Between. During the day he seems tired most of the time and it is much easier to drift off to sleep. At least Cub is happy with him. The true story of the night they faced the witch never revealed, Finn held fast to the story Cub told the morning they returned. Cub treats him the same as always, now teasing him about his white hair in addition to the wood-working apprenticeship, punching or pinching him whenever he gets too close. Just like my older brother, he thought, watching Cub lying on his pallet, mouth open wide.
On the other hand, there’s Sorven. On his side mumbling in his dreams, Sorven frowns, his breath ragged and irregular. Sometimes Sorven watches me with a funny look, but turns away as soon as I catch him—He doesn’t like me anymore—Raga made me swore to hide my secret from everyone, but why keep it from my brother? Sorven won’t sit next to me… He avoids me, makes excuses, even accepts more chores to keep away from me. He won’t join Cub’s teasing or play with me, always finding an excuse….
He sniffed. Finn realized the only time Sorven faces him is during morning dueling practice, gritting his teeth and hammering away at his mock sword. He rubbed his eyes and watched his brother’s fitful sleep.
But…Finn is aroused now. Roused in the Realm Between. He glanced around the tiny shed. This is a completely different life, not at all like the stockade life of chores and practice and his sleeping brothers. After a week in this new land, Finn has grown accustom to two lives, in Midgard during the day and in the land of ghosts at night. At first it was frightening, waking up alone and searching for Raga. The homestead seemed the same, yet it wasn’t at all, not really. This Realm Between is full of new places and adventures. Once Finn grasped the idea that he was a ghost but not a ghost, it became exciting. Even fun. Raga enjoys teaching him, a steady source of all kinds of interesting facts about this new place; Raga, who watches for him every night and spends hours preaching and telling tales. Seems to me, Finn thought, Raga lives to talk and while most of what he says makes sense, his big words make his stories confusing.
Finn stepped to the door, and, as he practiced, pushed through the closed portal without opening it and walked into the moon lit courtyard, just like a true ghost. Settled and quiet, the stockade gates are closed and bolted, the courtyard empty. Snow swirls around the paddock posts. He smiled to himself, checking his image in the faint light, dressed exactly as when he went to bed. From his perch on the roof peak, Raga hopped down beside him.
“Thorfinn, I’m glad to see you have finally awakened.”
“Hi Raga.”
“Time’s a wasting, times a wasting, and there’s so much to teach you. Let’s review last night’s lessons first.” He winked at Finn.
“Last night you told me of Asgard and other realms, many more than the nine, and we went over the three laws again, we looked for fairy fire in the forest and you showed me how to move things, but I didn’t do well….”
“Yes, moving physical objects from this spirit realm,” the little man straightened his turban and pointed to the barn. “See there, that
rake? Propped against the siding?”
“Yes.”
“See if you can pick it up and place it over there,” he indicated the corner where the shed meets the barn wall, a few steps distance from where the rake leans.
Finn crossed to the hand tool and grasped at it with his hand, his fingers passing through the wooden handle.
“Now remember what I told you, concentrate on pushing through the Realm Between and into the physical realm. Feel the rake with your mind, make an image of the rake in your head and reach out to hold it. Close your eyes if it helps you focus. Grasp it with your mind….”
Finn concentrated, squinting his eyes shut and imagining grasping the handle, lifting it just above the trodden grass in the yard and carrying it, carrying it…. The rake clattered to the ground. Opening his eyes, Finn realized he only moved the rake a hand’s breadth from its original position before he dropped it on the gravel.
“Not badly done,” Raga stepped up to him, reached out and righted the rake, placing it back against the wall. “Not bad at all. As I said before, it only takes practice. Come, follow me,” and he jumped up to the rooftop. On his first full night with Raga, Finn had learned to jump and climb in the Realm Between—this place worked differently, his body weighed much less than in Midgard and he found he could make uncommonly long jumps with little effort. He leapt to the shed roof behind Raga and lightly stepped across the thatch. At the roof’s edge, the two of them jumped to the barn roof, crossed over its peak and leapt to the stockade wall above the gate. Raga leaned forward over the barricade and pointed across the winter fields.
“There in the forest, see that?” Finn noticed movement through the trees.
“Yes.”
“That’s a roman consort, lost centuries past and marching ever more in search of their legion. See how their leader carries that crimson banner before them, and they all march in step. Organized and martial, an effective warrior unit. See how they are armed with short spears or short swords, leather armor on their chests? You can tell they are roman from the helmets—the romans conquered this island long before Danelaw, or Mercia or Wessex. They wander by this place on their way south from the wall of Emperor Hadrian down to Londinium, then wander back again, seeing nothing but mists and never finding their way. What is the first law of the Realm Between?”
Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse Page 17