by William King
It had not been easy. Half of the aspirants were dead now. Of the two score from the time of his arrival only about twenty were still alive. Some had fallen from the cliffs on which they practiced climbing. Some had vanished while out hunting, taken by wulfen or trolls or by the wolves. Two had been killed during weapons practice with the axe or spears. One had been executed by Sergeant Hakon for some unmentionable crime.
Of course, new recruits had arrived, fresh-faced and full of wonder and fear. Ragnar wondered at his own feelings of superiority to these newcomers. The few months since his choosing might as well have been a lifetime. There seemed to be a gulf of age between him and the newcomers greater than that which had existed between Wolfbrother and gnarled ancient back in his home village. He wondered where those who had been here when he arrived had gone. Many of them had vanished, carried away to some unknown destination by skyship. Only Sergeant Hakon knew where they went exactly, and no one had ever dared ask him.
During this time, Ragnar had somehow mostly managed to hold his hatred of Strybjorn in abeyance. It had not vanished, it was simply waiting for an opportune killing time. And in a strange way, while Strybjorn yet lived, and Ragnar’s hatred burned cold within him, he had a tenuous link to his old life on the island. Ragnar did not want Strybjorn to die while part of his Claw. He was prepared to spare him now until he was no longer part of Ragnar’s responsibilities.
“Let’s hurry it up,” he said. “There are hungry mouths to feed back in Russvik.”
“Try not to eat it all before we get there, Sven,” shouted Kjel. Ragnar had noticed that along the way Sven had been stuffing portions of raw meat into his mouth and chewing them as he worked.
“Yes, you’ve had enough already,” Ragnar said.
“Bloody have not,” retorted Sven and belched loudly.
The aspirants laughed aloud, spirits lifted, before continuing down the hill towards the flickering lamplight of Russvik.
“I’m telling you, there were more than a hundred of them,” Nils said. He was a smallish youth but quick-witted, the leader of another of the aspirant Claws that had been formed on the day of Ragnar’s arrival. So far he had lost two of his people although it seemed to be through no fault of his own. Just bad luck really. Ragnar looked at him with interest, as did all the others eating their venison and turnip stew in the long hall. This was the first definite sighting of a large body of newcomers anyone had made.
“Where did you see them?” Strybjorn asked.
“Coming over the Axehead Pass. We were up the valley from them, looking down out of the trees. Been trailing a big buck and his two does for a couple of hours when we saw them. Thought we’d better come back and tell Sergeant Hakon.”
“A hundred or so,” said Kjel. “That’s a lot.”
Ragnar knew they were all thinking along the same lines as himself. With the new intake of aspirants there were at most forty warriors in Russvik, not counting Hakon or any of the armoured visitors. Those were not good odds if it came to a fight. On the other hand, there were always the magic weapons the sergeant and his kind carried. A hundred or a thousand, it would not matter against the sorcery that could tear a full-grown sea dragon to pieces.
“What did the sergeant say?” Hakon asked.
“He just laughed and told us not to worry. It was just the winter migration of the Outlanders. He said they would give us no trouble if we left them alone. Not unless they were very hungry, anyway.”
Ragnar considered this information. A winter migration made it sound like this group was part of a much larger movement of people. Once again, he felt his own ignorance about the land in which the skyship had set him down. He wished he knew more. He wished someone would give him the chance to find out more.
One thing was becoming increasingly obvious, however. The newcomers were killing a good deal of game as they passed through the area. The deer that Ragnar’s Claw had brought in was the first meat any of the aspirant groups had managed to catch in some time. It might well be the last with winter descending. And that was not the worst of it. The food stores in the halls were slowly becoming exhausted. There were still sacks of grain left, and some stringy vegetables, but not much else. Ragnar wondered how much longer they would last and when their supplies would possibly be replenished. He also wondered what it was that Sergeant Hakon and the other Wolves ate. He had never seen them share the aspirants’ food. Come to think of it, he had never even seen them eating. There was something supernatural about that.
He shrugged and pushed the thought aside. Of course it was always possible that the sergeant ate where no one could see him. Maybe he had a secret cache of foodstuffs on which he gorged himself. That thought too seemed ridiculous. Sergeant Hakon was not the sort to do anything in secret. Why would he need to? He was the absolute lord and master of this camp.
Still, Ragnar was worried. Winter was deepening. Food was getting scarce. More aspirants had joined them. It was a recipe for disaster.
“Kill him! Kill the swine!” the crowd of hungry aspirants cried. The fight in the long hall erupted swiftly, toppling the wooden tables, spilling steaming bowls of gruel. Kjel had accidentally bumped into Mika and Vol, two of Nils’ Claw, in the line for gruel. A bowl had been spilled, splattering the lads with food. Tempers frayed by weeks of hunger, harsh training and abuse from Sergeant Hakon flared. In moments the two swarmed over Kjel. Mika held him pinned to the table while Vol kicked and punched.
Ragnar cursed. Both Mika and Vol were big and burly and both were very good wrestlers. Neither Sven nor Strybjorn were here yet. There was nothing else to do. If no one else interfered it looked as if Nils’ two clawbrothers would happily beat Kjel to death. No one else looked like they wanted to interfere. They were all too busy cheering the attackers on.
Ragnar raced forward. He sprang onto a bench, sprinted across a table and leapt. The weight of his body and the momentum of his jump carried him into the fray. He grabbed Mika and Vol by the necks with his arms and bore them to the ground. Mika’s head smacked the hard-packed earth of the hall floor. Ragnar rolled free and sprang to his feet, twisting as he did so to face Vol. With amazing speed the aspirant was already rising to his feet. Ragnar lashed out and caught him just under the jaw with his foot. He kept his toes curled up as he had been taught so that it was the ball of his foot that connected. The force of the kick sent Vol’s head snapping backward and he tumbled back onto another table, spilling food and gruel everywhere.
“You can’t do that and expect to stay standing!” said a burly newcomer who Ragnar didn’t recognise, as he vaulted over the table to attack him.
“Can’t I, stripling?” Ragnar growled, dropping him with a punch below the chin. The newcomer’s friends obviously didn’t like this and moved to the attack. Grinning fiercely as he looked around for a new foe, Ragnar felt a cold draught of air hit his back. The long hall door had opened, and Ragnar heard Sven and Strybjorn’s howls of joy at the developing brawl. Two heavy bodies ploughing into his attackers told Ragnar of their arrival.
It was as if a signal had been given for a general melee to begin. Tempers frayed to breaking point snapped. For no good reason bowls of gruel started flying everywhere. Benches were broken as some of the aspirants improvised weapons from the wood. Comrade lashed out at comrade, friend against friend in the madness. It became every man for himself.
Ragnar stepped back and bumped into someone. He whirled fist ready to strike and saw that it was Kjel. The Falconer looked just as ready to hit him but seeing who it was shrugged and smirked.
“Duck,” he suddenly shouted. Ragnar only just had time to throw himself flat as a chunk of broken bench flew above his head. Not even bothering to look round, he lashed out with his foot and was rewarded with a high pitched shriek as it imparted on his assailant’s groin. He rolled to one side to avoid someone’s flashing boot and found himself lying below a table, temporarily out of the whirlwind of the brawl.
It was madness out there. Roars and screams
and shrieks of pain filled the air. Blood splattered on the floor. The aspirants fought each other with a fury that would have terrified any enemy. And in some strange way they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Fighting and brawling had always been part of the culture of Fenris, and it seemed to be doing the lads good to be able to vent their frustrations in this way. Ragnar felt the tug of excitement himself and sprang out back into the fray, just in time to take a punch in the face from Nils.
The force of the blow sent stars flying before Ragnar’s eyes. He gave a grin of savage joy that froze Nils on the spot, before Ragnar dropped the man with a flurry of blows to the head, then bounding forward into the melee, laughing like a maniac.
“Enough!” bellowed a voice like thunder. Instantly the violence ceased. Ragnar froze as if pinned to the spot. Sergeant Hakon hove into view. The grin on his face was not a pleasant sight to see.
“So,” he said, “you’ve nothing better to do with your time than brawl, eh? And you like the food so little that you use it for a weapon. I’m not surprised. As a cooks the porridge so lumpy you could use it for slingstones. Still, it’s a waste.
“Who started this fight?”
No one answered. The sergeant stared around the room. His gaze met Ragnar’s. He forced himself to meet Hakon’s eye. “Nobody, eh? Well I guess that means you can all do two runs up the hill to work the aggression out of you before you sleep. That’s after you muck out this sty.”
Loud groans echoed round the room. Nobody was happy with the thought of trudging through the dark and the snow before rest. Kjel strode forward.
“It was me, sergeant,” he said. “I did it.”
“How, boy?”
“Well…”
Mika spoke up. “He bumped into me, sergeant, but I threw the first punch.”
“Then what?”
“Then I joined in,” Ragnar said. He said nothing about Mika and Vol ganging up on Kjel. That was not something for the sergeant to punish. It was something that had already been settled in blows.
“You did, did you?”
“Then I joined in,” Nils said.
“And so did I,” another voice shouted. Suddenly there was a roar around the hall as all of the aspirants claimed their share of the blame. You’d think the idiots were claiming credit for killing trolls, thought Ragnar, but he felt strangely proud of them all just the same.
“Well then, you all deserve the run, don’t you?” Hakon said.
“Aye!” they shouted back.
“Well, best get started then,” he said. “Except Kjel, Ragnar, Mika and Nils. They can tidy up here first.”
With that Hakon turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The aspirants followed him out into the snow. The remaining four looked at each other.
“Best get the buckets,” Nils said sheepishly, as if expecting Ragnar to hit him again. Ragnar nodded. Kjel glanced over at him and grinned.
“Thanks, Ragnar, for coming to help me,” he said.
“Think nothing of it,” Ragnar said. “If you’d do the same for me.”
“Aye, I would.” They clasped hands and shook vigorously.
“Thanks for the black eye, Ragnar,” Nils said. “But not much.”
“Oh well,” Mika said, grinning. “Was the best fight I’ve had in ages. We must do it again sometime.”
With that they started to work.
Ragnar’s fingers were bleeding, which was dangerous. He had no doubt of that fact since he was hanging from a frozen ledge almost a hundred strides above the ground. He had wrapped them in deer hide against the cold before he began the climb but the tough fabric had frayed as he had ascended the rock face, and now the sharp stone dug into his fingers.
The wind plucked at his tunic and the deerskin overcoat he had made for himself. It pushed his long black hair into his eyes at the same time as it made them water. His heart pounded. Cold sweat felt as if it were freezing on his face. He tried to tell himself not to be frightened, that there was nothing to worry about, that he had survived worse things. Under the circumstances, with the abyss below his heels and the storm winds clawing his body, this did not seem all that convincing. Aspirants had died on this rock face. Only yesterday Vol had plunged to his doom. Ragnar did not want to think about the way he had lain there for long minutes, his back broken, his innards mush, his blood reddening the snow as his life drained away. In mere seconds that same fate could be his.
Ragnar tried to shift his grip, but his fingers could find nothing to grip on the smooth, icy cold stone. Frantically he sought for purchase with his feet but the frozen rock resisted him. He was beginning to slip to his death. In his mind’s eye he was already picturing the fall. He could almost feel the short plummet through space, the triumphant wind whistling in his ears, the agonising blaze of pain as the cold earth embraced his body and then the long darkness of death. Part of him almost welcomed it.
After the torture of the past few weeks, it would be almost a relief. Since the brawl things had got worse. Food had become even scarcer and the training had intensified. There had been more brawls and beatings. One of the new aspirants had been found kicked to death outside the long hall and no one had come forward to take the blame this time. Sergeant Hakon had not even investigated very hard. He said that the truth would out eventually and the guilty could not hide forever. Ragnar had not found the thought particularly reassuring. He wished that he shared the sergeant’s confidence. Others had simply been unable to take the strain any more and had walked out into the snow. Their frozen bodies had been found near the camp. Sven had jokingly suggested that they might prove to be a source of fresh meat. At least Ragnar hoped he was joking.
He shook his head. What was he thinking about? As always in moments of extreme danger his mind seemed to be working at incredible speed but he was simply using it to daydream and recall the past. He needed to save himself and he needed to do it now, before his fingers skidded right off the ledge and he fell to his doom.
He frantically lifted one hand off the ledge and felt himself begin to tumble backwards. He twisted, throwing his weight forward, stretching out his free hand for purchase on the cold stone. His frozen fingers refused to respond but he brought all the force of his will to bear on them and made them work. Triumphantly he felt something under his fingers. It was almost like human hair. It must be moss or lichen, he thought. His triumph swiftly turned to despair as he felt the stuff give way. His weight must be pulling it out by the roots. His fingers lost purchase and he began to fall.
For a brief dizzying instant he felt his body part company from the cliff face. His back arched as he began the long tumble through space. In that instant he knew that he was about to die and, and no magic or sorcery would bring him back this time.
Then strong fingers clasped his wrist and his downward progress was halted for a moment. He looked up and saw Kjel looking down at him. He gave praise to Russ that Kjel had noticed his difficulties and returned. Relief flooded through his body and he felt weak. He noticed the look of strain on the Falconer’s face, an instant before he felt Kjel’s grip start to slip.
No, Ragnar thought, gritting his teeth and scrabbling for purchase once more, fearing as much that he would pull Kjel to his doom as that he would drop to his own. This time, with the additional leverage provided by Kjel’s grasp, he managed to get a grip and flop up onto the ledge.
“That was too close,” Ragnar gasped after a moment’s rest. Fear and emotional reaction had reduced his voice to a whispering croak.
“Yes,” said Kjel, his face still white with the strain.
“I owe you my life,” said Ragnar.
Kjel looked up at the remainder of the rock face. It loomed a long way above them. Ragnar could tell he was measuring what little strength they had left against the rest of the climb. The expression on Kjel’s face told him the conclusion was not hopeful.
“Thank me when we both make it out of here,” Kjel said.
Wearily they began the long climb. When th
ey reached the top, limbs trembling from weariness, breath rasping from their lungs, Sergeant Hakon stood waiting for them. There was a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Ragnar, be in the great hall with all your Claw at dawn tomorrow.” Ragnar was unsure from his tone of voice whether showing up would be a good or a bad idea.
The dull early morning light filtered in through the slits that served as windows in the great hall. The air smelled of wood smoke and stale sweat. Sergeant Hakon loomed over Ragnar’s Claw. Ragnar felt like a pygmy standing in his huge shadow. There was a strange glint in the sergeant’s eye but no readable expression on his stone-like face. He seemed to be considering them, perhaps with a view to killing them, perhaps with something else in mind.
“You have done well,” he said eventually. “At least, you have done well to get this far. You have all survived, and you have not disgraced yourselves. There’s little else that you can learn here in Russvik and you’re as hard as your sorry bodies are going to allow you to be.”
All eyes were locked on the sergeant now. This was something new. His words hinted at a change in their status. Perhaps they would get to join the other Claws that had already left. Ragnar wondered about that. None of those aspirants had ever returned. His heart hammered against his ribs with nervousness.
“You are being given a chance to move on from here,” Hakon continued. “Don’t think it will be easy. Where you’re going you will look back on your days in Russvik as a pleasant little carnival.”
He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. From anybody else Ragnar would have assumed the words were an exaggeration meant to frighten them, but coming from Hakon he knew they were a cold simple statement of fact.
“You may be selected to move on to the next stage of your training. That’s assuming you can pass through the Gate of Morkai.”