by Paul Freeman
“How…” he began, struggling to rise, before failing and slumping onto his back. His throat felt constricted, his mouth parched.
“How long have you been here? We found you three evenings past. You couldn’t have been in the cave more’n half a day, elsewise the tide would o’ come in and washed you back out to sea,” the man answered. “Here.” He handed Crawulf a cup filled with water. “Supper’ll be ready soon. I dare say you’d fancy a bite.”
The jarl of Wind Isle needed aid getting up before he could take the cup from the fisherman. Once in a seated position on the low cot he could see that his leg was bound in a wooden splint.
The fisherman followed his glance. “It’s broke,” he simply explained and returned to his stirring.
Unable to express the gratitude he felt, Crawulf simply nodded, then drank. He drained the cup in one gulp. Never before had he experienced such relief and delight as the purifying water slid down his throat.
“More?”
Crawulf nodded in answer. The fisherman refilled his cup and then ladled a watery broth full of thick pieces of fish into a bowl and handed it to the jarl. He savoured every bite, without a word, his entire focus on the simple meal, a better feast than any he had tasted in his own hall. After a second and third helping he mopped the remnants from the bowl with thick chunks of black bread.
The room was suddenly bathed in bright light as the wooden door scratched across the hard-packed earth and reeds of the floor. A small, plump woman entered the dwelling. She was dressed in the local garb of drab woollen dress under a thinner, sleeveless linen apron, a white scarf covered her head.
“He’s awake then,” she said. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she nodded in Crawulf’s direction.
“Aye,” the man simply answered. Two younger men followed her into the room, glancing at Crawulf before turning their attention to the steaming pot. “My woman, and two boys. Twas the lads who carried you from the cave. She patched you up.” The fisherman nodded towards his wife.
“More used to mendin’ nets and worn breeches, but I fancy you’ll live,” she answered.
The two boys took a bowl of broth from their father and took it to separate cots lined against the walls of the single-room dwelling.
“Was ya shipwrecked?” one of the boys asked between mouthfuls. Crawulf reckoned both to be not long into manhood. He nodded in reply, realising that none of them had recognised him. He thought it best to leave it that way.
“Who might Rosie be then?” the woman asked. “You called out to her, in your sleep, more than once.”
Crawulf glared at her. Rosie, the name he had taken to calling Rosinnio, of late. She hated it. Hearing it now was like a stab to his heart, as memories suddenly tumbled through his mind. She had been poisoned, how could he have forgotten? It was how he came to be fighting for his life on the cliff’s edge. The bang on his head had addled his wits, he thought. Was she dead or alive? Another thought struck him then, Had the raiders gone on to the castle? It was a large raiding party, but not so large to attack his stronghold… unless there were others. He pushed himself up in a sudden movement. Pain shot through his leg, daggers of agony making him cry out.
“Here now, stay still,” the woman said, rushing to his bedside. “Stay calm or you’ll have all me work undone.”
“I… need… to… get… back,” he panted through gritted teeth.
“Nay, you’ll not be going anywhere in the state you’re in.” She put her arm on his shoulder.
Crawulf’s blood boiled, a red mist brought on by frustration and pain. He grabbed the woman by the throat. “I need to get back to…” He never finished. In an instant both sons loomed over him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something coming towards him fast. Pain flared in his head. He released his grip on the woman and swung at the son nearest to him. The blow likely hurt him more than the young fisherman, as his shoulder, back and ribs all erupted in agony from the way he twisted himself.
The woman staggered back, gasping for breath while her two sons grappled with Crawulf. The jarl was powerless against the two boys as one took a hold of him from behind and the other balled his fists drawing back an arm.
“Hold!” the fisherman boomed. “Enough!”
“Let him go,” the woman wheezed. Both young men did as they were told and released Crawulf.
“Both of you, gather more wood for the fire,” he instructed his sons.
“But he…” the eldest began.
“Go. He is no threat in the state he’s in. He cannot summon the effort required to rise from that bed. Go, I will deal with this.”
Crawulf drew in deep breaths, each bringing a new wave of fiery pain to his ribs. His eyes were drawn to the knife in the fisherman’s hand.
“You have a strange way of showing gratitude to people who only seek to help you.” The fisherman finally turned his attention to the jarl. “What is your name?”
“Brandin,” Crawulf instantly lied, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.
“Well, Brandin, I’ve a mind to have the boys cart you off that bed and toss you back into the sea.” Crawulf made no reply. The woman, red-faced and trembling, moved behind her husband. The two men eyed one another. “I’ll have no more trouble. We’ll mend you and send you on your way. I’ve not the stomach for killing a man under my own roof, and putting you out would likely amount to the same thing. So, no more. Agreed?”
Crawulf regarded both of them with cold, grey eyes. He nodded once in response before sinking back onto the straw mattress. Losing his temper had been a mistake. The fisherman would likely as not slit his throat in his sleep now. He could reveal his identity and demand to be taken to the castle or have his men brought here, but he knew not if his enemies still searched for him, or if his hosts would turn him in for a purse of silver if they knew who he was and who searched for him.
***
Rosinnio opened her eyes slowly, a faint light bathing the room in yellow. She heard a soft rustle, and then caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. An irrational fear enveloped her like a dark, hooded mantle. Something felt… not right. Memories of waking in the night, as a child came back to her, of dark dreams of someone, or something watching her from the shadows. But she was no longer a child. Had the Shadow Man followed her to the frozen north?
She pushed herself up, fighting back a wave of nausea. As she swung her legs gingerly out of the bed she heard a sound that filled her with terror, a bestial growl, then a shadow shifted in the gloom before taking shape. She screamed.
The door to her chamber crashed open, but Rosinnio was unable to tear her gaze away from the terror looming over her. In the dim light of a single lamp it looked like a beast of the forest crossed with a man, with a head like a wolf and its body covered in thick fur. It stood on two legs dwarfing the princess.
“Back to the Nacht Realm, foul demon!” The big warrior Rothgar burst into the room, swinging an axe at the beast. The wolf-man howled and swatted the warrior back-handed, sending him crashing against a wall. The beast turned back to Rosinnio drawing back dark lips to reveal wickedly sharp fangs. It snarled and lunged.
Instinctively Rosinnio flung up her arms in defence and closed her eyes, expecting the pain to follow swiftly. No savage bite came. When she opened her eyes the monster was howling and staggering back in obvious pain. Rothgar had recovered and with a mighty swing removed its head with a single blow.
Rosinnio fell back onto the bed, her heart racing, tears clouding her vision. Rothgar stood over her, his axe in his hands, the blade thick with blood and gore. She looked up and their eyes met. “You saved me,” she said, remembering it was not so long ago that she had called for the man’s execution after he insulted her at her wedding feast.
“No, my lady,” he said, a concerned expression on his face. “When the beast reared up a blue flame erupted from your fingertips enveloping the thing, it was only when it was weakened that I finished it off.”
“A blue flame
?” Rosinnio said. staring at her hands.
“You are a sorceress,” the big warrior stated.
“No, I…”
Before she could finish, her husband’s Counsellor rushed into the chamber. “Please, my lady, we have to hurry.” The words drifted into Rosinnio’s consciousness. Her head throbbed; her stomach ached as she was supported, on one side, by her handmaiden, whom she realised was sobbing, and on the other by the counsellor. She offered no resistance as they led her through a narrow corridor, lit by torches lining the stone walls. “I know you suffer, my lady, but we must get you to the safety of the ships. There is a hidden passageway leading to the harbour.”
“Please, highness… my lady, we must hurry. Men are fighting all over the castle,” her handmaiden added.
Fighting? She suddenly wretched, as she tried to make sense of what she was being told, and what had just happened in her bedchamber. Her stomach cramped at the strain of heaving and having nothing to expel.
“The potion will take affect soon, my lady,” Brandlor said. “It will ease your suffering.”
Rothgar, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped and listened. Yellow hair hung loose down his broad back, save for two thick plaits either side of his face; the mark of a warrior. “There is fighting ahead,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the corridor.
“There is fighting behind us too. We must go on,” Brandlor answered. Rothgar simply nodded and moved forward.
The gods have truly deserted me in this forsaken place if the only man protecting me is the one who hates me above them all, Rosinnio thought.
“Where… where is my husband?” she stumbled over her words.
“We know not, my lady,” the counsellor answered. “He rode out yesterday morn in pursuit of your would-be assassins. Neither he nor any of his men have returned.” Brandlor’s eyes were hard as he held Rosinnio’s gaze.
She felt a warm sensation spread through her body, bringing relief to her cramping stomach and aching head. Even her blurred vision began to clear. She stood up a little straighter.
“The potion is taking effect, nullifying the poison,” Brandlor said as he noticed the sudden change in her.
They came to a set of stairs leading down, the sound of battle drifting up from the lower floors. Rosinnio peered out through an arrow-slit to the courtyard below. To her eyes it was chaos. With only the light from the moon and flickering torches below it was difficult for her to make out who was who. Large groups of Nortmen hammered at each other with swords and axes. Battle-cries and screams of agony filled the air. All around men lay dead and dying while those still standing fought individual battles of life and death.
“What is happening?” she gasped, feeling as if she had woken from a dream and entered a nightmare.
“There is no time to explain, my lady. We must flee,” Brandlor answered.
“Back!” Rothgar yelled as he swung a huge Nort-axe free. Three armed men ran up the stairs, yelling curses Rosinnio did not understand.
The giant warrior went to meet them swinging the axe. He sliced through the neck of the first man to make the top of the stairs. A red fountain sprayed the walls and floor as well as the axe-man. He kicked the falling body back down the stairs and into the other two rushing warriors. With a scream he brought the axe blade down on the head of a second, cutting through the iron helmet and cleaving his skull. The third stabbed him with a sword. Rothgar snarled and, using the extra height of the stairs, kicked him in the face. The warrior staggered back and screamed when he lost an arm to the whirling axe.
Rosinnio’s handmaiden gripped her arm. The whole body of the servant trembled uncontrollably. Both women stared at the pile of bloody meat at the feet of the giant warrior. Rosinnio met his blazing eyes. She was mesmerised, appalled by the savagery and somehow drawn to the unbridled joy she saw there. She felt a new emotion rising in her, one she could not explain but felt as if her own heart was swelling. Rothgar, the man who had insulted her and whose life she had wanted her new husband to take, had now killed for her, was ready to lay down that life in defence of her. She could see the fierce joy brimming inside him. It overflowed, infecting her, filling her with anger and pride. The bodies lying at his feet were no longer men, they were trophies. These Nortmen lived, fought and died without a thought. Their daily meat was passion, raw and wild, and yes, cruel and fierce. She could never hope to understand them, would likely never be accepted by most. Even so, this was her home now, and if men were willing to die for her, men who despised her and thought her weak—well then—she at least would fight to defend that home.
“Rothgar,” she said slowly to the big warrior, her eyes never leaving his, “give me your sword.” Confusion spread across his face as his eyes dropped to the blade at his waist. Slowly he drew it with his free hand. In the other he held the blood-drenched, double-bladed axe. Rosinnio took the weapon, needing two hands to grip it and hold it up. “My husband’s men are dying. Let us give them something to fight for.”
Rothgar’s eyes opened wide, then a grin spread across his face. Warrior and princess descended the stairs towards the courtyard leaving behind a confused Counsellor and handmaiden.
Weaponry was not a skill Rosinnio had learned in the courts of her father. Sewing needles and dance steps were her weapons and battle moves. It mattered not at all to the men who rallied to her that she struck not a single blow with the sword she held aloft. They were drawn to her as she walked into the midst of battle. At her side Rothgar wielded his axe, smiting down any who came close to her, his power and raw brutality immense. Many heads rolled that night, shorn by the double-bladed axe of the giant warrior. In the tales that followed the battle it was the southern princess, who held her sword aloft, vanquishing the enemy and driving the invader from their lands.
Tomas: Woodvale Monastery
The moon rose from behind a dark hill, on top of which was the outline of a building; jagged walls with a view over the entire valley and beyond. As day became night the buzz of life fell silent in the forest, save for the occasional cooing of some nocturnal animal scuttling though the undergrowth, or the shrill screech of a night hunter swooping in for a kill. Crashing and bellowing through the foliage a horse and rider, with a precious cargo on board, sent even these night-time dwellers scurrying into hiding.
Tomas gave no thought to his own, or the horse’s safety as he pushed it beyond its endurance. Beneath him the animal snorted and choked in exhaustion, its hide bathed in a lather of sweat, the air misted from its flaring nostrils. Finally its muscled sides shuddered and its legs buckled beneath its own and the weight of the burden it carried. With an agonised cry it fell headlong, tumbling head over hoof to the ground, throwing its rider and the bundle he carried in his arms to the ground. It raised its long neck once before lying still on the forest floor, only its heaving flanks giving any indication it yet lived.
With a groan Tomas rolled onto his side, before quickly scrambling over to where his badly wounded wife had fallen from his arms. The cloak he had wrapped her in had come undone, revealing the terrible injuries she had suffered from the flames. “Aliss,” he cried, panic welling inside him. Behind him, the horse he had ridden to its death snorted before giving its last breath. The blacksmith had no time for sentimentality and cursed the beast for failing before they had reached the monastery. He cradled the woman in his arms, his heart aching at the sight of her horrific injuries, her once beautiful face scarred and burned beyond recognition. Yet, she still lived, even if she had not regained consciousness since he plucked her from the flames. That in itself was a marvel, something to at least be thankful for.
Wrapping her once again in his cloak, Tomas scooped her up and stood on unsteady legs. His own body had reached and passed the point of exhaustion, having fled day and night without stopping to rest or eat, or even take a drink of water. Even so, Aliss was a light weight in his strong arms, muscles built from hard grafting over a forge these past years. Without a backward glance he left the body
of the dead horse where it fell and continued the rest of the journey on foot.
By the time he stood before the stout wooden doors of the monastery, he was barely capable of holding himself up. His back, shoulders and legs ached. The slight frame of Aliss had grown heavier as the night wore on, the burden becoming almost unbearable as he carried her through the forest and then up the hill. Three times his legs had buckled and he’d fallen to his knees. Three times he picked himself back up, with one thought in mind – to reach the monastery, and place Aliss into the embrace of the monks and the healing prowess of Brother Joshan. He was not a man of strong faith. Oh, he knew the All Father existed. His influences were all around. He just had little time for bending the knee to some unseen force, oft as not as cruel and terrible as benevolent and kind. All of the gods—as far as he could see—worshipped far and wide, had a streak of nastiness in them. Brother Joshan had a gift though, Tomas knew this well, had seen what the old priest’s powers were capable of from… before.
Before, he mused. He thought he had blacked out the past, almost to the point where, it seemed, as if he had always been a village blacksmith. Now that life was almost certainly dead to him. He suddenly became aware of the sword slung over his back and the woman, near to death, in his arms. Life had come full circle. It was a dark thought for him.
Holding his woman close to him, he pounded on the solid doors of the monastery. The cold, hard walls of stone reached up above him, almost to the stars, it seemed, from where he stood. With no immediate response, he hammered once again. The monks would be sleeping at this hour, even so, he would wake all if needs be.
Finally he heard footsteps from the other side of the door. A wooden slot slid back with a thud, echoing loudly in the otherwise calm and tranquillity of the night. A pair of eyes appeared in the gap. “Who is it that calls at this late hour? And making enough racket to wake the dead,” a none-to-impressed voice said.