by Paul Freeman
And then, his torment stopped. The pain subsided and the roaring in his ears eased. The words of power had ceased and been replaced by another voice.
“Stop! Brother Joshan, cease this madness!” the abbot was shouting at the monk. And the monk listened, and the agony stopped. “Please, Joshan, do not do this.” Tears streamed down the abbot’s cheeks as he pleaded.
Joshan dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head. The two men-at-arms rose gingerly to their feet, as Djangra gulped in deep breaths while examining his hands and arms, and gently probing his face. He had never felt such terror in his life. He was sure he would die an agonising death. It might yet happen, he thought. Horace, the tracker clearly had similar thoughts going through his mind, as he leapt, dagger in hand, towards the priest. The grey-robed figure didn’t move as Horace plunged the blade into his back.
“No!!!” the abbot cried, and rushed to the falling monk. Horace pulled the dagger free and jumped back.
“Fool!” Djangra snarled at the tracker. No one moved.
“Why?” The abbot cradled Joshan’s head in his arms as a dark stain swelled across the monk’s robe. “He could have killed you all, but he stopped. There was no need.”
“I’ll make sure,” Horace said hesitantly, as if waiting for confirmation.
“No!” the abbot roared. “Go to the valley if you wish to find the people you seek. The man is the blacksmith from a village called Woodvale, and the woman his wife. Go to the valley, you will find no more answers here.”
Djangra struggled to his feet and limped over to the monks. “What manner of order are you?” He waved away Horace. “And who is that priest?”
“He is no one,” the abbot answered, looking up into Djangra’s eyes. The mage simply nodded and led his men out of the abbot’s small room, stepping over the stricken Joshan.
Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle
Crawulf had passed out from the pain pulsing through his injured leg and up his spine. It was not long, however, before he was conscious again. He could feel the harsh bite of driven rain lashing down on him as he was carried between two warriors over the hilly landscape. Each awkward step of the two men sent fresh waves of pain washing over him. He bit his lip hard, tasting blood in his mouth, to prevent himself from crying out, lest he give away that he had returned to consciousness. His captors numbered barely above a dozen, as far as he could tell, and they were in a hurry. It gave him some satisfaction that his dead weight would be slowing them down considerably from whomever they fled. So why have they not killed me? It was one of many questions swirling around his brain in a thick fog. He recognised the men for what they were, lordless men, men who placed themselves outside the protection of the law and sold their swords to the highest bidder.
As he sought solace from the pain wracking his body, Crawulf’s mind wandered back to the past, to a fair-haired warrior towering over a small, dark-haired boy. To his older brother laughing good-naturedly at his younger sibling as a young Crawulf attempted to look fierce in an over-sized leather byrnie and an iron helmet slipping over his eyes. He had worshipped his older brother, even later when both had grown into manhood and Crawulf was almost a rival to him in all things… almost. His brother had always been the better warrior, the better seaman, but he was impulsive and headstrong. Crawulf had always had a better head for tactics, for politics. His brother inspired men around him, filled their hearts with fierce pride making them want to follow him. Crawulf was a better judge of those hearts and the deceitfulness often as not hidden there. I would make a better king, brother, he thought, but what I would give to have you as one of my jarls. His older brother was the rightful heir to Wind Isle, and if he yet lived, the closest relative to the king of Nortland, making Crawulf’s wish redundant. What does it matter now anyway? he thought. For surely he was a dead man.
Shortly after midday they stopped to rest, hidden from sight in a copse of trees. The two men carrying Crawulf set him down none too gently, forcing an involuntary groan from him. Both men cursed the jarl comparing his weight to a number of domesticated farm animals.
“I know you are awake,” someone said, speaking in the harsh Nortland tongue.
Crawulf opened one eye to see a face lined with deep crevices, covered in a thick wiry, grey beard. Stains of rust bled into the grey.
“I thought you dead, Erild Kleggsson, yet here you are, alive and hearty,” Crawulf answered.
“You know me?” the man asked.
“Aye, well enough. You served on my brother’s crew for long enough.” Crawulf grimaced as he shifted. Pain shot up his leg.
Erild regarded him with a measure of sympathy in his eyes. “I thought you dead also. We were told you fell from a cliff and were drowned. You were always lucky, Crawulf, favoured by the gods. Wulfgar himself always said it.”
Crawulf’s eyes narrowed at the sound of his brother’s name. “So you have turned traitor and led wolves to my door?” He waited while the other man regarded him with those dark world-weary eyes.
“You think I owe you, or your brother, Crawulf? That I am somehow honour bound to your house?”
“So what then, have you come to claim Wind Isle for yourself?”
“Gods no!” Erild suddenly laughed. “The lure of Nortland has long since lost its appeal for me. These wet, windswept islands can crumble and sink into the sea for all I care. My bones crave sunnier climes with less rain and ice.”
“Why then have you brought war to your own people? Why have you returned here with armed men? Do you now hate us also?”
“No, Crawulf, I don’t hate you. I loved your brother, even though his pride and arrogance led many men to their doom. Me included. For six years I rotted in a dark dungeon. Six years I did not feel the sun’s rays on my face or the gentle touch of a summer’s breeze. Six years in the dark with only rats for company. Can you imagine?”
“I don’t understand. Where was this dungeon? And what does this have to do with poisoning my wife?” Crawulf’s anger began to rise. Was his wife dead as a result of one man’s need for vengeance? “This explains nothing.”
“They set me free, Crawulf. They opened the door and told me I was free to go. But where could I go after so long? I don’t know if they pitied me, or just felt a broken man they’d tortured daily for six years was no longer a threat to them. The rest of the crew, including your brother, had long since abandoned me, leaving me to rot. I asked them to kill me. I did not even care if they put a sword in my hand. I was not thinking of Alweise’s feasting halls. I just wanted an end to my miserable existence. But they didn’t kill me. They gave me bread, and a new cloak and boots. They spoke to me of their god and bade me embrace him. And do you know what, Crawulf? I did. I opened my heart to the All Father and turned my back on our own gods.” He smiled then, even as he wiped tears from his cheek. “And none have struck me down since, even here, where their powers are strongest. What does that tell you?”
“Where… where did my brother lead you?” Crawulf asked through gritted teeth as he felt his rage building inside him.
“The Duchies. That is where my brothers of the sea abandoned me.”
“So this,” Crawulf spread out his arm to encompass the other men, “is an attack from the Duchies? They have used you to bring war to my home?”
“No, Crawulf.” Erild leered as he spoke. “You have enemies from far further afield than the Duchies, powerful enemies with gold. I walked away from that land too, even though they offered me a home and a new god to prostrate myself before. But there were too many bad memories of long days and nights in the dark, deprived of food and water. I had to leave. My travels took me south. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, some I scarce believe myself…”
Crawulf suddenly roared and lunged at Erild. His fist rammed into the face of the other man sending him sprawling backwards, but when Crawulf attempted to follow, his leg gave away, and he fell screaming to the earth. Within moments he was dragged up by the two men who had earlier carried h
im. They forced him back down with fists and kicks from booted feet. Crawulf snarled and screamed, but injured as he was, was no match for them. “You dishonour my brother’s memory!” he roared, even though his wounded leg now felt as if it was aflame. “You are a coward and a traitor, Erild Kleggsson!”
“Your brother led three score men to their doom because he thought he was an equal to the gods, who could not be defeated in battle no matter the odds. Men followed him because they believed it too!” Erild roared back as he picked himself up. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he lashed Crawulf with his words. “And you… you are far too clever for your own good, Crawulf! Want to know why I’m here? Why I paid men gold to poison your food and storm your castle? Do you want to know why your life is now forfeit and why your body will be dumped into the sea once we’ve escaped this cursed island?” Crawulf glared at the man, but remained silent. “You are as arrogant as your brother, only his foolhardiness led a crew and its ship to a fate worse than death, yours will destroy an entire land.” Erild dropped to his knees to be on a level with Crawulf, their faces inches apart. “The Duchies were ever wary of us, frightened of when we might raid their costal towns or attack a lone trading vessel. They’d wipe us out if they could, but an all-out war would be far too costly for them. So, they patrol their seas with warships and build garrison around the coast to look out for when we raid. It has become a game for both of us. Sometimes we will slip by their defences and carry of whatever spoils we can lay our hands on, and sometimes they will catch us, as happened with me. But you, you are not playing the game by the accepted rules. You want to make up your own game. You married the daughter of the Emperor of Sunsai. The Duchies’ greatest rival and their worst fear. They can barely sleep at night for fear that hordes of desert warriors will one day rampage from the south and pour over the mountains. And now, you, the most likely heir to the throne of all Nortland have made their nightmares come true. Your son will be the emperor’s grandson. You have changed this game forever. You have stumbled into a nest of vipers you did not even know were there.” He sat back onto his haunches then, breathing in deep breaths.
“Is my brother dead?” Crawulf asked, meeting the hard stare of the other man.
“Had they cut off his head and fed his body to their pigs, it would have been a kinder fate. You will not find him feasting with the gods in Alweise’s hall when you go there. I will see that you do not suffer the same fate, Crawulf. When you die it will be with a sword in your hands. I’ll do that in memory of your brother.”
“I will kill you first,” Crawulf said with icy steel in his words.
“I can understand your hatred, Crawulf. You see my actions as a betrayal. It is, but it is nothing personal. With me it is just about the gold,” Erild answered as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Oh but it is, Erild. It is very personal, for you, for these men you hired to ransack my home, to kill my wife, and those who paid you. I will rain down fire on them like they have never known. Blood will flow like rivers.”
“Big words, Crawulf, but you will see no vengeance, least not in this lifetime. It saddens me that your brother will not be in the feasting halls of the gods to greet you when you die, but die you will.”
“Aye, all men die,” Crawulf answered, “but I will not die this day.”
Erild smiled then. “You really are arrogant bastards, your family.”
“Look,” Crawulf said, indicating with a nod the crest of a hill in the distance, barely visible as rain misted the atmosphere. Suddenly men were scrambling to their feet. Crawulf smiled as the rattle of weapons and armour and men barking orders filled the air. A second, smaller man and horse appeared behind the first.
“Riders,” one man announced needlessly and received a scornful look from Erild who had seen them himself already.
“How many men have you here, Erild? Little more than a dozen,” he answered his own question. “Barely enough to crew a single ship. There were many, many more in your raiding party. I saw them for myself. Where are they now? Scattered throughout Wind Isle? Fleeing from my men? Or are they dead, Erild?”
“What of it? We have what we came for,” he answered irritably, his eyes remaining on the riders on the hill. “Your death, Crawulf, and that of your wife, that is my prize.” He swung around towards the jarl of Wind Isle.
“That you have not killed me thus far tells me that you are scared, scared of being hunted and caught. You’re keeping me alive to bargain with. You have wasted your time. Do you know who that is out there?”
“Tell me, Crawulf. Tell me who those two lone men are out there who you think will save you.”
Crawulf pushed himself up, aware that the two men standing over him stepped back as he did so. When he stood he was a full head taller than the other man. “That is Rothgar Rothsson. I doubt there is a man among you who has not heard his name, or heard tales of his deeds. I’ve seen him split men in two with a single blow from that axe he carries.” Crawulf smiled without humour.
“He is still only one man, Crawulf.”
“You think where Rothgar Rothsson is my war-band is not far behind?” He could feel the tension rise in the men around him. “And you will call me jarl!” He raised his voice, causing Erild to take a step backwards.
“You know what? You are right,” he said, turning to one of his men. “Kill him. He is slowing us down. Take his head and we’ll make a run for the ship.” The familiar rasping sound of a sword sliding from a sheath made Crawulf turn his attention to the warrior, before swinging back to face Erild.
“Rothgar Rothsson is not the one who will save me this day, although I dare say he would cut a bloody path through your bedraggled band.”
“I tire of this, Crawulf.” He indicated to his man to proceed.
Crawulf continued as if Erild had not spoken. “These men here, this not so loyal band of cutthroats and swords-for-hire will save me. Because that is exactly what they are, swords for sale to the highest bidder, and I have plenty of coin. Can you read the hearts of men such as these?” He turned then to face the two men who had carried him from the fisherman’s cottage. “None of you will leave Wind Isle alive… unless...”
“Kill him!” Erild raised his voice, but his words fell on deaf ears as nobody moved. Erild spat a curse at them and drew his sword.
Crawulf didn’t move as the shorter man raised his sword and swung towards his head. Nor did he flinch as the blade arced through the air towards him. He would have no man tell a tale of how the great Crawulf of Wind Isle backed down in the face of his death. He tensed as he braced for the impact… that never came. With a ringing clang another blade deflected the one aimed at his head. Suddenly there was a scuffle and Erild was jostled to the ground by his own men. He screamed and cursed as he was forced to his knees before Crawulf.
One of the men who had carried the jarl bowed his head and handed him a sword, Crawulf’s own sword. “Jarl Crawulf,” he said as he extended the weapon, hilt first.
“For the sake of my brother whose crew you were once a part of, Erild, I will allow you to die with honour and a sword in your hand, even if you have turned your back on your gods. Let the All Wise judge you.”
“You don’t know who your enemies are, Crawulf, or how powerful they are.”
“So tell me, redeem yourself before you die,” the jarl said.
Erild shook his head and laughed bitterly. “I’d sooner die here than betray that one. The day you married, Crawulf, you invited a very dark guest into your life. You will know soon enough.”
And die he did. He took no joy in the death, nor in Erild’s betrayal by his own men, mercenaries whose loyalty was so easily bought. The payment they would receive would be one fitting to their double betrayal and not the reward they envisaged in their greedy hearts. When Rothgar rode up to the clutch of trees Crawulf saw that his companion was the fisherman’s youngest son. His heart was gladdened that the boy had survived, even if his life was now forever changed.
He no
dded a greeting to his giant housecarl, aware at the ripple of anxiety coming from the waiting mercenaries. “My wife?”
“She lives,” Rothgar answered as he clambered down from his horse to help Crawulf. He did not comment on his jarl’s smile as he helped him up onto his own horse and took the reins to lead the injured jarl back to his castle. The fisherboy and Erild’s unreliable men followed in their wake.
Tomas: The Great Wood
Tomas woke disorientated and with a pounding head and a nauseous stomach. An orange glow coming from a fire-pit in the centre of a small hut threw out a faint light filling the small space with thick smoke. An involuntary groan escaped his lips as he sat up, pain washing over his throbbing head. His first thought was for Aliss.
In the gloom he could make out walls made from mud daubed over a wooden frame. Loose reeds coated the floor, and, bound tightly together formed a thatch over the low roof above him. He noticed his sword lying on the ground beside him. This surprised him, but made him no less wary. He was alone. A piercing wail made him pause, a shriek from some sort of animal, a cat perhaps. As he listened intently, the main door of the dwelling suddenly swung inwards, making him jump and fumble for his sword.
The bandit who had hit him over the head stepped in, carrying a plate of what looked like bread and roast meat. The smells drifting towards him and the involuntary rumble from his stomach confirmed his suspicion. “Relax. I’ve brought you some food,” the man said.
“Where is my woman?”
“She is with Haera,” the brigand replied, and offered the plate of food to Tomas. “Sit. Eat. She will summon you when she is ready.”
With the door open, Tomas could see that night had fallen and outside was a blanket of darkness. He could also hear the wailing of the animal more clearly now. An animal of sorts, he realised, for surely what he was hearing were the cries of a baby. Confusion reigned as he cautiously took the plate from the outstretched hand. “If she has come to any harm…”