by Hume, M. K.
The travellers had been forced to pay an exorbitant price to have their horses transported with them for, as the captain pointed out, their beasts would take up storage space that could be allotted to trade goods. Quick to realise that beggars can’t be choosers, Gareth reluctantly accepted the captain’s conditions. At the very worst, possession of the horses would allow them to travel to The Holding quickly once they disembarked.
As when crossing the channel between Dubris and Gesoriacum, Gareth spent the days either comatose or vomiting over the side, racked with what Lorcan called the mal de mer illness.
The voyage was protracted for both passengers and horses, for the vessel put in at most of the settlements dotted throughout the small islands that made up the Dene homeland. Trade goods of all descriptions changed hands while the horses pined for leg-room and Gareth hungered for solid ground under his boots. Unable to eat or drink, he lost weight and remained pallid for the five days it took to reach Stormbringer’s island. Meanwhile, the captain spent most of his time scanning the eastern horizon where Skania was hidden behind thick autumnal cloud banks or glancing over his shoulder into the seas that lay to the west. In truth, the wily trader expected piratical longboats to appear out of the fogs at any moment.
‘I’ll trade with the buggers who frequent these islands, but I’ll never trust them. This ship is still intact because I know when to pay and when to run,’ he told Lorcan with a knowing wink. Although he was a staunch pagan, the captain had developed a soft spot for the dishevelled priest, mainly because, unlike most of his fellow prelates, Lorcan was partial to both a drink and a warm woman. He also swore like a farm worker.
‘I know you are chary of the Dene people, Master Ernil, but what’s the problem with their king? This Hrolf Kraki seems unwilling to stir out of his palace . . . hall . . . or whatever the hell it is that these heathens call their meeting place, while your Saxon and Jute kinsmen pick away at his border villages like cracking fleas off a blanket. And why would he declare that the king of the Sae Dene is a traitor? Wouldn’t he need his sailors to hold an island kingdom together?’
Master Ernil shrugged expressively. ‘Hrolf Kraki isn’t called the Crow King because he’s a man of generosity and loving brotherhood. According to everything I’ve heard of him, he’s a vicious and greedy son of a bitch who likes few people and trusts even fewer. It appears he’s become a hundred times worse since he took up with his fancy piece, the witch-woman called Aednetta. I’ve been told that she plays on his fears of treason and reminds him constantly that he has been cursed by the gods. If he engages in any warlike activity, the gods’ curses will come crashing down on his head.’
Lorcan’s face must have looked blank, so Master Ernil attempted to explain the tangle of superstitions that existed in northern religion.
‘Hrolf Kraki decided to invade Vaster Gotland and the sagas describe his theft of the Geats’ gold by stealth in the dead of night. As the Crow King and his guard attempted to escape, the alarm was raised. Personally, I’m sure that Loki was to blame, because the Crow King’s answer to his dilemma had the stamp of the trickster god on it.’
While Lorcan showed a mute appreciation for the story he had spun, Master Ernil swilled something brown and potent from a leather bottle he had taken from his shirt, swallowing the liquid with an appreciative shudder. After Master Ernil’s dirty palm wiped the lip of the container, the priest declined to sample anything when the bottle was offered.
‘As the king and his guard made their escape, Hrolf Kraki began to throw handfuls of golden objects behind him, knowing that their pursuers were fallible creatures, even if they had sworn oaths to their gods and the Geat king. The warriors paused to squabble over each of the precious objects, and this allowed the Dene warriors to escape with the bulk of the treasure.’
‘So? How does such a victory convince the king not to go to war?’
Despite himself, Lorcan was captivated by the tale.
‘The gods aren’t overfond of being mocked, even by Loki who is one of their own. Hrolf Kraki was cursed for his greed and guile, so he’s been warned that he shall die with ignominy if he stirs himself to attack anyone – ever! That’s quite a punishment when you consider that the Jutes are hungry for the return of their lands along the Jutland Peninsula. He stays put in his hall while his enemies nibble away at the fringes of the Dene kingdom.’
‘Surely the Crow King is being stupid,’ Lorcan put in. ‘The curse of the gods might or might not happen, but invasions by his enemies will surely occur if he remains afraid to protect his people and his kingdom.’
‘That may well be so! Rumour whispers that Valdar Bjornsen, the Sae Dene king whose bones should rot in hell, crossed swords with Hrolf Kraki in a dispute over some strange captives whom Stormbringer had gifted to his king. Bjornsen was outlawed and banished for his trouble. Now that was stupid, but it was good for us traders who have no ties to the Dene rulers. Stormbringer would never let us sail in these waters if he hadn’t been involved with a revolt in Skania.’
‘Stormbringer? That’s a powerful name!’
‘I’ll give the Sae Dene his due, for he’s one of the truly great sailors and he seems to be blessed by the gods. He has sailed further out over the seas than any man in the north. It’s said that he brought back a large hoard of treasure and some valuable captives after his last voyage to the British lands.’ Ernil chuckled until his double chins quivered like jellied meat. ‘It’s worth noting that Hrolf Kraki managed to confiscate that treasure.’
‘Naturally!’ Lorcan replied drily.
Almost immediately, a shouted warning came from the lookout that land had been sighted off the bow.
‘That’s Ostoanmark, Stormbringer’s island,’ Master Ernil said. ‘And it’s close as I want to go to Stormbringer’s lair! I’ll be dropping you at the first available cove, but you and the horses will have to swim to shore once we enter the shallows. You must understand that I’ll not beach my girl and risk being caught with a bare arse.’
‘Yes, I understand! I’ll rouse my friends and we’ll be ready to depart when we are close enough.’ Lorcan grinned suddenly and bared his sharp canines.
‘You’d not dump us too far out, Master Ernil, would you? We’d hate to part from you on bad terms.’
Ernil had survived for a long time because he judged men accurately, so he decided to play fair with these three travellers, not least because their swords were long and sharp. Particularly, the captain could sense that the young warrior was a trained killer who would be pitiless in combat. Yes, Ernil decided, it’s always better to be prudent in this wicked world.
Arthur was at sea with the Sae Dene’s fleet as they slid through the swells with a fresh aft breeze blowing them northwards to their destination at the bivouac in Skania. The other ships in the fleet were close-hauled around him with Stormbringer’s longboat, Valhalla, in the fore. As they skimmed over the waves like a hunting gull seeking shoals of fish, the crews knew they were heading for land and a well-deserved period of rest. Their hearts were lifted by the promise of soft pallets, sweet and pliant women and the leisure time to drink deeply.
Then, from his favourite position beside the mast, Arthur heard a warning cry from the lookout. Perched precariously high up on the swaying mast, the young sailor pointed towards the west where the setting sun was turning the sea to molten basalt in the ruddy light. Arthur realised that an unknown ship was scudding towards them which bore the dragon emblem of Stormbringer’s house.
This strange longboat, obviously lightly crewed, was sliding through the waves like a marine creature until it came within earshot of Stormbringer’s vessel.
The shouted conversation between the Sae Dene and the captain of the strange ship was clearly audible to Arthur who had positioned Sea Wife at the stern of Valhalla.
‘Lord Bjornsen, I bear tidings from my lord, Jarl Hnaefssen whose lands
lie on the Jute border. He reminds you of your promise to assist him if the Hundings should attack him, and my master is sorely pressed for the Crow King refuses to aid us. If we should fall, the way to the Dene lands lies clear before the invaders.’
‘Who speaks to me for Jarl Hnaefssen?’ Stormbringer shouted from the prow of Valhalla.
‘My name is Henning Gunnarsen, master. Our need was so great that I was forced to seek you at your home base for we were unaware of precisely where you had gone. I also bear tidings from your cousin, Frodhi, who implores you to help us. He bade me tell you that Hrolf Kraki has become more and more disturbed and is openly ruling in concert with the witch-woman, Aednetta, and that the Crow King must either be forced into action to help his people or be swept away with an iron hand.’
‘Do not speak treason to me, my friend, and not in my cousin’s name,’ Stormbringer shouted from longboat to longboat. The young courier paled.
‘I beg your pardon for my unwise words, lord, but our plight is serious and we don’t know what to do. When I arrived at The Holding, I found that your kinfolk had only just escaped murder at the hands of armed assassins. Your sister sends a message to assure you that all is now well after the defenders beat off an attack. The Crow King had sent a band of his warriors to destroy your lands and kill your children, but disaster was averted by the woman, Blaise, and a small group of strangers who have recently arrived at your home. Your children are safe and well, but she instructed me to tell you that Hrolf Kraki will always be a threat to you and yours for as long as he is permitted to live. She insists that you must resolve your disagreement with the king, one way or another.’
The wind had begun to freshen so the boats were driven slightly apart. The lighter foreign craft would have been swept away had its crew not tacked and weaved slightly to keep it travelling at the same speed as the heavily laden Valhalla.
‘Do you need provisions?’ Arthur shouted as the longboat edged closer.
‘Aye, master. Our water supply is low for we’ve had no time to break our journey.’
‘Then follow me to our safe harbour,’ Stormbringer interrupted. ‘Once there, we will all board Sea Wife where I can hear all your reports. We will feed you and decide on a concerted plan of action.’
Stormbringer allowed Valhalla to increase its speed and sail ahead of the fleet to the large cove where their new slaves, their plunder and provisions were under guard. Her astonishing power soon had her slicing through the waves like a huge dolphin.
Dumped unceremoniously on a shingled shore, the three travellers quickly adjusted to being on horseback, although Gareth still remained an odd shade of grey for the entire morning of their slow trek into the north. The group found themselves forced to move slowly through this unusually flat landscape because their horses took some time to acclimatise themselves to the land after their cramped sea passage.
The island of Ostoanmark was small by Frankish standards, its wide plain scarcely above sea level. Germanus observed to Gareth and Lorcan how the sea could easily break through the dunes to poison the land with salt, a persistent threat in these parts. Long grasses grew to the height of a horse’s belly until they reached the small hillocks of sand where the vegetation eventually disappeared. One particularly coarse species of vine with livid yellow flowers grew riotously on the edge of the dunes, binding the sands together and changing guard with the stiff grasses and their waving seed-heads. Germanus gazed at a wide, pale-blue sky alive with thin, scudding clouds and felt the breeze with its nip of cold air on his face.
The Frank decided that he was wondrously happy.
‘Well! These are healthy cattle! Very healthy!’ Lorcan commented, with one wary eye running over a large horned specimen some distance away. ‘Let’s hope we don’t anger any of the bulls.’
‘We’re high in the saddle, so other animals consider we’re too big to attack,’ the country-born Gareth suggested. ‘This Stormbringer probably owns the beasts anyway so he must be a very wealthy man.’
‘I don’t give a shit if he’s a Midas! If he’s got Arthur, Eamonn and the girls in his care, he can bloody well give them up,’ Lorcan growled. ‘I’m fair sick of travelling. Let’s get the young ones into our care and we’ll get the fuck out of here.’
‘I’m pleased you’re taking such pains with your manners and your language. You’ll certainly impress the king of the Sae Dene,’ Germanus sniped. ‘Get a grip on your temper, Lorcan. I’d like to leave this rather beautiful place in one piece if I can. Look around you, and then consider the cesspits we’ve seen since we embarked on this journey. This land is a paradise.’
‘There’ll be something wrong with it,’ Lorcan countered grimly. ‘There always is!’
And so, with their customary bickering and insults, Germanus and Lorcan passed through the soft landscape as the scenery changed to fields of stubble that were ready for the plough. Gareth blocked out the voices of his companions and enjoyed the views around them. The crops had been harvested; the density of the dying growth spoke of a bumper crop, while the absence of overlooked grain in the stubble spoke eloquently of good husbandry and careful gleaning.
By early afternoon, the three friends had devoured a hurried, horseback meal of stale bread and goat’s cheese without pausing to rest. The noontime sun was mild and Lorcan was elaborating on the differences between this pale-lemon sun and the white-hot, moisture-sucking heat that was ever-present in the lands of the Middle Sea.
‘Do shut up, Lorcan,’ Gareth interrupted and pointed towards a line of thick, black smoke rising above the landscape.
‘The colour of that smoke ahead seems to indicate a burning building,’ Germanus said crisply and dug his heels into his stallion’s ribs. ‘The farmers might need help, so I’ll ride on ahead.’ His horse leaped forward leaving Gareth and Lorcan in its wake.
Using a small whippy branch on his mule’s hindquarters to encourage the stubborn animal to speed up, Lorcan grumbled and puffed with exertion.
‘Are you sure that sticking our noses in won’t get us into more trouble?’ he asked Gareth.
‘No, but a fire is a good excuse to come calling, wouldn’t you say?’ Gareth countered. ‘The homestead ahead of us might need our help, even if it’s not The Holding. They’ll be able to give us some directions that will lead us to our destination.’
‘I hope so! I’m too old to go gallivanting all over the north.’
Ahead of them, Germanus’s horse had raised a small pall of dust from the dry stubble as he cantered towards the smoke. But it was Gareth’s sharp eyes that saw the two longboats drawn up on the beach of a small cove to their right.
The ships had been dragged above the high water mark, where they lolled about in the softer sand. Several warriors who were keeping guard over the longboats raised their heads at the sound of galloping hooves and turned to face this new threat with upraised axes. One of the men held a huge round shield decorated with a painting of a great, black crow with outstretched wings.
‘Hrolf Kraki must be here,’ Lorcan shouted. ‘That fire is no accident, so someone needs our help. Ride like hell, Gareth, and catch up with Germanus. The Crow King’s obviously decided that attacking a fellow Dene with only two ships isn’t actually fighting a war.’
Gareth had already spurred his destrier into a gallop and released the reins controlling the packhorses. Pausing only to hope that the northern gods would curse Hrolf Kraki and his minions, Lorcan tried unsuccessfully to force some extra effort from his shambling mule.
The afternoon was beginning to dim as Gareth and Germanus reached the top of a slight rise on the outskirts of The Holding and realised that a pitched battle was being waged between the farm buildings while a barn was burning fiercely in the background. Gareth could see that the defending force included women and children.
‘Let’s ride like hell, Germanus,’ he yelled, ‘even i
f the horses are killed in the process. Those are our people down there – and they need us now!’
CHAPTER VII
TRAITORS, FOOLS AND LOVERS
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?
The Bible, Song of Solomon 6:10.
The Holding had been attacked an hour earlier, but Fortuna sometimes favours women with bold hearts and children who are brave, loyal and obedient. Whatever the reason, an old man was hunting for shellfish on the rocky point when the longboats hove into view.
The arthritic swelling disease had ravaged old Poul’s elbows and knees but, so far, his fingers still retained some dexterity so, with his worn knife, he contributed to his family’s diet by prising small shellfish off the rocks and hunting for large bivalves where bubbles rose along the sweep of the tide-line. An old woollen bag carried his rotting fish; the bivalves responded to the miasma of decay dragged over the sands to betray their positions to his ever-sharp blue eyes.
Initially, the elderly man assumed that Stormbringer had returned, so his face shone with anticipation. But then he made out the circular shields set in their cradles along the sides of the longboats and the device painted on the two large sails – and he knew.
The symbol of the black crow! The High King was the avowed enemy of Stormbringer, his master, and armed foes rarely approached the homes of their enemies with conversation on their mind. The Holding would soon be under attack.
This attack had come from the sea and all the best warriors in Stormbringer’s force were fighting with the master in Skania.
Ignoring the pain from his hip joints, old Poul knew something had to be done – and now! He scrambled over the rocks of the headland, up the dry sand dune and across the water-meadows leading to The Holding with the speed of a much younger man. Within minutes, he reached the fields where the farm labourers were ploughing the fields ready for sowing.