by Hume, M. K.
The faces of the envoys flushed with mingled shame and fury; their fists gripped ski poles as if they were spears and the men around Stormbringer stirred uneasily with their hands on the pommels of their swords.
‘Your insults serve no purpose, sir, and I will happily face you personally at some future time,’ the tall envoy snapped. ‘It is my duty to inform you that if you enter Hrolf Kraki’s personal territory with an army at your back, your actions will be treated as a declaration of war.’
Arthur smiled lazily, but no humour reached his grey eyes. ‘Our army would never permit the Sae Dene king to set foot within Heorot alone, after Hrolf Kraki’s perfidy in the past. Our men do not wish to raise their swords against God’s anointed king, but they will not permit Valdar Bjornsen to face the hostile fury of the Crow King without their support.’
So tell that to the Crow King, you fuckers, Arthur thought viciously.
‘And who might you be, you ingrate?’ one of the warriors demanded.
‘I am Stormbringer’s deputy, and also the Briton who is known as Arthur, the Last Dragon. It was I who defeated the king’s champion, Thorketil, a fine man foully cast off by your king after he was defeated in fair combat. Thorketil fights with us now.’
The name obviously meant something to the envoys because they whispered to each other while staring, surprised, at Arthur.
One of the warriors shouldered his way through to the front of the small group. ‘I saw you fight the Troll King in the forecourt of Heorot,’ he volunteered. ‘You’ve changed in the past years. Even in Heorot, we’ve heard tales of the exploits of the Last Dragon who travelled through Skania. I’d regret being forced to kill you, Arthur of Britain, for I won coin betting on you when you fought Thorketil. It’s sad that issues should divide good men, but I’ll be forced to take offence with you if you continue to curse my master.’
‘And I remember you,’ Arthur replied. ‘You told me much that was of interest about my opponent, and it all proved to be true. And so, my friend, I would be sorry to have to kill you, but I will give no mercy to men such as Hrolf Kraki, who sought to kill my sister and my friends, all of whom were innocents. However, I will refrain from lifting my blade against the Crow King. My friend, the Stormbringer, and his faithful ally, Ivar Hnaefssen, have made me promise to stay my hand, and so I have vowed.’
The warrior who had been on guard duty in Heorot a few short years earlier was a golden-haired, leonine man with a bluff, open face. Had Arthur not been able to see the faint white lines at the corners of his eyes, he would have judged the man to be no more than thirty years old.
‘What is your name, good sir? I’ll remember your face the better for knowing who you are.’
‘I am known as Heoden, the son of Helm, whose mother’s fathers were of the Wulfings. The wolf is my totem, and some men call me Snow-wolf because I’m quick and proficient with my skis. I’m sworn to serve Hrolf Kraki for as long as we live after an oath given by my father when Hrolf Kraki was forced to flee during the reign of the imposter. There is much that we cannot know about what has brought him to this pass. I can say without hesitation that the king’s father was noble . . . as was Hrolf Kraki . . . until . . .’
Heoden’s voice faded away as he struggled to justify his master’s excesses.
‘Return to Heorot with us, and you can explain to your master what we have said,’ Stormbringer suggested. ‘It is my intention to see the king in his hall whether he likes it or not. I wish no harm to the king, but he must be forced to hear the intelligence we have discovered from captives who were taken in the south. We will not permit him to cover his ears and ignore us any further, or the Dene people will fail. The Hundings were almost knocking at the doors of your halls before my intervention, and they’d not have been as polite as we are.’
The envoys were given no choice.
‘I would appreciate your advice on places where we can bivouac our warriors. Is there a convenient place near Heorot? I can ask the king, of course, but I doubt that he’ll be disposed towards finding warm accommodation for close to eight hundred men.’
The leader of the envoys glared at Stormbringer with a non-committal shrug of his shoulders.
‘Of course, Heorot itself would be perfect for our requirements, but I do believe he’d refuse. In the meantime, we are quite prepared to surround his hall and camp around the palace in our tents. My men will be disappointed at his lack of generosity but, if necessary, they can forage for themselves.’
Heoden could hear the threat underlying Stormbringer’s casual conversation, as could most of the envoys.
Stormbringer turned back to Arthur to issue his orders.
‘Very well, Arthur. I grow weary of the snow and am eager to see Frodhi, my cousin. Let’s leave this damned plain and move on to Heorot. Our destination is now in sight.’
The tall outline of Heorot could be dimly seen as it hunkered over the highest point of the fjord. The mists of the afternoon had been pierced for a short moment by a shaft of brilliant sunlight.
‘We’ll be inside Heorot in less than an hour,’ Arthur told his friends, as he pulled the harness over his shoulder once again.
‘Let’s hope we’re able to leave with more ease than last time,’ Stormbringer retorted as he indicated that the column should resume its march.
The great dragon’s tail of men began to move once more as the warriors dug deep to drive abused muscles onwards, after weeks in an unforgiving and frozen landscape. Each man anticipated different pleasures at Heorot, but all shared one wish – to feel warm again.
And so Arthur returned to Heorot. This time, the Crow King would discover that, of all the winged creatures of the past, the Last Dragon would prove to be the most fearsome of all.
CHAPTER XI
YOUR SINS WILL CATCH YOU OUT
Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?
The Bible, Job 38:2
Hrolf Kraki, King of the Dene, looked out on a frigid winter’s morning at a landscape that had changed overnight. Fury turned his eyes to pinpoints of hot, white flame and his face a dangerous shade of plum-red.
‘I want Frodhi! Find that useless bastard for me now! And would someone explain how a whole army has bivouacked outside my back door?’ The king’s voice was a hoarse bellow, and his slaves twittered and scurried around him like disturbed roaches.
Outside the rear door of the great hall, Hrolf Kraki could look out over Stormbringer’s army. The Crow King had occasionally seen larger armies, but never on his own doorstep.
Tents stretched densely across the large snowbound fields, in summer normally dotted with black and white cows. The vast collection had appeared like freshly grown mushrooms; closely linked and encircled by walls of hard-packed snow for insulation.
The disciplined, unfamiliar configuration made Hrolf Kraki’s belly feel like it was suddenly boiling with acid.
The hour was early but the warriors were awake and busy at their fire pits. Throughout the large camp, the Crow King could see well-organised, disciplined and alert men, all warmly dressed, and outwardly unscathed by a hard autumn campaign. The king’s heart sank.
The obvious discipline of this host nagged at him, so he chewed at a thumbnail and tried to puzzle out what disturbed him so much.
Then he realised. Stormbringer had never laid out his camps in this fashion, and had never demanded this type of discipline; someone else was organising this army and implementing strategies that Hrolf Kraki could never hope to understand.
Even more alarmingly, those warriors who could see that their king was watching them deigned to bow in his direction, but the obeisance was neither deep nor respectful. For the first time in many years, Hrolf Kraki tried to think rationally and logically. As he waited for Frodhi to join him, he demanded a large horn of beer to chase away the night demons that came t
o disturb his rest more frequently, now that he relied on Aednetta’s anodynes and potions to get any sleep at all. Any rest won through her doubtful charms was unsettled, disturbed by half-remembered horrors that left him more tired when he awoke.
Now Hrolf Kraki hugged his belly with one hand as his hunger disappeared, to be replaced by an emotion that he recognised as fear. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be afraid.
‘Sit, master, and I will order porridge with honey and warmed milk for you to drink,’ Aednetta offered. ‘The beer merely clouds your wits and scours your gut, my lord.’
Aednetta had entered soundlessly in her felt slippers and the king jumped in fright. Sometimes Aednetta was a burden because he knew, all too well, how much she revolted his staff, his warriors and his jarls. Yet, just when he had decided to send her packing out of Heorot, his body began to protest. She was an addiction as potent as wine or the poppy or any of the diversions that obsessed men to the point of madness.
Her sinuous fingers massaged his tense shoulder muscles and toyed with the sinews of his throat and the sensitive whorls of his ears, sending shivers of lust up his spine.
Hrolf Kraki needed to think, so he roughly pushed her arms aside.
‘Why are these bastards here? You said they’d die on the southern borders but, instead, my most tiresome cousin has appeared with a huge army at his back. It’s winter! How did they get here so quickly? For the love of God, Aednetta, I’d need weeks to raise enough warriors to send them packing, even if such a task was possible.’
Then, despite his protestations, Aednetta led him to the section of the hall where the king slept in state. His bed was covered with a huge blanket of arctic bearskins. The pelts were lustrous and as white as snow; Hrolf Kraki had been told that five men had died to obtain this superb covering. Now he threw himself onto the priceless bedcover without any regard for the mud and wet straw from the dirty sandals that covered his feet. Even the knitted socks that he wore were filthy.
Aednetta knelt and removed the offensive footwear and the vile socks. Her hands felt the coldness of his bare feet and she called to her maidservant to heat water so she could massage his extremities. By the time the slave returned the king was already devouring a large bowl of sweetened porridge. Milk seeped into his greying moustaches, and Aednetta swallowed back an exclamation of disgust. Instead, she kissed away the milk and food stains, while he continued to gorge himself.
On her knees once again, she carefully washed his feet. Then, her face blank, she began to heat a little perfumed oil in her hands before massaging it into the coarse skin until the flesh was pink. She had seen her man’s high colour and the poor movement of blood in his extremities before and, although she hungered for the day when she was free to stand beside her lover in the sight of these high-born Dene pigs, Hrolf Kraki’s early death didn’t suit her purposes. The Hundings had failed, so several years must pass before they could regroup.
She lived for the victory that must inevitably come to her people. In the meantime, she abased herself – and hated. So, during the long and miserable nights, as she was pressed against Hrolf Kraki’s sweating and farting body, she suffered and yearned for the touch of her beloved.
Now she permitted Hrolf Kraki to caress one of her small white breasts, even when his cousin, Frodhi, strolled into the room. The king displayed minimal respect for her in front of his kinfolk so they, in turn, counted her as worthless. Only when Frodhi winked at her did she pull away from the king’s touch.
‘Well, cuz, Stormbringer has once again proved to be a very difficult man to kill. He avers that he means you no personal harm, but his warriors refused permission for him to attend any audience with you unless he was under their direct protection. It’s a clever ploy, and quite believable considering you sent men to The Holding to kill off his family. Incidentally, those mercenaries appear to have vanished off the face of the earth, so I suppose you won’t have to pay them for their services.’
His master was too irritated to care what Frodhi thought.
‘Unfortunately, those untrusting bastards asked for half their fee to be paid in advance,’ the king snapped.
‘How very wise of them!’ Frodhi was the only man in Heorot who dared to speak to the Crow King in such a manner.
‘Enough, Frod! I can hardly execute Stormbringer while his army is sitting, watching and waiting.’
‘They’re not as biddable as I am, my lord. Ivar Hnaefssen might resent the fact that you didn’t even bother to reply to his request for help against the Hundings. And he’d disapprove if you try to kill the one man who did answer his call.’
‘You’re enjoying my troubles, aren’t you, Frodhi? Sometimes you can be a complete snake.’ Aednetta tried to be invisible, knowing that she’d suffer later, when he realised that she was privy to much more sensitive information than was wise.
‘I recall warning you not to take that action against Stormbringer’s home. I also advised you to send a token force into the south to defuse your problems with the Hundings. You’d have gained considerable respect from your jarls and none of those men who guard the marches could have accused you of deserting them,’ Frodhi replied, unruffled by his cousin’s insults. ‘That old stickler, Ivar Hnaefssen, is making these same statements this very morning to any of your subjects who will listen. Many of them are sympathetic to his words, cuz.’
‘That’s treasonous!’ the king snarled, feeling his stomach begin to burn.
‘Just keep your head and try not to lose your temper.’ Frodhi had almost reached the door when he turned back.
‘By the by, the Briton you tried to have killed by Thorketil is the self-same warrior that the Geats have come to admire as the Last Dragon. Be careful of him, cuz, because he’s a dangerous tactician and a capable warrior.’
Frodhi bowed to Aednetta Fridasdottar, and his voice was filled with admiration despite the mischief that danced in his eyes. ‘As always, my lady, your beauty stirs my hardened and ancient heart.’
Then Frodhi disappeared before the king could invent a distasteful task for him.
Arthur stared hard at the doors of the king’s hall and considered that they must have shrunk in the past three years. From his memory, the twelve-foot-high doors had seemed to soar to heights that could accommodate the ancient gods of the northern tribes. Now, while they were still impressive and gruesome with the remains of Grendel and his mother hanging off the huge planks at the entrance, their scale seemed more human, albeit they were larger and more impressive than the entrances to most royal palaces.
Stormbringer and Arthur stood together, shoulder to shoulder, with their bodyguards in tight formations behind them. Gareth had convinced Arthur to wear the distinctive armour that his servant had lugged through Gaul and into the north during his long search for his master. A fitted breastplate over his chain mail had been constructed in the Roman tradition. Replicating a male torso, it had been covered with silver and decorated over the heart with an enamelled red dragon modelled on the Dracos and the Roman legion of the same name.
Arm-guards, shoulder-guards and shin greaves complemented the breastplate, while a skirt of leather pieces plated with silvered iron covered his genitals, which were also protected by a special cup-shaped guard. Arthur also wore his old trews, polished, cleaned and with new laces that secured the material to his legs. His boots were made with the fur retained inside them for warmth.
A cloak of leather that had been beautifully tanned by his sister, Maeve, covered his broad shoulders and warmed his neck with its thick collar of arctic fox. Maeve had laboured for almost a year to produce two similar cloaks that would illuminate the personas of both her men. The most striking differences between them were the pins that bound the cloaks together at the throat and the wool linings. Arthur’s was scarlet, while Stormbringer’s was of a bluish-green colour.
Once again, the design
on Arthur’s brooch pin reflected the image of the Dracos Dragon, enlivened with brilliant red enamel, but Maeve had charmed The Holding’s metalsmith into a prodigious artistic endeavour when he wrought Stormbringer’s. A stylised wave in blue enamel covered half the field, divided by a branched and jagged shape that represented lightning made of electrum polished to a mirror-like brilliance.
In a world of tall men, these two warriors were exceptional specimens, for male physical beauty, strength and confidence radiated out of them.
The older man, Stormbringer, bore the tracks of time easily. In an age where, at thirty-five, many men had lost most of their teeth and were sliding into old age, Stormbringer still sported his own white teeth, straight limbs and an illusion of youth, while Arthur’s gravity added years to him. The two men could easily have been brothers.
Arthur’s three attendants and Snorri stood behind him as a rather rag-tag set of bodyguards, while Stormbringer had his own personal guard of six jarls including Ivar Hnaefssen.
Gareth’s Romano-Celtic armour, Germanus’s obviously Frankish equipment and the presence of a priest with a most ungodly-looking sword of eastern workmanship had already attracted considerable attention from the curious crowd gathered quietly in Heorot’s forecourt. Lorcan’s robe was clean and brushed, and he had even worked on his leathers until they shone, but the years of tragedy and hard living were written deeply in the scored fissures on both sides of his mobile mouth.
‘Are you ready, Arthur?’ Stormbringer asked as the huge doors swung inward to summon them into the presence of the Crow King.