by Hume, M. K.
As he reached the top where a shuttered window was the only source of light, Arthur’s second sense screamed a silent warning and he unhesitatingly dropped onto all fours. A sword blade sliced through the air; he felt the breeze of its passage as it narrowly missed his head. The figure on his left was only a dark shape muffled in a cloak, so Arthur charged at it and struck the body with the full force of his shoulder. He heard and felt the expelled air as it was forced out of an invisible abdomen. Then, with a wail, the figure fell to the ground.
Arthur drew the Dragon Knife and had it pressed against the assassin’s muffled throat with blinding speed. He would have rammed the eager blade home, but the figure coughed and moaned with a distinctly female voice.
‘Gerda?’ a voice called from the semi-darkness. ‘Who is it, for the gods’ sake?’
‘Peace! Peace!’ Germanus shouted as a number of hunched figures tried to rise and several others, women to judge by their skirts, clutched besoms, spears and knives in their hands. They were ready to defend their menfolk with their lives.
‘This man is Arthur,’ Germanus continued. ‘He is the Last Dragon, and he’s brought healers to those of you who have been afflicted with the disease. Can we find some light in here? We’re likely to fall arse over tit and accidentally hurt someone if we’re not careful.’
One of the women attempted to raise a spark in a small bowl of tinder. A prepared torch was leaning against the wall, evidently guarded for an emergency.
With much heaving of an ample bosom, the woman under his knife on the floor was trying to catch her breath. Arthur apologised profusely, just as the tinder caught and the head of the torch was thrust into its feeble flame. Once lit, the scene was much as Arthur had been expecting.
Some thirty men were crammed into a space which covered half the length of the entire barracks block. Positioned right under the roof, and with the single window at the southern end shuttered and covered, the patients were unable to enjoy any light or fresh air. Arthur ordered that this window should be opened wide. The torchlight also revealed a small group of women who were striving to care for the sick, their faces strained as they started to clean the filthy floors. Some men in rough night shifts were helping; their pallor and extreme thinness indicated that these happy few had managed to survive the illness.
Before Arthur had time to speak a word, a harsh voice ordered them to drop their weapons. Five armed men were standing behind them on the stairs with swords bared and eyes that were hard and suspicious.
‘Who are you and why have you come to Heorot? The longboats in the anchorage are obviously yours so I’d suggest you think again if you intend to rob us while our defences are weak.’
Arthur bared his head and lowered the Dragon Knife.
‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m Arthur, the Last Dragon, and I’m here on the orders of Stormbringer to bring your town back to good health. Surely the last few years haven’t entirely robbed you of your memory.’
One of the men responded from the stairway, even as another pushed his way through to stand upright under the low rafters.
‘I remember you, my lord. I was the guard who fell asleep when the witch-woman was murdered. My name is Karl, but I’m also called The Owl as a punishment for that dreadful night. God alone knows why, but the foul disease has decided to pass me by. I still see you in my sleep when the night horrors come to me. But you were kind to me when every other jarl turned away; Lord Frodhi permitted me to live with my shame and to consider my failure throughout the remainder of my life. I’ve often wished I’d been executed on the spot.’
‘But an owl is also a raptor, Karl, the most dangerous night hunter of them all.’ Arthur spoke quietly and respectfully. ‘And I’m prepared to state publicly that you were never at fault in the death of Aednetta Fridasdottar,’ he went on firmly, making certain that the whole room echoed with his response. ‘You were drugged as part of a larger plot so that you couldn’t hear the cries of the victim. Your reputation was deliberately besmirched by a man who saw you as having less worth than a favoured hound. I cannot speak the name of the culprit for reasons of state, and I cannot call the guilty person to account for the suffering endured by the Crow King, his witch-woman and yourself, for you are as much a victim as they were. I, for one, could bear death more easily than the loss of my reputation.’
Karl, who was still very young and obviously deeply wounded by his experiences during the past few years, continued to hang his head as if he was a convicted felon.
‘Stand up straight, Karl, so we can speak plainly about this situation.’
Arthur turned to face his audience. ‘Listen to me, both sick and hale men of Heorot. I found that your companion was innocent of sleeping on guard duty at the time of your erstwhile king’s death, so nothing more should be said of this matter. For now, we must attack the dreaded disease that has afflicted your people. I’m sent to you by the Sae Dene king who has tasked my healers to relieve the suffering in this hall and in your village. Put up your swords. Immediately! I’ve no desire to kill you, but I’ll tolerate no more nonsense.’
Shamefaced, the warriors sheathed their weapons while Arthur pulled the winded woman back onto her feet.
‘Explain the conditions of your remaining patients, woman.’ Arthur was smiling at the plump matron, despite having to suppress his natural anger at the conduct of King Frodhi. He knew that any show of anger would frighten the already terrified patients and their carers.
As the woman gave him her assessment, she admitted that her knowledge of the incidence of the disease in the village was minimal.
‘My own man is dead now, but how could I not try to save as many boys as I could? All of us women have loved ones here, or we had them before they died.’
There was no answer to this, so Arthur set about imposing some form of order on the barracks. He ordered three of the men and two of the women to go to the kitchens to prepare hot food for those who could still eat. Similarly, pre-boiled water was a necessity for washing and drinking. Fresh milk would also be needed, if they were to save those citizens who had any chance of survival.
‘While we are at it, I want three of our survivors to collect all the firewood they can find. They can use timber from the hall itself if they must. Then I want them to erect a large bonfire over the remains of those good warriors in the field at the rear of the king’s hall. Once lit, the fire will be kept burning until all the bodies have been turned to ash. Good men should not be permitted to rot where their corpses are at the mercy of carrion birds and other vermin.’
Arthur’s voice was so scornful that Karl excused himself and tried to explain the charnel house in the fields.
‘Our king instructed us to place our dead outside the rear of the barracks. His servants collected the corpses and piled them up, exactly as you have seen. We are forbidden to enter the great hall on pain of death, even if we’re searching for food or supplies. As you can see, Lord Arthur, we have no food stored here, for the servants of King Frodhi took everything when the first warriors became ill. We’ve been forced to live on the charity of the villagers and any supplies we can beg, borrow or steal. We’ll be cast out if we attempt to obey you, just as we’ll be killed if we take any of Heorot’s timber supplies to despatch our companions in the flames.’
Arthur made an exclamation of disgust. ‘Come, Germanus! We’ll see if this king has the balls to stop me from taking what these good men need.’
Then he turned and moved down the stairs through the warriors as if they were as insubstantial as smoke. The two women and the armed men hurried to catch up.
Fury powered Arthur’s legs as he strode to the back entry of this cursed place. He swung the door open with the heel of his hand, surprised that no one had sought to lock interlopers out of the building.
The interior was pitch-black, causing Arthur to stub a toe on a large chest placed on the floor near
the entry. It had been dragged this far, as if someone was attempting to steal it. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, while his second sense scratched at his brain with a sharp claw.
Germanus had found the stump of a torch, so he carried it with him as they searched for the smaller fire pit where meals were cooked by the king’s servants. Above them, the vast rafters were only dimly lit by light from the shuttered window in the rear wall. Even close to an open doorway, the hall seemed to reek of death and decay – overlaid with sweaty fear.
‘I hate this fucking place, Arthur. I didn’t like it when I first saw it, and I like it even less now.’
‘Shhhh! The king’s assassins could be standing behind us for all that we’d ever know.’
Germanus cursed and darted a quick glance over his shoulder, relieved to find that only breeze-blown shadows seemed to be dancing on the smoky walls.
‘Ah! The fire pit! But it’s almost dead. Where is everyone, Germanus?’
Almost on cue, something moved in the corner of a partitioned storeroom wall, so both men spun to face the tiny sound. Germanus thrust the remains of the torch into the almost cold coals of the fire pit and it gradually caught alight as it drew the dying heat from the embers. Arthur drew his weapons with a hiss of iron.
‘Who are you? Stand forth so I can see you,’ he ordered a bundle of rags that stirred with something resembling life.
‘Please?’ A cracked voice answered. ‘I need water!’
Arthur ensured his mouth and nose were well covered, and then leaned down toward the shrouded figure. He held out one hand wordlessly towards Germanus who found a jug of water and a horn mug which he filled. Arthur handed it to two claw-like hands which raised the mug to a hidden mouth that greedily drained the fluid.
‘More!’ the grating voice begged and Arthur complied. Finally the figure waved the cup away and Arthur used his gloved hands to bare a grey-haired visage.
In the same instant, the torch leaped into vivid light as the oil-soaked rag finally burst into a generous flame. Germanus raised it and the face below Arthur became clear. It was female, and old before its time.
Her deep-set eyes were surrounded by a network of fine lines, while the cheekbones in her thin face were as sharp as knife blades. Her mouth was sunken, indicating that she had lost most of her teeth.
‘Who are you?’ Arthur smiled in as friendly a manner as he could muster.
‘I’m a nothing, a slave who has seen things come and go at Heorot. You can call me Asa. I can’t tell you why I’m still living, except that the good Lord must have some purpose for me, one that I can’t understand.’
‘Where is everyone, Mother Asa? Where is the king?’ Arthur’s voice was persuasive as he searched for the old woman’s hands and discovered fresh injuries around the wrists caused by very tight bonds. She had painstakingly removed the ropes over many hours. Then, when he searched for her feet, he discovered that they were both manacled to an iron ring set into the wall. The old woman would have died of thirst had they not come to her aid; her cracked lips spoke of a day or two without any liquid sustenance at all.
Asa coughed and Arthur realised that her voice had been ruined by hours of screaming for help that never came. Germanus found a wooden bucket of milk and she drank the thick liquid with every appearance of relish. The milk was old, but had remained drinkable in the cool autumn weather.
‘I don’t know where them stupid-arse soldiers be! I’ve not seen a soul for more than a day. The disease struck the hall a few days ago.’ She paused, obviously trying to count the number, while Germanus started to prise apart her manacles with various tools he had found.
Her index finger on her right hand pointed out one finger after another on her left until eventually she stopped at seven.
‘Seven?’ Arthur asked, and the woman nodded.
‘Yes, the king was still well at that time and he had all the sick people thrown into the great hall and had the doors locked. He ordered that none of the servants should go near him, no matter how much they begged, and we didn’t know if we’d be joining the sick patients if we became sick ourselves. The king spent his days drinking and carousing with his women until he found the first swellings under his arms. He became angry and ordered everyone into the hall, whether healthy or not, and his warriors locked the doors from the inside. We slaves were the only people left free. Then, when the king started to go mad, the cook decided to steal some of his gold and, when I asked him what he intended to do, he said I could rot with the rest of them and chained me to the wall. Until you came, master, I thought I would die of thirst in there.’
‘And you’ve seen no one since?’ A growing and unpleasant suspicion had roughened Arthur’s voice.
‘I could hear them around the king’s throne, for they were all drunk and singing at first. But they began to cry then when they started to sicken. We servants feared for our lives so the others eventually decided to run away. The cook thought I’d be too slow to keep up with him, and he was also worried that I might tell the villagers about the gold he had stolen.’ She laughed raucously. ‘Gold! Let’s see if the plague gives a fuck about that!’
Then the manacles binding her to the wall gave way with a sudden tearing of metal.
‘Go outside now, Mother, and make your way down to the village. If you haven’t caught the disease by now, I’m certain that you will be spared from it. At any rate, this hell-pit isn’t for one such as you.’
The servant gazed at Arthur’s silvery eyes and something in them gave her a strength that surprised her. She was almost running as she left.
Arthur and Germanus wound their way through the half-rooms of Heorot until Arthur recognised the central door that led into the main hall. They put their shoulders to the doorframe until the crude fittings pulled away.
Now, as they entered the blackness of the unlit room, the smell became suffocating. Germanus held the torch aloft to reveal a room full of corpses in various stages of decay. Some figures still stirred and moaned pitifully at the centre of what had been a hellish banquet.
The tables and benches had been set for a sumptuous feast. Containers of beer, wine and mead had been placed all over the tables, while the remains of maggoty food covered the table. The seated men seemed like a ghostly group of revellers caught by death in their drunkenness. Still others had curled up in the straw where they were lying in their own filth. The manner of their deaths beggared Arthur’s imagination.
‘I’ll go to them, Arthur,’ Germanus offered. ‘It’s perfectly safe for me to offer them some assistance.’
‘Open the front doors first, if you can,’ Arthur called after his friend. ‘This pest hole begs for light and fresh air.’ The sound echoed in the empty rafters where the only other sound was the busy patter of rats leaving their own banquets for the safety of darkness. Arthur shuddered at the thought.
A cackle of maniacal laughter further agitated the vermin within Heorot as Arthur spun to face the dim light that surrounded the throne. Then, with a crash, Germanus raised the long wooden bar and the doors of Heorot swung open in all their barbaric splendour.
To describe Frodhi and the two trollops who lolled at his feet on the dais as human beings was to take one step too far, given the sight that greeted Arthur when a cruel shaft of light arched towards him and exposed the king’s rotting face.
‘May God have mercy on you,’ Arthur muttered softly. He recalled what Lorcan had told him about the disease when it was in its worst form, and looked closer at the horror-made-flesh sitting on the throne before him.
That Frodhi still lived was a miracle; Arthur wondered whether his constant recourse to alcohol had helped prolong the king’s life. Two of five women still lay alive at his feet, but this pair were lolling with disease and drunkenness while struggling with a thirst that no amount of ale could quench. Nerveless fingers were unable t
o lift cups and they had descended to lapping like dogs drinking water. One of the women did so in front of Arthur, who turned away in horror and vomited into the filthy straw.
The light must have returned a short burst of sanity to the living corpse on the throne and the noise that came through the suppurating lips and nose sounded sane and suave once again.
‘I always took you for a man with a girl’s stomach, Arthur. Huh! It’s always a pleasant experience to watch the squeamishness of an enemy. I suppose Stormbringer has finally stirred his farmer’s arse and sent you and the healers to clean up this mess. I expect to be treated as quickly as possible. But first I want you to fill my mug.’
‘What will I fill it with, Lord Frodhi?’ Arthur managed to answer, once he readjusted his cloth to block his nose against the vile smell.
Germanus took the utensil from his master. ‘Let me do it, Arthur,’ he hissed with his back to the throne. ‘You can’t trust this man until such time as he’s dead and past inflicting harm.’
When Germanus placed the mug in Frodhi’s hands the king spat at him, the spittle landing on the Frank’s cheek. The king then tried to spit at Arthur, but Arthur was too far away.
‘I might have missed you, Arthur, but at least your hulking Frank will die now . . . and it will be your fault.’ Frodhi giggled then, a sound far more terrible than any death rattle.
‘You’re a vicious man,’ Germanus responded, and wiped the spittle away with a torn piece of his shirt. The fragment of cloth was thrown into the cold fire pit. ‘You’re not a king’s arsehole, Frodhi, unless you’re prepared to answer to the title of Master of Corpses. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m immune to Justinian’s Disease, for I’ve survived it in the past. You can’t hurt me, and I won’t allow you to harm Arthur in any way. I must offer you my sincere felicitations on your kind thoughts towards us, my lord.’
Fear scudded through Frodhi’s still-handsome eyes, but their expression finally matched his stomach-wrenching appearance.