The Clovel Destroyer

by Thorn Bishop Press

  Shaking his head, Urith growled. “No, I must find Uolven first. I must complete my duties.”

  “Then, I will go with you to find him,” said the blonde warrior to his friend. Urith shook his head, but Guthlaf insisted. “We are nearly finished here. Your father must be in Gramcan by now. An extra pair of eyes and ears can help you.” Urith agreed, and Guthlaf told the others to finish their work, reminding them to return to Gramcan when they finished. Urith waited while his friend retrieved his ossane, and the two comrades followed the narrow trail out of the darkening forest. As one of the best warriors of the tribe, Guthlaf had many knots on his baudrik belt, and he often acted as an older brother to Urith. The giant Esterblud cared for Guthlaf in much the same way, looking at him as a mentor, valuing his advice and admiring his skills.

  “I know you are worried about Uolven, but he is nearly a demigod,” Guthlaf joked. “Besides, you need to fix that face. Your wife won’t recognize you.”

  The image of his beautiful Earmis suddenly came to Urith. As the two friends exited this thinning forest, moving into the rocky ridge leading to the largest port city of southern Esterblud, Urith's mind wandered to thoughts of his wife, and he could almost smell the lavender oil she wore. As he thought of her warmth and tenderness, he remembered he had much to be thankful for. Perhaps the gods were kind to him; he felt when he looked over the vast bay from which many Esterblud raiders left to destroy their enemies. As they rode along the high, narrow ridge, he took in the majesty of the ocean which seemed to call to him. The warrior enjoyed the damp chill of the ocean breeze, breathing it in deeply and allowing it to clear his head. It reminded him how much he preferred to sail the Maflow Sea. Someday, he hoped to go beyond the known world and to seek out new lands. It was something he had dreamed since he took his first boat journey with his father.

  “The cursed forest is too dry, it seems like a tinder box,” his friend spoke up, tired of the quiet. Guthlaf’s long blonde hair whipped in the breeze covering his balding area on occasion. “I told the men to be careful with the fire on the beach. We don’t need to give more cursed spirits to Caruun.”

  Urith said nothing as he ran his tongue over the area where he was now missing teeth, lost to the sword blow to his face. He still tasted the blood on occasion. Nodding, he agreed, knowing the god of the underworld had a reputation of touching off disasters to bring more victims to his spirit world. It was not a pleasant place for those who die so ignobly. To die in battle was the only assurance a human had for everlasting peace among the sky gods.

  However, the sound of hoof beats brought him back to the present. He saw riders in green moving quickly from a secondary trail, coming toward them. He stopped his ossane in their path while Guthlaf hailed for them to stop. The men looked at Urith momentarily before recognizing him.

  “We are searching for Uolven,” Guthlaf told them. One of the warriors told them that he heard Urith’s father was in a small village just outside of Gramcan. The man said the healer tending to Uolven was one of the best in the lands.

  Urith pushed past them, “I’m going there,” he growled, and Guthlaf pulled in behind him. The others watched them for a moment before they continued their travels into the forest.

  It was a hard ride for Urith, worrying about his father while trying to ignore the pain coming from his cheek. At one point he stopped to clean the wound with spring water. However, he knew the cut, which ran from his lip back to near his ear, needed more attention than he could give it. Frustrated by the pain, he dug his heels into the ossane, recklessly pushing the animal as the road narrowed across the top of the ridge. When he reached the top, he could see the outskirts of Gramcan which would still take another day’s ride to pass the city gates. However, he still could not see the object of his search, the village of Darykans. Nestled in the valley below them, the Esterblud knew the town lay at the crossroads of two roads near the Arnul River. The river was the last significant barrier to Gramcan and central for the trade routes between the forest and coast.

  “It won’t be long now,” his friend told him as if reading his thoughts. If he could, Urith would have smiled. Guthlaf was always the optimist.

  Near the end of the day, they reached the stone bridge on the outskirts of the Darykans. Quickly covering the long span of the river, they found the stable where they left their mounts. The man who took their ossanes pointed to a small building near the tavern where the healer lived. Urith covered the ground quickly to the building while his friend hurried to keep up. Ducking his head to enter the front room, the Esterblud nearly ran over the small man who tried to bar his way. Pushing past him, Urith knelt beside his father, staring at his ashen face. The tall man lay propped up on a short wooden bed just inside the door, his legs hanging uncomfortably over the edge. Uolven’s eyes were closed, and his breathing labored. His chain mail removed, the bloodstained holes of the undergarment showed several entry points of his wounds. Urith knew without asking that the massive blood stains on the chest were the result of a spear wound.

  “He will go to the gods,” the old healer whispered into the son’s ear. Urith’s reflexes took over, grabbing the man by the throat as he stood up.

  “That is not an option, old man,” the Esterblud raged, his spittle striking the man who struggled to breathe. “If you don’t have the skill, we’ll take him to the city.”

  It took Guthlaf and an attendant who entered the room to get the healer out of Urith’s choking grip. They pushed the enraged man away, Guthlaf holding on to Urith, telling him to let the man speak. The old man shook his head, long gray hair spilling on his face as he struggled to catch his breath. After he had recovered, the healer spoke quietly.

  “I’m sorry, but your father is beyond any human’s help. I will not lie to you, for I know him well. That is why they brought him to me. The cart ride made his suffering worse.” Urith could see from the expression on the man’s lined face that he words were true.

  “Is there no hope?” Guthlaf asked.

  “I’m afraid, only the healing waters of the Sky Realm could help now. Unfortunately, that is reserved for the gods.”

  “So, I will finally go to Haligulf and drink with Mivraa. Not a bad way to go.” The voice of Uolven growled from the cot. “My son should know better. Unless I’m truly betrayed by the gods, I will have much to be thankful for soon.”

  Uolven looked at Urith, giving him a thin smile. “My second son, you must not grieve. You will shame our warrior ancestors who wait for me.”

  “Forgive me,” Urith told him, searching for something to say. “I don’t like losing.”

  “Yes, that is something I’ve always considered one of your finest traits. Now, grab us a heathmead and we will discuss the future.” His father coughed suddenly, spitting up blood. While the healer helped Uolven, the tall boy who worked for him began pouring the drinks from a wooden cask on one of the tables. Urith and Guthlaf slid a rough-hewn bench over so that they could sit next to Uolven's bed. Copper mugs in hand, they waited on the injured man to gather his strength before they toasted the gods and Haligulf. It was a ritual that was comforting for the clan sending a warrior on his journey to Haligulf. But the effort taxed the mortally wounded man.

  Uolven peered at his son, “You will need Mween to mend your face, he is the best healer outside of Cilgarran.” Uolven summoned the healer with a weak nod of his head. Mween spoke, begging forgiveness for his inadequate skills, but was stopped by Uolven. “My old friend, you have patched me up before, but you can’t overrule the Fates. Now, just fix up my son,” the leader of the Esterblud tribe told the old man.

  The old man’s attendant came over with an oil lamp. After painful prodding, Mween sent the boy off with instructions to find items they would need for a poultice.

  “We will get the infection out of there,” the old man told Urith confidently. “However, I can tell by the way you speak and move your face; some damage will remain. How much, I’m not sure until the swelling goes away.”

/>   Urith appeared confused at the news. It was apparent that he never considered the possibility. Uolven spoke up, catching the look in his son’s eyes. “By the gods, he’s young, and I’ve seen such a scratch go away with time. Now, let’s get to business. Tell me about your mission to Iffwer. I want to know how someone finally got the best of you.”

  Urith’s eyes went cold at the observation. The pain of losing a battle felt worse than the wound. But he could not say such a thing to Uolven. His father was a great warrior, and would be until his last breath.

  “There were six of the Aberffraw scouting the area when I met them. They seemed intent on raiding the village, so I stopped them.”

  “That doesn’t explain your wound.”

  “I met one warrior called Kirowan in the group. We fought to a draw.” Urith’s briefly lowered his head as he recounted the story. “Both of us were injured, and he stated he would fight no more. Since he is an honorable man, I gave him safe passage to travel home.”

  Instead of the verbal abuse he expected at overstepping his authority, Uolven reached over his hand, grabbing his son’s shoulder. “You are truly ready to lead our tribe. To taste the bitterness of defeat will open a new world for you. Don’t look at such things in their darkness, instead, learn from such things and it will make you a better leader.” Urith nodded, unsure what his father meant.

  “It’s strange, but I heard tales of Kirowan riding as a mercenary now. From the songs of the skalds, if you met him and only came away with a scratch, you make me proud.” Uolven stopped for a moment, gathering his strength as another coughing fit seized him. The blood filled the man’s graying beard. By now, it was evident to Urith his father would pass to Haligulf soon.

  “It is honorable that you let him return to Vulthnal. Maybe he can raise an army to restore order to such a lawless land.” True to his nature, Uolven continued to worry about the need for stability, even in lands far away from Esterblud. The dying man closed his eyes for a moment.

  After returning to the hut, the attendant now stood at a table using a small wooden spoon to stir the poultice together. Even from across the room, the stench was overwhelming. The healer spread the green substance on Urith’s wound. He covered the area with several layers of linen cloth, then bound Urith's jaw and head to hold it in place. The poultice burned at first, before soothing the area. Guthlaf smiled broadly at the sight, and Urith instantly knew soon he would hear the jokes from his friend about his appearance. He was about to say something when Mween told him to remain quiet for a while. Urith just glared at him.

  “Now we must discuss the next days,” Uolven proceeded to lay out his instructions to Urith and Guthlaf. On his death, Pehnuwick, the older brother of Urith, would be named the head of the kinship guard. As leader of King Penhda’s personal guard, Urith’s elder brother was in line to become overlord of the lands in northern Esterblud. Urith would become the new leader of the clan. It was no surprise to the men, only a final confirmation. Uolven went on to say that King Penhda held Guthlaf’s family with great respect and that he wanted Guthlaf to become an advisor to the king. This would give the family more influence with the king. Urith's friend smiled at the news, thanking Uolven for such encouraging information.

  “Just as your father acts as a rudder to my needs, I know you can guide my son.” The old warrior gave him a smile before turning back to his son. “Urith, I know you will remain loyal to your brother and Penhda. I ask that you guide the training of your brother’s son, Oslaf. I know you will soon have a son of your own but the responsibilities Pehnuwick as a leader second to the king will make it difficult to train a warrior. It is a regret that I was not able to teach you all I’ve learned. But, despite my shortcomings, you are becoming a great man, both as a fighter and my loyal son. I commend the gods for this.”

  He shifted himself in the uncomfortable cot before he continued. “Remember, being the leader of your tribe can be tough. Many leaders seek to make the world what they wish, without considering advice from trusted friends and allies. Failing to listen to the right men or an excellent wife is a terrible curse for a leader.” Uolven went silent for a while, remembering his dead wife and loyal friends. Urith and Guthlaf remained quiet as the rays of light left the sky, turning the room even darker than before. The healer came near with another oil lamp; the light reflected off the copper sending shadows dancing on the whitewashed walls.

  Outside, the men could hear the sound of a cart coming to a stop on the main street. Murmured sounds of voices crept into the room, but neither warrior paid attention. Not long after the voices, they heard the sound of footsteps near the door. The door burst open, and a tall, statuesque woman stepped inside.

  “Earmis, what are you doing here?” Urith scrambled to his feet, meeting his wife near the cot. They hugged each other for a long moment. Urith could feel the growing bulge of her stomach as he held her, taking in her sweet scent. Her long blond hair spilled out of her hood when he pushed the wool cloth back, revealing her beautiful face. Pleasant thoughts of their short marriage swept across him. However, he forced himself to set aside those thoughts as he saw the worried look in her big blue eyes.

  “I heard the news, rumors are spreading like wildfire in the city,” she told him quietly, her eyes carefully scrutinizing his covered face. “They say your father is dying. But no one told me you were wounded as well.”

  Urith nodded, backing away slightly as the woman tried to place her hand on his bandage. He told her that his father was the one in need, and he would be happy to see her. She frowned, staring Urith for a moment before she knelt at his father’s cot. Uolven opened his eyes in her presence.

  “You old oretta, you are laying around when there is work to be done,” Earmis scolded the man lightly. By calling the warrior, a hero, Uolven’s gray face took on a smile.

  “It is good to see my little birele,” he told her, using his pet name for her. The elder Esterblud enjoyed treating Urith’s wife as his daughter while always remembering her noble status. Urith noticed his father’s voice was growing weaker.

  Sighing slightly, Uolven told Earmis that she should not weep at his funeral pyre. “It is my only regret to leave this realm, and I will be unable to see you and my grandson around the fire of my home.”

  Urith’s wife held the old man’s rough hand while Uolven spoke of his wife who passed many seasons before. Uncomfortable in the atmosphere of coming death, Urith walked away, telling his father he would be just outside. He and Guthlaf walked through the doors into the dusk, softly talking about the changes coming to their tribe. The leader of the clans for many seasons, Uolven sat on the right side of King Penhda, as his most senior and trusted advisor. Urith’s brother would now fill that role, and the Esterblud told Guthlaf he was pleased.

  “Pehnuwick is better suited for working with the king and the other tribe elders,” Urith stated to his friend. “I have no patience for putting my nose up another’s butt to see how the wind blows.” Guthlaf laughed at the joke, telling his friend that they must take his father to the great temple at Gramcan. Urith nodded in agreement. They would burn his body in a ritual offering to the Sky Realm. Such a funeral was only given to great warriors and leaders of such fighters. The idea pleased Urith as he thought about his father, struggling with his internal grief.

  “You will need to ride to the village of Cilgarran to talk with the elders of the clans,” Guthlaf told Urith. “Several warriors might decide they are more worthy to be the leader of our tribe.” The thought of traveling to their home village brought Urith back to the moment.

  “Yes, there are a few like that,” he agreed. “But when I return, my brother and I will stop any possibility that someone will go against my father’s wishes.” The giant warrior knew well that no one would directly oppose him and his outsized brother. However, some men might use the death of Uolven to stake a claim at his position. Guthlaf was reminding his friend that ambition, strength, and power drove the Esterblud warrior culture. A new le
ader could be vulnerable to the intrigues of other ambitious men. Urith turned to Guthlaf, “I will always try to listen to your counsel, my friend. That is a promise.”

  “And if you don’t, I’ll remind you with a swift kick in the butt,” Guthlaf told him, smiling. Urith paid little attention to the joke, his attention caught by an unusual low whistle that drifted through the rising crescendo of insect sounds. His eyes focused on the stone bridge over the river. Despite the failing light, he could see a tall woman with a black shawl covering her head crossing the structure. The Esterblud was immediately impressed by her poise and confidence. A female alone on such a dark trail could easily become a victim, even in the relative safety of a village. Yet, this full-figured woman walked with a confident gait that reminded him of a warrior. Although he saw no visible weapons on her belt, the long black shawl could easily hide a short sword. When she reached the end of the bridge entering the town, the woman went to the tavern. Urith caught a glimpse of her auburn hair and an attractive face from the partial lamp light when she entered. It was a face he recognized.

  “I see something else has grabbed your attention. Don’t let your wife see that,” advised Guthlaf.

  “Did you see who that was?” Urith asked, still staring at the tavern.

  “A very brave woman, judging how she walks the trails by herself. Or, not very bright. She’s fair one; that’s for sure. I think I need to get a drink at the tavern.” Guthlaf started to leave.

  “I swear I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t place where.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know what I find out. I’m always happy to meet a friendly maid who needs a strong warrior,” his friend hurried away, smiling at the chance to see who the girl might be.

  Guthlaf ducked his head as he entered the tavern, the young warrior scanning the few patrons. Along one wall, a couple sat, a small dark haired girl, apparently drunk, whose screeching laugh seemed to amuse the warrior on whose knee she was sitting. Two merchants, dressed in gray tunics, huddled near the fire in the middle of the room, quietly talking. They were being joined by an old man in a black robe who came from the bar holding a clay cup. The old man, who smelled like an ossane trader, sat while staring at Guthlaf suspiciously while the Esterblud walked to the bar. Carefully looking around the dark room, the warrior turned to the small man behind the long table.