The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla

by Scott D. Muller

  The beater drums could be heard pounding out the oar-strokes through the dark as the boats slid ever closer to the shore over water that one second was calm for this time of year, the waves barely caught the top railing. Often raging storms raised the ocean in waves thrice the height of a man, or more. The shoreline was covered with the casualties of these storms; logs the size of houses and the shattered skeletal remains of boats caught by the storms, were strewn about. The storms, which had a propensity to come out of nowhere with the anger of the gods were quiet this night.

  The wooden boats scraped over the rounded rocks near the beach, still well over fifty feet from the shore. Men jumped out, splashing in the icy water to their waists as they used thick drag-lines to pull the boats solidly to shore and secured them. Five men to a side, they threw their backs into the ropes as the Captain barked out the orders.

  “Pull. Throw yer backs into it!”

  “Together, pull.”

  “Pull right! Come-on men, I’m growing old here!”

  “Pull, ye wastes of skin!”

  The longboats were wide and had a shallow keel, it allowed them to get close to shore and it made the boats both stable and more maneuverable, which was a distinct advantage when trying to navigate the rocky shores on the Isle. The Captain watched as the men jumped out of the boat and waded through the water to shore.

  Now that the men had gotten out of the boat, the shallow draft meant that the water would only be knee deep. Loaded, they would need over a yard, maybe a yard and a half. Once the supplies were removed, they would be able to move the boat further up the beach.

  He leaned over the bow, “Pull!”

  It was low tide and the pebble strewn beach was not steep. At high tide, the boats would be afloat many strides from the shore. The Captain knew they would be required to make adjustments later, as the tide came in. It was not unusual, just inconvenient. He ordered the men to leave the mooring ropes out. The men nodded and did as asked without question.

  They drove large poles into the dirt with oversized wood mallets, taking turns hammering the poles into the softer shore. The men lashed the boats to the poles by the ropes and quickly lowered supplies and goods from the boat, wading the last few feet through the icy water with the boxes held overhead. They stacked them on shore in neat piles as the remaining men on deck shuffled supplies and gear in their direction.

  The men, wrapped in heavy fur and oil cloth, were lean and tough from rowing, and they longed for battle. Their well-callused hands were strong from the years of nomad living, punctuated by hours of practice with heavy blades in preparation for the great wars.

  More than a few went to a knee and gave thanks to the Norse gods for a safe journey. The ocean was not forgiving. Many had lost friends and family to the gods of the ocean.

  They set up camp on the outskirts of town, pitching tents made of tanned hides and awaited for their brother’s brother to arrive with news, intelligence and a plan. O’Rork was amazed at the discipline they showed, each having purpose. The men worked as a team, be it at making the fires, preparing the meals, or erecting the tents. All this time, none had come to speak to him, or even gazed in his direction. It was as though he did not exist. He was certainly no threat.

  He stood for a long while and watched, more out of curiosity than out of fear. If they wanted to attack, there was little he could do to stop them. Since they had showed no interest in his village so far, he convinced himself that they were passing through. He turned his back and went back to the lodge to warm his old bones.

  Barnaby threw open the door to the village gathering place and entered with O’Brian. The snow blew in and the chill caused more than one to wrap their shoulders tightly with woolen shawls. O’Rork jumped to his feet and set his hand on the butt of his sword.

  “There is no need for that, laddie” Barnaby flatly said, holding his empty hands up. “We mean you no harm.”

  O’Rork visibly relaxed, but still kept his hand near the hilt.

  The next man through the doors got a nod from the man with the largest sword O’Rork had ever seen.

  “My name is O’Brian, Lord of the Klan of the Wolf and this is my Hand, Barnaby,” he said, extending his hand in friendship.

  “I’m O’Rork, elder of the town.”

  O’Rork met his offer and felt his iron grip, causing him to swallow hard. It was like squeezing a wooden log. He stared into the man’s hard eyes, taking measure. The reputation of the Klan of the Wolf was known far and wide. It was not a good omen that they were here. Wherever they went, death and violence usually followed.

  O’Brian looked him in the eye and saw the fear. “I see you have heard of us…”

  “What brings ye to our little village,” O’Rork asked, lowering his eyes and beginning to lower himself to a knee. “Ifin I might ask ye?”

  O’Brian grabbed him by the coat and lifted him to his feet. “There’ll be none of that.”

  O’Rork’s face startled.

  “I’m expecting to meet me brother here, Marcus Jonovan, King of the Woodlands. He is under attack by King Killoroy, the cutthroat wretch. Blimey! Does ye know of such things?” King O’Brian asked.

  O’Rork had to admit that he did not. “We have not heard, but we are nothing. Information travels to us by bard or tinker, both visit in the summers. None venture here in the winter.”

  O’Brian opened his coat, displaying a fine silk shirt with his crest emblazoned across the front. “I figured as much. Word does not spread quickly on the outer fringes of the realms.”

  O’Rork nodded his agreement. “We be but simple men here, fishermen. We have little to offer to any king…except fealty and taxes.”

  O’Brian agreed with a snort.

  A man entered carrying a large cask and set it on a sturdy table in front of the men.

  “We have brought drink to bolster our friendship,” Barnaby said, as the man used his hunting knife to pry out the bung, inserted a tap and poured several drams of a golden liquid into small mugs a fellow Norseman had set out.

  “I think ye will like this,” Barnaby said. “We make it from roasted barley, a grain that grows on the Green Isle and we smoke it with peat. We call it scotch!”

  O’Rork held out his hand as the man gave him a small mug. He was surprised at its size and it showed in his face.

  “Don’t let the size be foolin’ ye. It is a strong brew that will curl yer toes and put hair on yer chest,” the man who poured him the drink said. He winked.

  “To health and peace,” O’Brian said, as he hefted his own glass and threw it back in a single gulp.

  O’Rork did the same, but wasn’t expecting the fire and burn of the drink, which took away his breath and made him cough and sputter. O’Brian and Barnaby both laughed loudly and clapped him on the back.

  “Bollocks! What the bloody-hell is in that…” O’Rork sputtered between coughs.

  O’Brian laughed loudly. “That be a man’s drink!”

  “Aye,” said Barnaby, throwing his head back and howling loudly at the moon.

  The two leaders laughed deeply and tossed back two more shots.

  The man with the scar down a cheek and a scraggly white beard poured O’Rork another drink and shoved it into his hand.

  The man flashed him a gap toothed grin. “Drink up!”

  “It is a strong brew. It takes a bit getting used to, but ye’ll find the effects most pleasing!” Barnaby said, while grinning widely. “It may be best for ye to sip at it a bit and let the warmth spread.”

  O’Rork took the advice to heart and took several small sips, holding them in his mouth for a while before swallowing. Soon, his head was spinning.

  “Aye! I see ye be starting to feel its effects,” O’Brian said.

  O’Rork smiled. “I think I’m getting to like this…scotch…as you call it. It must be potent.”

  “Tis!”

  “How long did ye say ye’d be staying?”

  “I didn’t, but since you asked,
I’m not rightly sure.” O’Brian reasoned. “It mostly depends on how quickly Wallace gets here.”

  “Wallace?”

  “The King’s brother.”

  “And then?”

  Barnaby wiped his mouth and burped loudly. “We will stay until Wallace arrives, no longer.”

  “We have no quarrel with you,” Barnaby stated. He nodded his head and threw back another dram. “Whew! That’s good, aye?”

  “Aye,” O’Rork agreed in a hoarse voice. “Never had its like.”

  “And never will,” the man with the cask said.

  One-by-one villagers made their way to the gathering room and took part in the drink and food that the strangers had brought. They were served platters of meat unlike any they had tasted before. The man who carved the meat smiled. It was a matter of pride. He was glad that the people of the town enjoyed his cooking. He grabbed the rotisserie and gave it another turn and listened as the juices hit the hot coals. He took a deep breat, enjoying the smell of the roasting meat.

  “What manner of game is this,” O’Rork’s son asked, as he licked his fingers.

  “They be Bò Ghàidhealach. It means shaggy cow.” O’Brian answered. “We raise them for food on the Isle.”

  “I don’t know what this ‘cow’ is, but they’re good!” he mumbled with his mouth full.

  “They are at that,” O’Brian said, with a chuckle. “Maybe we can leave you a couple when we depart, we shant be needing near as many as we have once Wallace gets here. The animals are dumb as stumps and slow as thickened pitch, but they are tasty! They will just slow us down.”

  They drank and partied into the wee hours of the morning. Barnaby and O’Brian had stopped drinking well before then. They grinned at each other, knowing that O’Rork would hear the drums loudly in his head when he woke in the morning—if he woke before midday—which was highly doubtful.

  Two days later, Wallace arrived with wagons and horses to help move the arms and supplies. Wallace stepped up to O’Brian and clasped him by the forearm.

  “Well met O’Brian! My brother has told me of your generous hospitality.”

  “Well met, indeed” O’Brian replied. “We hear you have trouble out east.”

  “That be the truth of the matter. Another of the Kings has developed a fancy for his neighbor’s holdings. We’ll take care of it in short order.”

  “If only it were that easy—”

  “Aye, but it will be. My boys, they live for these fights!”

  Next, he grabbed Barnaby in a big bear hug. “Brother! It has been a long time…How the Halla are ye?”

  “Aye, it has been a long time, six years or so,” Barnaby replied pulling away and looking his brother over and slapping him lightly on his clean-shaven face. “You’ve grown thin! Where’s yer beard man?”

  Wallace laughed, shoving his brother hard. “The beard itched and the ladies seem to like the smooth skin. I don’t fight much anymore. The realms have been quiet. The most exercise I get is with the wenches they bring me.”

  Barnaby growled, “That only works one muscle…”

  Wallace rolled his eyes. “Not ifin yer doing it right!”

  Barnaby roared. “What is this we hear from Craig that Killoroy attacked Jonovan unprovoked?”

  “Halla, it’s true as the day’s long. If not for the warning of a warder named Rule, the castle would have fallen.”

  “Bless the warders. But why? The treaty has held all these years?”

  Wallace shrugged. “It is not known. It is rumored that his new wife is to blame. Killoroy has never been content with either peace or his realm.”

  “Killoroy with a wife?”

  Wallace nodded…then rolled his eyes. “Rumors…mostly, although someone said she saw her once and that she is a black-haired beauty with fire in her veins.”

  Barnaby grinned. “Maybe she seeks to get him out of the castle so she can have some peace.”

  “She’ll get him killed…”

  “Mayhap, that is the plan…” said Wallace, shaking his head.

  Wallace shook his head. “My neighbor Toulereau is concerned. His enclave has been hit by strange beasts. His troops have been decimated. He worries that his realm will be next since it controls north-south commerce.”

  O’Brian rubbed his beard. “He has right to be concerned. His assessment is correct.”

  Wallace nodded. “If they get to him, his realm won’t hold.”

  Barnaby signed. “Well, they need to go through your realm to get to him.

  “They do at that,” said Wallace with a smile. His face turned serious. “But they could go through the mountain passes.”

  “We’ll split our forces if we need to, but for now, we stay together.”

  “Together,” they all echoed.

  The next day, they loaded up the wagons and left the town. O’Rork had to admit he was torn. He was both glad to see them leave and anxious. If war was breaking out, his town may not be lucky the next time soldiers showed up.

  O’Brian had snuck up on him, causing him to startle. “We’ll be leaving the boats in your care. They are anchored well and tendered to posts. They shouldn’t require you to do anything.”

  “Well watch over them until you return,” O’Rork said, extending his hand.

  O’Brian took his hand and shook it firmly. “If we don’t return by next winter, you should consider them a gift from me.” O’Brian said.

  O’Rork looked up into eyes that showed worry.

  He watched them as they mounted the horses and hitched up the wagons. Once they started the wagons moving, it took them but a few minutes before they were off into the early morning fog. When the last wagon rolled out of sight, he turned and walked back to the gathering room to discuss whether they should stay put—or move the village to the north. It was always better to go north. People didn’t invade the areas of the white snow, north toward the Spires. That was as far as they could go. The area of the Spires was not habitable. Nothing grew there and it was rumored that large beasts roamed that could strip the flesh from a man in less time than it took him to die.

  No, they would stop far short of the Spires. There was little of value there, the trees grew short and stubby, and the ground thawed for a short growing season that only allowed for sweet peas, lettuce and some carrots. Of course, that meant there was less to eat and hunting was harder. But, at least they stood a chance of surviving…if an all-out war started. O’Rork’s bones told him in no uncertain terms that they had better get moving soon. His dreams had been filled with terrors. He had the gift from his mother’s side. Listen to the gift, she had always told him.

  The first pack of wolven appeared out of the fog catching O’Brian and his troops by surprise. They rushed out from the trees howling, teeth bared. They leapt up on a wagon and grabbed the driver by the neck and dragged him off into the forest. His screams echoed until only a gurgle could be heard.

  The soldiers drew their blades and formed a circle. As they beat off one of the beasts that had grabbed the leg of one of the smaller soldiers, another came charging out of the forest. It leapt into the air heading straight at O’Brian.

  O’Brian threw up his shield and took the full brunt of the animal’s weight, knocking him to the ground. He sprang to his feet and pulled his sword.

  The beast rolled to a stop and turned on the man. O’Brian raised his sword and swung it at the beast’s head.

  The beast ducked and charged, forcing O’Brian to roll to his side. He barely had time to regain his feet before the beast was on him again. He grunted as he pushed his shield between himself and the massive jaws.

  The beast growled and O’Brian’s eyes went wide as he stared into the dark soulless orbs. He tossed away his sword and pulled his dirk free of his belt.

  Falling to his side, feinting injury, he waited for the beast to attack. In a split second he rolled flat on his back and plunged the short-sword into the beast’s chest. It took every bit of strength for him to maintain his gr
ip on the blade as the animal thrashed. It pulled itself free, yipped loudly and turned toward the wood.

  The beasts ran off into the forest and were gone as quick as they came.

  “Did you see the size of that beast?” the man said, trying to catch his breath as he ran to O’Brian’s side.

  “Bloody halla!” O’Brian screamed. “Well, I’m a jammy bastard for getting out of that without a scratch!”

  The man nodded and clapped O’Brian on his back. “Yes, m’lord! Damn lucky I’d say…”

  “I worked me up an appetite for some porkies and porridge,” O’Brian jested in a nervous voice.

  Barnaby trotted his horse to his side. “I’ll see that the cook fixes them for you for lunch. You hurt old man?”

  “Only me pride!”

  “But not yer joy…” Barnaby joked back.

  “Nah, me jewels be fine!” O’Brian said, with a twinkle in his eye. He roared out loud until he was out of breath.

  “Was that a wolf?”

  O’Brian grumbled, “Not sure. That beast moved unnaturally quick, and I swear there was hate behind them eyes.”

  O’Brian stared at the woods. “I wonder if these are the beasts that decimated Toulereau’s militia.”

  “Could be. I took a swipe at one with my sword and got it good. It kept fighting,” said Barnaby as his voice trembled. “It took my dirk clean to the hilt in the chest…”

  O’Brian pounded his fist into his hand. “Pass word no more pissing around. We need to remove the beast’s heads if possible. No beast can fight without a head! I don’t care if they’re from this earth or the depths of Halla, that much is true!”

  Barnaby nodded, turned his horse and yelled down the line. “Let’s move! Keep yer eyes peeled.”

  When the next group attacked, the men were ready and the beasts went down hard, blades through their chests and heads cleaved clean off by the long-swords of the men of the Isles. The men grinned as they killed, relishing the chance to hone their skills. They grunted as they swung the heavy blades, some weighing as much as a small child. The blades were sharp. The men of the Isle had learned the secrets of hard iron from the elves themselves. Their weapons were second to none.