The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  Arthur nodded, dumbfounded by her passion.

  As soon as the sun had set and the privacy of premature night had settled over Loki’s Eye, Maeve separated Arthur from the Dumnonii siblings and beckoned him down into the scuppers. Her hissed words left Arthur in no doubt about her strong feelings.

  Something of his regret must have flickered in Arthur’s eyes, so Maeve’s face changed as if by sleight of hand. Even in the deceptive half-light, brother and sister were accustomed to reading the language of each other’s bodies. She was the maid again now, as harmless as a barn mouse.

  “Am I really so foolish, Maeve? It seems to me that Stormbringer welcomed my views and treated me as an equal, so I don’t understand your anger!”

  “Yes, you are a great lump,” Maeve said, but she laughed a little as she insulted him in her old affectionate way. “Stormbringer is trying to suck you dry of any information he can gain about our homeland. When he enrages you, you talk! You’ve told him everything he’s asked of you. Obliquely, it’s true, but even a man bent on manipulating an enemy can be offended if they’re insulted. Stormbringer is offended—and he’s a bad man to cross! I think he’s something other than a minor lordling, for why would any king entrust a nonentity with the exploration of fresh lands that could easily be filled with riches begging to be plundered?”

  Arthur stared up at the enigmatic figure of Stormbringer as the captain stood beside the helmsman with his body loosely moving to the pitch and roll of the sea swell. Every detail of the huge Dene screamed that this man was a superb specimen of physicality. But what was the purpose of the expedition?

  Yes, Arthur thought. At times, he had treated this voyage like an adventure rather than considering the horror and pain that threatened the captives. He had acted like a child, so he kissed Maeve’s hand and watched her blush hotly.

  “How else can I thank you, my speaker of necessary truths? You are always correct!”

  Then Maeve swatted him on the shoulder with the full force of her hand.

  “Ow! What was that for? I’m agreeing with you, aren’t I?”

  “Don’t you realize you’re our only hope, you idiot! Didn’t Lorcan and Germanus teach you anything other than how to wield weapons? Eamonn, Blaise, and I were just scooped up with the largest of large prizes, but we don’t matter to the Dene in the greater scheme of things. You’re the Last Dragon of Britain, and you’re the one who will make or break the British people. Can’t you feel it in your heart? Trust me, brother, for I know that Stormbringer understands your worth. I’ve seen him watching you, and he measures you to understand what it is about you that his instincts tell him is so important. I don’t want you to beg my pardon, or to feel guilty that you might have been rude or impudent in your speech to the Dene captain. I want you to think before you speak—and to be careful of what you say.”

  Arthur had always known that his little sister was strange.

  In the dim light he examined her with eyes that were newly opened and aware. She was beautiful in an odd, Celtic fashion, with her wild red hair that defied her best efforts to plait it discreetly into a coronet around her head. Her eyes were the transparent green of water in sunlight, where tall trees lend color to a clean river. A sooty ring of charcoal defined her irises and, depending on her mood, her eyes could burn or caress as easily as smiles came to her petal-pink mouth. He had ignored her or patronized her, but he could now feel the full force of her. His strength was trivial when compared with such power.

  Then his sister giggled and the spell was broken. Maeve was his little sister and only a fond, twelve-year-old child. But Arthur wouldn’t be deceived again.

  “What about the itch at the back of your mind, Arthur? Does it still trouble you?” His odd gift had been a family joke for years.

  Arthur shook his head regretfully. “I haven’t felt a trace of it since we were captured.”

  “Perhaps it’s only waiting until such time as it’s needed. Be careful, Arthur! The sea is full of shadows and we weren’t born to love these lands—or the waters around them. We belong to the forests, the rivers, and ancient lakes that are deep, cold, and filled with light. Your dragon is of the earth. Stormbringer loves a serpent wrought of ice and fire, so his dragon is mated to the cold seas. They are different! We are different—for all that we are alike in many ways.”

  Then Maeve turned away to mend a pair of Eamonn’s gloves. The moment of special communion was over, as she squinted in the fitful light of the flare above her and threaded her needle.

  • • •

  BY DAYLIGHT, Loki’s Eye was surrounded by grey-blue smudges of land. The channel was narrow and the current ran strongly so that the rowers were forced to labor hard to keep to the courses that Stormbringer seemed to conjure out of thin air. Islands loomed around them and the coast to their right was wild, harsh, and deeply slashed with the clefts that Stormbringer called fjords. Arthur could now understand why Britain was such a rich green prize. Here in the frozen north, the Dene lands were carved out of raw stone, the earth seemed sterile and the sea consisted of a series of stirred cauldrons, despite Stormbringer’s assurance that the weather was very good.

  In the night, just before daybreak, Arthur had been awakened to shouts and curses from Stormbringer and the sound of wood tearing along the sides of the ship from a drowned stone ridge. Loki’s Eye bucked like a wild horse under the sting of the lash, so the helmsman threw the full weight of his body against the rudder, while the oarsmen on the side closest to the hidden teeth of stone raised their oars to save themselves from disaster. The vessel turned the merest fraction, but the ugly, tearing sound ceased immediately. One of the more agile warriors leaped down into the bilges and its low hold, searching for damage to the ship’s hull.

  No water had penetrated the hull of Loki’s Eye. The Kattegat had kissed the Dene ship with a lover’s sharp teeth and an invasive tongue, but she had allowed the vessel to pull away skittishly from her embrace.

  Nor, by even the flicker of an eyelash, did Stormbringer show any strain or nervousness. With newly alerted eyes, Arthur saw a thin bead of sweat glisten on the Dene’s forehead, and he knew then that they had been in great peril.

  Now that Maeve had alerted him to his position on board the ship, Arthur began to watch Stormbringer more closely, while accepting that he was also being observed. He noted immediately that the crew treated the captain with all the camaraderie of the sea, but an extra layer of deference bowed their heads a fraction lower than was strictly necessary. Most crews contain at least one malcontent, slow to obey or a little insolent in his actions, but Arthur could find no recalcitrant sailors among this crew. In fact, Stormbringer’s warriors worshipped him and hung upon his orders with an unusually ardent anticipation. Several hard-bitten warriors blushed when Stormbringer thanked them for exceptional efforts or congratulated them for work well done.

  These men love Stormbringer like a father, Arthur thought, and they’d die for him in an instant, without regret. The Sae Dene captain is a very unusual man.

  Once Arthur had been convinced to speak less and listen more, he quickly became aware that Eamonn had been struggling with a weight of misery invisible to the self-absorbed prince during the voyage. Eamonn had rarely spoken and was eating sparingly. He spent much of the day staring out at the sea and was distant and vague when he responded to questions. Bad dreams caused Eamonn to be wakeful during the darkest hours of the night, while his sense of humor, previously his greatest strength, had gradually vanished.

  Cursing his lack of sensitivity, Arthur approached his friend and ignored Eamonn’s attempts to deflect the conversation away from his state of mind.

  “Don’t try to convince me that you’re not feeling miserable about something because I won’t believe you. I know you haven’t been eating, and you’ve closed yourself off from the rest of us. It’s my duty to protect the girls from the consequences of my failures,
Eamonn. It’s not your problem—because you’re not at fault! We need you to be sharp and ready to fight if we’re presented with even a faint chance to escape from our captivity.”

  “Look at the barbarians, Arthur. Do you really think we have any chance against a nation of such huge warriors?” Eamonn’s voice dragged with a desolation of the spirit that resisted Arthur’s brisk pleas. The young prince tried to shake his friend out of his torpor once again.

  “Some men can’t bear to be constrained, Eamonn. Others feel that capture means failure. But you must believe me when I say that there’s always hope. Sooner or later, the tallest and most intelligent of our jailers will make an error and we must be ready to capitalize on it. We only have to wait and trust to British luck. It saved us at the battle of Calleva Atrebatum when we should have died. And it saved us from the storm. Ask yourself why we’ve survived so far, because I don’t believe in chance.”

  He smiled encouragingly at his friend. “Meanwhile, I’m convinced that Stormbringer won’t allow the girls to be despoiled. Oddly enough, I believe him to be a gentleman, despite being a barbarian!”

  “Won’t he?” Eamonn’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “You can’t allow these bastards to fool you. He’ll sell the girls for the highest price he can get, so we’ll never see them again. I’ll end my days chained to an oar until I drown on the rowers’ bench. I should have killed my sister, and myself, before I surrendered our lives to the cursed Dene.”

  “That’s coward’s talk!” Arthur exclaimed, before he could check his tongue. He paled, for the thought of Eamonn committing the sin of suicide had never occurred to Arthur before and he was appalled. If Eamonn had considered murdering Blaise, he must have been in torment for weeks.

  “Please don’t do anything stupid, Eamonn. I’ve discussed our likely fate with Blaise, and I know she’d prefer to live as a slave rather than accept a watery grave in these seas. She’ll gladly trust to Mistress Fortuna to determine her fate.” Arthur could see a gleam of red madness in Eamonn’s usually dancing eyes, reminding him that his friend’s ancestors were warriors of distinction. Eamonn would never surrender, as long as he knew he had no other honorable way out.

  “There’s always hope while we remain alive, Eamonn, so we may still be able to free ourselves in the future. I can think of no reason to succumb to death when every day gives some promise of a change for the better.”

  Eamonn had been very successful in hiding his depression from his sister and Maeve. When the other captives had greeted each new day with smiles, regardless of privations, Eamonn had simply been convinced that their survival indicated a lack of moral fiber.

  I’m an idiot, Arthur thought, for I missed all the warning signs.

  “I can’t afford to watch you every minute of the day, Eamonn. I need to be ready to find a way out of this cursed land and return to Arden. I am absolutely committed to our escape, one way or another. If you should throw your sister or yourself into the seas, you’ll put an end to all my plans and make me very angry.”

  That’s right, Arthur, make Eamonn feel as guilty as you can. The voice in Arthur’s brain was so clear he could have sworn that Eamonn heard it. Surprised, Arthur almost dropped the waterskin he was holding.

  “I won’t do anything untoward until I know the very worst fate that can be inflicted on us,” Eamonn promised wistfully. “But if the worst comes to the worst, my oldest friend, you mustn’t blame yourself for my actions. My mother would say our fates have brought us to this particular ship and the wild places through which we have sailed. I hunger for the smell of home—so to hell with fate, and to hell with the Dene!”

  “Yes, Eamonn!” Arthur snatched at the sudden flare of rage in his friend’s eyes. Anything was better than a blank submission to death. “You must hate them, if that’s what it takes to keep you alive. Just imagine how you’d kill them if they should give you the smallest opening. Believe in anything, but not in submission, for we are the people! We are kin to King Artor, and there’s nothing we can’t survive if we decide to endure. I ask only that you keep your promise, and do nothing to harm yourself until you speak to me first.”

  Eamonn caught a spark of the fervor in Arthur’s words and willingly gave an oath to do no harm to himself.

  “Be warned that I’ll hold you to your word, Eamonn.” Arthur had been holding his breath while he waited for Eamonn’s decision.

  “Aye, my friend! I know you will!”

  Eamonn turned and wrapped himself in a blanket, ignoring the smell of fish and sweat that permeated the wool. Curled into a tight ball, he closed his eyes to declare to his friend that their conversation was over.

  Arthur looked out over the rolling swell. As he watched the shoreline, he became increasingly aware that they were moving inexorably closer to the jagged cliffs marking the shores of Jutland.

  Then, high on the mast, a warrior cried out a warning and the entire crew turned to look in the direction of his pointing hand.

  “Look, Son of the Dragon, for yonder is Limfjord and our home.” Stormbringer’s voice rang with triumph, and the warriors at their oars broke into ragged cheering. They had dared to risk the impossibly dangerous seas, and the singers in Heorot would soon praise their exploits at the feet of the High King.

  The Sae Dene crew were coming home at last.

  • • •

  THE SUN ROSE on what would be a perfect winter’s day for these climes. The fjord was narrow and grim, with teeth of stone ready to snap shut on the keels of unwary ships. Only sailors of great skill would dare to sail through its gaping icy maw.

  As if they smelled the woodsmoke that drifted from their homes, the warriors began to row with a will, and Loki’s Eye slid into a current that carried them deep into the land until the open sea had completely vanished. Arthur began to fear that the speed of the slender vessel in the wild current would bring her to grief. Even Eamonn was wrenched out of his torpid sleep. Time scurried by on rats’ feet as the ship rode the sweeping waters. Above them, the sky narrowed to a slit of pallid light as the jagged cliffs hemmed them in, leaving Arthur feeling dizzy as he stared skyward.

  At the tiller, Stormbringer stood fearlessly and laughed as if he sought to challenge the combined might of wind, water, and stone.

  “Can you see into the distance, Arthur? Heorot is only a few hours away and, as I promised, the pleasure of the High King will reward us for our courage. See? Heorot is shining in the rising sun.” Stormbringer’s voice rang out to the crew. “Now is the time to prepare, my brave warriors, so we’ll allow the sun to shimmer like fire on our shields. Make the sunlight bleed on our battle-axes so that the common folk of Heorot will know that heroes have returned with a tribute for their king.”

  Us! Yes! We have become a tribute, Arthur thought dryly, and forced himself to follow Maeve’s instructions. Listen! Watch!

  The warriors released their huge circular shields from the cradles on the outer planks of the hull where the shipbuilders had provided an extra layer of protection in case of attack or accident. In many ways, the shields were primitive, being made of an unusually light but dense wood. Huge bosses jutted out from the center of the shields; their barbaric patterns caught any rays of sunlight and caused the metal to writhe and burn. The Dene artisans were obviously expert smiths, but heavy bull hide was also used to supplement the metals. These shields were reinforced with hide from an aurochs. The edges of all the shields were protected with this hide, except for Stormbringer’s shield, which was edged with brass.

  As soon as the shields were cleaned and polished, they were laid back into their cradles. Meanwhile, the current continued to drive the vessel on at breakneck speed.

  Maeve’s eyes were sad. “When Loki’s Eye rides at anchor, the women of the town will know who has returned and who has died.” Her eyes turned to a storage area near the bow of the ship where, for the first time, Arthur noticed that wrapped b
odies lay in the darkness with their shields lashed to their corpses. Stormbringer had refused to leave a single warrior behind in the strange land of Britannia, so had brought their corpses home to their womenfolk. The corpses were still cold and seemed but newly dead within their shrouds.

  Each warrior and crew member polished and sharpened his weapon and cleaned his helmet. The single-bladed axes had a wicked appearance, much more terrifying in their grim utility than the curved, two-bladed monstrosities used by the Saxons.

  But it was the swords that made Arthur’s heart stutter within his rib cage. The utilitarian Dene blades possessed a beauty superior to that of the gem-encrusted weapons used by British lordlings. When he was a young boy, Bedwyr had told him of Caliburn, the huge sword owned by King Artor that only a man of exceptional height and strength could hope to wield in combat. If Bedwyr spoke truthfully, this magical blade had been lost forever in the tarn at Caer Gai, but Caliburn would remain in the memories of all the men who had seen it.

  Gods! Arthur thought blasphemously and invoked the curses of the Old Ones, as he often did when he was unsettled. We would stand no chance against an army of Dene warriors. Do they have armies? Pray God that they will be too disorganized to have a single, thinking head, else the ice dragon will gobble us up entirely.

  Stormbringer looked down with satisfaction at his men, who were now armed and seated in formal rows. He nodded once and lowered his twin-winged helmet over his head, until the long nose guard turned his face into an enigmatic shadow. Then, reverently, he lifted a bag from a peg on the mast and drew out a huge bronze horn decorated with orange gold.

  “Row now—by my count—and let’s show our wives and sweethearts that they had best kick any soft bastards out of our beds. Their men have come home from the wild sea, and such warriors will not brook any interlopers at their hearths.”