The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  Hrolf Kraki leaned his bearded chin on the back of his hand and examined Stormbringer, his warriors, and the captives through his eager, bright-blue eyes. Hrolf, the Crow King, was an extremely tall Dene who stood at six feet six inches in his bare feet, but he was also heavyset from good living. Arthur caught a glimpse of a family similarity with Frodhi. Hrolf Kraki was also striking in appearance, and ruddy with good health. The only hint of age or weakness was a small paunch that strained against the waistline of his long belted robe. With eyes made attentive by necessity, the captives recognized that the king’s face was craggily handsome while his complexion was so browned that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were white scars against his tanned, windblown face. Hrolf Kraki was clearly a man of action.

  The king was blessed with long, blond eyelashes that softened the hardness of his eyes. His wide mouth was cleanly shaped, although his lips were partially hidden by sweeping white-gold mustaches and a curling beard of a slightly darker shade. Side braids kept his long hair out of his eyes and, although silver strands glittered in that hair, Arthur was hard-pressed to determine the king’s age.

  “How much of these lands did you see, Stormbringer?”

  “We sailed south in a direct line to the channel that separates Britannia from the land of the Salian Franks. Britannia is now called Angle Land by the Saxon population, so we were able to explore the coastline with only minimal difficulty. Saxons have occupied the whole east coast and south of Britain but, as you know, their ceols are no match for our vessels.

  “After a time, we reversed our course and headed back towards the north of the island. We stopped periodically and made forays into the countryside, where we discovered the incredible natural wealth of Angle Land that seems to be consistent across the whole country. No one in this land starves or freezes during their winters. Ordinary Saxon and Jute farmers utilize iron hoes and hayforks with casual familiarity, and they do not lack food, regardless of the weather conditions, which are gentle and ideal for livestock. The greatest problem appears to be the continuing struggle between the Romanized Britons, who originally inhabited the land, and the Angle, Saxon, and Jute warriors, who migrated into Britannia from their northern and eastern homelands. They have overrun the lands, except for a few enclaves in the west and the far north, where the native Britons manage to survive. I saw some famine and desolation in places where there was no need for conflict except frail, human pride. I took trophies to bring as a tribute to you, my lord, so that you could see for yourself what this new land promises to deliver to our people—if we are bold enough to claim these lands as our own.”

  Arthur sighed aloud as Hrolf Kraki rose to stand before the gilded throne. What treasures had Stormbringer taken from his lands during their raids, and would these trophies tempt the Crow King to invade? Weakened as they had been by decades of war, the remnants of the British warrior force had little chance of survival.

  Arthur caught Frodhi’s eye. Of all the nobles and warriors in Heorot, only Frodhi seemed totally at ease and fearless. That cool, fleeting glance was followed by a broad and impudent wink from the older man.

  Arthur turned his attention back to the king. With that small, insolent glance, Frodhi was promising Arthur that Britain would know the Dene as masters. Suddenly, Frodhi was no longer a jokester. Hrolf Kraki and Frodhi were formidable opponents as individuals but, together, as masters of the Dene fighting force, they were well-nigh unbeatable.

  Arthur struggled to keep his face cold and impassive. Fortunately, Eamonn and Blaise had no understanding of the Dene language, but Maeve’s eyes were wide and deep wells of concern.

  So my little sister understands more Dene than she admits, Arthur thought. Pray God she keeps her face blank and uncomprehending so these devils don’t learn what she is, or knows.

  At a single gesture from their master, two of Stormbringer’s warriors bowed and backed out of the long hall. When they returned some moments later, they were accompanied by two guards who helped them to carry several large wooden trunks and heavy bundles of sheep’s hide.

  Stormbringer took the hides and carried them to the lowest step of the dais on which Hrolf Kraki was standing. Then, with a flourish, he unfurled their contents. “Behold some of the weapons we found in Angle Land.”

  The air hummed with the energy of men concentrating on the array spread out before them. Rust-free because of the greasy wool, the weaponry included long Celtic swords, a gladius, Roman stabbing spears, daggers of antique and modern designs, the double-headed axes of the Jutes, and even several narrow eating knives that glittered and threatened from their nest in the fleece. In other bundles, more weapons were accompanied by simple domestic tools such as shovels, rakes, and digging implements, all heavy with iron and tin.

  “You say that even the poorest farmers have access to these iron tools?” Hrolf’s voice grated harshly, but Arthur was unable to tell from the king’s expression whether he was surprised, envious, or angry.

  “Aye! The Roman invaders taught the Britons how to smelt ore and work their metals with great skill, so that only the very poorest citizens use wooden tools. The Saxons have in turn learned many new skills from the Britons. Some of the recent migrants from the northern lands still make wooden tools, but this choice is mainly dictated by the materials that were available to them in their own homelands—or by foolish sentiment!” Stormbringer added derisively.

  “What do you mean by sentiment?” the king asked in a low, aggressive rumble.

  “Many of the Saxons have chosen to live much as their forebears did when their tribes lived in northern climes. On many occasions, I saw how they destroyed the ancient rock and stone fortresses built by the Romans and Britons, for they prefer their own wooden palisades. I cannot fully understand the ways of the Saxons in Britain, my king, although not all Saxons are foolish. But familiarity causes some of the newer Saxon settlers to follow the ways of their ancestors, whether they are sensible or not.”

  Having said very little in as many words as possible, Stormbringer waited quietly for the king’s response.

  “Humph!” Hrolf Kraki rumbled. Arthur could read nothing from his closed face.

  The captain stepped aside from the weapons and tools at the foot at the dais because the implements required no elaboration on his part.

  “Other metals are plentiful as well,” Stormbringer added casually, and flipped back the lid of the nearest trunk. Bowls, cups, chalices, bits for horses, scabbards, platters, necklaces, and cloak pins rioted among the contents of the heavy case. The bronze, brass, and silver plate was heavily decorated and embellished, with complex interlace set into the embossing, and beautified with cabochon gems, pearls, and skilful examples of scraffito designs. A sigh of jealousy, or of greed, whispered through the hall as if Heorot itself had exhaled.

  “There also seems to be no lack of gold in the British lands.”

  Stormbringer threw open the last container, a little larger than the first, and exposed crosses, jewelry, goblets, and torcs of that buttery metal. The objects were sometimes set with gems, sometimes embellished with silver or electrum, while other pieces depended only on the beauty of the gold itself to compensate for any lack of ornamentation.

  Hrolf rose to his feet and descended the few steps of the dais with the grace of a younger man. He plucked a torc from the tangle of beautiful objects and examined the precious insignia of aristocratic power with intent and controlled eyes. The torc consisted of three thick strands of gold plaited into a gilded length of rope. At each end, a large pearl from the land of the Scots shimmered with a strange grey luster.

  Arthur knew that torc! He had seen it many years earlier at a time when Gawayne paid a visit to Arden fortress. Then, the torc had graced the throat of Gawayne’s eldest grandson, Gilchrist, who had accompanied the great man to Arden. The boy would never relinquish that torc until his father died, at which time he would assume the torc that
graced Gawayne’s old man’s throat. Only death would part him from the mark of his destiny.

  The warning voice in Arthur’s head, silent for so long, screamed shrilly. Arthur knew he must be silent, but the knowledge that he had traveled with that torc and that Stormbringer might have killed his kinsman overrode any thoughts of caution.

  “Don’t touch that torc, my lord,” Arthur interrupted curtly, and the king’s fair brows rose in anger.

  “My kinsman wore that torc to indicate his position as the heir to the throne of the Otadini tribe. Such an emblem is guaranteed to bring bad fortune to anyone who has stolen it, for it once belonged to Prince Gawayne, the greatest warrior in the isles of Britain. Gawayne was the nephew of Artor, the High King of the Britons, and no man other than his direct heir was permitted to touch it. The fact that the torc lies in this chest indicates that my kinsman is murdered, and the object is part of a stolen treasure! Beware, King of the Dene, for Gawayne’s aunt was the witchwoman, Morgan the Fey, who will have cursed the insignia of that noble house before she fled to Hibernia. This torc will kill anyone who claims it.”

  Then Arthur raised his bound hands and ripped his undertunic from neck to hem in the age-old Roman gesture of mourning and sorrow.

  “My kinsman has been killed, and I pray that God has borne his shade to Paradise,” he stated in his strongest voice. “Lady Blaise was promised to a man who is now dead, so we must mourn for his shade and ensure that his curse doesn’t follow us into these distant lands.”

  Given their cue and Arthur’s translation, Eamonn and the two girls tore at their tunics and Blaise ripped at the flesh on her arms with her sharp nails. Only the intervention of Stormbringer stopped her from scarring herself as she gave a long ululating moan of grief for a man she had never wished to meet—and a wedding that would never have happened if she had any choice in the matter.

  A heavy fist struck Arthur behind the right ear. Dazed, he shook his head, but he managed to keep his footing, despite losing his sight for a brief moment. Strong arms tried to bring him to his knees, but Arthur fought back, spread his legs, and centered his weight to use it against his captors. A well-placed kick behind the knee felled him. Even then Arthur forced himself to raise his chin and hold the king’s eyes with his own arctic gaze.

  “How dare you threaten me!” the Crow King snapped.

  “I spoke nothing but the truth, Your Highness. Whether Stormbringer killed my cousin or took the torc from my kinsman’s murderer doesn’t matter a jot. You may kill me if you wish, but I won’t submit to force, even under threat of death.”

  The knowledge that Gilchrist had been killed before they were captured made Arthur feel sick. Worse still, he was shamed to realize he couldn’t remember the face of the Otadini prince.

  A blow across the mouth caused a rush of blood to pour from a bitten tongue and a salty taste filled Arthur’s mouth. Rather than swallow it, he spat deliberately onto Hrolf Kraki’s polished floor, earning another heavy blow across the back of the head.

  Now that he was committed, Arthur scrambled for a solution that would save the other Britons. Hrolf Kraki would kill him for his insults.

  Unfortunately, only one idea came to mind.

  “I claim blood price, Your Highness. I am owed justice!”

  He gazed directly at the king. Then, against his volition, his eyes were dragged across the room to the blue, amused gaze of Frodhi, who grinned openly in a room full of angry or puzzled men.

  “Explain yourself!” the king demanded coldly. “Before I take out your tongue.”

  “I am not a slave, or a peasant, and I’ve been educated in the northern laws of revenge by Odin, a Jute bodyguard of King Artor, my father. If you follow the same customs as the Jutes, you are obliged to accede to those ancient laws of justice. I demand blood or gold as reparation for the murder of my kinsman and for Blaise’s betrothed. I claim the right to the life of your heir or a compensating sum in gold. As the son of Artor, I claim my right to this revenge. I am the Last Dragon, and the only one who can speak for my murdered kin.”

  The hall was unnaturally silent. Only a single indrawn breath indicated that someone was very afraid.

  “What is this idiot raving about?” the king demanded of Stormbringer in a voice that boded trouble for the Sae Dene. “I refuse to be threatened by a slave, so explain to me what this bauble means, and where you found it.”

  Stormbringer glanced at Arthur with all his anger, disappointment, and disgust compressed into his expression. If he had known the meaning of the torc, he would have removed it from the king’s cache to avoid a scene such as this.

  “I took the torc from a warrior whose name was Deorsa, a man who claimed to be in the employ of King Bran of the Ordovice tribe. He told me that he’d been instructed to murder the heir to the Otadini tribe in the north of Britain. We put Deorsa and his bodyguard to the sword, so I can swear to this prisoner that Deorsa died like a woman, begging for mercy like a coward. If any blood price is required, then our prisoner should consider that it has already been paid.”

  “It’s refreshing to discover that the Britons are just as venal as the rest of humanity,” Frodhi interrupted. “If we were to judge all Britons on the example of Arthur and his moral rectitude, we would be making a serious error of judgment.”

  Frodhi continued to smile. Some of the lords were amused as well, but Stormbringer frowned in irritation at his cousin’s sarcastic interference.

  “Bran?” The incredulous young Briton spoke aloud without realizing that others were listening. “Why would Bran sink so low as to kill one of his own kinsmen? Would he have sought to prevent Blaise’s marriage for fear of such a powerful alliance? Surely not! He knew that I was taking Blaise into the north, so he must have hoped that we’d be caught up in any mess of succession to the northern throne.”

  Arthur shook his head with frustration and confusion.

  Of course, Bran would hate the thought of Blaise’s marriage to Gilchrist because it would have brought two powerful families into a strong alliance. The descendants of Morgause, Bors, and Ygerne would all become threats to Bran’s plans for his own heir, Ector. But how could Bran fall so low as to hire an assassin?

  “It can’t be true,” Arthur muttered to himself. Only one pair of wise, amused eyes really watched him. More and more, Arthur was fearful of his reaction to Frodhi.

  A cuff on the head stilled Arthur’s rambling diatribe, but the young man paid no mind to the blow. He turned to face Maeve. “I can’t believe that the ever-cautious Bran would risk his reputation by such a cowardly murder,” he whispered to his sister in Celt. “Would Bran fear and hate me so much?”

  Maeve reached out her bound hands and stroked her brother’s face. Her answer was clear in her pellucid eyes.

  “Yes, he does, Arthur.”

  “Then I must live to revenge this treacherous murder,” Arthur swore to her. “Bran must account for his actions.”

  During the hubbub, as his jarls argued over precedents and whether Arthur merited any access to justice, Hrolf Kraki strode towards the prisoner and thrust his bearded chin into Arthur’s face. “You talk like a king, Briton! You act as if you are a king! But in truth, you are less important to me than the meanest servant in this hall—so why should I treat you as a person who merits any consideration? What do you matter? You’re a slave and even less important than my servants for, at the very least, they are northerners by birth. You are nothing but impertinence, impudence, arrogance, and ingratitude!”

  “I am the Last Dragon of the Britons, Your Majesty, as Stormbringer will tell you. The people of Britain believe me to be the last of the bloodline of King Artor, the ruler who was their hope for the future. Perhaps I am less than the dust beneath your feet, but I come from a line of kings, including Romans, so I was born to the purple. Also, I have won personal honor in desperate battles against superior forces, and have pre
vailed. I killed my first man before I was ten years old, so my body bears the scars of engagements with adversaries who were much older and much stronger than I was. Look at my scars if you doubt my word. I insist I have the right to stand before you and affirm the honor of my house, although I release you from my demand for the ritual of blood price, because you and yours had no part in Gilchrist’s death.”

  Hrolf Kraki was struck dumb for a moment by Arthur’s effrontery, and his eyes crackled with the energy of ungovernable rage.

  “You don’t have the authority to release me from anything, mongrel dog.” The insult was hissed, although Stormbringer whitened at the king’s viciousness.

  “Perhaps this young man feels a need to prove himself, Majesty,” Frodhi interrupted from the front line of the jarls in the audience. “You know me, cousin! I’m always ready to be entertained. This young man is touted as a warrior of distinction, worthy of carrying the name of the Last Dragon. Why should he have a nomen even more imperious than yours, noble king, for he hasn’t been required to lift a sword to prove his right to the title?”

  The name Crow King ranked several steps in prestige below that held by the captive. Crows were vermin and scavengers, so Hrolf Kraki bridled visibly.

  Arthur lifted his chin. Equally matched in height and breadth of shoulder, they stood toe to toe as equals, until Hrolf Kraki snorted with an impatient gesture, then turned away from his youthful opponent.

  “Strip him!” Hrolf Kraki ordered. “Let’s see if this young whelp speaks the truth or is merely an idle boaster. You do the honors, Stormbringer. After all, you brought him here. Is he an imposter, a fool, or a king’s son? He’s a damned nuisance, if nothing else.”

  The king allowed himself a secretive smile. “You can help Stormbringer, Frodhi, since you’ve seen fit to stick your nose into my affairs.”

  Frodhi bowed his head contritely and stepped forward.