by M. K. Hume
Fine wood in bales, pigs of lead, tin and copper, iron weapons, cloth, dried meat, and fine leather goods were all stacked high on the wharf before being stowed in the hold to earn a handsome dividend for the owners of the vessel. The world still moved as trade flooded through her arteries.
While the sailors took the opportunity to drink themselves into stupors or sample the whores who frequented the alehouses, the captain happily accepted Germanus’s coin in payment for the passage.
Germanus discovered that this trade ship had made the long journey from Constantinople and had zigzagged its way across the Middle Sea while trading with Greece, Ravenna, Palermo, and Massilia, before passing through the Pillars of Hercules and continuing its journey to Brigantium and Gesoriacum. Here, sailors jumped ship cheerfully, for who would willingly be away from home for over two years?
During the night before embarkation, Gareth found that he was incapable of sleep. Try as he might, the gentle anodyne of oblivion refused to come, even when the young man swallowed a large draft of plum brandy. The possible privations that might lie ahead were terrifying, because he had no idea what the future might hold once he left the familiarity of his homeland. For one sickening moment, Gareth thought about running, but then his oath burned away his fear, leaving a memory of his unmanliness in its wake. Shamed, Gareth dropped to his knees and prayed, invoking the courage of his father, the spirit of the High King, and the steadfastness of Old Frith, his family’s most respected and revered ancestor.
Out of the past, to a great-grandson she had never known, Mistress Frith seemed to whisper the words of comfort that called to him from their shared blood.
“Without fear there can be no courage, Gareth. You must stand straight and tall, while trusting in your God and your strong right arm to carry you safely into the land of the Dene. You will meet your fate there—and you will find your purpose in life.”
“I’m afraid of failure.” Gareth spoke to the empty darkness. He knew that Frith was long dead and powerless to help him, but he could almost feel an invisible hand that smoothed back the fine hair disarranged by his nervous fingers. He was being forced to trust the expertise of other men at a time when he was far from sure that this honor was deserved.
“You’ll not fail, son of my grandson, not if you lay down your pride and learn to trust other persons during the darkest of nights. You must risk everything and hope to win.”
The young man should have been confused by the riddles conjured out of his tired brain, but the scent of clean wool and lavender seemed to drive all skepticism from his heart. Suddenly weary, Gareth lay down on the prickly straw pallet and submitted to his exhaustion.
In his dreams, a seamed old woman’s face smiled down on him, and Frith’s ancient arms rocked him and caressed him throughout the night.
Chapter XII
THE FORTUNES OF THE SWORD
Whatever befalls you was prepared for you beforehand from eternity, and the thread of causes was spinning from everlasting both your existence and this which befalls you.
—MARCUS AURELIUS, Meditations, BOOK 12, SECTION 5
According to the old Romans and their stoic concepts of fate, Fortuna always displayed a sense of humor as she spun her dreadful wheel that they believed brought failure, as well as good fortune, to every individual under heaven. So Arthur looked for a sign to give him guidance. He would prefer this spiritual aid to come from his mother’s Christianity, but Fortuna would do if she saw fit to smile upon four lost Britons who were far from their homes.
As if in answer to Arthur’s earnest prayers, a shaft of brilliant sunlight penetrated Heorot through the wide-flung portals. After the mists and rain of the dawn, the sun had risen to bring a day filled with golden sunshine. The air was crisp and cold, but the sun gave the illusion of warmth. The hall was exposed in all its violent glory, as was the king, so the Britons were left dazzled by an alien splendor.
Hrolf Kraki had dressed for this auspicious occasion and the light caught at a bloodred garnet on his thumb and found the blazing hearts of the cabochons in his crown. Blue, green, purple, and scarlet rioted in his greying hair, while the display invested the occasion with a holiday mood of celebration completely at odds with the blood that was about to be spilled by the combatants.
“You’ve come, Stormbringer, albeit tardily! I see that your charges are clean, armed, and well rested, so I expect they are eager to prove their worth.”
“Aye, Your Highness! Prince Arthur and Master Eamonn are ready to prove their innocence and their mettle in combat with your champions.”
Hrolf Kraki’s voice was jovial and avuncular in manner, although he was glaring suspiciously at his Sae Dene captain. Stormbringer recognized the obvious loss of royal favor, as did the observers present, while Arthur noted that many of the assembled warriors leaned away from the captain as if he were suffering from a contagious disease.
Frodhi had warned Arthur how it would be, although he was one of the few lords who stood firmly and refused to shun his cousin.
“Ave, Frodhi,” Arthur whispered to Eamonn, although the scratching of the voice in the back of his mind still bothered him.
“I’ve decided to give our loyal townsfolk a spring celebration,” Hrolf Kraki announced to the assembled crowd. “The contests will take place in the forecourt of Heorot, so all folk who wish to see the trial by combat are free to attend.
“I’ve been told the townspeople are already ten deep around the area prepared for the contests, mainly because they are curious to see how long these Britons will last against our champions. I hear that wagers are being laid on just how long your friends will stand upright and how proficient they are in the manly arts of war,” he stated blandly as he waved a negligent hand towards Maeve.
The king smiled wolfishly.
Stormbringer felt Maeve stiffen, and he wondered at how well she understood the king’s rapid-fire speech. Like her brother, she had the irritating habit of being far more acute than her composed, flowerlike face suggested. For some reason that Stormbringer barely understood, the fate of little Maeve mattered to him. Impatient at his sentimentality, he pushed the conflicting thoughts away.
“It’s time to go, my loyal subjects, for the townsfolk are waiting patiently,” the king decided with mock solemnity. Arthur wondered momentarily if Hrolf Kraki was quite sane.
“I’ve no doubt that my loyal Rufus grows tired of practice at a time when his sword hungers for red work,” Hrolf Kraki added, with such enjoyment that Eamonn knew the king expected that Rufus would emerge victorious.
But Eamonn swore that he would win, even if he had to cheat to do it.
The king rose to his feet with boyish vigor. Then, with a warrior’s briskness, he gestured for the witchwoman to follow him before striding through the mass of warriors towards Heorot’s open doors.
The witchwoman had dressed with care and had exchanged her widow’s garb for a robe of heavily bleached wool. With her pale hair and skin, she seemed innocent and very young, except for something scaly and ancient that Arthur imagined he saw slithering behind her pale, secretive eyes. In the rays of sunshine passing through the great doors of Heorot, she appeared to be an incandescent column of light.
This is superstitious nonsense, Arthur thought, and shook his head vigorously to banish any thought of failure. I don’t believe in magic, and those who do are fools, charlatans, or worse.
The king has underestimated us, especially Eamonn, so it’s likely that our opponents are overconfident as well. That certainty of victory will make them careless. Only careful men survive mortal combat with battle-hardened veterans.
At that moment, Arthur longed to wipe the supercilious sneer from the king’s lips. As for Aednetta, he would have given a great deal to shake her out of her preternatural calm.
Across the room, Frodhi nodded in the direction of Stormbringer. His salute also included the four
Britons, and Arthur turned back to the dais in time to see a sudden frown cross the Crow King’s face.
Standing directly in front of the captives, the Sae Dene whispered haltingly over his shoulder. Arthur had to strain to hear the words, but the substance of the Sae Dene’s message warmed them all. “My cousin, Frodhi, has asked me to inform you that he has placed a large wager on Eamonn on principle. He’ll be obliged if you were to win him a large sum of gold.”
“We shall try, my lord,” Arthur hissed back. “But I must say that while I find our huge friend to be an object of trepidation, I am even more terrified of Hrolf Kraki’s woman.”
Aednetta had been staring fixedly at the Sae Dene’s profile with an expression that was most chilling because it said nothing in particular. The Crow King was seated above her in the throne room, as was appropriate, but her status was still far above everyone else’s in Heorot.
“Look at her feet!” Maeve urged, and Arthur felt a genuine shudder of horror as he saw something he had never experienced before, even in the heat of battle. Aednetta’s near-naked feet in their gilded sandals were sensuously caressing each other. Her largest prehensile toes ran along the inner side of each foot, while the hennaed nails were scoring her own flesh hard enough to draw thin streaks of blood.
Another quick glance revealed that Aednetta’s big toenails had been tipped with narrow sheaths of gilded metal sharpened to points. At the same time, her tongue was darting in and out of her mouth as she moistened her pale lips.
To further enhance her appearance, Aednetta had cinched her slender waist with a scaled belt of rosy gold. The complex pattern seemed to coil around her narrow body like a serpent. More gold glittered from her ears on rings so heavy that her earlobes were dragged downwards. Her braided hair was partly loosened and fell almost to her calves in attractive waves and curls so thick and voluptuous that even Arthur and Stormbringer felt her seductive pull. Only the image of those deadly nails as they drew blood from her own flesh stopped the rise of heat in the Briton’s mind and body. Almost every red-blooded man in the audience wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through that cloak of pale hair. Yet few could fail to recognize the cold, knowing triumph that lay under her cloak of innocence. After looking deeply into Aednetta’s pale-blue eyes, Arthur knew that she would remain an implacable foe until one of them was dead. He had no idea how he had offended her, but the reasons mattered little. She had primed the king all night, so the ruler would follow her instructions implicitly.
The entire royal party moved through the central aisle of Heorot, with the captives and Stormbringer close behind them. The assembled warriors, landowners, aristocrats, and citizens hurried behind them to find vantage points where they could watch the combat in relative comfort. In the undignified scramble behind them, Arthur gained some insight into how cheerless and bare of amusement winter must be in the Dene lands.
The spring sunlight hit the captive’s eyes with the force of a bright, white blow. On any other day, Arthur’s thoughts would have winged away with the gulls to distant and exciting shores.
But today was for death, not for possibilities and promises.
A large circle was constructed by an eager press of bodies against a ring of fully armed warriors. Highborn or low, the Dene had come to this contest of arms as if to a celebration.
The noise from the excited crowd was deafening. As the king approached, the crowd roared and chanted words of worship, although Eamonn said quietly to his friend that the witchwoman was ignored in the frenzied acclamation. The warriors beat the hilts of their swords against their shields, creating a crazy cacophony of noise that lasted until Hrolf Kraki seated himself on a temporary dais above the crowd where he would sit and watch the violent proceedings. That blood would be spilled was beyond question, and Arthur recognized the crowd’s demands for death and pain.
I will not die, Arthur vowed silently. I will not!
Then the voice in his mind screamed out a warning as he saw the size of their opponents.
A grizzled warrior introduced Rufus Olaffsen to the expectant crowd who roared their approval as the heavily armed man crossed his sword over his shield in salute. He was well over six feet and towered over Eamonn. Under an embossed ceremonial helmet Rufus’s face was weather-beaten, tanned, and handsome, although his features were bisected by a long scar across his face that almost reached his right ear.
“I think your enemy was scarred by a left-handed warrior at some time in the past,” Arthur told his friend. “You must change hands if you get the chance, because it just might confuse him. Watch his eyes also, for he becomes vulnerable if his thinking is announced in advance.”
Eamonn nodded his understanding. “I see it!” The nearest Dene cuffed Arthur to silence him, and the young man’s sight dimmed for a moment with the force of the blow.
Eamonn had already recognized his opponent’s flaws as soon as he had taken his first glance at the king’s champion. Rufus Olaffsen’s eyes were grimly determined, but his hazel stare was shallow. While he would obey his masters until death, did this particular warrior have the originality, the capacity, or the experience to defeat an enemy who refused to fight by the rules?
And then Thorketil was introduced to the crowd, and the response was almost hysterical.
Stormbringer had told the Britons that Thorketil was perceived by many to be a warrior out of legend, so Arthur expected the crowd’s approval. What was unusual was the way the densely packed bodies of the audience heaved away from the tall figure that approached the circle, bareheaded and threatening from head to foot.
Arthur estimated that the giant must top seven feet in his bare feet. Unlike most Dene, this warrior was heavy, with slabs of muscle so large and bulging that at first glance the warrior’s frame appeared to be deformed. His hair was the color of driftwood, partly bleached by salt seas and hot suns, and partly darkened by long immersion below pounding waves. Even his thick mane was somehow inhuman, like the ruff of a monster out of legend.
If I can grab some of that hair, he’ll discover that it’s unwise to take an enemy for granted, Arthur thought. I’ll drag his head back and cut his throat in an instant. I can’t give any chances to a monster like this man.
Thorketil had bright-blue eyes that protruded a little from his skull. His odd appearance was accentuated by a bulging forehead and a thick, heavy jaw. As Arthur had been warned, the coarser bones of the warrior’s face suggested the stupidity of a malformed child, but the protuberant eyes were quick and calculating. How many men must have perished because they assumed that Thorketil was only a mindless hulk?
I won’t be making that mistake. Let’s hope that Thorketil is accustomed to frightening his opponents to their deaths before he strikes an actual blow! Arthur examined his opponent from head to heel and realized, belatedly, that he was being coldly examined in turn.
Then the Britons were placed into a position below the dais where they were forced to stand like suppliants or slaves. As Rufus began to enact a series of simple exercises to warm up his muscles, Stormbringer bowed to the king and offered Eamonn the use of a large Dene shield.
“Rufus will be using a shield, as will Thorketil. You can’t afford for a single blow to fall on either of you, so I hope you’ve reconsidered your use of this defensive weapon, my friends.”
“I agree,” Eamonn responded quickly. “I’m prepared to use a shield, but I’d prefer to use a smaller one. I don’t want to be hampered by any extra weight.”
Stormbringer was surprised by the young man’s composure, for all traces of nervousness had vanished. Had the Dene captain known Eamonn a little better, he would have understood that Eamonn suffered from a vivid imagination and the longer he had to wait, the more nervous he became. By being in the first contest, Eamonn had been spared the anxiety of having to wait for his moment of truth.
Arthur nodded his approval when a child-sized shield
was brought by one of the Dene warriors. Although small, the shield possessed the same heavy metal boss and wooden armor of a full-sized protector. Eamonn would certainly need to wear his enemy down, so this shield would become essential against his taller opponent. As for himself, a shield would make his Dragon Knife useless if it remained in its scabbard. Arthur was sure his knife would be a key factor in his contest against Thorketil, although he had no idea how it could best be used.
Arthur rejected Stormbringer’s offer of a shield, then watched as impatience mounted in the eyes of his patron. The use of two blades in personal combat wasn’t a familiar concept to Stormbringer, although he was personally adept in the use of axe and sword as dual weapons of choice. For the Sae Dene, a knife was too paltry a weapon to harm an enemy.
“You must understand, Stormbringer, that British warriors are under attack from childhood,” Arthur explained to his mentor. “I know your people are raised in a cruel and unpredictable environment, but we Britons have been at war for nearly one hundred years. As I told you, I was forced to kill my first man and take my first wounds before I was ten years of age. I must be allowed to fight Hrolf Kraki’s champion in my own way.”
Stormbringer nodded slowly. He understood the nerve-stretching agony of waiting for trouble that may or may not come, compared with the self-control that a man can exert once the danger is clear and immediate.
A grizzled master of ceremonies proceeded to introduce Eamonn to the crowd as a British prince. Eamonn bowed towards the king, his opponent, and the onlookers with irony written in every line of his body, but his courtesy effectively stilled the noisier ruffians. Silence fell as both men entered the killing circle.
Predictably, Rufus Olaffsen struck the first blow as he charged at Eamonn with a bloodthirsty roar of challenge. His upraised sword was brought down to cleave Eamonn’s head in two, if the Briton had been so foolish as to wait for the blow to fall. The younger man skipped to Rufus’s left and his sword struck sparks on the cobbles.