The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  Several nearby warriors snickered; humor could be important when disaster loomed at them from behind every tree and in every farmhouse.

  The Dene fugitives set off at a steady, mind-numbing pace that left a little energy for a fast burst of speed if such a desperate pace became necessary. The girls’ feet developed blisters, and Arthur carefully wrapped the injuries with rags from their skirts to minimize the pain. Fortunately, Maeve’s pouch held a small container of salve among her odds and ends, so the girls were once again able to don their shoes. They begged for permission to run barefoot, but Arthur was as obdurate as stone. He knew that bared feet would swell, split, and eventually cripple them. Soft moss was used to pack any gaps in their shoes where it could cushion their wounds without contaminating the blisters.

  Food supplies for the fugitives seemed to magically appear as they followed the path to their destination. The local populace ignored the danger of punishment by death for aiding the outlaws and contrived to leave dried fish or bread near barn doors, while new milk appeared in large earthenware jugs alongside baskets of fresh eggs. Never given openly, this food simply appeared from out of nowhere, mostly at times when the fugitives paused for a brief interlude of sleep. Even woolen blankets, admittedly much worn and unraveling at the edges, were found lying over fences at remote homesteads. The fugitives never saw a living soul, not even the Dene children, who were always curious around strangers. Fed and nurtured by their countrymen, the fugitives could run on and on, regardless of bad weather or the roughness of the terrain. Arthur was amazed at how courageously the ordinary people could ignore the edicts of their king. The young prince said as much to Eamonn when they paused to sleep in the brief period between noon and late afternoon, for they had run during the night to hide from any pursuit on horseback.

  Stormbringer had decided to flee through the coming night and the following day, now they were approaching their destination. Fortunately, the land here was flat.

  “No one is openly disobeying Hrolf Kraki’s edicts because the Dene set great store by individual and collective loyalty,” Stormbringer told Arthur during one of the short rest breaks. “However, our king has used up much of the common folk’s goodwill, especially since he’s taken up with the White Witch, as the commoners call Aednetta.”

  He paused.

  “The Dene peasantry don’t trust Aednetta because the king’s latest decisions harm their interests. Their crops are heavily taxed, while their sons are taken to Heorot, where they are required to carry out menial duties. Our people would willingly give these things to the king if he accorded them the thanks that their sacrifices warrant, but Hrolf Kraki has used his power arrogantly and has stretched their loyalty to the limit.”

  Stormbringer’s second-in-command, Sumarlioi, had listened to the conversation. With a sense of pride, he gave an additional reason for the Sae Dene’s influence with the country folk.

  “Stormbringer is a hero to these people, one who has always put the welfare of his people before his own comforts. Just like the local peasantry, Valdar Bjornsen is a farmer, even though the scale of his cultivations is much larger than their small acres. Wait till you see the size of The Holdings! In short, his people won’t believe that Stormbringer has suddenly become a traitor, and certainly not on the word of a bitch like Aednetta Fridasdottar.”

  Arthur smiled wryly and nodded in understanding.

  Then Stormbringer set out once more, and there was no breath left for talking.

  “At least, this explanation is favored by Stormbringer’s lieutenant, who insists that the people already hate Aednetta like poison,” Eamonn added later in the day during another short rest break. “According to one of the farm workers he spoke with when we were passing through the last village, Maeve’s speech about impending sickness and the diminution of Dene power has been repeated constantly, and several women purported to have the Sight have cast the runes and they agree with her.”

  By the fourth day, all the fugitives were weary and desperate for rest. Maeve’s blisters had become infected, but she bit her lips and continued to run, although Arthur could see a spoor of blood left on the earth when she moved. Stormbringer noted this proof of her fortitude as well, and he treated the girl with the same respect he usually gave to men. The Sae Dene ensured that her wounds were cleansed and well wrapped, although the treatment cost valuable time.

  But she still refused to be carried.

  The day was well advanced when the path suddenly turned towards the sea. From cliffs that beetled over stony beaches too wild to allow ships to beach, the fugitives could see the grey-blue sea and a steady line of breakers far below them. Arthur could also spot charcoal smudges on the far horizon that suggested islands in the far distance.

  Arthur could tell that Maeve was at the point of collapse. But before he could lift his sister up and carry her, Stormbringer appeared from behind and hoisted the girl bodily onto one of his shoulders. As he hefted the girl like thistledown, he barely broke his stride.

  “We’re only one hour from my uncle’s village now,” he told Arthur. Sea Wife awaits us, although I doubt that she’s seaworthy. It’s just a little farther, my friends, so we’ll sleep under a roof tonight. If God is willing, we’ll have a fire and good food to keep us warm.”

  The Dene warriors managed to raise a ragged cheer, but most were so exhausted they could scarcely manage any enthusiasm. The men were no longer running—they were stumbling. While all the able-bodied men had been encumbered with shields, swords, and armor, the girls had been the truly heroic members of the party, and every man present knew how they had struggled to keep up with the main group. Obstinately, they had called upon their youth and willpower to keep going. And now, although she was slung over Stormbringer’s shoulders in a most undignified position, Maeve had only ceased running when her feet had finally betrayed her. The warriors even approved of Maeve’s predictions and her assertions that had brought them to this pass; she had simply voiced the words that so many of them had thought but feared to say aloud.

  Night was fully advanced by the time that Stormbringer saw lights on the foreshore below a particularly high and precipitous bluff. After sending several warriors to search for the point where the path plunged down to the village, he set Maeve down on the coarse sea grass and rested on his heels to regain his breath.

  “We’ve found the path, my lord,” a large warrior called from the lip of the cliff, while Arthur’s heart sank to see a group of figures appear as indistinct shapes against the slightly lighter skyline. He dreaded the thought of negotiating such dizzying depths in the darkness.

  The Briton limped slowly to the cliff edge, where one of the warriors was hefting a torch that would make the narrow track visible. Maeve hobbled to his side to examine what was visible of the steep drop. Decisively, she started the painful descent before Arthur could stop her. Every step must have been excruciating, but her retreating back gave no indication of it. Wherever the path became particularly treacherous, Maeve had the presence of mind to turn around carefully so she could find handholds and footholds more easily.

  “I won’t allow anyone else to fall because they feel compelled to carry me down this cliff,” she announced between clenched teeth. “Agility is all that matters on a path such as this, so I can manage if I have light to show the way.”

  Other torches were lit from whatever materials came to hand along the cliff top, revealing a path more suited to the passage of mountain goats than humans. The climbers picked their way gingerly as they searched for assistance from handholds of long, coarse grass or stunted bushes that survived precariously along this strip of earth between the land and the sea. Occasionally, a foothold or the roots of a windswept bramble would give way and men would stumble, but other hands always seemed to snake out of the darkness to steady the windmilling arms of their companions.

  Eventually, the whole party made their way successfully to the foo
t of the cliff.

  The village of World’s End was set back into the cliff face along a section of rising shale shelves that kept it above the level of the highest tidal flows. The small houses were constructed of grey rock taken from the foreshore and the cliffs that protected the dozen houses that clung, limpetlike, to their flanks.

  Unlike the houses of Heorot, these small one-room structures were round or oval and made entirely of unmortared stone. They reminded Arthur of the most primitive and ancient villages that clung to the cliffs along the wild coasts adjacent to Tintagel in Britain.

  Moisture glistened on the stone as if the sea had washed over this hamlet and scrubbed it clean. Smoke leaked from holes in roofs made from sod, while the tiny slit windows sent narrow shafts of flickering light to expose the rough face of the cliff. A barricade of rough stone topped with dry, thorny briars encircled the whole community. Arthur felt a spasm of nostalgia for his homeland that was far more acute than he thought possible.

  When Stormbringer pushed open the rough gate of young tree logs that led into the maze of cottages, he motioned for the rest of his men to wait outside the compound. Lit by stray shafts of moonlight, Stormbringer was a huge and menacing shape of slick furs and an armored head, a sight that any timid villager would have mistaken for a monster. He stayed beside the gate where any watchers could see him clearly before raising his makeshift torch so his face was visible.

  “Don’t be alarmed over our late arrival at your village, people of World’s End! You know me! I am the nephew of your dead master, Erikk Sea-Searcher, and as you know, I am his heir. As a child, I visited your village with my uncle. I recall that I sat at the forge and watched Poul Snaggle-tooth turn iron cherry-red as he made fishhooks and spearheads. And I marveled then at the skill of old Rhun as he made nets in the sunshine.”

  A harsh and untrusting voice rang out. “I remember Valdar Bjornsen well, but any man can call himself anything he chooses if he’s surrounded by armed men in the darkness. How are we to know that you are the Stormbringer? You can say whatever you want, with impunity.”

  Arthur could tell from Stormbringer’s lowered head that he was thinking quickly. Then, putting down his torch, Stormbringer ripped off his mailed shirt and his jerkin to expose a section of his broad, muscular side, almost under his arm. A massive scar, puckered and thick like rope, was exposed where Stormbringer had obviously been badly burned many years earlier.

  “Do you remember the fire, Poul? I was ten, and a coal fell from the forge unnoticed. The straw caught alight and I foolishly tried to put it out. But I was a clumsy boy who dreamed of heroism and great battles, not old enough to be wary of dangers that lay in my path. I had grown too tall and too fast, so I slipped when I threw a bucket of water over the blaze. I fell onto a bucket of coals, which burned through my shirt. One of the embers became caught inside my leather jerkin and continued to burn like a finger of fire. I remember that you pulled off my tunic and smeared my burns with pig fat. I can still recall the pain of those wounds.”

  “Aye,” another older voice answered. “I also remember that burn. It tracked across the boy’s side as if the trail of a fiery snail had burned into the boy’s flesh. I welcome you, Valdar Bjornsen, for no one could counterfeit that scar.”

  The doors to the nearest houses were swiftly unbarred and half a dozen men stepped out, still holding hoes, harpoons, and the knives that were normally used to skin and gut fish. Arthur saw another man exit the narrow alley between his house and the protective wall, clutching a short bow with an arrow nocked into position. This village would be far from helpless in the event of an attack by a marauding force.

  A short, elderly man with distinguished features came forward from the press of onlookers. He was wrapped in sleeping furs, but he carried an air of authority.

  “What brings you to World’s End, Stormbringer? A man of your influence and reputation has no need to visit a small community of no particular value such as ours. And why do you come with a whole troop of warriors at your back? Did you fear attack from this village?”

  “I’m declared outlaw by our king! Hrolf Kraki calls me traitor because I argued that his dependence on his witchwoman is dangerous to our people. He has decreed that anyone who helps me is also declared outlaw, so you may turn me away and no one will blame you. I’d be shamed forever if harm were to come to this village because of me and mine.”

  Stormbringer’s honesty was written clearly on his shining face, although more than one person in the village wondered at the true story that lay behind his banishment. However, these villagers were bound to Stormbringer’s family forever. His uncle had protected the small hamlet all his life because it possessed a useful cove for the repair of his ships. Likewise, Stormbringer felt he owed a debt to every person who dwelled within its stony walls. Even if they had denied him shelter, his allegiance to them would never change because, as his vassals, the villagers were his responsibility.

  “Come into our house, Valdar, master of this village. We don’t fear Hrolf Kraki, or the power of mere mortals. They cannot stop the waves or still the storms. We have our own wisewoman, and the Serpent protects us. I, Sigurd, as headman of this village, will give you a roof over your heads. What we have is yours, as little as it is.”

  Sigurd’s dignity raised a lump in Arthur’s throat, for so had Bedwyr offered succor to those dispossessed refugees who came to his home in Arden.

  Hoisting Maeve up into his arms, he limped forward into the light.

  “You bring strangers to our door, Stormbringer. Who are these outlanders?”

  The elder spoke so reasonably that Arthur was comforted by his even questioning, even though the elder was wary of the young man’s alien appearance.

  To enhance the captives’ prestige, Stormbringer introduced the four Britons by giving them their full titles and explaining how they came to be in the lands of the Dene. Once the captain had finished, Arthur inclined his head to all the villagers with a courtesy that had been ingrained in him at his mother’s knee.

  “Master Stormbringer failed to tell you that we four were responsible for bringing the wrath of the king down on your master’s head. Eamonn pen Bors and I, with the strength of our bodies, proved that we had the right to stand in Heorot as free men, regardless of the spite of Hrolf Kraki and Aednetta Fridasdottar. One of the king’s warriors, Rufus Olaffsen, was selected by Hrolf Kraki to uphold the honor of the king’s court in a battle to the death with Eamonn. Rufus was fairly beaten by my friend and, despite the loyalty and courage he had shown during the contest, the king’s champion was foully cast out by the king.”

  Arthur gazed around at the absorbed faces of the listeners. “My sister, Maeve, bravely informed the king that his dependence on his witchwoman would bring disease and disaster to the Dene people. The accuracy of her prophecy became ominous when a wounded courier arrived with advice that the king had been betrayed by traitors in Skania who had overrun his villages in the province. Before he died, the courier revealed that his subjects who inhabit Skania are in grave peril from the king of Gothland. They begged for help from the Crow King, but Hrolf Kraki wouldn’t be moved.

  “No blame can be attached to Stormbringer for the events that have brought him to this pass, for the ultimate responsibility for his banishment is mine. We are strangers to him, but I now owe Stormbringer for four lives. This is a blood debt which I, Arthur ap Artor, have sworn to repay. Should you take us in, I vow that the people of World’s End will also become my responsibility, and I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  “That’s fairly said, young master! So you’ll be the one they call the Last Dragon? You have the size and the bearing for it, but only time can tell if the goddess intends to favor you. You and yours may come into our village now and be welcome.”

  Willing hands took Maeve from Arthur’s arms, and she was borne away by a cluster of women. Feeling lost and without purpo
se, Arthur stood loosely, but he was comforted by the Dragon Knife and the sword that hung heavily from his belt. After months of uncertainty, there was a degree of comfort in their weight, as if a part of his self that had been amputated by force had been magically returned. He was a man again.

  Friendly hands guided him through the maze of narrow alleyways that wound between the outer walls and the village huts. Arthur’s brain registered that this village was perfect for defense, with its protective outer walls encircling all the huts and the curving alleyways that linked them and made ambush easy. Any attacking force could be easily cut off in those dark, claustrophobic spaces where there was scarcely room to swing an axe or a sword.

  A doorway seemed to materialize before him, and a grizzled man with a long grey head of hair plaited into two forks ushered Arthur into his home. The small, circular room was only four sword lengths in diameter and was dominated by a central stone fire pit. Arthur’s head struck a rolled, hanging net and other unseen items that were hooked to the raftered ceiling. The bearded man pointed to a pile of straw in one corner that was covered with a length of coarse wool smelling strongly of fish. Silvery scales from a cleaned catch of fish gleamed on the undyed wool.

  But for all its poverty and bleakness, the room was warm, the straw was soft, and the bowl of fish stew that was thrust into his hands was still hot and very tasty. Simple pleasures, Arthur decided, would be enough to meet his needs for the foreseeable future. He ate, thanked his host, and then slept like a child, thoroughly warmed from exhaustion and his newfound peace.

  World’s End had no name other than what the villagers called it.

  Perched on the very edge of the landmass, the village must have seemed to its inhabitants to be the last place on earth, for no farms clustered on the cliffs above it and there were no towns within easy reach. Only the return of young men who had left the village in search of work or a wife could provide new blood to sweeten and strengthen families that had existed, unchanged, for hundreds of years.