The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  —SOCRATES, RECORDED BY PLATO IN Phaedo

  Arthur spent several idyllic days out on the cliffs snaring rabbits with Blaise’s traps, while Eamonn filled his days with the men of the village as they fished in the bay.

  Arthur saw his skin begin to brown in the spring sunshine, and he gained a boy’s enjoyment from pitting his muscles against the cliffs, climbing up faster and faster as his confidence grew. He achieved some measure of success with the women of the village by presenting them with rabbits, wild fowl, and a too-curious fox in its spring coat. He also became adept at catching and tethering wild goats in a makeshift pen for the boys to tame and milk. These young lads spent most of spring and summer away from the village as they tended their sheep and a small herd of prized cows. In his daily explorations, Arthur found that there were caves aplenty farther up the coast, where the paths to the sea were kinder and fresh water was plentiful. The additional wild goats he found in this area were very welcome as a new source of milk, hides, and wool.

  The young man found that killing the wild creatures he caught was far harder than destroying an enemy in battle. Naturally softhearted, Arthur experienced a bone-deep sadness when he was forced to inflict suffering on an animal, but he accepted that such animal husbandry was necessary. Only Maeve could fully understand this squeamishness in her brother, reckoning that men were able to comprehend why death came to claim their lives, while beasts could only suffer in dumb silence.

  Sometimes, his hunts were especially profitable for the villagers, and these occasions became a cause célèbre for the whole village.

  While clearing his trapline, Arthur stumbled across a deer in a small expanse of woodland and managed to bring it down with a bow and arrow. Because the carcass was too large to carry, the young man was forced to butcher the deer where it fell and carry the meat and hide back down to the village in well-planned stages.

  The women exclaimed over the meat and the internal organs, while the hide was carried off to be stretched and aired on a frame. Even the hooves provided a sticky substance that had a variety of uses when they were boiled, and the bones could be carved for utensils, hooks, and other weapons. The small horns were especially prized.

  Maeve also applied the skills learned from her mother, augmented by some of the herbal remedies contained in Myrddion’s scrolls. Arthur grinned ruefully when he remembered how he had pored over those same scrolls to learn the secrets of his father’s warcraft and Myrddion’s strategic genius, while his mother memorized every casual reference she’d heard from her son of Myrddion’s healing lore. Here, Maeve could put the knowledge learned so long ago to some practical use.

  Still limping badly, Maeve began to hunt for mandrake root, radishes, and comfrey. Herbs and plants were hung to dry in the hut she shared with Freya, while the young girl shared what knowledge she had with that old soul who, in turn, shared her knowledge of various seaweeds and remedies from the sea. Once her feet began to heal, Maeve climbed to almost inaccessible places along the cliffs, which Arthur’s weight would bar him from reaching. While there, she pillaged the gulls’ nests for eggs while apologizing to the angry birds for stealing their embryonic young.

  Both girls spent time using simple spindles to spin the coarse wool from the small herd of black-faced sheep that the village possessed. These objectionable animals were very bad-tempered, and the old ram resisted being shorn so violently that Arthur was badly bruised by its powerful head when he and the boys removed its heavy winter wool.

  Like many British women, the two girls had been well trained at the loom and were able to create a yarn that could be woven into a coarse cloth, regardless of whether the wool came from sheep or goats. While the village women were adept at spinning and weaving, the British girls were more familiar with the sophisticated tools that had come to Britain with the Romans. They did everything they knew to share their knowledge with their new friends.

  And so the days passed in pleasure and usefulness, so that Arthur almost forgot that they were fugitives and that Hrolf Kraki’s dogs were still hunting for them. Ultimately, such idylls must end, but Arthur was unprepared for the suddenness and viciousness of that ending.

  The villagers settled down for the night after eating their frugal evening meals of flat bread and stew. Then, just on dark, a boy ran into the compound with his shaggy hound trotting behind him. As the herders normally stayed away from home for several weeks at a stretch, the boy’s arrival sounded an alarm, so tousled heads appeared at every door in the compound. This boy was like most of his kind. He was a little over ten years of age, but not yet a man, and was dressed for the summer in crude hide breeches, a coarsely woven shirt, and rough sandals. His eyes wide and terrified, he spoke out manfully as soon as he had been ushered into the headman’s hut, gabbling out what he had seen.

  “There are men coming! Some are on horses and the others are on foot. Near to twenty of them! I saw them chasing Leaper here. He’d have fought them, but I thought it was more important to raise the alarm. We didn’t want to leave the cows, so we drove them into a copse where they’ll be safe. I’ll kill the bastards myself if they hurt my cows—I swear I will!”

  In spite of his fear, the boy was proud of his efforts and luxuriated in the praise of his elders for his foresight and bravery. Before he had completed his tale, Arthur had heard enough and instructed Blaise to run as fast as she could to raise the alarm with Stormbringer and the other warriors. Eight men, as well as a dozen able-bodied villagers, almost set the conflict on an equal footing, except for the obvious fact that their enemies were trained warriors, hard-bitten and brutal killers who would stop at nothing to succeed with their mission.

  Then, with the aid of Eamonn and the six warriors loaned by Stormbringer, Arthur dragged the village gate into position at the entrance to the compound. Inside the barrier, a large, trimmed log was kept specifically to act as a blockade. The wall on either side of the gate had holes chopped into the raw stone where the massive log could fit firm and snug once it had been maneuvered into position. Arthur admired the creativity shown by the builders of the wall and their foresight in constructing such easily erected defenses.

  “That wooden barrier won’t hold them for long if they have their axes with them, but at least there’s no way they can spirit their horses down the cliffs. They’ll be forced to leave at least one of their warriors to guard the hobbled beasts once they find the path leading down to the beach. At a guess, we’ll be fighting nineteen men, and I’ll warrant they’ll be heavily armed.”

  “Can we hold them, Arthur?” Eamonn asked. His face was drawn with worry, but his eyes gleamed with the battle joy that ran through his whole tribe. As a direct descendant of Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall, Eamonn was a true son of those wild coasts and savage seas. Blaise had already departed on her dangerous run through the darkness with the same expression glistening in her eyes, for she shared her bloodline with Morgan and Morgause, extraordinary women who refused to be tamed.

  Arthur considered Eamonn’s question. It didn’t really matter whether they could win or not, because Arthur was oath-bound to protect the villagers with his lifeblood anyway. Still, he started from the premise that he had to succeed at any task assigned to him.

  “Yes, we can hold them! But we must win the battle, Eamonn, or at least keep the king’s men penned inside the compound until Stormbringer can come to our rescue. But we can only defeat our enemies if the headman agrees to give me command of the able-bodied men in his village. I must be permitted to place them in strategic locations where we can trap the warriors in narrow spaces, and then pick them off—one or two at a time. We are asking the headman to place his trust in strangers, so no one should be surprised if he refuses my request. But I have thought hard about our predicament because the Dene warriors provided by Stormbringer are unused to command, which leaves you and me to take control, Eamonn, and I’ve a lot more experience than you. The responsibilities will
lie heavily on our shoulders. Many of the villagers will die, but it’s the only way we can hold them—and survive the battle.”

  Sigurd, the headman, was already translating the words of the two Britons to the gathering crowd of villagers. Arthur was visibly shocked that this elderly, uneducated man knew the Celtic tongue as well as the Dene language. His surprise must have shown on his face, because the headman answered his guest’s unasked question in a reasonable facsimile of good Celt.

  “The Old Ones say your people once came from lands near here in the days before the Romans laid waste to Gaul and the approaches leading into the north. They moved south into Gaul during the years beyond imagining. It was said that they built a kingdom in the new lands and became rich on trade. I cannot know how they came to arrive in your homeland, but I can still speak and understand a little of their ancient tongue.”

  He paused and his eyes were sad. “I have no particular learning, but I remember the old stories, and some tribes near the borders of Saxony speak a version of your language that is even more pure than yours. I married a girl from one of those tribes when I went wandering in my youth, so I can still understand something of what you say. I only learned basic words and pillow talk, mainly because my girl was a dutiful wife who felt the need to learn my tongue. But when you love someone, it’s a pleasure to do little things that will make them smile, such as learning the language of their childhood.” Sigurd smiled sadly. “She died forty years ago, but I never forgot her stories or her language.”

  The world is far smaller than I ever imagined it to be, Arthur thought as he began to formulate his plans for defense and attack in his head. When he finally spoke, he used the Dene language out of a perverse desire for privacy.

  “All the women, children, and elderly men must go into the deep cave. If Kraki’s men should enter your refuge, you must defend yourselves as best you can until Stormbringer arrives. You must understand that the rest of us will have already been killed by the king’s warriors if the enemy has penetrated this far into our defenses. If that occurs, you’ll have to fight to the death.”

  The lack of understanding on Sigurd’s face spoke more loudly than words that the old man had lost the thread of Arthur’s rapidly issued orders. Briskly, and without any sign of panic on her face, Freya appeared and quickly and efficiently began to translate Arthur’s instructions.

  “Thank you, Mother. But it’s time for you to go to the caves with the others, including my sister. I can’t be distracted from my task because I’m worrying about your safety.”

  “Of course, Arthur. I’ll just wait for a short time until you have placed your men exactly where you want them. I’m concerned that they mightn’t understand you. I promise you I’ll go to the deep caves with Maeve as soon as you require it.” Freya spoke with such autocratic authority that Arthur decided he would be wasting his breath if he argued with her.

  Off in the distance, a muffled cry of terror came faintly from the direction of the path that led down the cliff.

  “With luck, that’s one less man to worry about.” Arthur grinned with wolfish relish.

  “I’m quite capable of using a bow, Arthur, if there’s one I can borrow,” Maeve interrupted. “I can help to guard the entrance leading into the deeper caves.” He nodded briskly as his sister’s mulish expression convinced him that she had already made up her mind.

  Then he turned to Stormbringer’s warriors, who were armed to the teeth and eager to do something other than the domestic tasks that had occupied them for most of the past week. Now there were enemies to kill. As Fortuna would have it, they would probably see battle and become heroes. Their fellow warriors working on the ship would most likely arrive too late to take any part in the impending combat.

  “Once the king’s men have broken through the log barrier, we’ll allow them to enter the alleyways. Their numbers are such that they’ll have to divide to the right and to the left, as the smaller paths are very difficult for a fully armed man to negotiate. There simply isn’t enough room along the pathways for them to maneuver themselves, so it’s a good strategy for us to divide their number and eliminate them individually. We’ll let them come to us, and then we’ll ambush them.”

  Arthur turned to examine Stormbringer’s warriors. Unfamiliar with their abilities, he selected them at random.

  “You three will take the right fork. But I need a bowman to accompany you.”

  With Freya’s help, one of the villagers stepped forward. He was clutching an old bow and quiver filled to bursting with arrows, most of which were flint-tipped.

  They must be very old, but they’ll kill just as well as good iron, Arthur thought with grim satisfaction. In fact, they’ll probably make nastier wounds.

  “According to the village legends, they go back to the time of the ice,” said the headman, noticing Arthur’s surprise. “Although we no longer have a need for bowmen in our lives, these men still honor the totem of their ancestors and the sea eagles, by keeping bows for . . .”

  “Religious ceremonies?” Arthur asked.

  “Aye, that’s it!” the headman replied. “But men of that totem could never explain their rituals to a stranger.”

  Arthur nodded his understanding and thanked God that these old pagans possessed archery skills that were relics of some distant past. Whether the villagers were accurate with these weapons was of little importance. In such close quarters, a bowman could hardly miss his target.

  “The rest of you will go to the left with another bowman. I need to divide the village men into three groups now, and these men will make up the second line of defense. When the pressure is greatest on Stormbringer’s warriors, they will fall back once we have inflicted some initial damage. This retreat will draw the attackers in for the kill. The men from World’s End must wield a mixture of weapons in each group. One man with a harpoon or a spear, and others with axes and hoes would be ideal, as the man with the harpoon or spear can kill from a distance while the others can come in closer. An archer would be even better, but I understand how unlikely it is to expect a number of men capable of drawing a bow in a small village, especially one that depends on fishing and grazing animals rather than hunting. And so we will do the best we can with what we have, such as the blacksmith’s hammers. Be wary of every move of the enemy, for these warriors are savage killers who are blood-bound to their king. They will cheat and use every low blow they know. They won’t give you any choice other than to kill them, so you can’t be squeamish. They know they can’t fail, for their oaths bind them to Hrolf Kraki—even beyond death!”

  Arthur’s sobering advice was more settling than any rousing speech. Then, as Freya departed for the caves with Maeve, the headman, and the other noncombatants, Arthur spoke once more to his motley group of defenders and explained quickly, with the use of diagrams in the mud of the pathway, how these simple fishermen must tempt their enemies into advancing deeply into the labyrinth. When he was satisfied that they understood his instructions, he sent the men to their positions in the defensive lines.

  As the defenders were about to depart, serious and determined, Arthur remembered one last issue that must be faced, by himself as much as by them.

  “Before you go, you must understand what we are doing this night. We commit treason, so no enemy must be allowed to escape, or they will take a warning to Hrolf Kraki of our presence here. Every man who is part of the attack on the village must die! Do you understand me? I doubt they’ll beg for quarter, but we can give none. Even the wounded must perish, although it seems cowardly. If we let even one man live, the king will return with a huge force and obliterate this village and kill everyone and everything in this place—men, women, children, and livestock! By giving us shelter, the lives of every villager is forfeit, even the infants in their cradles.”

  Such wanton revenge by Hrolf Kraki had never crossed the minds of these simple fishermen, because they were incapable of su
ch gross disrespect for human life themselves.

  Perhaps men who live in close proximity with nature, and are therefore prey to her whims, don’t understand the wickedness that motivates some kings or jarls whose power has turned into hubris, Arthur thought sadly. Then he smiled savagely. “Hrolf Kraki is due for a great fall, and his own crows will feed on his eyes, if he’s not careful.” Arthur spoke in his own language, so Eamonn was the only person who understood, which was just as well, given that Arthur’s words were treasonous. His friend nodded in tacit agreement.

  As the Dene warriors and the villagers disappeared into the maze of huts, Arthur gave Eamonn one final instruction.

  “You’re my second-in-command, and we understand each other’s capabilities, Eamonn, so you must remain directly behind me. We each know what has to be done. You must fight with your head rather than with your passion, my friend, because I can’t afford to lose you. When the point is reached where we’re finally securing the village from the attackers, I have one final task for you, and this responsibility is yours alone. You must climb the cliffs and locate the place where the Dene’s horses have been tethered. Once there, you must kill every sentry who has been left behind and ensure that no one escapes to raise the alarm with Hrolf Kraki. I repeat, Eamonn, no quarter must be given to any of the Dene warriors. Every one of them must die! Ride after any man who chooses to run, and then ensure he is killed.”

  “I swear it, Arthur. None of them will escape, not as long as I can hold a sword.”

  Eamonn’s grin seemed wide and white below the bleached skull of the moon. Only a few torches were left alight to illuminate those parts of the village that could provide aid to its defense rather than give even a modicum of assistance to the attacking force. If the king’s hunters required illumination, they must bring their own torches with them. After all, a warrior only had two hands, and Arthur’s strategy depended on the enemy being out of their depth at every step.