by Damien Black
It was then that he remembered something Vertrix had told him, long ago when he squired for him. If you can’t beat a foe in a head-on fight, change the direction of attack. Out-think your enemy, and victory is nearly always assured.
But such advice was all well and good in the field, when different terrain and tactics could be employed to devastating effect. This was a tourney joust, fought under formal rules of engagement. What could he change, and how?
Gazing through the eye slit of his helm he saw Torgun at the other end of the lists, a formidable sight atop his mighty dappled charger.
‘Couch!’
And then the answer came to him.
At the last second he reversed his grip, couching his spear over-arm. He heard a few muffled gasps and grunts of surprise through his helm. No one in the Free Kingdoms jousted over-arm: the style was particular to the heathen Sassanians and the Imperial cavalry. But Braxus had been a keen hunter since his early youth, when he’d chased deer and boar across the wooded hills of his homeland. The over-arm grip came naturally to him.
‘Tilt!’
Braxus felt his heart racing in time to his horse’s hooves as they gobbled up the distance between them. This was his only chance and he knew it: a knight as good as Torgun would only be surprised by the change-up for a few precious seconds. It was now or never.
Torgun varied his strikes and tilted in a way that made it impossible to predict which way he would go. Braxus would simply have to choose an area to defend with his heater and hope Ushira smiled on him. He held his shield across his chest, bringing it up at the last split-second to protect his face. Head shots were the hardest to pull off with a lance strike, and the most dangerous.
But Torgun was no ordinary knight, and this was personal.
The thunk of metal on wood told him he had guessed correctly. Braxus hardly dared to look as he drove the point of his own spear down hard against the middle chief of Torgun’s kite, slamming the rim against his helm. The downwards angle of the strike caught the Northlending completely off kilter, sending him reeling backwards in the saddle. Sir Braxus tore past him and spun his horse around. Sir Torgun was teetering against the cantle, both legs torn free of the stirrups as his destrier reared and neighed.
For an agonising second Braxus thought he was going to recover his balance… But then Torgun slipped off his horse, limbs flailing wildly as he landed in the mud.
The crowd lapsed into stunned silence. Everyone there, noble and commoner alike, knew they had just witnessed something special.
And then the sound of clapping came from the bleachers. It was Adhelina, applauding her favourite champion. Gradually the sound was mirrored by the Lanraks and other Markwards; applause spread through the bleachers and down into the stalls, thickening into roars of adulation as it flowed across the crowd.
But only when the herald announced it did it truly sink in. Sir Braxus was jousting champion of the Graufluss Bridge Tourney.
CHAPTER XIII
Blood on the Horizon
Guldebrand ran lightly from one homestead to the next, torching them as he went. The crucified men and women shrieked pitifully as they died slowly in sight of their burning homes.
But the Thegn had no pity for victims of war. He was fighting for a greater good, of that he felt surer with every passing day. His warband had broken cover of the Hrorwood a week ago: this was the umpteenth village they had razed on their march to the capital. In what had been its centre Brega and Varra were finishing off the executions, beheading the handful of shieldmen who had surrendered.
‘May their spirits find the Halls of Feasting and Fighting beneath the Sea of Valhalla,’ said Guldebrand as the last headless corpse slumped to the ground. ‘Brega, how many does that make?’
Brega scratched his beard, with the air of a horse trader counting stock. ‘By my reckoning these make three hundred and seventeen shieldmen we’ve killed since we broke cover of the woods,’ he said.
‘Three hundred and nineteen,’ corrected Varra, wrenching his axe from the spurting neck of another shieldman. ‘You can’t count, Brega.’
‘At least I know how to behead a man,’ countered Brega. ‘Look at that one, he’s still alive for Tyrnor’s sake.’
Varra looked down at the twitching warrior and shrugged. ‘My axe is blunted with all this toil,’ he said. ‘He’ll bleed out soon enough and find his way to the Lord of Oceans, don’t you worry.’ Gazing at the two dozen slaughtered warriors he grunted approvingly. ‘Fought well and bravely this lot.’
‘By now word of our depredations will have spread,’ said Guldebrand. ‘This is probably the last inhabited settlement we’ll find between here and Landarök. The rest will have fallen back to the city if they’ve any sense. Regroup the boys, a quick bite and some mead, then we press on.’
Not all the slaves had been nailed to crosses. The wailing of women among the long grass told Guldebrand that ravishings were under way.
‘Ho there, lads!’ he cried, striding among them. ‘Get your ruttings done quickly and cut their throats when you’ve finished – we’ve a city to take!’
Cheers went up at that. One slave woman had broken free and was running for dear life. Poor thing, she’d been ravished by Haga Longshaft and could barely run. Pulling an axe from his belt Guldebrand hurled it. It pirouetted through the air and buried itself in her back. She fell with a cry and did not get up again.
‘Fetch my axe Haga!’ cried Guldebrand. ‘Lord of Oceans, do I have to clean up your mess for you? Come on the rest of you, eat and gather your strength – we should be hearing from Magnhilda’s lot any time now.’
They had just finished eating their fill of slaughtered bullock when Ragnar appeared on the horizon.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ asked Brega, following Guldebrand’s line of sight. Against the cloudy sky he could just make out a raven.
‘Ja, it’s him,’ said Guldebrand. ‘I know him by instinct these days.’
The raven drew nearer, descended and appeared to merge into the wet skies, pregnant with a coming squall. The mage’s mortal form coalesced before them.
‘Good e’en,’ said Ragnar curtly, ignoring the gasps of the superstitious warriors. ‘My magic was successful. The Shield Queen’s warband has taken Halgaard and razed Umtsk.’
‘To the point as always,’ grinned Guldebrand. ‘I hope she didn’t raze the longships at harbour as well.’
Ragnar shook his head, ignoring his attempt at humour. ‘Her forces are sailing up the Holm towards Landarök and will arrive in two days. I see your work has sped well too.’ The warlock looked around at the butchered bodies and burning shacks without emotion.
‘We’re still nigh on five hundred,’ replied Guldebrand smugly. ‘We did encounter a mustered leidang at the last town but they were barely a hundred strong. We’ve killed more than three hundred of Oldrik’s shieldmen. My plan worked.’
‘The Stormrider is on the back foot, but expect him to react swiftly now he is ware of you,’ said Ragnar unsmiling. ‘He will have sent word down south and his leidang will be mustering south of the Røk and hard on your heels. You’ll need to strike Landarök quickly before his reinforcements arrive.’
Guldebrand laughed. ‘Have no fear, White Eye,’ he said. ‘By my reckoning we are not more a day’s march from Aurgelmir’s Tooth. We’ll meet up with the jarls Bjorg and Vilm there, then we’ll march on Landarök. We should get there around the same time as Magnhilda and the Mountainside.’
‘I shall fly south now, to see how Walmond fares at Varborg,’ said Ragnar. The warlock’s form shimmered again, and a raven flew south across the desolate moorlands.
A crack and a rumble announced the arrival of rain. The sudden downpour washed the smell of blood from Guldebrand’s nostrils. The crucified men and children shrieked and groaned, their torment amplified as rainwater lashed their punctured wrists and feet.
‘What are you lot complaining about?’ yelled Guldebrand. ‘A good drink of water might see
you live another day if you’re lucky!’
He got a few laughs at that. A good leader should always know how to joke with the men.
Skulling the rest of his mead the Thegn stood to address his warband. ‘All right, you’ve had your fighting, your ravishing and your feasting,’ he yelled. ‘Now let’s get back on the warpath – we’ve at least three hours before sunset and I mean to cover some ground!’
It was past noon the following day when they reached Aurgelmir’s Tooth. It looked like a giant’s molar, stuck into the hard unyielding ground. Guldebrand couldn’t say if it really had anything to do with the legendary father of the Gygants, but it was a fine landmark to pick for a meeting spot.
Bjorg and Vilm were waiting for him by the gnarled rock with their warbands, just as Ragnar had said they would be. The storm clouds had cleared since the day before and he greeted his jarls under bright skies.
‘Ach, Guldebrand,’ said Bjorg, his tattooed head doing little to hide his broad grin. ‘We have left a sea of wounds behind us! The sleep of the sword my men brought to more than a hundred brave shieldmen.’ Bjorg was very tall even for a Northlander, with lean wiry limbs like knotted ropes.
‘And let it not be said that I have slept on my sword,’ put in Vilm. ‘I left the blood ember burning on the necks of a like number of warriors.’ Vilm’s hair was corn yellow, his beard cut in a short square that went well with his stocky frame.
‘Good,’ said Guldebrand. ‘Together with our efforts that makes five hundred shieldmen loyal to Oldrik who now feed the ravens.’
Impulsively he leapt up on to the large rock and drew his sword. Sweeping his gaze across his leidang he pointed at the firmament with his blade.
‘Hear me, o feeders of the eagle!’ he cried. ‘Now we march north, to bring weather of weapons to Landarök! Like the breaker of trees we shall bear down upon their walls! A bloody harvest we’ll reap with the wound-hoe! Oldrik shall not live to see another season, for soon the skies shall be washed with his blood! What say ye, shieldmen and seacarls and berserkers? Who shall be crowned Magnate of the Frozen Wastes?’
Guldebrand felt his father’s blood course through his veins as a thousand throats roared his name.
CHAPTER XIV
Of Duelling Hearts
Adhelina watched with trepidation as the two knights approached the wooden dais. Her father stood beside her, still and silent. He had evidently resolved on keeping his feelings to himself for now.
‘The runner up of this year’s Graufluss Bridge Tourney, Sir Torgun of Vandheim!’ cried the herald. The assembled knights, squires and ladies applauded. Many of the former wore bandages under their court clothes; at least a dozen fighting men were still laid up at the Marionite tent. And would be for some time.
Sir Torgun stepped forward with a wave of acknowledgement and kneeled before the makeshift podium that topped the dais. Adhelina placed a laurel wreath upon his brows as the Eorl took up a purse of jingling coins and a gilt-pommelled dagger sheathed in a dark leather scabbard set with amethysts.
‘Fifty gold regums and this fine dirk to our runner-up!’ proclaimed the herald.
The high-born audience clapped again as Torgun held the dagger aloft for all to see. If he felt chagrin at losing the final he showed no signs of it, smiling bashfully as though it were his first tourney.
He is modest as befits a true knight, thought Adhelina. How unlike so many of my father’s.
She realised with a surge of guilt that she was thinking of Sir Balthor. The braggart who had laid down his life to save her. She let the thought die as the herald called out again.
‘And now, ladies and noblemen… this year’s champion, Sir Braxus of Gaellen!’
The applause was a little louder, but not much. The commoners loved a winner, but the local knighthood could be counted on to allow parochial envy to dull their appreciation of the better man. The common folk had descended on Merkstaed hours ago to continue their revels at its three inns. Thinking on her adventures there she suppressed a shiver. Where was Anupe now, she wondered? Probably on the road to Meerborg if she had any sense.
She eyed Braxus as he kneeled before her. That rakish smile, the sparkling eyes… He reminded her a lot of Agravine. But Braxus had proved himself the worthier champion. Not only that, he had other talents too. She had heard him play and sing back at the camp, there was more to him than just a ladies’ man.
And yet, a ladies’ man he clearly was.
As she put the victor’s wreath garlanded with white roses on his head she surprised herself with the realisation that she did not care. It wasn’t likely to happen anyway, she might as well indulge in a bit more fantasising.
‘A hundred gold regums, and a Westlun stallion for the victor!’ announced the herald. Adhelina had the distinct impression the applause was for the fine white horse, led by a squire into the space between tables.
‘And now a few words from our brave champion,’ said the Eorl, his voice dangerously neutral. Unbidden, Adhelina’s eyes swept across to the table reserved for the Lanraks. Hengist was nowhere to be seen, nor Reghar and Hangrit – doubtless they were roistering among the peasantry in town. But Albercelsus was there, along with the Herzog’s sisters and Sir Adso. At least the Marshal had the decency to applaud; the others just stared stonily, as though bored by the spectacle.
‘I thank you,’ said Braxus, courteously addressing the assembly in his lilting Decorlangue. ‘For your warm hospitality, so rightly famed across the Free Kingdoms! And your generosity does not go unmarked either!’
More applause, sprinkled with a few ‘ayes’. The Thraxian could charm the tusks off a boar: even the rivalrous knights of Stornelund and Dulsinor were starting to warm to him. As for the ladies, clearly most had already made up their minds about him. Taking in their hot-eyed stares, Adhelina could not help but feel proud that such a comely knight would joust in her name.
‘So impressed am I with said generosity that I shall return it in kind!’ continued Braxus. ‘Every Vorstlending I bested shall have his horse and armour returned free of charge!’
It was a bold gesture. Few would be so generous; even chivalrous knights prized their spoil. Cheers went up and goblets were drained to the Thraxian’s health.
‘And I hope you will forgive me if I keep this mighty stallion in reserve – now I have a steed the like of which I have coveted for many a year.’
A few frowns met that statement. But Adhelina was far more interested in Torgun’s reaction. His face darkened instantly.
‘A Farovian destrier is as fine a steed as any knight could wish for,’ said Braxus, meeting the tall knight’s black stare.
Why are you provoking him you idiot? Adhelina thought. Can’t you see when you’ve won?
Torgun took a deep breath as if to master his growing anger. Addressing her father he said: ‘My lord, if the runner-up might have a word?’
‘Of course,’ said Wilhelm, motioning for him to speak freely. Adhelina glared at the Eorl. She knew him well enough to realise he had anticipated this situation.
Sir Torgun rarely raised his voice, but this time he spoke a shade louder. Everyone listened.
‘Sir Braxus of Gaellen, you jousted well and truly deserve to be champion. Your methods are unorthodox, but no one can dispute the strength of your right arm. Or the cunning with which you use it.’
Silence fell. Torgun’s words, though polite, had a pointed sting to them.
Braxus smiled thinly.
‘My humble apologies, sir knight,’ he replied. ‘It must be difficult to taste defeat for the first time. ‘Tis a greater test of one’s chivalry than victory, they say.’
‘Indeed,’ returned Torgun, keeping his composure. ‘And let it never be said that I was found wanting. You bested me fairly, and with like sincerity will I now ask this boon of you.’
Braxus raised an eyebrow. Silence persisted.
‘Seven brave knights I bested before falling to thee,’ said Torgun, sounding ever more formal. �
�One I have returned his harness to, as recompense for the excessive injuries I dealt him. The rest I shall sell back to their owners, as per the rules of the contest. Every coin I raise from such proceeds I shall give you, if only you will return my horse and armour.’
Braxus smiled and shook his head. ‘Your armour I will return to you gratis,’ he replied. ‘But as for the Farovian, not all the gold in the Pilgrim Kingdoms would part me from him. I have longed for such a steed and I will not be denied!’
Adhelina was shocked. Generally vanquished knights were permitted the opportunity to buy back their harness, though the Code wasn’t strict on that point. There was real spite in the Thraxian’s voice now.
Torgun blanched, his eyes freezing over with cold rage. ‘That horse has a name, and it is Hilmir,’ he said, measuring his words. ‘Three years have we been bonded, man and beast. Such a bond can rarely be broken.’
Braxus laughed hollowly. ‘Well then, I shall enjoy rising to the challenge – and if I don’t succeed, I have a fine horse here waiting to bear me!’ He gestured towards the white stallion.
Sir Torgun started to say something in his own tongue, then caught himself. Adhelina knew it was far from complimentary. She caught her father’s eye, willing him to intervene. But the Eorl simply watched the two knights, a half smile playing on his lips.
‘Sir Braxus, I am not a worldly man, but I believe my winnings amount to well over a hundred regums in value,’ continued Sir Torgun. ‘This together with my prize money I shall give you, if only you will return my horse.’
‘It isn’t your horse any more,’ said Braxus. ‘I suggest you retain a charger from your winnings.’
From the corner of her eye Adhelina caught a look of disgust on Horskram’s face, though he hardly seemed surprised. Next to him his novice gawped, looking perplexed and troubled.
Sir Torgun said no more but bowed curtly and withdrew, stalking off towards the camp.