A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “The Michaelines have a school here?”

  De Forbonnais laughed. “No, Lord Valerius, these are soldiers, not warrior priests. Young soldiers. They are scions of the nobility, usually the second sons, who are sent by their fathers to the school to learn the art of war. We call them Michelards, and they make up a considerable quantity of what I suppose you would call our centurions, or as is probably more to the point, decurions, since we have no foot-officers in the Militaire Royale.”

  “Which makes sense, considering that you have no actual foot,” Marcus observed. He was still mildly incredulous to have confirmed Quintus Veranius’s seemingly absurd claim that the Savondese did not utilize any proper infantry. It seemed their king made do with the annual peasant levy, supported by his battlemages and the heavy cavalry of his nobles. No wonder the Savondese couldn’t defeat the orcs on their own! How could any general expect to win and hold ground with cavalry and farmers?

  “The king maintains a regiment of royal men-at-arms,” de Forbonnais protested. “And then there is the Thauronian Guard, which protects his lands and household.”

  “A whole regiment! And how many men comprise this Guard?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “So your mighty king has little more than a single infantry cohort at his disposal,” Marcus observed dismissively. “It is well for you that the mountains separated our two nations, or one of our proconsuls might have added your kingdom as an imperial province decades ago. Inadvertently.”

  De Forbonnais shook his head and sniffed disdainfully, but he did not attempt to dispute the point. The two men rode in silence for a time, or as near to silence as it could be with the incessant creaking of the leather saddles, the occasional snorting of the horses, and the dull tromp-tromp-tromp of five thousand men trudging methodically through the green fields of eastern Savondir. The legion followed no road, but by the time it had passed, the iron-shod sandals of its legionaries had torn and compressed the virgin ground into a hard dirt path more than ten cubits wide.

  “This École… you are telling me that your military men study the orc magics as well as your mages. Are you telling me that you are yourself one of these Michelards?”

  De Forbonnais shot him a sly glance. “I am simply telling you that I am willing to tell you what I know. And there are others who may be able to tell you more. Lord Valerius, I understand your discomfort with these matters. But you know as well as I do that you would be remiss in your duty to your men if you refused to accept freely offered knowledge that was so hard-won. Everything we know about the orcs was paid for in blood over the years. Do you wish to pay that price yourself when you need not?”

  “No. No, of course not. Not when it is so easily avoided.” Marcus held up a hand in warning. “But I will not countenance any use of magic spells or sorceries, Seigneur de Forbonnais. Not even in extremis.”

  “I understand. So what is it that you wish to know?”

  Still feeling some reservations, Marcus told de Forbonnais about the passage from Frontinus. He recited it from memory. “Now, what do you suppose were the ’accursed enemy’s devilries’ to which he referred? And how did it strike fear into an entire flank of Manlius Proximus’s legion?”

  “Am I correct you know nothing about magic?”

  “Nothing,” Marcus said proudly, if not quite accurately. He had, in fact, picked up a few glimmerings here and there by virtue of being in the vicinity of the Lady Shadowsong for extended periods of time.

  “And I presume you have no desire to achieve a basic understanding of the principles involved.”

  “None at all.”

  De Forbonnais sighed and looked up into the sky, where the sun had not long ago passed its zenith. “Well, I’ve heard there are few things more satisfactory than an enthusiastic student hungry for knowledge,” he said, with no small tone of sarcasm.

  Skuli

  The southern ships were gone. They departed two days ago, their hulls and decks crowded with that most precious of cargos, the last of the Dalarn people. From time immemorial, the Fifteen Clans had dwelled upon these four islands, warring amongst themselves and raiding all across the northern coast of Selenoth. Now, the islands were all but devoid of Man.

  The ships carried the last of the living Dalarn, but not the last of the dead. For thus it was that they regarded themselves, the warriors of besieged Raknarborg, those who remained behind. They were hard men, scarred men, men who had spent eighteen years fighting a losing battle against an implacable and inhuman foe. None of them had ever known a time when they did not hold a sword in their hands, few could even recall a time where the grey terror of the Aalvarg had not loomed over their humble wooden huts and palisaded towns like a dark and hungry shadow.

  Those huts and towns were gone now, destroyed, their inhabitants either fled or devoured. Even the proud stone towers of Raknarborg, though they jutted proudly from the sea to the sky, seemed like saplings before the raging demonic storm that had scoured the Wolf Isles from stem to stern. The Aalvarg numbers were not vast, at least not in comparison with the great cities across the sea, but their fury was far beyond even that of the most rabid berserker and their thirst for man’s blood had proven unquenchable.

  Skuli Skullbreaker looked out over the grey waters of the sea as the waves smashed themselves relentlessly against the rocks far below. Clouds obscured the sun, but the darkening sky offered a warning of the incipient night to come. He sniffed and shook his head; the mindless futility of the waves reminded him of the attack they’d turned back just the day before. Was it the seventeenth or the eighteenth assault since the day the demonspawn army was first seen approaching the fortress? He’d lost count. But the end was drawing near. It was inevitable. The southerners were gone; they had seen the futility of defending Raknarborg and followed the body of their slain prince back across the sea. Most of his men were either departed or fallen. The Fifteen Clans who had once been the terror of the White Sea were now reduced to two hundred of the walking, wounded dead.

  He felt a fierce pride swell inside him at the thought of them. Hjalnek One-Hand. Tjolnir Horse-Bjorn. The Strongbow. What a privilege it was to die in the company of such men; as long as men prized courage, the bards would sing their names in the south. And if no one knew exactly how it was they fell, so much the better. No doubt the songs would tell it better than the grim horror of a warrior screaming in agony as a demon wolf ripped out his intestines and gobbled them up before his dying eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered what hellish god had thought to create such monsters, had burned with such fury that he determined to curse the land with them.

  He snorted. Whatever that dark god’s intent, it had assured Skuli a place in Glaðsheimr. If ever a man had earned the name of Bági Ulfs, the Enemy of the Wolf, it was Skuli Skullbreaker. The Aalvarg would soon rule over the smoking ruins of Raknarborg, but they would not soon forget the Skullbreaker, not with damn near half their number lying dead in massive piles stacked outside the black stone walls. He didn’t think it likely that the beasts told bedtime stories to their whelps, but if they did, he had no doubt that the little ones would quake at the sound of his name for years to come.

  He smiled at the thought. It was a good legacy. It was a man’s legacy.

  His wife, on the other hand, was probably still cursing his name right now. He’d finally ordered her gagged as well as bound after she nearly bit off Asmund Hairy-Arse’s finger while he and the Strongbow were carrying her onto the last ship just prior to its departure. He smiled fondly at the memory of her storm blue eyes glaring at him, bright with furious tears of rage. What a woman! She’d expected to die by his side, and while he’d initially been tempted to let her do so, the more time he had spent with the touchy, prideful southerners, the more he’d come to realize that Brynjolf and Fjotra would be in dire need of her wisdom if their people were to live successfully among them.

  And now that the sun was sinking into the sea somewhere behind the clouds, it was time to send th
e final ship away.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned around to see the three men for whom he’d sent walking through the door from the tower steps. But behind them followed a fourth man. It was Steinthor Strongbow. He was limping badly; a wolf had ripped open the tall blond warrior’s left leg during the assault before the last one.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the Strongbow. “You should be resting that leg for tonight, not climbing those stairs.”

  “Speak for yourself.” His friend’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Besides, we’ll all be resting in Draugadróttinn’s halls soon enough.”

  “Resting?” Skuli clapped Steinthor on the shoulder. “We’ll be feasting, man, and the gods themselves will drink to our deeds!”

  He looked at the other three men. Mord Redcheek was his most cunning warleader, and unlike the Strongbow and Skuli himself, he was one of the few men still unscathed by the recent months of battle. The left side of his face was disfigured where an Aalvarg nearly tore it off five summers ago, but the terrible scars were white with time and he moved with the agility of a man half his forty years. Surdaember was the second man, short and dark in comparison with the two Dalarn, and the only southerner still remaining in Raknarborg. Skuli didn’t understand why the man chose to remain behind when the rest of his fellows were already sailing for the safety of home, but if anyone did, it would be the third man, young Hakon Hakonsson, who had a gift for tongues and somehow was able to understand most of the strange slurring sounds made by the southerners.

  “Is the longship ready?”

  The Strongbow nodded. At Skuli’s order, he had provisioned the last snekkja that remained from what had once been a formidable fleet of sea reavers, as if for a long season of reaving. But the forty men who would be leaving the fortress as soon as darkness hid them from lupine eyes would not be following the rest of their people across the sea. Instead, Skuli intended that under the command of the Redcheek, the last survivors of Raknarborg would sail around the Isles and venture into the heart of the mountains on Hovedholm, the large island to the west from whence the Aalvarg had first come.

  The wolf-demons might have driven the clans from the Isles, but they had not destroyed his people. Skuli had seen to that. Now Redcheek and the best of his surviving men would search for whatever secret lay behind their mysterious appearance, and when they found it, they would destroy it. One day, he vowed to himself and to sea and sky, the clans would return to the Isles. And when they did, they would not drive out the demons, they would destroy them, utterly, every single one.

  “Then be off with you, Mord Redcheek, and may the All-Father, the Stormbringer, and the Lord of the Waves be with you!” He stepped towards the Redcheek to embrace the man, but to his surprise, the warleader stepped back and shook his head.

  “No, Skuli. I have spoken with the men. To a man, they agree. The longship will not leave without the Skullbreaker.”

  Skuli stared at the man, astonished. Then he looked at the Strongbow, who was staring off towards the sea with an uncharacteristically innocent look on his face.

  “Steinthor?” he growled.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  His ready deference confirmed Skuli’s suspicions.

  “Did you put them up to this? Would you truly deny me the honor of dying by your side?”

  The Strongbow grinned, exposing the scar under his bearded chin that was only half-healed. An Aalvarg sword had very nearly taken his head off in one of the earlier attacks; fortunately the blade had somehow caught on the buckle for the strap that held his helm in place. The gods blessed the brave, but sooner or later, they had to withdraw their favor so the Choosers could come and claim their champions. Skuli had no doubt that the sky riders were jousting even now for the privilege of claiming his friend tonight.

  “The Skullbreaker’s Saga is a brave one, my lord, full of one noble defeat after another, but the one thing it lacks is a quest. It seems to me it would displease the gods if you were to deprive the bards of it.”

  “The Redcheek’s Saga don’t have the same ring to it,” the Redcheek added.

  “See, the thing is, we aren’t giving you any more choice than you gave your wife.” The Strongbow folded his arms. “My lord.”

  “The four of you can’t make me to go anywhere, least of all on that ship!” Perhaps if the Strongbow had been hale, he and the Redcheek might have been able to disarm him and bear him down, but his friend’s mangled leg rendered that impossible.

  He reached for his war dagger. To his surprise, he discovered it wasn’t there. The scabbard was empty! He looked down at his hip in disbelief, needing his eyes to confirm what his right hand had told him. Puzzled, he went to draw his other dagger, his meat blade, and realized it was gone too!

  “Looking for those?” The Strongbow said with a self-satisfied smile and a sidelong glance towards Hakon.

  Skuli strove to conceal his astonishment at the sight of his two blades, one long and curved, the other short and serrated, in the hands of the young warrior. Hakon grinned, a little apologetically, and handed them to the Redcheek.

  “Tongues are not Hakon’s only talent,” he said, sounding amused. “Now, are you going to come along or do we have to tie you up and carry you onto the ship?”

  Skuli glared at the plotters. In truth, he was more than ready to die. He was wounded. He was tired. He was soul-sick. His life had been one disastrous defeat after another; his only successes had been mitigating the extent to which his people were gradually destroyed. His one great achievement was to have arranged for the retreat of the remnants of the Dalarn from the Isles, sending them across the sea to dwell in humiliating submission to the very fishermen and farmers they had long reaved. What sort of warrior’s legacy was that for the Reaver King, the last jarl of the Fifteen Clans?

  Death was nothing to fear. It promised a welcome refuge. And, if the bards were right, there would be the warrior’s banquet waiting for him, for the Strongbow, and for the best of his men. How he longed to meet the great men of the sagas such as Orvar-Odd and Njal the Grim, to say nothing of his mighty father, Jarl Halfrødr, whose booming laugh he had not heard for twelve long years.

  It was the thought of living another day that seemed unbearable. Life meant the need to hope again when all hope had been dead for years. It was peering into the despair of the black abyss, seeking endlessly for a light that was extinguished long ago.

  And it was that unmanly fear of living that convinced him he must go with the Redcheek. When had anything ever come easily for him, for the Skullbreaker? Even Death himself must be put off as long as possible, must be fought as if he were just another ravenous wolf slavering after the blood of his people. Only then could Skuli be truly certain that he would be worthy to sit in the company of the Warrior’s Banquet, a man worthy to march into Glaðsheimr with his head held proudly high.

  Skuli gripped Steinthor’s arm and found his eyes were stinging. “I wish nothing more than to die with you tonight, sword-brother.”

  “I know.” The Strongbow smiled, although his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Go, instead, and avenge me. Avenge us all, Skullbreaker. And I will serve as your harbinger to let the Hirdfestmåltid know that Bági Ulfs is coming. You will board the ship?”

  Skuli nodded.

  “Your word on it?”

  He nodded again.

  The Strongbow squeezed Skuli’s arm tightly, then turned and limped towards the stairs without looking back. Skuli watched his friend go and waited until his head disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell before turning to the others. He knew it would be the last time he saw Steinthor Strongbow until they met again in Glaðsheimr. He turned and looked up towards the gray, darkening sky. Soon it would be the killing time.

  Give him a good death, Váði Vitnis, he prayed the Aldaföðr. Lend strength to his arm tonight, that the wolves may learn what fear is.

  The Redcheek proffered his daggers to him and Skuli reclaimed them with what little dig
nity remained to him. As he sheathed them, he acknowledged Hakon’s skill with a little nod, and the young warrior smiled with pleasure.

  “Let us be clear on one thing, Mord Redcheek. This is the first and last time I will accept a demand from the crew. Once I set foot on that ship—what is she called?”

  “Ulvdræber,” the Redcheek answered. Wolfkiller.

  “A good name,” Skuli nodded approvingly. “Once I set foot on Ulvdræber, any more mutiny will be dealt with in the customary manner.”

  The southerner, Surdaember, slurred something unintelligible at Hakon, who shook his head and answered sharply. Skuli ignored him. It was the Redcheek’s response that mattered; half the men chosen for the longship were his.

  “Any man who does not obey the Skullbreaker will face my axe. And I swear by the Strongbow that I will die before I raise my hand against you again… once Ulvdræber is kissed by tomorrow’s dawn with the Skullbreaker on her deck.”

  Skuli laughed. Not for nothing had he chosen Mord Redcheek to command this last desperate voyage of revenge. It seemed he had chosen well, for the man was a clever one. He hadn’t actually planned to leave the ship once he boarded it; that would be bad luck for him and demoralizing for the men. But the Redcheek wasn’t about to take the chance.

  “For good or ill, I am with you, Mord Redcheek. The night is coming, and with it the wolves. Let us go now, and leave Raknarborg to the noble dead.”

  He took one last look out towards the sea. Leagues away to the south, were Brynjolf, Ingoberg, and Fjotra. Would he ever see their beloved faces again? Would he ever have the chance to once more hold them in his arms? It seemed unlikely. Ulvdræber was sailing from a place where Death was coming to a place where Death had reigned for a generation or more. What were the odds her crew would not meet him face to face?