by Lee C Conley
The hunter turned back at the small crowd that had gathered at his coming to the hall. They watched and waved. He raised an arm in farewell.
A flock of mountain geese appeared over the pine trees above and flew across the open sky. Bjorn grinned, despite his shoulder, he could not resist. He swung suddenly round in his saddle, notching an arrow, he aimed high. He found his mark and loosed.
The crowd cheered as the goose fell from the sky and tumbled to the ground. He wheeled his horse and bowed from the saddle extravagantly. He grinned at Lord Kervan as the lord clapped amongst his men, and then the hunter cantered off down the west road, leaving the cheering woodsmen of Pinedelve behind him.
CHAPTER Twelve
A Night for Valour
Word of their encounter with the dead men that morning had already spread about the camp and was believed by few of the newcomers. But now, upon the riders return, word of the gruesome discoveries at the farm were soon known to all. The men watched curiously as the girl was carried away and put down to sleep. She was placed under guard in case she spoke any more.
Tales that had been dismissed and laughed at were now listened to earnestly, and the men sat about their fires listening again to the grim tales of Arnulf’s guardsmen.
They heard of how the dead men had limped forward out of the mist like beggars reaching for help. They heard how some of the guardsmen approached to help the strange beggars and how they were then mauled.
One of the guardsmen, an older man from the village told them how young Tarbart from Glen farm was literally torn limb from limb screaming as the guardsmen rained arrows into them with no effect. The others nodded when asked to corroborate the seemingly impossible story. The men were all talking amongst each other nervously some of them laughed and called it absurd, but others looked worried. Another of the guardsmen was telling the others how the dead men gripped the rims of their shields and tore them away. They seemed heedless of axe or spear and took many thrusts and blows before they fell twitching.
Talk turned to the bodies left up in the pass and to the missing men. When Arnulf heard Hagen’s name whispered, he turned and glared at them across the campfires.
Hafgan shouted, ‘That’s enough. We killed the bastards before, and if there are more, we will find them and kill them.’
The group quietened down at his rebuke.
Hafgan stood. ‘They will be driven from our lands and we will find our men. They had no armour or shields, and we do. We won’t be caught off guard again,’ said Hafgan defiantly.
Arnulf turned back to the wide fire pit as Hafgan sat back down. He touched the wooden charm at his neck. He hoped the big warrior was right.
Turning to Fergus beside him, Arnulf said, ‘I hope the gods are watching over us, my old friend.’
‘Of course the gods are watching us,’ said Fergus loudly so the nearby men stopped to listen. ‘The gods are testing us, my friends. I for one will not fail them. I swear it to Varg.’ Fergus stood up and raised his horn of ale. ‘They test us,’ he said, ‘because here dwell men who will fight, and we should be honoured that they have chosen us–perhaps the finest warriors of Arnar–as their champions. Old Night will be denied my spirit this night.’ He raised his ale as he said the last part and the men cheered and laughed.
‘Well said, Lord Fergus,’ said Arnulf drily. ‘Very inspiring.’ Fergus grinned and sat down.
‘Aye if tales be told, I say a man makes his own luck,’ said Fergus quietly, ‘But here’s to the gods. May Varg watch over us.’ He raised his horn to Hafgan beside him and drank deep, spilling ale over his beard.
He laughed and drank but the lord of Weirdell masked a terrible feeling that his old friend, Arnulf, had been playing no joke, in fact he was almost certain now. Yet, how could these stories be true? He worried; what did that to those people back at the farmstead?
The warrior Olad came and joined them at the fire and began chewing on a strip of saltpork.
‘Has she spoken, friend?’ asked Arnulf over the flames.
The warrior coughed, and then said, ‘Only to demand food Lord Arnulf. We gave her some, but she says she is still hungry.’ He shrugged and coughing, continued with his saltpork.
Arnulf saw the man looked pale.
‘Olad, friend, you look tired. Make sure you keep that hand clean,’ said Fergus nodding at his roughly bound hand. Before adding, ‘A scratch like that can go bad out here.’
The warrior shrugged again, ‘She sank her teeth in good when I grabbed her. I must have put the fear of the gods in her, bearing down like that.’
‘Aye,’ said Hafgan. ‘But your Lord Fergus is right. I’ve seen it. A dirty wound festers. I remember long ago, during the war, we marched to fight the rebellion out west. Old Graffwulf lost half his fingers on one hand.’ Hafgan raised his right hand to demonstrate. ‘It went bad, and eventually, sent him to meet Old Night too. He was sick for days before he went. Not a good death, friend.’
Olad stopped eating and waved a strip of half-chewed pork at Hafgan.
‘Don’t tell me that,’ said Olad. ‘You were at Aeginhall?’ he asked changing the subject.
‘Aye, that we were. With Arnulf and Fergus, we were just lads then. Was a hard fight.’
Olad’s eyes widened, then he grinned.
‘My lord has mentioned it,’ said Olad with a grin at his nearby comrades.
‘I doubt we’ll ever hear the end of it,’ said one of the shield-maidens as she strode past.
Fergus looked up at her and grinned broadly. The men nearby laughed.
She smirked and walked on to her companions at a nearby fire. She was dressed for war. She wore a carved leather cuirass over a plain mail shirt and fine sword scabbarded at her waist. A falcon emblem was carved into the leather on her chest, the sigil of her lord. Her brown hair hung down her back and was tightly braided against her scalp at the top. Her face and arms were covered in swirling designs of blue paint, and she wore two gold arm rings on one arm.
‘Who is she?’ asked Erran. Young Erran had been sat quietly beside Hafgan, listening to the talk.
‘She, lad, is the Death Nymph,’ replied Hafgan. ‘Astrid is her name.’
‘She’s one of Fergus’s warriors, isn’t she? I saw her as we rode in.’ Erran noted the gold rings on her arm. ‘He has rewarded her well. What else do you know of her?’ said Erran with interested eyes on the shield-maiden.
‘Ha,’ laughed Hafgan. He lowered his voice, ‘You’re a brave lad, but I’d keep away from that one. She’s a killer,’ said Hafgan, although he could see what drew the young man’s attention. While formidable to behold, her face had a stern beauty. Her tight breeches certainly would tempt any man’s gaze as she walked away.
‘Why do you say that?’ replied the young warrior.
Hafgan pulled his eyes away and looked at Erran. ‘She is in service to Fergus now–she and her shield-maidens are never far away–but before that… You’ve not heard the tale?’ asked Hafgan.
Erran shook his head.
‘Well, the story goes, she was not always a warrior. She was once a servant at a great hall in the south to some lord. And she killed him.’
Erran shook his head. ‘Really, why?’
‘Well, from what I’ve heard he was…not kind to his womenfolk. He was known for his cruel punishments. If he was displeased with one of his servant girls, he would be severe. Sometimes, he would use them, force himself upon them. The stories I’ve heard say he was a right bastard.
‘One night, he tried to rape the young lass,’ indicating Astrid, ‘and she put a knife across his throat.’
Erran nodded grimly.
‘But then, and this is the good part, well, she killed his guards, too, one by one it’s said. She freed many of the slave-girls and servants, she bade them to come with her and fight for their freedom.
‘The story goes she stole a ship and escaped leaving a corpse of any who stood in her way. She and her warriors raided and robbed and their reputation gre
w. She became known as the Death Nymph. Other women joined her, looking for a chance at glory. Her warband grew fearsome.
‘The dead lord’s son sent many folk after her, but few ever returned. She slew any man that was sent after her. She was once declared an outlaw by many lords.’
‘But she is no longer?’ asked Erran.
‘No. It was then the king took notice, besieged by his lords he put a large bounty on her head and declared her wanted for the murder of her lord.
He laughed. ‘I’ll give her this, she knew she could not stand free forever, so she turned up in the capital and docked her ship at the royal wharf and demanded to see the king.
‘Some say she demanded to collect her own bounty, and others say she offered her sword in vassalage, claiming the lordship over the dead lord’s lands.
‘Anyway, they say, protected by her shield-maidens she marched up to the palace halls and none stood in her way.
‘The king is said to have been impressed by her, but he could not allow one of his lords to be murdered by a servant girl and for her to raid his lands as bandits. She is said to have pleaded to the king for him to hear her, she told him what that lord had done to her, to many others among her warriors. It is said, she declared, “She only ever wanted rightful vengeance, and now, their chance at glory among men.”
‘He was moved by her. Look at her, it is not hard to imagine, and he offered her trial by combat.
‘She, of course, won. A fight worthy of songs, they say. He pardoned her and her warriors. They became feared mercenaries in more recent times. There are other tales of her deeds I’ve heard also, but in each, men fall bloody and dead at her hand. Her name is well deserved. And now, she is sworn into Fergus’s service.
‘Lucky him. Why Fergus,’ asked Erran glancing over at the red-haired lord.
Hafgan regarded Fergus also. He now sat across on the other side of the crackling hearth speaking quietly with Arnulf.
Hafgan lowered his voice. ‘If the talk is true, her service to Fergus is at his father’s request, and likely expense also. It pays to have the best and most well-known warriors under your banners.’
Erran nodded.
Hafgan scratched his shaved head and continued, ‘Angus is high lord of all lands north of The Spine, of the borders and all the old lands. The head of the most prominent noble family in the north; all others were sworn to him and him to the king himself. They are old friends, but even Arnulf is sworn to Fergus’s father. And his fathers before him had been sworn to them. One of Angus’s sons would likely one day take his place. So, the high lord sees to it, he and his sons have a fierce body of men, some of the finest and well equipped of all the northlands.
‘The Death Nymph has become a warrior of high renown, a truly feared shield-maiden.’ Hafgan nodded over at Astrid, ‘Warriors like her need to swear service to such lineages also of high renown. She wants to further her deeds legitimately. Warriors like her bring many warriors to their lord’s banners, and are often richly rewarded for it.
‘Despite her pardon from the king, if she stayed unsworn she could be declared a bandit or a marauder by some lord and eventually hunted down. I’m sure she has a lot of enemies. I imagine she was tired of always looking over her shoulder. So, why not choose to come here.’
Hafgan smiled. ‘You know, lad. We border-men rival amongst the best warriors in all Arnar. Fergus is the son of a high lord, his father holds the borders. Why not come here to earn her place.
‘These are old lands, lands from which men once of mighty Cydor first sailed south to forge a kingdom. Lands which stood firm against the kings of Cydor, ravaged and yet held through the old rebellion and the wars of forging. We the proud, a people of warriors,’ recited Hafgan.
‘Ever ready to hold these lands for ever more,’ finished Erran. He knew the words of the Saga of Arn, these were the proud words of all the border-men.
‘I think, I would like to meet her,’ said Erran moving to rise.
‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ grunted Hafgan, tugging him back down. ‘She will probably cut your cock off and feed it to you.’
‘Aye, lad,’ chimed in Olaf, who had been sitting listening, ‘It’s true, one of our men took a shine to her in the hall. He’s got a scar down half his face now. I would listen to your friend and stay well away.’ He leaned in, ‘You know, she says she ain’t never met a man worthy of her anyway. Word is she only enjoys the company of women. She’d rather a woman with honour than any man. So, I’d stay well away.’
Erran looked over all the more enthused.
‘She is a match for any man, Erran,’ warned Hafgan.
Erran laughed. ‘Just like me then.’
Hafgan shook his head as the young warrior rose to his feet.
Arnulf and Fergus looked over inquiringly.
Hafgan shrugged, ‘He’s a bloody fool,’ he said.
They watched him approach the shield-maiden’s campfire.
‘He isn’t?’ asked Fergus with amusement.
Olaf and the others nodded.
‘Ha, this will be good,’ laughed Fergus.
Hafgan had to give respect where respect was due, for the lad withstood their plainly icy reception to his intrusion of their hearth for several awkward minutes. The big warrior was out of earshot but saw Astrid initially dismiss the young Erran which was followed by the cruel mocking laughter of the other shield-maidens. The young lad seemed to persist a while, and then returned–surprisingly without incident–to the campfire. He resumed his seat beside Hafgan.
‘Well, she didn’t put a knife in you,’ said Hafgan. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘I told her; You all told me to come and speak to her, but that I sensed it was a cruel and perilous joke played on me by mean old men.’ He smiled at them. ‘I asked her, her name and told her mine. I asked if she was actually a mighty warrior. And then, they laughed at me. So, I asked her for the honour of sparring with such a mighty warrior, to learn what I can from her.’
‘And?’ asked Fergus eagerly.
‘Well, she didn’t kill me,’ said Erran with a grin. ‘She said, “Perhaps,” and then I thought I’d best leave. So, I’ll take that.’
They laughed. Hafgan shook his head in disbelief and handed the young man his ale. ‘You challenged the Death Nymph to spar. You’re a fool.’
The men talked and drank, but the humour and good cheer soon subsided into the gloom. The events of the past day weighed heavy on their minds. They slept an uneasy sleep as the sentries stood about talking quietly while looking off into the dark moorland about them.
Arnulf sat and watched the fire burn low, listening to the crackling wood and the sounds of the moor at night. Some of his house-warriors slept around the fire. He felt as if he was being watched. That same dull nervous feeling in his stomach grew until he forced himself to look around.
Most of his men were asleep, he could see one of the other fires still burned and a few men sat around it still awake and talking quietly. A sentry stood nearby the fire involved in the talk and another walked slowly around.
He looked off into the darkness but saw nothing but the gloom and shadow of night. Still he could sense something out there staring back at him, watching him from a dark place. Arnulf carefully placed some small pieces of the twisted thin Thornwood onto the dying fire –the best firewood and kindling the men could find nearby. The fire slowly burnt back into life.
He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. He sat up sharply, and looked off into the night.
Arnulf saw a dark shadow moving quickly out of the darkness towards the camp. He shouted out to the sentry. The sentry turned to look where the shout came from, but in doing so, turned away from the dark form hurtling towards him out of the darkness. It was too late.
There was nothing Arnulf could do. He watched as the dark thing leapt onto the sentry and tackled him to the ground, the man cried out in surprised alarm.
Arnulf jumped to his feet and picked up his great
axe as others awoke around him. He ran towards the shadowy figure as it mauled the surprised sentry. Arnulf heard the man scream out in pain, the scream turned to a sickening gurgle as his throat was torn out.
Blood gushed from the sentry’s neck. His arms flailed and legs kicked weakly before he fell limp. The dark figure stooped low over the dying man as his life ebbed away. Arnulf and the nearby men were horrified to a standstill by the abrupt and chilling end to the scream. Arnulf stopped just feet away from the dark figure. He was met by a fierce glare, its eyes glinting in the night on its shadowy face, a human face.
It had the form of a man and but the figure before him seemed black as if it were a man made of ebony. It crouched low on all fours and glared up at him and a moment passed where no one seemed able to move. Its stare suddenly broke and its black head jerked away as the girls scream pierced the night air.
She had awoken with the others at the cries of alarm and seeing the dead man and the black skulking form above him, she screamed.
The dark man-shape darted towards the scream and was upon her in seconds. In the firelight its body glistened black and wet. It seized her in one arm and carried her away using its other arm to lope away.
The men ran forward in pursuit. An arrow whistled past it and another overhead into the night. The creature shrunk to the ground momentarily then continued. Another arrow flew, it caught it just as it sprang forward again and it screamed out in pain. It dropped the girl and tried to crawl away but Arnulf was upon it quickly.
He stood over the crawling black man shape and hefted his axe. It was breathing heavily the arrow had caught it in the chest.
‘Careful, lads,’ shouted Arnulf.
The warriors quickly surrounded it and levelled their spears. Some had snatched up torches and the flickering light revealed it was indeed a man. His clothes and hair were slick with bog mud. The mud stank of stagnant water.
Arnulf kicked him over with his thick leather boot. The man cried out in pain.