by Lee C Conley
‘Who are you?’ shouted Arnulf.
The man shrieked at him and clawed at him like a wild beast. The mud-man leapt towards him shrieking but was soon checked as the great axe buried deep into his shoulder. Arnulf swung low and felt the blade smash bone before he drew it back with a grunt.
The girl lay weeping on the ground.
‘You killed him,’ she wailed. ‘You killed my brother.’
Arnulf looked at her pitifully. ‘Take her back,’ he commanded.
Arnulf kicked the man over onto his back. There was a gasp from a warrior standing watching. The man was smeared in black stinking bog mud, probably fell in one on the dark moor but the torch light revealed a crimson ichor glistening over everything and dripping from his hands. His fingers had been chewed to reveal a sharp tip of bone. Blood dripped from his gaping mouth, it was smeared all over him. No skin showed through the gore and stinking mud.
When Arnulf turned, he saw Hafgan behind him. Fergus stood by also shaken out of his drunken sleep by the sudden violence. He stood with his shield and an axe in hand; he had a fur draped about him. Fergus stood flanked by two grim faced women, armour glinting beneath their furs.
The other warriors warily lowered their spears.
‘That was no dead man,’ said Fergus.
‘No,’ said Arnulf in a grim voice. ‘He bled and died just fine.’
Fergus laughed. ‘Ha, you’re a grim bastard.’
‘He followed us from Hern’s farm,’ said Arnulf. ‘I knew someone was out there, watching us in the dark.’
‘Do you think he killed them?’ asked Fergus.
‘Perhaps.’ Arnulf paused, ‘What evil has spilled from these passes? The dead walk and now men are driven mad, killing their kin like beasts.’
‘Old Night lets his evil spirits free around a black moon, lord,’ said one of the men.
Arnulf looked at him. ‘The dead moon has passed now, the new one is born,’ said Arnulf, ‘it is as Lord Fergus says, the gods are testing us, friend.’
They threw the body off behind some rocks away from the camp; they would cover it perhaps in the morning. They covered the dead sentry in a cloak and moved his body to lie near the wagon; the body would have to wait until morning.
The men made their way back to the campfires. Arnulf ordered the guards to be doubled. The men built back up their fires and relit the torches thrust into the ground about the camp. Uneasy, they settled back down around their fires. Fergus sat down and seemed to fall asleep immediately. Arnulf placed his axe at his feet as he sat down before the fire and began to clean the blood off the blade.
The warrior Olad came back to the fire and looked at Fergus.
‘What is it, friend?’ asked Arnulf.
‘It’s the girl, Lord Arnulf. She is sick. Her wound, her whole arm, has gone bad. It rots. She will probably die from it.’
A cry of alarm roused the camp once again. Arnulf stood up and once again stared off across the torches. Fergus awoke and sat up.
‘What is it now?’ demanded Fergus and picked up his sheath and removed his sword. He discarded his sheath on his cloak beside the fire and walked off through the burning torches.
Fergus stopped as his eyes fell across the nightmare before him. The girl looked up at him, blood dripping down her chin and staining her white shift with fresh blood. She pulled her hand from the dead sentry’s throat. She held a globbule of flesh in her hands and took a bite. She looked up at Fergus and chewed slowly. He saw her eyes roll back in her head. Blood squirted across her face and ran down her chin as she bit into it again. She snarled and ran towards him, with her eyes blazing. He stood frozen in disbelief, watching her speed towards him. She was mere paces away when one of the warriors sprang forward and buffeted her with his shield.
It was young Erran.
‘Kill her! She is a demon,’ shouted one of the warriors.
Arnulf saw Erran standing over the girl. He drew his sword but hesitated. The girl stood up and ran, but Erran dropped his shield and sprang forward to seize her. She swung around and tried to sink her bloody teeth into his arm, but he shrank back just in time. He went to lunge with his sword but hit her hard with his fist instead and sent her reeling back. He stood over her with his sword but was unable to strike. He saw before him not a monster but a young girl.
Hafgan strode forward, the boy couldn’t do it, but as Hafgan approached, the girl leapt toward young Erran, and then suddenly stiffened. Arnulf watched the girl hurl herself heedlessly at Erran’s levelled blade. It ran through her with her own momentum. Hafgan stopped as the young girl slid to the floor, coughing mouthfuls of blood down her chin.
‘Finish her,’ said Hafgan in a low tone.
Erran twisted the sword and pulled it free, but after standing over her a long moment, he just turned and walked away shaking his head. Hafgan looked down at the poor girl dying before him he drew his knife and stepped forward to end her suffering, but she was dead within moments. Hafgan sighed with relief; the grim deed was not needed.
The horses all around suddenly seemed restless. They began to rear up on their tethers and neigh loudly. One of them broke free and galloped off into the gloom.
‘Men, calm these horses,’ shouted Arnulf.
Horsemen galloped off carrying torches to find the horses while men tried desperately to calm the remaining beasts.
Hafgan helped Olad carry the girl away into the darkness when a fierce grip seized Hafgan’s arm. He turned to see the blackened and blood smeared face of the girl’s brother bite down hard on his arm.
The man’s teeth shattered on Hafgan’s mail sleeve. The men dropped the girl, and Hafgan drew his sword. He hacked at the man’s shoulder and severed his arm with several savage blows. The man fell to the floor, the arrow still stuck in his back and the deep axe wound his lord had just inflicted gaped open. He could not be alive, yet he rose again and reached towards them with his remaining arm as the men backed away. Hafgan knocked the hand away with his blade and swung hard. The mighty blow sent the dead man’s head rolling along the floor, and his mangled body fell to the ground. Hafgan picked up the head by the slick muddy hair and held it up.
Its dead mouth suddenly let loose an unearthly shriek. The big warrior nearly dropped the thing. Instead, he jammed it hard onto a nearby torch that thrust from the ground. The torch hissed as it was extinguished. The head silenced and sat quietly on its macabre mounting. All eyes were on Hafgan and the fallen dead man. All but Fergus.
Fergus was fixed on the girl, who now stood again before him. Her head lolled disturbingly to one side as she slowly shuffled forward. Dead blank eyes fixed into his very soul.
‘This must be a nightmare,’ said Fergus as he stood stricken, watching the frail looking figure limp towards him. Arnulf turned and saw the girl. He gasped in horror.
The girl limped slowly forward between the torches her eyes fixed on Fergus. With each step, her punctured abdomen oozed congealing fluid, further staining her white shift to a ghastly deep shade of crimson.
The men stood back in terror, watching as the girl limped amongst them with no heed to their presence, her dead eyes fixed on Fergus.
Chaos was breaking loose, shouts coming from the wagons, the horses rearing and screaming.
‘Kill it,’ shouted Arnulf. ‘Kill it.’
Fergus’s warriors drew in beside him, and the women raised a wall of blue painted shields. It was Astrid who seized her courage and ran up behind the girl. With an awkward, yet firm, thrust, she ran her spear into the girl’s back.
The girl screeched and writhed. Astrid pulled it free, and the girl turned on her. Astrid’s spear shook, betraying her trembling hands as she tried to keep her weapon level. She thrust it again and drove its point into the girl’s hissing mouth. The dead girl hung suspended and impaled a moment, and then the renowned shield-maiden dropped the spear shaft and let them both flop to the floor.
Arnulf’s attention was drawn to the commotion by the wagons. It was over bef
ore he got there. The dead sentry lay sprawled on the floor, speared and covered in axe wounds. A lone warrior stood by the body, his eyes haunted.
‘Get rid of it,’ said Arnulf to a group of men stood watching. ‘And those,’ he said gesturing at the severed head and the other bodies.
Fergus dismissed his warriors and sat down next to a fire and gazed into the flames. Arnulf turned to the young warrior. He looked shaken and stared down at the body of the sentry at his feet.
‘You were brave, friend,’ said Arnulf, and then looked over at Fergus, who still sat watching the flames dance in disbelief.
‘Thank you, lord,’ said the young warrior, his voice quavering.
‘What is your name?’ asked Arnulf.
‘Malachi, lord,’ said the young man nervously.
‘Malachi,’ repeated Arnulf. ‘Well met, friend. From Weirdell?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘What happened, lad?’
‘He came back to life. He tried to attack the horses. I defended them.’
‘Alone?’ asked Arnulf.
The young warrior nodded. Arnulf clasped the man on the shoulder and led him away, towards a nearby campfire.
‘Brave indeed. I will make sure your lord hears of it.’
Malachi nodded, his hands still shaking.
‘You do the men of Weirdell proud. Were you wounded?’ asked Arnulf, looking back at the sentry’s body.
Malachi shook his head and sat, staring into the fire.
‘Brave indeed. Try to sleep,’ said Arnulf, and then he made his way back to his own fire.
The dead were taken away from the camp and piled with stones so they could not rise again. The men would not wait until morning and toiled in the dark as others stood about with torches.
Arnulf found Fergus sat down next to the fire.
‘This must be a nightmare,’ said Fergus again, shaking his head. Arnulf sat down and laid his axe beside him. There was no sleep to be had now, and so they sat, as did many, awaiting the dawn, nervously peering off into the gloom, fearing another lurking danger.
CHAPTER Thirteen
The Wharfs of Anchorage
The brawl erupted from a tavern door along the wharf front. Two men grappled each other on the floor, throwing punches and kicking wildly as they tried to gain advantage over the other. A third emerged from the gloomy entrance at a run and delivered a savage kick to the face of one of the downed men.
The shouts and sounds of crashing furniture from within the tavern, and the brawl unfolding in the street, attracted a small crowd of onlookers. Folk rushed over to watch from the busy avenue leading to the fish market. The crowd jeered and laughed, eager for blood and gossip to pass on.
The wharf front of Anchorage saw its fair share of fist fights. Numerous taverns populated the wharf front district and drew a healthy clientele of drunks, sailors, and fishermen fresh in off the water, often spoiling for a fight after too much ale and the boredom of being stuck on ship.
Another kick sent a man sprawling to the floor. He rolled about blinded, blood running from a broken nose, which he clutched at with both hands. The crowd cheered.
***
‘Little bastard did it again,’ exclaimed the trader. ‘Ran off down there,’ he continued, pointing down the narrow side alley between a storehouse and a merchant’s shop.
Wilhelm surveyed the stall before him. Baskets of fish were on display along with a selection of large individual fish, each one different. He noted some kind of Thrasher eel, its grey scales flecked with red. A large Brown-fin lay beside that, its mouth gaping up at him. Strips of dried salted fish hung from a frame beside the stall.
‘He sneaks up and grabs it,’ said the trader angrily gesturing at the hanging strips. ‘I’ve tried to have `im, but I can hardly chase the little bugger. Can’t leave all this,’ he said, waving at his wares. ‘I’ll be robbed blind.’
Wilhelm listened on and nodded distractedly, his eyes following a man who was stumbling along the street and had stopped to lean over a barrel, coughing and spluttering. He vomited behind the barrel. Wilhelm looked away in disgust.
‘Damn drunks,’ muttered the warrior under his breath.
His eyes then fell, more pleasingly, upon a lithe young woman as she walked up the street.
The trader sighed loudly. Agitated, he said, ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Um, yes, of course,’ said Wilhelm, pulling his attention back to the trader.
‘Please, can you and your lot just collar the little shit. He’s a filthy scrawny little bugger, so big,’ said the trader levelling his hand in the air. ‘Black hair, real scruffy. He’s been back three times this week already, the little bastard.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll do what we can, friend,’ replied Wilhelm, turning to his fellow guard, who nodded in agreement.
‘We’ll keep an eye out, aye,’ said Wilhelm.
The trader scowled and turned to tend his wares. Wilhelm caught the eye of the guard beside him once more, who grinned back.
Sworn to the Huscarl Warrick, Wilhelm and the others were on guard. The Huscarls were the finest warriors, often men of great renown, all sworn to the king himself. They commanded scores of their own men each and provided between them a personal army serving the king. When not marching under the king’s banner, his Huscarls were tasked with keeping the king’s peace around the great town of Arn and in the surrounding towns, which the king governed directly. The port of Anchorage was one such town, and the great honour of its stewardship had been trusted to Warrick. Now as powerful as any lord, he had a good mind for such administration.
Wilhelm caught the eye of the warrior beside him and nodded towards the alley. The twisting alley appeared empty. The thief would need to be caught red handed or pointed out by the trader. And even then, still have the stolen goods on him if the patrol were to throw him in the gaol. Wilhelm had his doubts about apprehending the young thief. Still, he thought he had better search the alley and take a look in the street beyond to satisfy the angry fish trader.
He threw another look at his fellow warrior. The man named Ox returned a sardonic smirk, complete with an arching brow and a slight shake of his head.
Ox was not a tall man, nor was he particularly broad. In fact, he was the smallest of Warrick’s men. His lean face had a pronounced angular nose. His hauberk hung from his wiry frame like it would from a scarecrow.
The amusing name had stuck after a night of heavy drinking. His good natured humour had laughed off what many would have heard as a slight, and the name just seemed to stick, as names sometimes do. Despite his stature, he had time and time again proved himself a formidable warrior. Wilhelm liked his company, as quick to scrap as he was quick to laugh, was Ox.
‘We’ll never find the bastard,’ said Ox, obviously sharing Wilhelm’s doubts.
Wilhelm sighed and replied, ‘Aye.’
Adjusting his chain hauberk and belt, he then moved to enter the alley.
A sudden commotion caught his attention. A crowd had formed down the busy street. Shouts could be heard over the bustle of the fish market. Ox also stared off through the crowded street towards the wharf front. With a blend of curiosity and concern, both men abandoned the futile search of the narrow alley and made their way towards the growing crowd.
***
The door closed and the man turned to face her. His blood shot eyes flashed with desire. His jerkin looked stained with beer and spilled food, his face unkempt. She awkwardly forced a smile as his leering gaze ran across her body. His attentions brought an uncomfortable self-consciousness that swept over her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. He moved towards her. Drawing up close in front of her, he pushed a chunk of hacked silver into her hands. His stale breath stank of ale. She tried not to recoil from his touch as he stroked her cheek with a finger. His calloused hands felt rough on her skin.
‘Come now, lass. Let’s see you.’
She stepped back and let her shift slip over her should
ers and fall to the floor, revealing the slim lithe curves of her body. Her skin prickled with goose pimples in the chill air.
He guided her backwards, lecherously groping at her breasts. She felt the straw bale against her legs and could retreat no further. He pushed her down on to her back. The straw scratched against her bare skin, dozens of tiny spines spiking into her before giving way as she settled her weight.
Climbing over her, he fumbled inside his trousers and forced her legs apart with his knees. She closed her eyes as she felt his hand slide down between her legs. She braced herself, aware of what was coming. She winced as he pushed himself inside her.
It was over quickly. He grunted and groaned as he spilled his seed inside her. She shuddered and lay motionless, still clutching the silver tightly in her hand. He breathed heavily, stale breath hot against her face.
His breathing slowed, and he pushed himself off her. She remained still, not meeting his eyes.
‘Ah, a drink now, I think,’ he said as he buckled his trousers.
She made no reply.
‘I’ll come find you again sometime, lass.’
He turned to leave.
‘Until then,’ he said as he slipped out of the storeroom door.
She lay there, still staring up at the rafters, clutching the silver in her hand. After he had left, she began sobbing quietly. She felt sick. After a moment, she rose slowly and retrieved her shift from the floor. It looked filthy and frayed. Nym sighed as she pulled it over her head.
She looked down at the chunk of hacked silver in her palm, perhaps part of a bracelet or torque. She would at least eat today. She composed herself, and with a glance back at the bales at the back of the storeroom, Nym slipped out of the door into the street beyond.
***
The crowd had gathered at the intersection of the east market street and the wharf front row. The clamour and shouting confirmed Wilhelm’s suspicions, a brawl.
‘And it’s still early,’ joked Ox.