BlackThorn

by DeWayne Kunkel

  Securing the horse’s reigns to a post, he watched as men were being directed away from the wall and down towards the small beach.

  Casius joined the trail of men; a thick-fingered hand fell upon his shoulder stopping him before he had gone very far.

  “Here now,” a deep voice said merrily. “Where are you off to?”

  Casius knew the voice and was not surprised to see the village butcher grinning down at him. Lon Hawsell, he was a burly man that smiled almost constantly. He wore his grin as often as he wore his bloodstained apron, always. “To see what’s caused the alarm,” Casius answered.

  “That is no concern of yours, into the long house with you,” Lon’s powerful grip turned him about.

  “I am not a child,” Casius said insulted by the butcher’s suggestion. “In another month I will be sixteen.”

  Lon removed his hand and laughed, “My apologies good sir.” He looked Casius over with a critical eye. “You have grown now that I look at you.” He held up a well-honed cleaver. “But you’re not armed, besides your pa would be skinning me if I let you come.” He pointed to the long house with a wave of his weapon. “Now go,” he said with a smile. “There’s always next year.”

  Casius knew better than to argue the point. He went back up the road towards the Long house. He walked slowly and once Lon had disappeared around the corner of one of the storehouses he turned and followed after the big man.

  Down the narrow lane he sped keeping close to the buildings. On his left he could see the wooden watchtower rising above the rocky outcrop of the cliff. The sounds of the waves smashing into the breakwater grew louder and the tang of salt was in the air.

  As he circled around a large smokehouse he could see out onto the waters of the cove. Small waves washed up the pebble beach, falling short of the flotsam left behind by last night’s high tide.

  A line of thirty men stood shoulder to shoulder just above the high tide mark, their axes and swords gleaming brightly in the sunlight. They were dour faced and anxious, the air heavy with tension. Casius could not see what it was that held the their attention. Skulking down the beach for a better view he moved among the overturned hulls of fishing skiffs. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

  Just inside the breakwater a lone vessel was making its way to the shore. It was a long ship, a raiding vessel from Cythera. Sleek and low the ship was built for speed; it sported a single mast from which only a tattered white pennant flew. Snapping in the brisk wind the standard raised a few eyebrows among the villagers.

  Casius had heard the tales told by the sailors. These men had the reputation as bloodthirsty cutthroats. All who lived near the sea feared the Raiders. Although Kale was a poor target, with little gold, the men of the Island still dreaded them.

  The sleek vessel's oars rose and dipped with precision, slowing driving the ship towards the beach. A human skull yellowed with age was mounted upon the bow. The grotesque trophy swaying with the rocking of the ship, as if it’s empty sockets were scrutinizing the waterfront.

  The men on the rocky beach stepped back as the bronze clad prow scraped up onto the shore. As the ship ground to a halt the oars were lifted out of the water. A line was thrown over the bow into the surf. The rope lolled about in the waves, no man on the shore moving to secure the vessel.

  The men aboard the boat stood along the railing dressed in tattered clothing, defiantly staring down at the men on the beach. Heavily armed with swords and battle-axes these were men to be respected. A few of the sailors wore blood soaked bandages that drew black flies from the drying nets nearby. They had seen combat recently and from their appearance it would seem that they had lost the battle.

  Casius noted movement down the beach behind one of the smaller boats that lay on its side, awaiting repair. He turned his head to look when Lon hissed from the line drawing his attention.

  “Keep your eyes on the boat,” he whispered glaring from the corner of his eye.

  Casius nodded heeding Lon's command. He had seen the group of warriors moving into place. They were concealed ready to ambush the raiders should they attack. Casius relaxed somewhat for among their number he had seen the flame red hair of Baln Longwyrm himself dressed in gleaming armor with his enormous ax in hand.

  Casius’s father stepped forward a broad bladed ax held casually at his side. Urold Rhaine was an older man nearing his fifty third year. His complexion was dark and his skin weathered from a lifetime lived within the elements. A mane of gray hair crowned his head merging with a thick beard that hung to his chest.

  He had a stern visage that was enhanced by his deep-set dark eyes, making him appear menacing. Despite his advanced years there were few men foolish enough to challenge him. Standing well over six feet he was a giant of a man with a barrel like chest and arms thicker than most men’s legs. He looked up at the sailors with distrust. “What is it you want here?” He asked somewhat hotly, he was still wearing his leather apron and was not pleased at having his work disrupted.

  One of the sailors stepped to the vessels bow. His hair was cut short and greased. An old scar ran from his temple, across his right eye and ended in a large lump of flesh at the corner of his mouth. It pulled at his lip giving him a permanent sneer. “I am G’relg Halmfist,” he shouted a bit to loudly. “Who is Lord of this place?”

  “Baln Longwyrm,” Urold replied. “What are your intentions, G’relg?”

  “I would address him or his regent,” the sailor replied swinging his leg over the bow and dropping down into the shallow water lapping the shore. He scooped the mooring line up and nonchalantly walked past Urold and through the line of men. Making the rope fast to a wooden post sunk into the earth. He crossed his arms and looked Urold over, evidently not impressed by what he saw.

  Urold ignored the man's show of arrogance. “We have no house of nobles here, G’relg. I am named Urold, Ship thane of New Hope, Speak your case with me or leave my shore.” Urold shifted his grip on the haft of his ax putting emphasis on his statement.

  G’relg caught the thinly veiled threat and his face reddened in anger. He was a man not accustomed to being treated in such a manner. With an apparent great amount of effort he held his temper in check and chose his next words with care. “Very well,” he said slowly. “We have escaped from the slave pens of Cythera, and are seeking your lords protection.”

  The men on the beach whispered among themselves at the news. This was unheard of; no one had ever escaped the raiders clutches. The Isle of Cythera was a veritable prison, heavily guarded by evil men. The Twin towers of Torinth protecting the entrance to the island’s only harbor.

  Urold cursed, “You bring with you the very ship stolen from Bjorn’s harbor! Are you daft man? We are not a large nation who can withstand the raiders. Look about you,” Urold indicated the men behind him with a wave of his hand. “Farmers and Fishermen, not warriors trained for battle.” Urold shook his head, “Those Black hearted bastards will be out in force searching for you, and they will not stop until you are found. You have brought danger down upon all our heads with your recklessness.”

  “Many good men died in the taking of this vessel,” G’relg snapped. “I would not see their lives wasted, we will not go back.”

  Urold reexamined the group of refugees. There was something about these men that did not strike true. He exhaled slowly before he spoke. “I did not ask you to return,” he said. “But you cannot remain here with that vessel.”

  G’relg nodded in agreement, “Look Urold, we do not wish to bring harm to your people. We are tired and hungry, the raiders are combing the seas about the larger nations and we cannot hope to confront them. We have come here as our last hope, seeking only the protection of your lords banner, the ship can be burned for all I care.”

  Urold grunted at the mention of burning the vessel. He thought it a fitting end to such a craft. Try as he may he could think of no honorable way to be rid of these men. Despite his misgivings they had come under the flag of truce and hav
e openly pled for sanctuary. By all the customs and laws of his people, lord Baln was honor bound to grant it. Still he did not like the looks of these men. They appeared to be too proficient in the weapons they carried.

  It was G’relg that concerned him the most. The man was willful and proud. He had the eyes of a man who had killed often and has found it to his liking.

  Lord Baln was no ones fool, if there was a way to send this lot back to sea he would find it. Urold shouldered his ax his mind made up. “Very well then G’relg,” he said with a shrug. “Leave your arms with your shipmates and I shall escort you to the long house where Lord Baln will hear your petition.”

  After a moment’s hesitation G’relg removed his sword belt and tossed it up to one of the men along the rail. “I am ready,” he said facing Urold.

  “Your men are to remain on the ship,” Urold ordered. “Should they leave the vessel before our return my men will cut them down.” Ignoring the grumbling complaints from the ship he looked to the men of the village to ensure that they understood.

  As his eyes met his sons a flicker of anger crossed his brow. The boy quickly lowered his eyes knowing he had done wrong. Urold looked past him to one of the men, a young farmer named Jaren. “Go and inform Lord Baln that we are coming.”

  Jaren nodded and sprinted up the beach, tossing the club he carried to another as he passed.

  “Lead on good Ship Thane,” G’relg said with a smile, the scar on his lip twisting it into a scowl.

  Urold whispered to Lon, “Guard that ship well. I do not trust these men, there is more here than what they have told us.”

  “There will be no mischief from the crew while we hold the shore.” The butcher answered flipping his cleaver skillfully.

  “This way,” Urold said leading G’relg up the narrow lane towards the Long house. Several men followed keeping a watchful eye on the sailor.

  Casius gave his father an apologetic look as he passed, and was relieved by the wink he got in response. His father understood what it was to be a young man and would not punish him for coming to the beach.

  He fell in step behind the group of men following them up the lane. This was the biggest event that had ever happened in his lifetime and he wanted to see everything that was going to take place.

  Chapter Two

  They walked into the square at the village's center. Across the open ground stood the Long house. The building served as the meeting hall of New Hope and the seat of Lord Baln's power. It was an impressive structure, fashioned in the manner of the old ways. Constructed of massive split logs it spanned fifty feet in width and three times that in length. Rising nearly sixty feet from the ground to the top of its steeply peaked roof, it was the village’s largest building, and unlike the others the Long house sported a roof of split cedar shingles. With intricately carved wooden pillars, depicting various mythical beasts framing its doorway.

  People crowded the entry, and more were coming across the square. It seemed to Casius that every citizen of the Isle was on hand to witness the novel event.

  The men of the town eyed G’relg warily, not trusting any man who would willingly sail upon a raider ship. They reluctantly moved aside as Urold led the man into the building.

  Once through the doorway Casius stepped off to the side and joined a group of boys who were gawking at the proceedings.

  Two large fire pits stood within the hall's center, each holding a cheery blaze that drove back the cold. The thick smoke from the fires filled the upper vault of the ceiling enshrouding the large beams supporting the roof. Drifting slowly about until escaping through the four large smoke holes cut into the ceiling above.

  The walls of the hall were covered with panels of polished dark wood. From which Brightly colored shields hung, running the length of the hall.

  At the opposite end of the hall hung a dark red banner embroidered with a coiled serpent in white. The ancient symbol of the house Longwyrm, A flag that had a long history and had been carried into many a battle.

  Below it a large Battle-axe rested in bronze mounts, its razor sharp blades gleamed in the flickering light of the fires. The haft of the weapon was of dark iron and five feet in length. The weapon was immense and few were the men who could lift it, let alone wield it in battle.

  Below the axe set a large table, fashioned from thick planks of oak its top marred by many years of use. Ten high-backed chairs of dark wood and leather lined the side facing the hall's center. It was of simple construction, The Carpenter choosing strength over beauty in its creation. Twenty other tables of similar construction lined the hall. In place of chairs these had benches on either side.

  Baln stood behind the table his ax at his back. He watched the men enter impassively, his hands resting on the back of his chair. At seven feet he made even the Ship thane appear small in comparison. A figure of heroic proportions dressed in glittering chain mail with a cloak of dark scarlet hanging from his shoulders.

  His hair shone in the gloom, a blazing red mantle that fell to his shoulders. Unlike the men of the village he kept his beard trimmed short enhancing his firm jaw. His eyes were bright beacons of ice blue that burned with intelligence. They locked with G’relg’s as Urold led him down the hall’s center.

  The hall hummed with a hundred conversations. Lord Baln raised his hand and the talking slowly stopped. The silence was only broken by the sounds of an occasional cough and the popping of the fires, outside a dog barked in the distance.

  “Urold,” Lord Baln spoke in a powerful voice that carried through the hall with ease. “Who have you brought before me?”

  The Ship Thane tipped his head slightly as a sign of respect. “I bring G’relg, Leader of the raider ship that has come to our shores.” Urold waited as a burst of excited conversations filled the hall. Once the talking had died down he continued. “He and his companions have come under the flag of truce and seek sanctuary under your protection.”

  “Raiders seeking sanctuary,” Lord Baln mused.

  “Not raiders Lord Baln,” G’relg corrected, taking a bold step forward. “We have escaped from Cythera.”

  Lord Baln shook his head. “No one escapes from Cythera G’relg. You and your men have come in a raider ship and you have the bearing of a raider.” He raised his hand cutting off any response that G’relg would make. “Your tale is weak, I cannot find it within me to believe that so few men have managed to steal one of Bjorn’s prized ships.”

  “We numbered over two hundred on the eve of our escape,” G’relg interrupted. “Four vessels in all were taken. We alone survived the tempest that covered our flight.”

  “Then fortune favored you and your men,” Lord Baln said his voice filled with skepticism.

  “Fortune had little to do with it.” G’relg fairly barked his patience wearing thin. “The men on that ship are accomplished seamen, stripped of their livelihoods when their merchant ship was taken off the coast of Alcedoria.”

  “Where were you taken captive then, G’relg?” Lord Baln asked.

  “I was seized off the coast of Arn by the same raiders a few nights earlier.” G’relg replied without hesitation.

  Lord Baln leaned against the table the wood creaking in protest. “G’relg, we have avoided the Raiders eyes for many years.” He paused looking over his subjects. “Your arrival has placed all that we have built here in jeopardy. Bjorn will not stop in his search until you and your men are found. He will make an example of any who have been foolish enough to have given you aid. That is the price of granting you sanctuary, a price I would not care to pay.”

  The people in the hall agreed with their lord and a boisterous few yelled for G’relg to leave immediately.

  Lord Baln waited for silence to return. “As holder of these lands and its sworn protector. I am bound by both honor and law to grant you your request.”

  The people in hall erupted with cries of protest. A few of the men pounded their fist against the tables in anger.

  This time, it was Urold wh
o stilled the protest. “Silence!” he shouted above the din. “Do not forget in whose hall we stand!”

  The crowd stilled. The faces of the people burned with anger as they glared at the raider.

  Lord Baln gave Urold a nod of thanks. “I am no fool G’relg,” he continued. “Do not make the mistake of thinking of me as such. Your tale has flaws, Cytherans brand their captives.” Baln touched his forehead, above his nose. “Here is where the slavers mark is placed. I see no such mark on you. This is just one part of your tale that makes me wary.”

  “We escaped before the brand was put to us,” G’relg replied hastily.

  Lord Baln walked around the table and stood facing G’relg. His eyes burned with anger as he looked down on the roguish man. “Listen well, I will grant your request and give you what protection I can.” A look about the room stilled any protest that was arising.

  “While in my lands you and your men will never again possess or bear arms of any kind. You will tend to the needs of livestock and till the earth. No voice will be given you in this hall, nor shall you enjoy the rights of property ownership. Your home will be the stables and your beds the fodder within.”

  Lord Baln lifted his finger and pointed it at G’relg’s heart. “It will be by my charity alone that you live among us, violate any of the laws of this land and you will find the hangman’s noose about your necks.” He crossed his arms as if daring the man to attack him. “Though my terms are harsh, the law has been followed and thus my honor is served.”

  The sounds of barely contained laughter drifted through the hall. The villagers approved of their Lords decision, for the proud men upon the ship would never yield to such terms.

  G’relg was furious and it was through clenched teeth that he spoke. “You offer us nothing more than Bjorn offers his slaves.”

  Baln shook his head. “I have offered you far more than Bjorn ever would. I offer you freedom, you are free to stay or go while you still have your ship. Decide tonight for in the morning I will have it hauled ashore and burned. I will not long suffer such a foul craft on my shore.” Without waiting for G’relg to reply Baln turned his back to the man. Leaving the hall through a small doorway that led to his private chambers behind the serpent banner.