by A. J. Smith
‘If you get out of bed again, you will have no story before bed tomorrow,’ he chided gently.
She looked slightly hurt at her father’s displeasure and said in a timid whisper, ‘But you were telling me about the Krakens.’
‘And if you want to hear any more about the Krakens, little wolf, you’ll do as I say.’
Algenon’s home was a simple place, a far cry from his cavernous feast hall. It had three rooms around a central area used for all things from cooking to bathing. The two smallest rooms slept Ingrid and Alahan, and were large enough for his daughter to keep untidy and his son to use only rarely. The room he had shared with his wife was now just a bare chamber with a bed in it. He’d removed all of the decorations when she died and had never spent more than a night in there since.
Ingrid disappeared into her room and then slowly poked her head back round the door. ‘Father, that monster man came to see you again,’ she said, referring to Samson the Liar. ‘He gibbered a bit at Alahan and then left. I think he was annoyed you weren’t here. I miss Hasim, is he coming back soon?’
‘Go to bed, little wolf.’
Al-Hasim had been an infrequent guest over the last few years and had grown to become an uncle of sorts to Ingrid. He told her outrageous lies about his adventures and was punched by Alahan on a number of occasions.
She grinned and closed the door, though Algenon doubted she’d go to sleep. He briefly considered waking his son to discuss his responsibilities while his father was away, but thought better of it as he yawned again.
The small fireplace in the central room burned all day and night to keep out the cold and Algenon warmed himself for a moment before clumsily removing his armour. The outer leather was heavy and the metal plates within made it awkward as he placed it over a chair. Once his chain mail was unbelted at the waist, it could simply be shrugged off and left to fall to the ground, making a loud clank as it hit the bearskin rug under his feet. Now, wearing a simple black shirt, Algenon looked into a small mirror for a moment. The scarred and bearded face he saw looking back at him seemed nothing but a tired old man and eventually he trudged across the room to his bed.
* * *
It was a cold and clear morning as Halla Summer Wolf, axe-maiden of Rowanoco and bearer of her father’s name, came to the great hall of Fredericksand to meet with Lord Algenon.
She stood at the huge oak doors with her bearskin cloak wrapped tight around her and her red hair flowing down to the small of her back. Halla was a woman of six feet in height and thirty years of age. Her chain mail and battleaxe were constant adornments and she took her role as axe-maiden very seriously. She’d lost her left eye to a thrown axe some years ago and wore a black eyepatch across the empty socket. She was still occasionally called one-eye the axe-woman, but had perfected her glare sufficiently to render the insult infrequent.
Her father had produced no sons and Halla felt the weight of her name more acutely as a result. She was quick to fight and cultivated a reputation for being bad-tempered and violent.
The great hall sat on a hill overlooking the town and was set back from the low wooden buildings that stretched down to the Fjorlan Sea. Halla had received the news of her father’s death late the previous night, when Borrin had come to speak to her. She’d come to Fredericksand with her father from their home in Tiergarten three days before in answer to the high thain’s summons. They’d travelled up the coast with a small contingent of battle-brothers, unaware of what awaited them. Aleph Summer Wolf had told his daughter to remain away from the assembly, knowing that many of the lords would be angry at the presence of a woman. The Tiergarten assembly, though half as big as the Fredericksand hall, sat several women – Halla’s axe-maidens and some of the bravest fighters in Fjorlan. However, she was still seen as a curiosity by most, rather than a true warrior.
She’d met Algenon Teardrop before and found his inscrutable face disconcerting. It was as if he always knew what someone was thinking, and her father had often said he was the most dangerous man in Fjorlan.
The door to the hall opened and Wulfrick, the axe-master of Fredericksand, took a step out into the cold morning air. He raised his eyebrows at seeing Halla so early in the morning. He moved slowly from the doorway to stand before her, pushing the door closed behind him.
‘Cold this morning, isn’t it?’ He pulled his own heavy cloak around his shoulders. ‘The ice came early this year. I think we’re in for a bad winter.’ He didn’t look at Halla but kept his gaze directed over the roofs of the town to the Fjorlan Sea beyond.
Wulfrick was sometimes jokingly called the half-giant, due to his size. He wasn’t exceedingly tall for a Ranen, but his shoulders were enormous and his arms were the size of tree trunks. He wasn’t a true old-blood, but he was the most imposing man Halla had ever seen. His unkempt brown hair was never tied back and he wore troll-hide armour that gave out a constant background odour.
‘I need to speak to Lord Algenon,’ she said.
He smiled before he spoke. ‘And I thought we were having a pleasant chat about the weather,’ he replied without looking at Halla. ‘I assume that Borrin has spoken to you?’
Halla nodded and looked down, refusing to let grief show on her face. ‘I wanted to speak to the thain…’
‘For what reason?’ Wulfrick interrupted. ‘You know what happened, so you’ll only torture yourself by prying into the details.’ He turned to face her. ‘You’ve sat in the assembly before and you’ve seen men die to secure lesser objectives than this.’ He was speaking abruptly, but Halla detected concern in his eyes. ‘He was planning to speak to you today, but it’s not appropriate for you to be here.’
‘I’m not going to ask him why he killed my father. I know why he killed my father. I was going to… I don’t know… look into his eyes or something.’ Halla had not thought about what she’d say when she faced her father’s killer. All she knew was that sleep had left her as the sun had risen and she had felt compelled to address the high thain.
‘My father had no sons and Tiergarten needs a thain. Maybe you can tell me what that means?’ she asked curtly.
Wulfrick looked down at her. ‘It means that the lords of the realm of Summer Wolf will fight until one emerges strongest and that man will be thain. Borrin Iron Beard is a good man and a good axe-master, he’ll make sure things are done properly,’ Wulfrick said with a degree of formality.
Halla maintained eye contact with the huge axe-master. ‘And what of me, do I get to become battle-sister to the new thain and forever lament that I was born a woman?’
He smiled warmly. ‘You sound like Algenon’s daughter – Ingrid thinks that thainess sounds much better than thain.’ He relaxed his gaze. ‘There’s wisdom in youth and often foolishness in tradition, but we are bound by the latter. I know he would want you to join the dragon fleet.’
Halla considered the axe-master’s words for a moment and then turned and marched past him. ‘Then let him tell me that,’ she said defiantly.
Wulfrick didn’t stop her, but simply followed behind as she pulled the huge wooden door open. ‘This won’t end well, Halla. You should return to your own hall and wait for him.’
She didn’t reply and marched into the great hall, her leather boots echoing off the stone floor. She had been here once before, when she was a girl, and remembered it being impossibly large. Now it looked only slightly bigger than her father’s hall in Tiergarten.
An old grey-robed man was busy lighting the three fire-pits that ran along the length of the hall. The warmth from the fires had not yet fully filled the room and the hall was almost as cold as the street outside. The old man quickly became flustered as Halla marched past him, but a calming hand from Wulfrick silenced any objection before it came. She strode past the empty feast tables, sparing only the slightest glance at the huge troll skulls that hung from the ceiling, and slowed as she reached the high thain’s chair at the end of the hall.
Three Ranen warriors sat at a small table off to the sid
e and all looked up as Halla approached. She recognized two of them as Rulag Ursa of Jarvik and his son Kalag. The third man carried a huge axe across his back and Halla guessed he was their axe-master. Rulag and Kalag both had deep green eyes, a remnant of the old thain of Jarvik, Golag Emerald Eyes, a man who’d been hanged by Rulag from his own dragon ship’s mast when he’d stolen control of the town. The Order of the Hammer had condemned the family of Ursa to bear forever the same deep green eyes, to mark them out as the killers of their thain.
The axe-master strode towards Halla. ‘This is a place for men, one-eye. You may wait outside until we need a serving wench for our meat.’
Wulfrick stood next to Halla. ‘You see, you’re not the first to arrive this morning, nor are you the first to be told to wait.’ He ignored the axe-master of Jarvik.
Halla looked past the axe-master and let her gaze flow over Rulag and his son. ‘When some men get here, I’ll gladly serve them,’ she said. The insult was deliberate.
Kalag, a man of no more than twenty years, stood with anger and roared, ‘I will cut out your other eye, red woman, and see how quick your tongue is then.’
Halla smiled. ‘The young lord seems to have forgotten his manners. With his father’s permission, I’ll gladly teach him the proper way to address an axe-maiden of Rowanoco,’ she said, casually removing her battleaxe.
Wulfrick laughed at this, but put a restraining hand on Halla’s shoulder. ‘Enough, it’s too early and too cold to be killing lordlings,’ he said, with a relaxed wave of his hand, which was sufficient to give Kalag pause.
Rulag, the lord of Jarvik, was smiling and had not taken any great offence at Halla’s words. He stood and ushered his son back to his chair. ‘Apologies, Master Wulfrick, my son is exuberant when talk of battle fills the air. We were discussing the deployment of our ships along the Fjorlan coast and your woman interrupted at a tense moment. Kalag is a little anxious that he won’t be at the vanguard of the fleet, at least until we pass Samnia.’
Kalag had a petulant expression on his face as he sat down and turned his fiery glare away from Halla.
His father slapped him on the back. ‘Cheer up, son, one-eye here would have cut your cock off before you had a chance to draw your axe,’ he said with good humour.
The Jarvik axe-master still stood close to Halla and his stare remained hostile. As Rulag resumed his seat, Halla took a step forward and stood nose to nose with the axe-master.
‘Your lord may call me what he wishes, little man,’ she said, staring him down. ‘You, however, will address me as Lady Halla or axe-mistress.’ She paused, deliberately sizing him up. ‘If you call me one-eye again, I’ll kill you… and I won’t break sweat doing it.’
Rulag and Wulfrick both laughed at this, though the axe-master of Jarvik looked as if he were about to burst with rage. Halla didn’t soften her gaze as she spoke. ‘Go on, call me one-eye again…’
Halla was not the equal of these men for strength, but she knew that she was faster and more skilful.
Rulag also knew this and he barked at his axe-master, ‘Jalek, sit down.’ The lord of Jarvik then turned to Wulfrick. ‘Fun as all this cock waving is, do we know when Lord Algenon will be returning?’
Halla shot a dark glare at Wulfrick. ‘He’s not here?’
‘I did tell you to wait, but you’re an impatient sort, Halla,’ he replied with a smile.
‘Father’s gone to see the monster man,’ said a child’s voice from the back of the feast hall and Ingrid Teardrop, little wolf of Fredericksand, walked towards the seated men.
Halla was slightly uncomfortable in her presence, as Ingrid idolized the axe-maiden. They had met only a few times, but she constantly asked questions about combat and about the traditions of Rowanoco.
The child came to stand next to Wulfrick and smiled warmly at Halla. She wore simple clothes of spun wool and a tight-fitting cloak crested with wolf fur. She was barefoot, as was often the case, and Halla thought how cold her toes must be.
‘I might attach a troll bell to your ankle, little wolf; that way you won’t be able to sneak up on people,’ Wulfrick said with the stern look of a favoured uncle.
Ingrid was abashed and looked down at the floor. ‘But it’s harder to listen to what you’re saying when you know I’m there.’
Rulag Ursa laughed loudly. ‘Algenon has a budding spy,’ he said, chewing on a piece of crusty bread. ‘She can join that Karesian troll cunt and go spy on the Ro.’
Both Wulfrick and Ingrid glared at the lord of Jarvik, and Halla sensed that both of them liked that Karesian, whoever he was.
Ingrid turned back to look up at the huge figure of Wulfrick. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he? Don’t we like Hasim?’
‘Whether we do or not we should mind our manners around children,’ the axe-master said, without averting his glare from Rulag.
Halla smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder, causing Wulfrick to turn away. ‘As I said, men seem to be in short supply in this hall at present,’ she said quietly enough for the lords of Jarvik not to hear her properly.
Ingrid interposed herself between Halla and Wulfrick and looked up defiantly at Rulag. ‘Well, we like Hasim and my father likes him too.’
Rulag scowled at the three of them and his son looked deeply offended. He threw his half-eaten bread down on a map of the Fjorlan coast and rose from his seat.
‘Master Wulfrick, I can say what I please to whomever I please and there is nothing you or your…’ he glanced first at Halla then at Ingrid, ‘your women can do about it. Now where is Lord Algenon? I tire of being made to wait.’
Wulfrick smiled, but made a slight nod of deference to Rulag, and Halla thought he appreciated his position as axe-master was insufficient to challenge a battle-lord. He turned and looked down at Ingrid.
‘Would the monster man be Samson?’ he asked the girl.
Ingrid simply nodded.
The lords of Jarvik exchanged glances at the mention of the old-blood and Kalag stood from his chair. ‘He takes counsel from the liar? Are not the Order of the Hammer sufficient wisdom for him?’
‘He’ll be back soon, my lords. In the meantime, he has left instructions about the deployment,’ Wulfrick said while untangling his legs from Ingrid. ‘Little wolf, please go back to bed, and no more spying.’ He gently shoved her towards the back of the hall and, after looking hurt for a moment, she rushed to the door that led to her home.
Wulfrick turned to Halla. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside,’ he said plainly. ‘You haven’t even agreed to join us yet.’
Halla considered saying something cutting, and even thought about making a fuss or accusing Wulfrick of having insulted her, but she bit her lip and decided to save her anger. With a shallow nod to Rulag and his son she strode from the feast hall.
Her father was dead and she knew she would get no answers as to why, whether she was insistent or not. As she opened the huge wooden doors and felt the freezing air hit her face, she hoped only that her father had died to secure an honourable cause and that Lord Algenon was worthy of her axe. The way south to Ro Canarn was long and treacherous, passing dangerous semi-submerged rocks, sheet ice and dense fog. If she was to take her people and their ships through such dangers, she needed to know it was worth the risk. Her father’s sea charts were familiar to her, but she was no expert and would need Borrin’s help if she was going to join the fleet.
Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, Halla found the idea of such a voyage exciting. She’d never sailed past Kalall’s Deep or seen the icy straits of Samnia where, according to half-whispered stories, the blind, mindless Krakens still dwelt, a remnant of the Giant age that Ranen sailors sought to avoid.
* * *
Algenon Teardrop, high thain of Ranen, had a master. To the people of the Freelands, the thain of Fredericksand was the all-high of the dragon fleet and lord of all free Ranen. The reality was that Algenon himself was not a free man. He was bound to the service of Rowanoco in a way that
no priest of the Order of the Hammer could hope to understand. He could not summon the battle rage or heal wounds by channelling the voice, but he was compelled to follow a more literal avatar.
He’d risen early, before first light, and walked into his town. With his black hood obscuring his face, Algenon was an anonymous presence in the quiet, snow-covered streets. He’d walked past the steel shops where the furnaces were already lit and working. He’d taken time to stop at Alguin’s Mount, where the Ice Giant supposedly first appeared to the Ranen, and now he waited outside Rowanoco’s chapel.
The sun was just peeking over the high plateau and the snowy forests beyond were glinting in the light. Fredericksand was a beautiful place in the autumn months, before the ice took hold completely. Algenon knew that within a few months no ship would be able to launch from the Fjorlan coast, and only Volk ice-breakers would be able to traverse the sea. The ice that came each winter was the greatest defence his realm had and, once the passes of the Deep Cross were iced over, no army could march north.
Algenon judged that he had waited long enough and banged his fist against the small wooden door that led down into the chapel. The building was built largely into the rock, with only a small white dome protruding above the ground. All chapels to Rowanoco were like this, unadorned buildings dug into the stone of Ranen. The only sign of its importance was the shallow stone relief of a hammer etched on to the surface of the dome. The wooden doors required all who entered to duck, and the stairs down were steep with worn, rounded edges.
Algenon banged a second time and added a solid kick. Samson the Liar did not sleep and Algenon could only assume that the old-blood was making him wait on purpose. He may have been summoned, but he was still high thain of Ranen and wasn’t prepared to let Samson treat him like an errand boy.
The doors began to open and Algenon wondered how Samson had managed to ascend the stairs so silently. The double doors were shoved roughly outwards, pushing snow across the street, and a huge head poked out of the darkness.
Samson the Liar had the blood of Giants, something the people of Ranen considered both a great gift and a tremendous curse. Through a thousand thousand generations, Samson could claim to be related to the Ice Giants that lived in the lands of Fjorlan before the men of Ranen. He was huge in size, approaching nine feet tall, but ungainly, and his limbs were swollen and oversized rather than in proportion. He was flabby, with little muscle, though still immensely strong. His hair was grey and his beard covered much of his face and neck, making him look like a wild man as he grunted at Algenon.