A heap of Brizaki arms and armor lay about their feet, along with the cutlery and food, arms and armor that had been sold to them by the Thimenians. Levin had exchanged his suit of Brizaki armor for a hauberk of chainmail made of the same amazingly light steel, a hauberk forged by the hands of one of the many master smiths who made a living in this strange town of Hrulthan’s Steading.
Strange it was, and strange it had seemed when Jarlben’s longboat had turned a sharp corner on the stony and barren coast of a land called Jutland that seemed to have been ripped from the bottom of the sea itself, a hard and mountainous land of crag and peak, with only a few lonely conifers to soften it. Through the mist that enshrouded Jutland Levin had seen a sheltered harbor, a series of floating wooden piers behind a seawall that was at least nine paces tall, with massive square towers set in it. In the middle of the innermost towers was a passage wide enough for a single ship, and the water lay still and glassy and green before it. The longship made ripples as they rowed through that passage, ripples that were the only marring of the harbor’s glassy surface.
They had stopped at one of the towers, and from a small door set near the waterline a tall, thin man in steel chainmail had emerged, cloaked in fur and wearing a helmet from which twin horns jutted like those of a shaggy gaur. Jarlben had given him gold in several pieces, a princely sum to pay for the privilege of docking and abiding in Hrulthan’s Steading. The man had given an order and unseen hands cranked down the sea chain that barred entrance to the harbor.
Levin had been at the oars, a privilege they only entrusted him with after many hours of training, so he had pushed and lifted, pulled, then pushed and lifted again, helping to drive the ship to pier. His arms bulged with work-hardened muscle, for he felt as if he had rowed all the way from Mortentia. “Every Thimenian rows at least an hour each day.” Jarlben had explained. “The rowing keeps us strong.” So Levin had rowed, and the miles had come and gone behind the longboat, and the seemingly endless coast of Jutland had passed beside them.
“Hrulthan’s Steading lies in a broad inlet along the northern coast of Jutland.” Kuljin had told him during one of their frequent stops to water the ship and rest the rowers. The two of them practiced the sword while amused Thimenians looked on. “It is a Thimenian place, but only because the ruler here is Thimenian, and his men. In ten years it may be called something else, and may be run by someone else. For hundreds of years the harbor has changed hands, and sometimes the Auligs hold it, sometimes the Vheradorans and most often the Thimenians. The water before the harbor is very deep, and no man can claim to have seen the bottom of it. Around it the mountains rise, and only in the gate is it vulnerable.
“The rules are always the same, no matter the leader. Hrulthan’s Steading is open to all, but a peace lies on the city. Pirates and reavers come here to trade goods with Auligs, and stolen plunder is traded for furs, food and gold. No man will question you about where you found the things you traded.”
“What do you mean, a peace lies on the city?”
“Since ancient times sailors have used this harbor. It is a safe place, insofar as no man may raise hand against another without his permission, but it can be dangerous as well. There are frequent duels and fights to the death in the mead hall, with willing participants.”
“Why would you want to fight to the death here, if the city is under peace?”
“Same reasons you would fight anywhere, Levin.” Kuljin’s reply had been patient and amused. “Honor, to avenge an insult or for a wager. If you decide to fight here, men will wager on the contest, and some will pay to see a good fight. Now, let me show you how to kill a Thimenian.”
Kuljin’s lessons were a daily occurrence, for he said he saw a blademaster in Levin. “You understand what you can do with the sword.” He told him. “Not many can say that. You don’t over reach, and you are good at keeping up your guard. Your footwork is as good as I have seen anywhere. You know your strengths and you know where you are weak. Most men have a kind of blindness when they fight. Either they believe themselves better than they are or they lack confidence to do what they must.”
Every day brought a new opponent in Kuljin. Sometimes he was a Thimenian, slashing downward with a heavy lathe, charging forward aggressively. Sometimes he was an Aulig, fast and reactive with any kind of weapon, but always preferring to strike at the body. As the days had gone by, Levin had seen that Kuljin was not only a blademaster, but skilled in assuming the character of the kinds of men Levin might meet while reaving the Tolrissan Sea.
“The Tolrissan wants the dramatic kill.” He explained. “He wants to lop off your head in a single blow or run you through, but he is used to fighting one on one. He will parry with skill, but he will forego attacking your arms and legs in favor of the body and head. Tolrissans practice the blade almost exclusively, but lack skill with the spear and axe. You kill the Tolrissan with patience, maintaining your guard and making many tiny cuts, bleeding him from the arms and legs until he can’t fight anymore.
“The Vheradoran likes to jump about, coming at you from a hundred different angles. He is good with all weapons, but usually not a master of any one in particular. Watch for him to pick up things and throw them in your path, or to throw sand in your face. He is always aware of the battlefield and the terrain, and he will use them to his advantage. Make him come to you, and fight him on level ground if you can. You kill him by watching him carefully, for usually he will make the same mistake over and over.
“Not every Vheradoran fights the same, nor any other people. What I am giving you is what I have found to be generally true, but there are always exceptions. The most dangerous men are the ones who don’t boast over much of their skill. The dangerous ones rarely want to fight, however. They hone their skills by surviving fights, not by fighting any man they can. The reckless swordsmen always eventually die, so it is the cautious ones that you should fear to fight.”
And so the days had passed, and the nights. Sometimes they slept in the longboat, bundling in furs and lying on the benches or on the floor between them, but most often they made camp on small or hidden beaches, and they passed the time telling stories or jokes. For food they had fish that they caught from the boat or dried fish they had stored in barrels. Occasionally they would shoot a deer in some camping place, and the venison was a rare treat. They washed it all down with stolen Brizaki wine or water from many streams.
Finally they had come to Hrulthan’s Steading, through the narrow gate and into a small fishing town, at the center of which stood an enormous square mead hall, surrounded my numerous much smaller and shabbier buildings. The town smelled like smoke, mostly, for the high walls and surrounding mountains prevented its escaping. Within moments of stepping from the longboat Levin’s clothing had been steeped in wood smoke.
The mead hall was carved from enormous logs, aged wood that had been stained with the smoke of many fires until it was nearly black, set upon a cream-colored stone foundation. There were very few windows, and these were set in deep frames and frosted. In the sunlight they would let in dim light, but little else. They passed through the doors and found the interior dimly lit by torches set in brackets near the ceiling, and every wooden post carved with the figures of dragons, warriors and many exquisitely detailed nude women. An enormous wooden chair set above the level of the floor dominated the eating area, which was a series of long wooden tables with benches beside them. Levin estimated that four or five hundred people could fit within the building. At the side closest to the rear of the mead hall was a slightly sunken circular area surrounded by a waist-high wooden wall and some benches. The floor of that area was of brown sand, and stained with blood. A tall and gaunt thrall dressed in the worn clothing of a Tolrissan listlessly strummed some kind of small harp on the near side of the little arena.
Jarlben’s band found their places, all seventy of them fitting around a single long table. They had been the first to arrive, then this crew of rowdy Vheradorans had come in, and im
mediately begun dancing, singing and drinking. The Thimenian serving women wore white doeskin dresses with elaborate fringes, their hair was up and bound with wooden ornaments and combs, and all were at least moderately beautiful. They walked with a proud step, exchanging jokes and stories with the men. “They are not to be touched.” Jarlben told Levin. “They are not thralls, but free women of Thimenia, and they work for coin only. If you treat them rudely, every hand in the hall will be raised against you.” Levin’s serving woman was a large bosomed blonde with a strong accent and a proud lift to her chin. She had a beautifully shaped nose and she was not shy.
“Who are you?” She demanded, when Levin asked for meat and bread. “You sound like a Tolrissan but you look like a Mortentian and you sail with Thimenians.” She was speaking in heavily accented Tolrissan, the common tongue of the Tolrissan Sea. Like the common Mortentian dialect, this was an offshoot of the ancient Kirluni tongue, and every nobleman of Mortentia learned his Tolrissan as a matter of course.
“I am Levin Ghoulslayer.” He told her. “I killed twenty ghouls on Damrek Island. Jarlben the Mighty rescued me from that place, and here I am.”
“I am Yset from Khumenov.” She answered. “You are a pretty man, but I think you must be criminal to be put on the Damrek. I will watch you to see you don’t steal.” Her tone was amused, however, and somewhat flirtatious. Levin decided that he liked her very much. He caught her eye twice while she was serving other patrons, and each time she favored him with a small smile.
“Be careful, Levin.” Jarlben cautioned. “She is a Thimenian woman, and possibly too strong for you. Dangerous, and she may belong to another.”
Another group of reavers came in, at least one hundred, and these were of a type Levin had never seen before. They carried themselves with assurance, they wore chainmail armor, and they had strong Aulig features. Cobalt blue eyes stared forth from beardless faces carved in hard planes, and they wore their black hair in long braids or shaggy manes to their shoulders. Several of them had white and blue patterned face tattoos, and all wore broadswords. The broadswords were mostly Mortentian steel, and the last one to enter dragged a leashed thrall into the hall, a beautiful if tiny blond girl with her hair in golden ringlets. She was wearing nothing but a loincloth and a ragged leather jacket that looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are they?” Levin asked Kuljin, and he took a minute to look them over.
“A band from the Borni Forest, I should think.” Kuljin replied, and Jarlben nodded in agreement. “Note the blue eyes. Not the usual thing among Auligs. They carry Mortentian swords and armor. They’ve been raiding your northern settlements, I should think.”
Jarlben agreed. “The blue eyes come from us.” He explained. “We have plundered the tribes of the Borni so often and taken their women so much that they have Thimenian eyes.” He seemed contemptuous of the newcomers.
Levin sat back and considered the petite blonde with the curly hair. Her face was small but delicate, and she carried herself with the pride of a princess, despite being on a leash. The Auligs settled themselves at the next table over, and began a raucous conversation in some tribal Kirluni dialect. His eyes were drawn to her jacket again, and he noticed the seal pressed into the leather. He could only see a portion of it, but it was enough.
“She’s a king’s eye.” He said in surprise to Kuljin and Jarlben. “That’s one of their riding jackets.”
“What, like the one you let get away?” Jarlben’s voice was amused. “Looks like the Auligs know what to do with them anyway.”
She had noticed Levin looking at her, and she mouthed something in his direction. Unfortunately, this brought the attention of her master, a tall and broad-shouldered Aulig, nearly the size of a Thimenian, with shoulder-length black hair and numerous facial tattoos. When he saw her looking at Levin, he gave her a cuff on the side of the head. “Be still, thrall!” He shouted at her in Tolrissan. The words drew the attention of several of his companions. They looked at her, and at her master, then at Levin.
“Oh ho!” The Borni exclaimed, nodding in Levin’s direction. “Look what we have here!”
“A Mortentian dog.” Said another. “He looks like a woman with his pretty face and hair.”
“Maybe we will take him thrall and pass him around, yes?”
If she was a king’s eye, she had to go back to Mortentia, Levin realized. Returning the king’s property would also see him in good stead with the crown, and he thought for a moment before speaking. He ignored their insults and placed a bejeweled golden bracelet on the table. It was part of his plunder from the Brizakis. “I fancy your thrall, Aulig.” He said in Tolrissan. “I would purchase her.”
“This little girl?” The Borni man replied, surprised. “You are the kind who fancies them young, Mortentian? Hear me. I am He-Who-Kills-With-Knives. I killed the great eagle. She belongs to me and I will take her back to my chieftain for thrall. You may not have her.”
“So, He-Who-Kills-With-Knives, you fancy the knife, do you? Then perhaps a wager?”
The Aulig laughed. “You think you can fight me? You Mortentian woman?”
“Oh no.” Levin replied, acting like he was a bit drunk. “A friendly contest. We throw knives for her. If I win, I get the girl, and if you win you get this golden bracelet, which is more than she is worth anyway.”
The Aulig began discussing Levin’s offer with his companions in their language, and Kuljin whispered in Levin’s ear. “You may have to kill him.” He said. “These Borni fight like Thimenians, remember what I taught you.”
“He seems a fellow I should be glad to kill.” Levin replied, seeing the livid bruise rising on the blond girl’s cheek.
One of the Auligs was taking every chance to fondle the serving maids as they came by, and Jarlben cursed angrily. “These Borni, see how they provoke us, molesting Thimenian women? They know we can do nothing to break the peace in Hrulthan’s Steading!”
He-Who-Kills-With-Knives stood and faced Levin. “How are you called, Mortentian? I would know your name before I mount your head on the prow of my ship. Or perhaps my men will mount you first.” Several of the Auligs laughed at this.
“I am the Ghoulslayer.” Levin replied. “Do you agree to this contest, or do you wish to just run your mouth?”
The Aulig’s face grew angry, but he forced a laugh. “I agree!” Several of the Auligs around him began yelling at him, for apparently accepting the challenge ran afoul of some instruction he had been given. He argued with them in his own language.
“Are you ready for the contest? Or do you need their permission?” The Aulig glared furiously at Levin, then indicated in the negative. “Then let us begin, unless you don’t mean your words to be true.” Levin said, inviting the man to the area of the mead hall that had been set aside for contests. Then, to Kuljin he said, “I must borrow your knives.” Kuljin, who at times seemed a walking arsenal, handed him three throwing knives, and he tossed them in his palm experimentally, testing the balance. Levin had been a gambler in Mortentia City, and throwing knives, darts and quoits was one of the staples of his gold-earning diet.
As he stepped over the rail and down to the sand, the Aulig threw a knife at his head. Levin cursed and ducked, and the knife sailed across the room and struck the butt of a log that had been painted in white concentric circles. The knife landed in the circle that was just outside of the target’s center. “Your pardon, Mortentian.” The man said in Kirluni, smiling. “You were in the way.” The other Borni men laughed.
Levin laughed also, playing along, then threw one of Kuljin’s knives. It landed in the center circle, a hand’s breadth away from the center. “That’s one for me.” He said to the Aulig, who looked at him with appraising eyes.
“You throw well for a woman, but I kill with these.” The Aulig said, then his second knife landed just inside of Levin’s own. Several of the Auligs cheered.
“Better than you, Aulig.” Levin replied, and threw his second knife. It landed in the exact cen
ter of the target. The Aulig’s third knife struck the handle of Levin’s, then bounced and skittered across the room, causing a Vheradoran to duck and glare menacingly at the Aulig.
“And now my third.” Levin announced, and he placed his third knife right next to his second. “I win, Aulig.”
“Two out of three!” Demanded the Aulig. “My third knife would have been in the center.” Levin noted that several of the Borni had hands on sword hilts, and the one holding the girl’s leash had pulled her close. “Or maybe I give her to you dead.” Jarlben and the Thimenians also had their hands on their swords. Levin did not want to break the peace of the steading, and he didn’t want others to die over this contest.
“Two out of three and you give her to me alive.” Levin replied. “And I choose the contest.”
The Aulig glared angrily, but reluctantly agreed. “You may choose the second contest, but I will choose the third.”
“If it comes to it.” Levin said, then turned to the serving girl the Auligs were harrassing. “And Yset shall judge. Our second contest: Singing and dancing.”
“Bah!” He-Who-Kills-With-Knives exclaimed contemptuously. “You play at girl games.”
“That’s because I want to impress a girl, Aulig. Perhaps you prefer boys?” Several Thimenians roared with laughter while the Borni man’s face turned red.
“Singing and dancing then!” He roared, leaping onto the sand of the little arena. He then commenced to turn somersaults and backflips, all the time roaring out some tedious war chant in his own language. He was enthusiastic, if not particularly athletic, and when he finished there was some scattered applause, but only from his companions. No one else seemed particularly impressed.
Levin walked over to the musician and briefly explained the trip-o-let, trip-o-let, one-two-three-four rhythm of his song, then he walked over to Yset. He held out his hand and she took it.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 58