by A. J. Smith
‘Do you need food, friend Alahan?’ Timon’s voice made Alahan jump. The berserker was stealthier than he appeared.
‘I think...’ Alahan interrupted himself with a loud cough, realizing how dry his throat was. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologized. ‘Yes, I think I could do with some food.’
‘I have meat and roots,’ said Timon. A huge hand reached round the door and offered a fistful of dried meat and raw vegetables. ‘Eat. I have had my fill.’
Alahan took the food from the berserker’s hand, taken aback by its size. He inspected the food and decided that he was hungry enough to eat it. The meat was tough and overly salty, the vegetables were hard and with little flavour, but Alahan found the food comforting and ate gratefully.
‘You seem calmer today,’ he said, with a mouth full of unidentified meat.
Timon the Butcher, berserker of the Low Kast, stepped quietly round the door frame and stood before Alahan. The man was less intimidating now. His face was no longer a mask of suppressed rage, and he stood in a relaxed fashion, warming his hands before the blazing fire. Whatever inner turmoil he had been undergoing before had passed for the time being.
Alahan was confused by the man and was trying to remember the things he had been told about the followers of Varorg. All he could think of were the condescending words of his uncle – words that painted the berserkers as a necessary evil, left alone only because of tradition.
‘Who pursues you?’ asked Timon.
Alahan sat up and immediately winced at a sharp pain in his back. Sleeping on a wooden floor was stupid, no matter how tired you might be. ‘A lordling of Jarvik. Kalag Ursa.’ Alahan growled the lordling’s name and a vengeful sneer appeared on his face. ‘He has a small army and I seem to be out of options.’
Timon nodded. ‘And you are the rightful high thain?’ the berserker enquired in a strangely gentle tone of voice.
Alahan nodded. ‘My father was Algenon Teardrop.’
‘I have heard of this man. Honourable, from what I’ve heard. But you are far from Fredericksand.’
‘I am trying to reach Tiergarten. I have friends there.’ Alahan knew the family of Summer Wolf were allies of Teardrop and, if he could reach the city, he would at least have stone walls between himself and his enemies. ‘If the snow has cleared I might be able to get my bearings. Last night I could have wandered into a family of trolls as easily as I wandered into your lodge.’
The Butcher turned to face Alahan and attempted a smile. The berserker’s mouth was oversized and his lips slightly swollen, giving a comical edge to the expression. ‘Family of trolls...’ he repeated to himself, as if Alahan had inadvertently made a joke.
‘I’m glad I amuse you,’ Alahan responded with a straight face.
Timon chuckled to himself. Evidently there was humour in the mere idea of a family of trolls.
‘What brings you so far west, friend Timon?’
The berserker stopped chuckling and sat down opposite Alahan. Both men were large, but Timon made Alahan feel small.
‘Aleph Summer Wolf,’ was the simple response from the man of the Low Kast.
‘What about him?’
Timon shrugged. ‘He is thain of Tiergarten, yes?’
Alahan shook his head. ‘Not any more. He died in Fredericksand a few months ago. His daughter is technically heir, but she’s missing as well.’
Timon pursed his lips and his brow furrowed in an exaggerated display of thinking. ‘This is unwelcome news,’ he said, looking at the wooden floor.
‘Indeed,’ said Alahan. ‘The list of thains grows small in the lands of Fjorlan. The lords of Jarvik claim responsibility for many of them but...’ Alahan considered whether or not to inform Timon of the circumstances of Aleph’s death and concluded that nothing would be served by deceiving him. ‘The thain of Tiergarten was killed in the Ranen assembly. An axe was cast by my father.’
The berserker knew what this meant and did not look as if he were about to erupt into violence at the news.
‘Aleph was your friend?’ Alahan asked.
The berserker considered the question as if its answer was a complicated one. After a few moments, he shook his head. ‘I have never had friends... Aleph... was once kind to me and I sought to repay him.’
‘I’m afraid that will have to wait until you are side by side in the ice halls beyond the world, friend Timon.’
‘His daughter is grown?’ the Butcher asked.
‘She is.’ He nodded. ‘She’s an axe-maiden of Rowanoco and, by all accounts, as fearsome a warrior as Fjorlan has produced.’
Timon again seemed to be wrestling with something. ‘Then I will seek out the Daughter of the Wolf,’ he said, standing sharply.
Alahan raised his eyebrows. ‘She may well be at the bottom of the Kraken Sea, and Aleph had no other heirs.’
This news did not concern the berserker. ‘If she is dead, I will find another to seek out. Until then, I have a goal.’ The berserker was noticeably happier now and the young thain found the man’s strange sense of conviction refreshing.
‘Is there also a story attached to why you looked as if you wanted to skin me alive when you first saw me?’ Alahan probed gently.
Timon showed a slight embarrassment and looked guiltily down at a small woven pouch attached to his rope belt. ‘I am... not myself sometimes. The rage of Varorg passes only reluctantly.’ He spoke clearly and with more awareness and intelligence than Alahan had expected.
‘Then perhaps we should travel to Tiergarten together. I know a priest there who will help us. I can’t promise the journey will be uneventful, but I’ll swear to guard you when you are... not yourself.’
A childlike grin appeared on Timon’s face and he eagerly leant forward. ‘Will you help me find Summer Wolf?’ he asked.
Before Alahan could answer, a sound came to his ears. The berserker raised his head, showing that he, too, had heard the noise, and both of them rose quickly from the wooden floor of the hunting lodge.
‘A dog?’ asked Timon.
‘More than one, I’d say.’ Alahan had heard a distant cacophony of barks and the sound was growing louder. ‘Sled dogs,’ he said through gritted teeth, glancing around the room. ‘Do you have an axe... or a hammer, maybe?’
The berserker gripped the sides of his head and shook it rapidly from side to side. The suggestion bothered him greatly, and Alahan began to think Timon was not going to be much use in combat.
‘Okay, well, let’s hope it’s just a scouting party ahead of the main army. Come with me.’ Alahan picked up his two throwing-axes and holstered them on his belt. He hefted his battleaxe several times to get the blood flowing through his arms and strode towards the front door of the lodge.
Light was coming through the front windows and the wooden building was bathed in sun. No wind could be heard and the snow had stopped. Alahan hugged the wall and edged next to a window. He rubbed away the condensation and peered outside to see two sledges approaching from what he believed to be the west. The visibility was good and the hunting lodge must have stood out against the featureless white of the realm of Teardrop.
‘Maybe eight men,’ he said to Timon, who was standing behind him, looking nervously at the floor. ‘They got lucky. They were probably sent off the main path when they lost my trail.’
‘Friend Alahan,’ Timon said tentatively. ‘I... cannot shed blood.’
The young thain raised his eyebrows and turned back to the window, checking that he’d counted correctly. Each sledge was pulled by a team of black and grey dogs and held four men. As they drew closer, Alahan could make out tough, bearded faces and a variety of glaives and axes. They wore thick bear-skin cloaks and leather armour. Unfortunately he had not miscounted – there were definitely eight of them.
‘Well,’ said Alahan wearily, ‘I suppose they won’t be Kalag’s best if he’s sending them out here.’
Eight men was a push, even for a warrior as skilled as Alahan Teardrop. He could probably fell two of t
hem quickly with his hand-axes, and staying in the doorway would increase his odds of survival, but he would still rather have the berserker of Varorg watching his back.
The warriors pulled back on the dogs’ reins and stopped their sledges in front of the lodge. They wore the tabard of Jarvik – a black bear’s claw on a red background – and each hefted a two-handed weapon as they carefully stepped from their transports. Most held axes, but Alahan also saw two glaives and a massive war-hammer. The glaive was the signature weapon of Rulag Ursa, a vicious-looking blade attached to a long spear, designed to keep an opponent at a distance. None of the men was young and most looked decidedly overweight. Alahan thought he could win, but that was more optimism than strategic thinking.
He shot a look at Timon and placed a finger to his lips to indicate silence, as he stowed his battleaxe and stepped towards the door. He breathed in deeply and drew his throwing-axes. He could now hear the gruff voices of the men as they approached the lodge and he tried to slow his breathing and concentrate. His axes had lacquered wooden handles and had been sharpened less than a week ago, making them deadly at close range.
‘I hope you don’t die,’ whispered Timon the Butcher.
Alahan spared him a smile and turned, flinging the door inwards. The men outside were taken completely by surprise at the presence of an armed warrior and for a moment they didn’t move as Alahan lunged forwards, putting as much power as he could into his first throw. The axe whistled quickly towards the closest man, striking him on the chin and shattering his jaw. He cartwheeled back, his head split down the middle. Alahan then spun round and threw his second axe.
The warriors of Jarvik reacted slowly and by the time the second throwing-axe had lodged itself in another man’s chest, they were all shouting unintelligible words of alarm. Weapons were drawn, but two had died quickly and the remaining six looked panic-stricken.
Alahan turned back into the lodge and stood rigid against the inner wall, pulling the door closed behind him. He breathed out deeply and locked eyes with Timon. ‘You can’t shed blood, but can you break necks?’
The berserker looked confused for a moment until a broad smile appeared on his face. ‘That is funny, but alas... no, I cannot kill.’
Alahan returned the smile. ‘Okay, well stand there and look mean while I go and kill six men.’ He drew his battleaxe with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘In the name of High Thain Rulag Ursa and his son Kalag, you will surrender,’ shouted a voice from outside.
‘In the name of Teardrop, you can go and fuck yourself,’ was Alahan’s roared response.
He heard shouted commands and then men approached the door. The young thain held his breath and felt his knuckles tighten on the haft of his axe. He had never named his favourite weapon and wondered if a battle against eight men was significant enough to warrant a title.
The door was pushed tentatively inwards and Alahan saw a hand appear at the edge of the wood. He grabbed the door and pulled it roughly. The man on the other side grunted and lost his balance on the snowy doorstep. He was greeted with a powerful downward swing of Alahan’s axe as he tried to regain his footing. The blow split his bear-skin hood and dug several inches into his skull, killing him instantly. Alahan rose quickly and assessed his remaining opponents. The five looked tough but scared. As he had hoped, the initial ferocity of his attack had rendered them slightly stunned.
The grim reality of his situation only dawned slowly as Alahan realized that he could not afford to let any of them escape. To make matters worse, Timon was once again wailing at the sight of the dead man on the doorstep, his hands clamped to the sides of his head.
‘Please stop testing me, Varorg... I am weak,’ cried the berserker.
Alahan had to admit that the roaring was also likely to cause alarm among the remaining battle-brothers of Jarvik. He let them assume the worst for a second or two, before stepping out of the lodge and on to the snow. He kicked the dead body from the doorway and tightened his grip on the haft of his battleaxe.
‘You’re outnumbered, boy,’ barked one of the men of Jarvik. ‘There are five of us.’
‘You should have brought more men,’ replied Alahan as he attacked.
The nearest man raised his glaive, using the wooden shaft to parry the axe blow. Alahan put considerable strength into the swing and split the glaive’s handle down the middle, lodging his weapon in the man’s shoulder, at the angle where it joined his neck. The remaining four moved to encircle Alahan and the thain lost the advantage of surprise.
‘You’re quick, boy, but now you’re fucking dead,’ spat a man swinging a large war-hammer.
‘So come and kill me, you treacherous troll cunt,’ was Alahan’s reply.
The remaining men numbered two axes, a glaive and the hammer, whose wielder seemed to be nominally in charge of the squad. Alahan let them assemble round him, each keeping his distance and showing grudging respect for the man who had quickly killed half their number.
Two men moved at once, swinging from above their heads and attacking him from flanking positions. He darted forward and deflected one blow with his axe while dodging under the other. He spun round and swept the legs from under the man he’d parried, before killing the other with a single-handed upward swing into his ribs. He quickly moved to smash the hilt of his axe into the fallen man’s neck.
‘I don’t feel fucking dead,’ he barked at the two remaining men. ‘Maybe Kalag should send better men after me.’
The realization that they were fighting the son of Algenon Teardrop slowly dawned on the two battle-brothers of Jarvik, and both looked ready to run.
With a grim look on his face, Alahan moved cautiously to where one of his throwing-axes was lying. Without taking his eyes from the remaining men, he picked up the weapon and took a step towards them. The dogs were beginning to howl loudly and Alahan was glad he could no longer hear Timon’s wailing from within the lodge. Maybe the axe did need a name, he thought to himself.
The man with the hammer looked more willing to fight than his companion and so Alahan focused on him. ‘I take no pleasure in killing fellow Ranen, even treacherous bastards, but you have to die,’ Alahan growled.
The man of Jarvik held his hammer warily and adopted a defensive pose. ‘Come on then, boy.’ His words were confident, but his hands shook against the handle of his hammer.
Alahan moved quickly. Taking one hand from his axe, he extended his arm and rammed the crosspiece of his double-headed weapon into the man’s nose. He’d struck just as the battle-brother had stopped talking and the older man had no chance of getting out of the way. Alahan then repeated the manoeuvre, ramming the crosspiece into the man’s stomach and sending him sprawling on to the snowy ground, his nose broken and his breath coming in short gasps. He didn’t take his eyes from the remaining warrior as he casually sliced the fallen man’s throat with a single swing of his axe.
Alahan did not enjoy killing these men. They were not skilled opponents and their deaths served only to keep his location secret. Nevertheless, as he killed the last man, Alahan Teardrop, high thain of Fjorlan, felt that a line had been crossed. Ranen fighting Ranen was commonplace, axe-masters, chain-masters, even Free Company men, all were used to seeing men die. But this was different. As he cleaned his axe and returned to the hunting lodge amid a cacophony of barks and howls, Alahan realized that this was now a civil war. His father had been convinced that a Karesian enchantress was behind the problems in Canarn and Fjorlan, and Alahan, too, was beginning to believe that only sorcery could have torn apart the men of Ranen in such a fashion. The dark woman who appeared to him in nightmares was ever in his thoughts and he feared that more than his hall in Fredericksand was at stake.
* * *
Alahan and Timon had been running for most of the day, at a pace that made it just about possible to carry armour and weaponry and not die from exhaustion. They had stopped briefly around midday for some hastily eaten dried meat and unidentifiable roots, but otherwise the
day had been a long and tiring one. The sled dogs had been too afraid of Timon and even after an hour of coaxing had been unwilling to carry the berserker. Strangely, this made him apologize repeatedly. He’d said little as they ran, but Alahan had been impressed at Timon’s stamina. The huge berserker never seemed to tire or to need rest and the young thain wondered if he had run to Fjorlan from the Low Kast.
The terrain of the realm was currently a sheet of white. Winter was approaching and the rugged landscape was covered in deep snow. Alahan knew that a river marked the traditional boundary between the realms of Teardrop and Summer Wolf, but he doubted they’d be able to see it beneath the snow. He thought the first indication they were travelling in the right direction might well be the city of Tiergarten itself, though Timon had insisted that they would run into trolls well before they sighted the city. Apparently, the early snows meant the Ice Men of Rowanoco felt more comfortable outside.
As they approached a rocky gully, not yet covered entirely in white, Timon stopped running. ‘We should rest here,’ he said in a low rumble.
‘Really? Because I’ve only just stopped feeling my legs,’ was the dry response from Alahan.
The berserker frowned, an exaggerated expression that made his face crease up. ‘I cannot feel tired. You should say when you do. I do not want you to hurt yourself,’ he said sincerely.
‘You don’t ever feel tired? That’s a gift I’d gladly take.’ Alahan was panting heavily and, though he was a fit man, a day of running in the snow had taken its toll.
The snow itself had stopped and, though a bitter wind flew down the gully, the temperature was not too bad for the time of year. They were not within sight of the sea and landmarks were few and far between, making the occasional rocky outcropping a significant reference point in the snowy wastes.