The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  To that end he had buried his mail coat and helmet near the old tinker’s hovel and would return for it someday. He had not wished to part with his armor but, like the shield he’d been forced to toss, could not well imagine traveling inconspicuously with it on his person. It was heavy and easier to wear than carry and either option would have brought too much attention.

  And unarmored man, with only a sword at his hip for protection, was a more common sight on the roads, though not often travelling alone. He had with him a wool cloak, a linen shirt, hide breeches and his boots. He kept boiled leather arm greaves, studded with steel, but otherwise looked normal enough. He tied his sandy blond hair behind his head in the manner of men of this country and the only things that would mark him as a foreigner were his height, which was greater than most men, and his accent. But these alone were not unusual, and as long as he could lie, he believed he would be alright. If not, he still had a his sword.

  This morning however he still feared for his life. Rain was pelting down in great sheets from a steel grey blanket of sky. It was not especially cold, except that he was wet and shivering from the rain, but he was worried about the increasingly frequent fits of sneezing that seized him. He’d seen many a man’s death begin this way; indeed when he was a child he’d been told he’d once had an older brother who’d succumbed to coughs and fever, but did not remember the boy himself.

  Taking a quiet road to the north, he passed little shelter and despite fears for his health, dared stop at any of the hamlets and farmsteads he had passed. What he needed was a larger village, with an inn where they’d take his coin and warm him by a fire. Perhaps also a whore to warm his bed, for he had been some days now without a woman and was used to the touch of the slave girls and other lovers he’d kept company with at the island stronghold. More than this, he needed a ship.

  The village he found was not much better than the hamlets he had passed, but it was nearer the shore and he could make out a pier. The smell of the ocean blowing coldly inland had drawn him down a winding lane through forested highlands into pastures and then a wide estuary spread out before him. A deep, narrow river he did not know, but thought perhaps he had sailed or rowed past before, cut down through a valley and opened into a wide mud-banked tidal flat where beside which perched the town. The sea was still half a league beyond but as the rain thinned and the low, dark clouds lifted into a higher, lighter shade, he could make it out clearly enough.

  The village had small fields that ran haphazardly down the slopes, perhaps three dozen houses and shacks, a couple of large buildings nearer the pier, which reached out onto the mud banks at low tide. There was a small shingly beach where fishing craft were pulled up. There were nets and racks for drying fish and other equipment scattered about the narrow beach. One larger vessel rested lopsided in the mud by the pier, waiting for the tide to come and lift it up. The chapel was a wooden building no larger than a barn, with a small steeple and its own little bell tower. The place looked quiet, poor and probably suspicious of strangers, but if he was ever to get out of the rain, it would have to do. Because the trail that led to the village branched off the main road, at least he could claim to be coming from a different direction than Breglyn.

  Like any coastal community, there was a watchtower and a palisade, but both looked to be in poor repair. Algas walked slowly with his hands at his side as several watchmen detached themselves from their posts and came up the path to see him. He had expected as much, not least because of the raids he had participated in, but these men were a sorry lot, mostly unarmored with poor-looking pikes.

  ‘And where are you going friend?’ The apparent leader asked, a disheveled-looking man a few years older with a scraggly beard and a half-rusted helmet.

  ‘Heading home,’ Algas replied, ‘after paying my respects at the shrine of Saint Gordis.’

  It was not entirely a fabrication: the shrine was located north of Breglyn and the old tinker had taken the young warrior to its secluded woodland altar where local folk and travelers laid offerings from time to time. He had told Algas what it was that had been so saintly about the dead man’s tomb, but the Northman, ever impatient with the southlanders’ piety, had not been listening carefully enough to remember the details now.

  ‘And where are you from?’

  This was something he had been coached in as well. ‘Northwatch. I keep thirty head of cattle and three acres of corn.’ It was enough, the old tinker had assured him, to explain his coin and his sword. It did not explain why a commoner of means might be traveling unaccompanied. This day nobody asked.

  ‘What brings you here?’ The guardsman pressed. It was a fair assumption that foreigners were uncommon to this small fishing port, and that in such times, Northmen were especially suspect.

  ‘I’m just returning to my land. Can I hire a sailor here who’ll take me?’

  ‘We have sailors enough,’ the guardsman snorted, then paused to breathe and look around. ‘But there is a gate toll, to enter the palisade.’

  Algas should have known, and reached for the money pouch he carried.

  After parting with several small pieces of silver, he was escorted into the village. The place looked old, ill-kept and smelled of fish. Smoked fish, charred fish, fish guts and live fish. The shit pit smelt of shit-fish as he passed it; the tavern, if the somewhat large ale-house next to the run-down chapel could be called that, smelled of stewed fish. That at least reminded Algas he was hungry.

  The leader of the guardsmen left the younger men outside and entrusting his spear to one of them, entered with the Northman. He was still armed with a shortsword at his hip. Algas nodded to the alemaster, a portly man with thinning hair, and took a seat as directed at one of the half dozen benches scattered haphazardly around the hall. It was spacious, with a high ceiling and a large stone firepit in the center of the room. It was good to be out of the rain. There were several other groups of patrons at various benches and one or two sitting at the counter behind which the alemaster worked. All of these he guessed, must be fishermen waiting out the weather.

  ‘My name is Boendric,’ the guardsman told him. ‘My cousin is the owner.’

  ‘Elgir,’ Algas said, using the name of a man he’d seen die in the battle at Breglyn. Elgir had been a brave fighter and a father of five. His oldest son had escaped with Gerwulf.

  ‘It is low tide, Elgir,’ Boendric warned him, ‘and the weather is sour. Would you consider staying a night in our town?’

  ‘I might,’ he said, raising his arm for ale and hoping it was the right gesture. ‘But I would prefer to hire a boat as soon as I can, and I can pay well. Do you have other cousins?

  Boendric smiled. ‘Everyone here is related.’

  Algas knew of small ports like this. They existed up and down both coasts and the locals little better than pirates themselves. They’d as soon rob a traveler, or at least fleece him for services such as ale and bread and a boatman. He had some hope of finding passage though, and he was a much larger man than any he had seen so far, and he was still armed with his sharp sword which he trusted more than anything else in the world at this moment. With muscle and coin and guile he was confident he could secure passage.

  ‘What is the name of this port?’ The Northman asked.

  ‘Saddleshore,’ Boendric answered. ‘And we answer to Lord Allyn of Tyndel Hall when we answer to anyone.’

  ‘What does Lord Allyn ask?’

  ‘These days? That all Normar be rounded up. There have been raiders along the coast.’

  ‘I came from inland. I heard of the fight at Breglyn.’

  ‘Many of your countrymen died there.’ The guardsman was not goading, just speaking a fact.

  ‘Not my countrymen. My family left when I was a boy. We have land at Northwatch and serve the Faith.’ It stung for Algas to say such words, but he had to swallow his warrior’s pride if he were to pass as a farmer.

  ‘I can get you a boatman, for a price.’ Boendric assured him, in a low conspirato
rial voice. ‘But to Northwatch?’

  ‘Perhaps somewhere further.’ Algas said and held the leather coinpurse up on its tether. ‘Gold, when we get there, not silver.’

  ‘The wind is blowing from the south,’ Boendric said, ‘but the tide will be hours away. Can you wait till morning?’

  ‘There will be more when we arrive. The sooner we arrive, the more gold.’

  ‘Let me talk to my other kin, the watchman nodded, then moved along to another table as the alemaster arrived with two tankards. Boendric stood, grabbed the handle of his mug and took it with him.

  The fishing boat drew out at dusk on a high tide with six men aboard. Algas sat under the mast next to a sea chest, his cloak wrapped around him in the damp, chilly air and looked at the darkening sky. The clouds that had steeled the daylight had scudded away leaving only dark wisps on the horizon, and though the rain had finally ended some hours before, the wind was still sharp and bitter. His head felt foggy and thick and his throat was getting raw. He was not sure if that was the afternoon spent drinking and talking with locals or if it was related to the hot feeling in his knees and thighs that suggested a fever was coming on. He certainly felt tired, but it had been a tiring few days. At least the sneezing seemed to have ended.

  Boendric led the five men with the northern fugitive. Two more were armed watchmen and the other three were fishermen who could pilot the boat. Most were well over Algas’ age but for one of the guards, a ginger-haired lad who couldn’t have seen more than sixteen winters. The armed men were there because Boendric did not trust the Northman. Algas did not trust Boendric either. On the other hand he was sure that his cousin Gerwulf, who must have escaped back to Shorha, would pay handsomely for his safe return. They could rob him now or get more money tomorrow. He was a man of his word and he would make sure they were paid, as long as they did this one thing for him.

  The boat slipped quietly out of the river and into the night sea. There was just enough moonlight to follow the coast north and as the captain shouted orders, the two crewmen stood to, stored the oars, hauled the sails and pulled on ropes as the wind took and the boat began to plow through the waves.

  Satisfied the journey was underway, Boendric sat down on a crossbeam, opposite the fugitive and smiled in the darkness. ‘We’ll have to put in at Longbeam in the morning. We can take water and salted fish there. It will be a couple of days if we’re to pass Northwatch.’

  Algas nodded, for he knew how long the trip would take. He had sailed these waters for years and raided this coast often enough. He was thankful just to be aboard a ship once more and able to put some distance between himself and the defeat at Breglyn. A momentary pang for his brother passed but he dismissed it. He would grieve when he was safe at home on friendly ground. But for now, he felt safer at sea.

  ‘You have the money for supplies, I take it?’

  ‘I do,’ Algas answered tiredly. ‘Salt meat and water. Ale if you want it, and cheese.’ He was tired of the talk of money and these needy bastards would be paid well enough on arrival.

  ‘Salt fish,’ Boendric corrected.

  ‘Salt fish.’ Algas repeated distantly.

  ‘Just how much gold do you have in that purse anyway?’

  Too late Algas registered the look in the watchman’s eyes, as he nodded to the man behind him. All of a sudden, the Northman felt something drop around his neck and pull back at him. He clutched at the cord as it seared into his skin and he was dragged backwards toward the deck. Boendric was lunging forward, trying to grab the fugitive’s purse, as his legs flailed and he clutched at the rope around his neck.

  It was clear now they would not let him live. They’d likely guessed he was a survivor from Breglyn. They had no doubt been able to tell his sword alone was worth many pieces of good silver. Once they had noticed the coinpurse that made the possibilities even sweeter. They could murder him and abandon his body to the sea and make a tidy profit and never have to tell their lord that they’d found a Northman at all. This was no doubt why Boendric seemed most concerned about grabbing the gold first, so that he would control the purse after the murder was done.

  Algas felt the rope digging into his skin and his breath failing. His head was hot and his limbs tired. He saw Boendric over him, tussling, trying to hold him long enough to grasp the sword at his belt and heard the watchman shouting at the youth behind him, whose own blade was drawn to, ‘Kill him, kill the bastard now!’ He would be butchered and tossed overboard, another forgotten body gone to its cold grey doom beneath the waves. And then Algas remembered who he was.

  He rolled with the strength of a man a head taller than the one who was holding him. The man dug his knees into the warrior’s shoulders, trying to keep a grip on him but they both tumbled sideways and Algas could make out a solid thump as his assailant’s head struck the side of the hull. He did not know if the watchman was stunned or had just lost his grip, but the rope suddenly grew slack and he could breathe again. He rolled back the way he’d come.

  Already Boendric was falling atop him again, weapon drawn, shouting at his men, and in the dark Algas realized his attacker might not have noticed the rope had come loose and the Northman was free. The warrior reached for his own weapon and drew it out, thrusting upward in the same motion just as Boendric lunged again and registered the surprise on the watchman’s face as his gut was suddenly pierced by a length of sharp steel. The man’s eyes went wide and blood gushed down warm and sticky over the Algas’s arm, pooling on his stomach as he rolled to the side again, finding his feet to try and stand.

  He yanked the blade from Boendric’s grotesquely twitching form as the young ginger-haired guardsman finally found his own shortsword and lunged pathetically. Still on one knee, Algas parried the boy easily and slashed hard across his thigh, causing him to stumble. He stood then just as a tremendous blow slammed his head from behind and he staggered back to one knee.

  The man behind him, the one who had held the rope, had recovered his senses and struck the Northman with his wooden cudgel and Algas felt his ears ring, saw flashes of light behind his eyes and tasted the coppery smell of blood in his nose and mouth, but did not fall any further. He stood instead, whipping around with his sword, slashing in a blind rage of pain and finding flesh, shattered the ruffian’s chest with a rib-crunching crack, spraying blood across the face of the hobbled boy beside him. The wounded man tumbled overboard.

  The lad looked up as his companion fell into the icy waters with a yelp and a splash. His sword dropped to the deck and his eyes pleaded with the Northman.

  Algas was unsteady, half dazed, but still standing and he turned his attention instead to the crewmen. The captain was wielding a large hook on a chain and one of the sailors had a long fishing spear. The third sailor dived overboard by himself and splashed away, perhaps to rescue the wounded watchmen who’d gone over, maybe confident he could swim to shore, perhaps just terrified, but no longer the Northman’s concern.

  Algas found his feet, fixed his stance, and lunged at the man with the spear, providing an easy strike for the fellow to parry. But a fisherman is not a fighter and as the spear swung defensively, Algas followed up passing almost clean beside the man and thrust his sword sideways across his own body into the man’s ribs. The fisherman screamed and fell to his knees, dropping the spear and falling into spasms on the deck beside Boendric’s still form. Algas yanked the sword free with a gush of blood across the planks and stepped toward the captain.

  For a moment he felt sorry for the fisherman, who was only defending his boat, having thought Boendric would do the killing and make it quick. Surely he’d expected some of the profits from the intended murder, but he had never expected to fight for them. Algas was forced to lean backward as the chained hook swung in his direction. He lunged forward as the captain tried to recover from swinging such a heavy excuse for a weapon and cut downward, blade crashing into the man’s collar bone and splashing his own face with hot blood, black in the night.

  Alga
s stood now, a warrior in his rage. His breathing was heavy, and his heart thundering, but he was exhilarated, alive, and in a killing mood. He felt light for he wore no armor and he dearly missed his mail and helmet now, not least for his throbbing head and the blood running down over his mouth. He grinned, showing blood-blackened teeth to the boy on his knees before him. The boat was rocking and his thighs were working hard to keep him upright and steady, but he hadn’t noticed until now.

  The boy was mumbling, pleading, weeping.

  ‘Please, milord,’ he begged with a cracking, sobbing voice, ‘it weren’t my idea. They made me do it.’

  He grabbed the lad’s curly ginger hair and yanked his head backward, driving the sword into the side of his neck in a fresh gush of blood then sawing back as the boy’s whimpering turned into a bubbling, gurgling cry. It took time to kill a man this way but he had done it before. He pushed the bloody heap that had been the youth down on the deck with the others and immediately began to drag them overboard.

  Algas thought he could make out the splashing of the man who’d leaped overboard as he swam away. The wind and swift tides must have carried the boat a few hundred paces already, so he could not be sure if it was just the waves or not. It took effort to move the bodies. He had to get down low or sit at times to haul them over without tipping the craft, but one by one they plopped into the cold dark sea below. The boy was still somehow breathing raggedly until he finally sunk under the waves.