Gahspar hoped that he’d hurt the thing, but it seemed to recover quickly. The chase was on again. Hide. Seek. Fight. Repeat.
Exhaustion was setting in. Gahspar huddled behind a screen of small trees, his whole body shaking. His shield arm ached so bad that he doubted if he could raise it again. His right hand was just numb. Those things were not as bad as the fear, the terror of facing this unnatural dead being. The horror of it was almost paralyzing.
The skeleton was heading toward him again, and Gahspar knew it was the end for him. The skeleton pushed the small trees aside with his shield and stepped in front of Gahspar, who tried to curl up behind his own shield. The skeleton was going to kill him.
It tossed its head back and a dry, dusty laugh escaped from its bony grimace. It raised its deadly sword, the bright, sharp edge catching the sunlight.
Something large and hairy moved past Gahspar. A huge battle axe made a wide, sweeping arc and connected with the skeleton’s head. A loud crack sounded through the forest as its skull exploded into several different pieces. The bony frame collapsed in a heap.
From his position on the ground, Gahspar looked up at the big, shaggy beast standing over him. He wondered for a moment if ogres used axes, then he realized that what stood above him was a man. A huge man.
The man reached down, grabbed Gahspar by the wrist, and pulled him to his feet. He was a head taller than anyone Gahspar had seen before. He wore a vest of dark animal skin and sported a bushy red beard and long, wild hair. He was so shaggy that the only part of his face that showed was a small area around his eyes.
“Th … Thank you,” Gahspar stammered.
“What’s happened to the world, that these unholy creatures roam the countryside and infest our forests?” The big man said.
Gahspar didn’t answer, thinking the question rhetorical.
The bearded man cocked his head, listening. His reddish hair hung loose past his shoulders, an enormous, two-handed axe resting on his shoulder.
“Well, my warrior friend, it seems the threat has passed,” the man said.
Gahspar looked off into the trees.
“I am no warrior, sir, I don’t deserve the name,”
The man stepped back, eyes glancing down Gahspar’s form and then coming up to rest on his face.
“You look the part, man. A fighter is a fighter no matter what you call him.”
Gahspar glanced at the man and then took to studying the gnarled bark of a nearby tree.
“I’m nothing but a coward, a pretender.”
The man reached out and gently took Gahspar’s right wrist. He looked at Gahspar’s hand and fingers, the axe tied to it.
Gahspar noticed that the man didn’t flinch when he saw the disfigurement. He didn’t seem surprised. Unlike most people who saw Gahspar’s arm, he didn’t look away.
“You’ve bound your axe to yourself! I haven’t seen many warriors more committed to their weapon than this,” the man said, a deep, rumbling laugh roiling behind his words.
“A stupid idea, if a man has no heart for it,” Gahspar said, looking down.
“Oh. You have the heart, man, this proves it.”
“I was scared,” Gahspar said finally, looking at the man. “Nothing but scared.”
The man chuckled again, his dark eyes showing a smile, though his beard hid the rest.
“You think brave men don’t feel fear? They do. Yes, they do, but they learn to get past it when they have to,” the hairy man said. “I am Siggrun.”
“Gahspar. Gahspar the Cripple, they call me.”
“Well, Gahspar, it will be dark in a few hours. We had better get somewhere safe by nightfall.”
Siggrun ducked between two trees, branches snapping and cracking as he bulled his way through.
Gahspar turned and followed him.
Siggrun sat astride a big, mottled horse, leading the way into the high, barren hills above the forest. The earth was gravelly, the hills covered with short, tan grasses and low heather. Large boulders were strewn about at random, their faces covered with bright patches of lichen.
It was too rocky and steep here for farming. Instead, the landscape was empty, lonely. It was land that people passed through if they had to, or ignored if they didn’t. It seemed a good place to hide.
Gahspar followed Siggrun. His head was heavy, and he found himself dozing in the saddle. It had been a very long day.
The two of them headed up a steep ravine choked by dense shrubs and small trees. The vegetation seemed to grab at the horses, trying in vain to hold them back, to keep them out.
Halfway up the ravine, they dismounted in a small clearing. The ground was flat, the trees and shrubs forming a wall around them.
“Welcome to my humble home, Mr. Gahspar,” Siggrun said, swinging off his horse.
Gahspar looked around at the little open space. There was a fire ring and a sizable log that probably served as a seat, but that was all. It didn’t look like a place where anyone could live.
“You stay here?” Gahspar said.
Siggrun nodded, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled.
“It serves its purpose, for now,” Siggrun said. “There’s a cave over there. Dry in there, even if it rains.”
What kind of a man hid in the woods and slept in a cave?
Gahspar’s tired brain struggled to put things together.
“I’m just going to guess here, you’re some kind of roadway thief? A brigand?”
The smile left Siggrun’s face, but his tone was still friendly.
“No, but I am an outlaw,” he shook his shaggy head slowly. “It’s a long story. Maybe we should get some food in you before you hear it.”
The two men ate in silence, the light of the fire dancing on their faces and casting shadows on the greenery around them. Siggrun had found a small mammal in one of his nearby traps. Gahspar had collected some roots and herbs in the ravine and made a thin soup together with the mushrooms from his pack.
“So,” Gahspar said, finally. “You have a story to tell?”
Siggrun studied the bone he had been gnawing on. Satisfied that there was no more meat on it, he set it aside.
“Okay. I am an outlaw,” Siggrun began, “You are familiar with the four kingdoms, yes?”
Gahspar shook his head.
“I had never even been to Brynhelm until today. Or was that yesterday?”
Siggrun laughed and launched into his story.
“The Norsemen have four kingdoms. Estgaart, Vastgaart, Surgaart, and Orngaart. We are in Surgaart now, but I lived in Vastgaart, just past the mountains here,” he motioned over his shoulder. “There they have two powerful jarls. The one they call The Red Jarl because his men wear the red cloaks. The other, my former boss, is called Odi the Stern. I was the head of his army, the best army in all Vastgaart. I was trusted, respected. Many chieftains pledged their support to Odi, and his influence kept growing. Soon there was only one man in all of Vastgaart who could rival him, The Red Jarl.”
Siggrun poked at the fire with a branch.
“The two sides warred, but neither could defeat the other. Eventually Odi and The Red Jarl agreed to peace, and they divided Vastgaart between them.”
For a long time, Siggrun looked into the flames, as if deciding how to proceed.
“Sharing Vastgaart was not enough for Odi. In fact, it enraged him. He formed a plan. He would have a great feast in the Red Jarl’s honor. During the feast he wanted me to slip a valuable ring into the jarl’s pocket. Later, the ring would be noticed missing, and I would find the ring in the Red Jarl’s possession, in front of everyone. He would be arrested, disgraced. The Kingdom of Vastgaart would belong entirely to Odi.”
The fire crackled and popped in the brief silence.
“Odi was ruthless. His anger made him twisted, misguided. To do something so deceitful, so dishonorable, it was unthinkable. I told him I wouldn’t do it.”
Siggrun looked over at Gahspar before continuing.
“Odi
was beyond rage. He shouted at me, threatened me. I refused to give in. I would not dishonor the Red Jarl.” Siggrun’s voice was quiet, strained. It seemed difficult for him to finish. “Jarl Odi the Stern announced that I had been stealing from his coffers; I was relieved of my duties. He later gave me another chance to cooperate, my name could be cleared, he said, otherwise there would be repercussions for my family. Again I refused to be part of his deception.”
Siggrun picked up a bone and threw it far into the forest.
“My parents’ farm, their land was taken. I was brought before the jarl and, in front of everyone, named an outlaw. Because of his shared agreement with The Red Jarl, I was banned from living or working anywhere in Vastgaart.”
Siggrun hung his head low as he sat by the fire. Then he sat up straight, seeming to regather his composure and strength.
“Now I am an outlaw. The jarl’s lies follow me, even here,” Siggrun said, stroking his beard.
“So, you’ve heard my story. Now, how does a farmer like you end up with an axe bound to his arm, fighting a crazed skeleton?”
Gahspar told him about his birth, about how he was a constant reminder of failure for his father, how he was sent to live with his uncle at a young age. Siggrun listened without commenting.
“I couldn’t hold a weapon and shield, so was never taught to fight like the other boys. I was left out and shunned. I was the cripple who couldn’t fight, who would never be a warrior.” Gahspar’s voice wavered. He had thought of this many times to himself but never said it to anyone else. “I have been an outcast, an outsider, since I was a small boy.”
After Siggrun sat for a moment, he stood and put a hand on Gahspar’s shoulder.
“So we are both outcasts,” Siggrun said with a hint of a smile.
CHAPTER SIX
Brynhelm Falls
Vorus stepped out of his carriage and beheld the town of Brynhelm. His skeletal troops moved through the streets, their swords stained with the blood of the townsfolk. There was no sound except the occasional chinking of time-worn bones or the clank of old armor as the dead things ran past. The bodies of Brynhelm’s defenders lay in heaps around him.
As Vorus stood examining the town, he saw the hulking twins approach. He had taken them in years ago, Mik and his brother Mek, two large orphan boys that had no place to go. They were not the smartest of men, but they were dependable and fiercely loyal.
“The battle looks to be won,” Vorus said.
“Yes, sir,” Mik said. “The … men are just cleaning up. Dispatching the wounded and so forth.”
As if on cue, more wagons rolled up and parked well back of Vorus’ carriage. Every army had followers who hung around, always at the edges of the battlefield, waiting for the fighting to end so they could loot the bodies of anything that the soldiers hadn’t already taken. Usually they were old women, shabby little urchins, the occasional man too injured to fight again. To Vorus they were the equivalent of vultures, and he didn’t see that as a bad thing. Everyone had their role to play.
A skeleton ran past carrying a flaming torch, his leering face appearing gleeful in the flickering torchlight.
“Why’s he carrying a torch? I said we weren’t burning Brynhelm,” Vorus said.
Mik looked startled for a moment.
“We can’t burn every town. The people need to live somewhere, and this meager little town will never be a threat to my rule,” Vorus said.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
The twins turned clumsily and ran after the skeleton, which had disappeared into a side street.
Vorus stood quietly, taking in the night. He loved the night time, the darkness. It was soothing and beautiful.
The necromancer didn’t consider himself evil. He simply wanted balance, a type of equality in the world. For centuries, most humans had worshipped all that was good and bright. They reveled in the daylight and feared the night. What kind of way was that to live? Did they not realize that dark and light, good and evil, night and day, were all two sides of the same coin? Could a person worship one side of a coin and fear the other? No, it was absurd. Balance. This human pursuit of light and goodness had gone on long enough. It was time for the forces of darkness to rule, and Vorus would be the one to make it happen.
Brynhelm had several buildings clustered around a single intersection of rutted dirt roads. The town was all weathered gray wood and worn stone. Torches cast their feeble light on the tired looking buildings. Vorus stepped around the dead men, his boots squishing in the fresh blood that pooled in the deep ruts of the main street. Shadows swayed and danced around the torchlight. The camp followers, the vultures, were fanning out, dispatching the wounded Norsemen and searching the bodies.
The twins came to stand in front of Vorus, awaiting their next task. They kept their eyes on the ground, despite the carnage at their feet. They were good men, Vorus thought, they deserved a treat.
“The jarl’s house, to the east there, on the hill. That can burn. Only the jarl’s house, understand?”
The two men nodded in appreciation and hurried off to their task.
Vorus climbed into his carriage. The driver jerked the reins and the big black horses started forward, hooves thumping as the carriage rolled through Brynhelm.
Gahspar was miserable. He was lying in the damp, drafty cave, stuffed into a small alcove, trying to sleep. It was impossible. The rock below him was hard and unyielding. Knobs of it pushed into him no matter which way he turned. He could feel it drawing the heat out of him. It also smelled. A combination of guano and rampant fungus.
He could only lie there shivering, wishing he could sleep. The events of the last few days replayed in his head, over and over. It was a story that he couldn’t stop, couldn’t escape, lying there in his bed of uncomfortable stone. His shoulders and elbows hurt from their contact with the hard floor, his neck ached from one awkward position after another. Gahspar had never felt so exhausted, but sleep eluded him. Occasionally he dozed, floating in the haze between wakefulness and deep sleep, a haze populated with dead, ungodly creatures with bad intent.
Gahspar came out of one of his dozing fits feeling that something was different. Something had happened. He turned, peering through the darkness toward the spot where Siggrun had been sleeping a few feet away. Was Siggrun gone? In the gloom it was hard to tell. He felt the man’s absence more than he could see it. Gahspar crawled out of his cramped alcove to where Siggrun’s blanket lay on the floor. Siggrun was gone.
A panic rose in Gahspar. A force that came up from his gut and washed through every cell in his body. He was shaky, scared. He crawled toward the entrance, bruising his knees in the process.
He found Siggrun standing in the woods like a quiet sentinel. Gahspar cleared his throat, not wanting to surprise the big man. A person could lose his head doing that.
At the sound, Siggrun turned, one ear still cocked toward the forest.
“Someone’s been through,” Siggrun said.
Gahspar looked around, seeing nothing but black trees and dark shadows against a dusky background. Fear still gripped him, the panic having settled like a viper in the pit of his stomach.
“Living or … or … dead?” Gahspar managed.
“I don’t know. Something went by, though, something on two legs.”
Gahspar backed up to the cave entrance and crouched down, the rock and the cave protecting him on three sides. He kept expecting things made of bones and vengeance to explode out of the darkness. He had left his axe back near his sleeping spot, not that it was of much use in his hands.
He watched the vague outline of Siggrun standing in the clearing, listening to the forest. Eventually Gahspar sat on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. He dozed off again and then woke with a start. How long had he been asleep?
There was a faint glow in the sky. The limbs of the trees were slightly bolder against the backdrop of growing light. Gahspar could see Siggrun leaning on the
handle of his two-headed axe. The morning’s first birds began to stir in the nearby trees.
Gahspar stood, his stiff joints groaning in protest. He ducked into the cave, retrieved his axe, and went out to stand next to Siggrun. The two men watched, and listened.
When there was enough light, Siggrun and Gahspar walked the forest, looking for clues about the night’s visitors. They found footprints, though they couldn’t tell who, or what, had made them. Farther on they found a hoof print: a cow.
“People are fleeing,” Siggrun said.
Gahspar felt a little better. He would expect that, people escaping through the woods. That was no threat. But along the shallow stream west of their cave they found another print. The outline of a bony foot. That one made Gahspar nervous. He and Siggrun both watched the woods around them. Their little refuge didn’t seem very safe.
“Come. There’s a road about an hour’s walk north,” Siggrun said, setting off at a fast walk.
Gahspar hoped that there would be people on the road, armed men perhaps. Protection. Strength in numbers. They would lead him to a safe place. He followed Siggrun through the forest. He almost had to run to keep up.
They stepped out of the trees and looked at the road that passed before them. What they saw was stunning. A line of refugees streamed past. There were women and small children, the sick and the old, backs bent under the weight of their possessions. Some led animals or carried chickens in crude wooden cages. There were wagons with the dirty faces of frightened children peering over the rails.
The refugees were mostly women and their young, though there were a few men, farmers who had armed themselves with whatever they could. They marched on toward the west, eyes on the ground, faces showing both defeat and determination. Most didn’t know exactly where they were going.
The Brave and the Dead Page 4