Vicious

by James Alderdice

  An impatient Kentsian war-ship, the Eagle, tore through the great chain of the Golden Horn just moments before the crusaders could have lowered it. The harbor and poor Dyzantine fleet fell with but a whimper.

  Gathelaus could only laugh at their nearly rending the ship for naught. He had only scorn for the Dyzantines that surrendered without a fight.

  The noble lords, Baldwin, Boniface, and Jacques entered the captured tower as conquering heroes, yet with clean swords.

  Baldwin clapped bloody Gathelaus on the shoulder, recognizing him from an earlier encounter in Zara. “Good work Northman. I told the Doge you were an asset.”

  “Ha-ha! The Dyzantines haven't been worthy fighters since the days of Iskander,” said Jacques surveying the carnage in the courtyard. “Their decadence makes them weak.”

  “They did not expect such an attack,” added Baron Boniface.

  “They thought to frighten us with their superior numbers. They should have known better, but I suspect this warm climate makes them soft,” said Baldwin. “After all, a coldhearted Northman took the Tower by himself.”

  Shaking his head, Gathelaus answered, “Not by myself your lordship. I but opened a closed door.”

  “I know a worthy man when I see him. Your wounds show those beasts did more damage than the Dyzantines. Let’s us pray they don't have any more of those damned hell hounds.”

  Gathelaus grimaced and rubbed his bruised forearm. The hound’s teeth almost made it through the old links. He would scrounge and find new mail if he could.

  It was not long before Murello the minstrel was ordered to sing no more of Gathelaus “the Gatekeeper” and instead praise be to the God of the chosen folk and his chosen nobles, namely, Baldwin, Boniface, Jaques and the Doge. It was ironic to Gathelaus that so quickly they praised and then swept aside his contribution for themselves.

  Was this the way of the greedy civilized west? Perhaps it would be better to return to the frozen North where a man’s deeds were his own.

  Other nobles landed, congratulated each other and marveled at the hasty retreat of the Dyzantine usurper and the Dyzan horde. Baron Boniface led a troop into the Imperial camp that was located just beyond the Tower, Gathelaus and Niels followed to gain what spoils they could. Fabulous pavilions were scattered across the grounds where the usurper had recently held court to watch what he must have believed would be a victorious battle. In their hasty retreat, they left succulent wines and meats, soft silken divans, and other delicacies from rich Shang-Henj.

  “This is amazing. Opium,” said Niels, extending a jar to Gathelaus.

  The North-man shook his head.

  Rummaging through tents behind what was likely the Emperor's own, Gathelaus found a vestment beneath a black fur cloak that made him pause.

  “What is that?”

  Gathelaus held it up for Niels. A large iron-scaled tunic with Nordic runes emblazoned across it. A fearsome helm with short bull horns lay beside it as did a shield splashed with an image of Perkunas and his infamous thunder hammer. It matched the one that hung about Gathelaus's own neck. The magnificent sword which surely must have accompanied such a collection was missing.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there are Varangian’s here. North men who serve as the emperor’s elite guard.”

  “You're sure?”

  Gathelaus grinned, “Aye. My father was one long ago. I wager we'll see them tonight.”

  4. Teeth in the Dark

  Twilight fell with no moon, only cold stars to pinprick at the curtain of night. After the Imperial pavilions had been stripped of their decadent wealth the surrounding meager suburbs were next. On this side of the Golden Horn the undesirables were represented, odoriferous tanners and pig farmers even a colony of lepers. Some valuables were yet found amongst the reviled Kathulian silk merchants but all paled in comparison to what the crusaders knew waited across the bay in the city proper.

  Gathelaus and Niels sat beside a dying fire with Baron Boniface and a dozen of his sleeping henchmen.

  “We'll march to the Lion Gates on the morrow while the Kentsians assault the sea walls,” said Boniface over his cup of wine. “I want you beside me Gatekeeper. Together, we'll take this city.”

  Gathelaus nodded. He enjoyed the wine but not the company, guessing the Baron only wanted to seize the glory for any victories he might accomplish the next time. Such was the way of nobles.

  “I'll tell you this,” slurred Boniface. “We're damned lucky to be fighting Dyzantines instead of the Sen Toku—those bastards can fight.”

  Gathelaus sipped his wine, listening to the night more than the noble.

  “This here,” Boniface gestured absently about the decorative encampment, “this will be an easy war,” he said, before slumping upon his silken divan in a snore.

  Niels eyed the wine bottles greedily. “You want to take those?”

  “You can take his wine,” said Gathelaus, striding out into the night. He listened and watched for things unheard and unseen.

  Niels followed after snatching two of Boniface's wine bottles. “Is it a good idea to wear that Varangian armor?”

  “Spoils of war, Paladin. It's better made than what I had. You have yours,” he took a bottle from Niels and guzzled a deep pull, adding afterward, “and I have mine.”

  Niels said, “I wouldn't want anyone mistaking you for one of them.”

  Shrugging, Gathelaus gazed into the abyss of darkness. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they won't attack tonight.”

  “Maybe they will.”

  “I'll go walk the perimeter then.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Stay then.” Gathelaus drew his sword. “If I haven't returned by morning...you'll know I found a Kathulian princess to keep me warm.”

  Niels laughed and took another sip of wine.

  Beyond the looted Imperial camp Gathelaus walked toward the makeshift perimeter. Dyzantium had been alight with torches and fires all along its great wall at dusk, but the lights were now extinguished. The Tolburnians had continually shot arrows at any targets but something was amiss. There should be watch lights at least at the Lion Gatehouse.

  Bordered by palpable darkness, Tolburnian spearmen dozed at their posts. Weak torches guttered every hundred paces along a wide-open avenue that marked the border. A trampled field was the widest spot yet, here only a few scattered trees could be seen in the gloom, shadows stretched beyond like a dark lover’s kisses.

  Gathelaus noticed a spearman leaning against the broken wall of a tanner’s shop. His torch was extinguished, and his warning trump hung well out of reach. The guardsman farther past him had his light snuffed as well.

  “Wait, fool!” called someone far out in the palpable darkness.

  Gathelaus wheeled, expecting an attack, but none came. He waited a moment, watching the shadows before smacking the spearman awake, half expecting him to be dead.

  The spearman started at Gathelaus's perceived sudden appearance. “Gatekeeper?”

  “Aye. Why did fall asleep at your post? Who else is further on?” he gestured into the shadowy fields.

  “None. I am to let no one pass.”

  “I hear men.”

  “Impossible. We chased the dogs beyond the bridge and to the Lion Gates.”

  “Dogs?” asked Gathelaus, glancing about.

  “The Dyzantines.”

  Gathelaus nodded, “Wake the man down the way. Be vigilant. Something isn't right.”

  The spearman trotted to the next dozing man down the line and woke him. As one of the men struck flint to relight his torch the other gasped, “Demon dogs!”

  The torch blazed to life casting just enough light to catch the baleful eyes of dozens of horrible shaggy forms in the gloom.

  “Werewolf!” screamed the spearman as his own blood showered the guard beside him.

  A black mass materialized out of shadow, vaguely illuminated by torchlight revealing a dog-like snouts and pointed ears.

  Gathel
aus's mind reeled at the hideous reality of a horde of hounds and what they might do.

  But these raised up on two legs and ran, roaring blood and thunder.

  The second guard was slain with a swift hideous leap as the furry legion washed over the Tolburnian perimeter howling bloody retribution.

  Like frenzied two-legged wolves they came. Wolves with axes and spears and swords in their taloned paws. They howled and roared in chaotic abandon as the remaining Tolburnian spearmen only cried in fear. Then Gathelaus heard them speaking—shouting! In the tongues of his fathers. This was worse than the hounds. The Varangian guard, Northmen like himself, the savage mercenary army of the Dyzantine emperors.

  The wolf-skinned bezerkers slashed the few Tolburnian spearmen to pieces.

  Gathelaus blew the warning trump left hanging by the now shredded spearman. He then turned to face a sure road to Valhol as the bezerkers closed on him. He raised his sword and shield, bracing for their horrific onslaught.

  The Varangian's, hundreds of them, glanced at Gathelaus and ran on heedless.

  One recognized the armor. “Ulfhamer, I am with you!” shouted a bear-skinned bezerker, before he too disappeared into the night chasing toward the Tolburnian camp.

  They thought he was one of them! Such was the only reason he was not cut down by an unstoppable horde immediately.

  Screams of terror erupted from the foremost Tolburnian tents and Gathelaus's allies of earlier that day died in bloody-handed ruin.

  The war-drums throbbed in his heart and the pipes blew the song of death. Blood ran hot through his veins and called for him to join the cold madness of the North, his homeland. To be one with his wolf-skinned brothers, to delight in the slaughter and tear down the civilized dogs, the Tolburnians and Kentsians. Always the battle raged within, what would he choose?

  5. Grim Choices

  He stood motionless as the pack swarmed by. It would be so easy to join in. To right the wrongs and take back the dishonor heaped upon his name. He had but to reach out and take it.

  No.

  Gathelaus shook off the bloodthirsty temptation. He was no traitor to men he had fought and bled beside. He could not allow harm to come to the Paladin poet, his new blood-brother, Niels.

  Gathelaus raced toward Boniface's tent. He struck down a dozen bezerkers on the way, lamenting that at least they died with swords in hand. They could yet venture to Valhol. They could expect no better from the outcast son of Thorgrim.

  Nearing the center of the Tolburnian camp, Gathelaus tore off his wolf-skin cloak and threw away his shield of Perkunas. Even his valued horned helm was tossed aside to better distinguish himself from the bezerker horde. Spying Niels fighting for his life near a drunken Boniface, Gathelaus crashed into the bezerkers.

  “Welcome brother!”

  “Welcome yourself brother and slay!”

  Men fell in droves before Gathelaus's sword and the howl of the dying was a siren song to his ears.

  “You!” shouted a man in old Vjornish. “You're the dog who stole my armor!” came a guttural voice, deep as the pit.

  Gathelaus faced a black-bearded giant with a dripping ax. “Ulfhamer?”

  “You know my name? And stole my armor? This insult will be met with the ultimate Death!” Ulfhamer dropped the ax and drew the great sword that Gathelaus had suspected was companion to the fine armor.

  “I take what I want, dog!” shouted Gathelaus. “And now, I want your head!”

  The two northern warriors stared across the gulfs of time at each other. Iron wills smashed headlong and the pair hammered at one another souls with bloody steel and streaming sweat forging a hatred in a moment that could have been eons old.

  Oaths came rampant and free as the world around them blurred and went still. Everything Gathelaus hated was encompassed in this one enemy, all the anger at the nobles, his clan, his father and his people melded into Ulfhamer.

  Blow and parry exchanged and then reversed. These Northman titans were too evenly matched in fighting prowess and cunning for victory.

  Something would have to give.

  Gathelaus's eye caught a single dangling link in Ulfhamer’s mail. A lone link loose from its shield brothers opening a tiny fissure in a stalwart foe. Gathelaus pulled a dagger from his belt and reached. Ulfhamer redoubled his efforts, pressing down with his gory blade at Gathelaus's neck.

  Locked in an embrace of death, Gathelaus felt the sweat and blood drip from his opponent; the salty tang, foul and fierce. The sword edge hungered for his flesh. Ulfhamer’s eyes, like a ravenous dog shone with an insane light.

  “I shall drink mead from your skull, whelp.”

  Gathelaus pushed, striving, feeling the dagger tip scrape across Ulfhamer mail until it found the open link, the break in the shield wall.

  He shoved.

  Hard.

  Biting steel tore through the exposed weakness in Ulfhamer’s mail and opened his belly. The Varangian chieftain cursed the Norn's, pressed his blade harder for a moment and then rolled away as all his strength seeped, then rapidly poured out in crimson rivulets. Nothing in his death was dignified or glorious, but he held onto his sword which was the most one could ever hope for in this life.

  Those bezerkers nearby joined Ulfhamer in the crossing of Vales, the moonlight bridge to Valhol, as shafts from Kentsian archers rained like welcoming Valkyries. The bloody tide turned as more bolts found their wolf-like targets.

  Gore-covered and exhausted Gathelaus, helped Niels get Boniface to his feet. “Werewolves, I tell you. Who knew the Dyzantines had such sorcery?” asked the Baron.

  “They’re gone.”

  “What?”

  “He said they are gone,” answered Gathelaus, as he cleaned off his sword.

  A troop of striped Kentsians entered what was left of the encampment. The blind old Doge was guided between corpses to his allies. “Seems we saved you yet again.”

  “Hardly,” countered Boniface. “We had these dogs on the run. Where is my wine?”

  “We came only when we heard the trump. If not for that warming blast, we may not have arrived in time and you would be overrun.”

  “Bah!” answered Boniface, shaking an empty bottle in his quest for drink.

  “Whoever blew the warning trump then,” muttered the Doge, “is responsible for this turnabout.”

  “Only the men at the front lines had them,” said Boniface. “They are surely all dead now.”

  “Dead heroes are best,” grinned the Doge.

  “What we need is more dogs of war like these two,” slurred Boniface, pointing at Gathelaus and Niels. “These bastards sat here the whole time and did naught but steal my wine. Now that’s a true soldier.”

  “Dog's,” chuckled the Doge. “Away with you. Let noble men discuss the morrow.”

  Niels frowned but Gathelaus shook his head whispering, “I won more than they can ever guess. But I know, and that's enough for now.”

  “Thank you, brother,” said Niels producing another bottle of wine from beneath his cloak as they made their way toward the Kathulian sector. "What would I do without you?"

  Gathelaus laughed, "You'd be dead!" He pointed toward the red lights hanging in the distance, “Let us go and find those wanton princesses and truly make this a night worth remembering!”

  6. Three Birds, One Stone

  The fleet of Kentsian war-galleys containing the forces of the Holy Crusade sat anchored about the city of Dyzantium like a trap about to spring. Six weeks already the Crusaders bled the city dry and like all unwelcome guests, they still wanted more. They had installed the puppet ruler and yet the stranglehold on the city was not yet complete, but the noose was tightening.

  All great events transpire with simple beginnings and that evening a perfumed royal letter was delivered to the command ship.

  The ornate seal of crisp red wax was broken and the letter unfolded. Boniface, the baron of Rekez and commander of the Tolburnian crusaders, held up the folded parchment against the weak light
of the brazier as the blind old doge of Kentsia sat waiting to hear him read it.

  “Emperor Alexious wishes us to accompany him on another fruitless melee against the broken usurpers in Levantin,” said Boniface, as his dark eyes still skimmed over the parchment. “Seems he has already forgotten the debt owed us.”

  “The ingrate. Do you believe it?” wheezed the doge.

  “Perhaps he wishes to appease us with promises of gold from beaten dogs that we could take ourselves, if it indeed existed. He writes that the New Year may now bring in new taxes, if we will wait but a little longer and rummage further afield. In the meanwhile, he has yet another offer of some substance.”

  “The fop! He is in no position to bargain!” rattled the old man in his chair.

  “Alexious says to send in some few delegates to be publicly disparaged but in truth steal away a priceless magical artifact. He seems to think we may desire this relic enough to call his debt good. I see no reason not to agree to this proposition,” said Boniface. “If this relic could be worthwhile to the bankers of Kentsia, we may as well have it regardless of our other plans.”

  “Is it what I think it is?”

  “Of course.”

  “Interesting, what does he propose then?”

  Ringing the bell for his adjutant, Boniface commanded, “Reynard, fetch me the two most expendable men in the army.” Throwing the parchment in the fire, Boniface smiled. He watched the wax run down the rapidly blackening page, pooling like blood before the iron gates of hell and smoking away. “And Reynard, you know who I mean. Get the two most troublesome souls we have. We need official envoys for this most delicate of missions.”

  The blind doge smiled. “Three birds with one stone? You’re finally thinking like a Kentsian.”

  7. Cheating Death

  A bearded ax clove the wooden plank serving as a card table in half; the booty once heaped upon it, tumbled upon the deck. No Tolburnian hand would seize that wealth until the cleaver himself could be dealt with. Two cheats already had argued their hand and breathed their last.