THE FORTUNES OF THE SWORD
Whatever befalls you was prepared for you beforehand from eternity, and the thread of causes was spinning from everlasting both your existence and this which befalls you.
—MARCUS AURELIUS, Meditations, BOOK 12, SECTION 5
According to the old Romans and their stoic concepts of fate, Fortuna always displayed a sense of humor as she spun her dreadful wheel that they believed brought failure, as well as good fortune, to every individual under heaven. So Arthur looked for a sign to give him guidance. He would prefer this spiritual aid to come from his mother’s Christianity, but Fortuna would do if she saw fit to smile upon four lost Britons who were far from their homes.
As if in answer to Arthur’s earnest prayers, a shaft of brilliant sunlight penetrated Heorot through the wide-flung portals. After the mists and rain of the dawn, the sun had risen to bring a day filled with golden sunshine. The air was crisp and cold, but the sun gave the illusion of warmth. The hall was exposed in all its violent glory, as was the king, so the Britons were left dazzled by an alien splendor.
Hrolf Kraki had dressed for this auspicious occasion and the light caught at a bloodred garnet on his thumb and found the blazing hearts of the cabochons in his crown. Blue, green, purple, and scarlet rioted in his greying hair, while the display invested the occasion with a holiday mood of celebration completely at odds with the blood that was about to be spilled by the combatants.
“You’ve come, Stormbringer, albeit tardily! I see that your charges are clean, armed, and well rested, so I expect they are eager to prove their worth.”
“Aye, Your Highness! Prince Arthur and Master Eamonn are ready to prove their innocence and their mettle in combat with your champions.”
Hrolf Kraki’s voice was jovial and avuncular in manner, although he was glaring suspiciously at his Sae Dene captain. Stormbringer recognized the obvious loss of royal favor, as did the observers present, while Arthur noted that many of the assembled warriors leaned away from the captain as if he were suffering from a contagious disease.
Frodhi had warned Arthur how it would be, although he was one of the few lords who stood firmly and refused to shun his cousin.
“Ave, Frodhi,” Arthur whispered to Eamonn, although the scratching of the voice in the back of his mind still bothered him.
“I’ve decided to give our loyal townsfolk a spring celebration,” Hrolf Kraki announced to the assembled crowd. “The contests will take place in the forecourt of Heorot, so all folk who wish to see the trial by combat are free to attend.
“I’ve been told the townspeople are already ten deep around the area prepared for the contests, mainly because they are curious to see how long these Britons will last against our champions. I hear that wagers are being laid on just how long your friends will stand upright and how proficient they are in the manly arts of war,” he stated blandly as he waved a negligent hand towards Maeve.
The king smiled wolfishly.
Stormbringer felt Maeve stiffen, and he wondered at how well she understood the king’s rapid-fire speech. Like her brother, she had the irritating habit of being far more acute than her composed, flowerlike face suggested. For some reason that Stormbringer barely understood, the fate of little Maeve mattered to him. Impatient at his sentimentality, he pushed the conflicting thoughts away.
“It’s time to go, my loyal subjects, for the townsfolk are waiting patiently,” the king decided with mock solemnity. Arthur wondered momentarily if Hrolf Kraki was quite sane.
“I’ve no doubt that my loyal Rufus grows tired of practice at a time when his sword hungers for red work,” Hrolf Kraki added, with such enjoyment that Eamonn knew the king expected that Rufus would emerge victorious.
But Eamonn swore that he would win, even if he had to cheat to do it.
The king rose to his feet with boyish vigor. Then, with a warrior’s briskness, he gestured for the witchwoman to follow him before striding through the mass of warriors towards Heorot’s open doors.
The witchwoman had dressed with care and had exchanged her widow’s garb for a robe of heavily bleached wool. With her pale hair and skin, she seemed innocent and very young, except for something scaly and ancient that Arthur imagined he saw slithering behind her pale, secretive eyes. In the rays of sunshine passing through the great doors of Heorot, she appeared to be an incandescent column of light.
This is superstitious nonsense, Arthur thought, and shook his head vigorously to banish any thought of failure. I don’t believe in magic, and those who do are fools, charlatans, or worse.
The king has underestimated us, especially Eamonn, so it’s likely that our opponents are overconfident as well. That certainty of victory will make them careless. Only careful men survive mortal combat with battle-hardened veterans.
At that moment, Arthur longed to wipe the supercilious sneer from the king’s lips. As for Aednetta, he would have given a great deal to shake her out of her preternatural calm.
Across the room, Frodhi nodded in the direction of Stormbringer. His salute also included the four Britons, and Arthur turned back to the dais in time to see a sudden frown cross the Crow King’s face.
Standing directly in front of the captives, the Sae Dene whispered haltingly over his shoulder. Arthur had to strain to hear the words, but the substance of the Sae Dene’s message warmed them all. “My cousin, Frodhi, has asked me to inform you that he has placed a large wager on Eamonn on principle. He’ll be obliged if you were to win him a large sum of gold.”
“We shall try, my lord,” Arthur hissed back. “But I must say that while I find our huge friend to be an object of trepidation, I am even more terrified of Hrolf Kraki’s woman.”
Aednetta had been staring fixedly at the Sae Dene’s profile with an expression that was most chilling because it said nothing in particular. The Crow King was seated above her in the throne room, as was appropriate, but her status was still far above everyone else’s in Heorot.
“Look at her feet!” Maeve urged, and Arthur felt a genuine shudder of horror as he saw something he had never experienced before, even in the heat of battle. Aednetta’s near-naked feet in their gilded sandals were sensuously caressing each other. Her largest prehensile toes ran along the inner side of each foot, while the hennaed nails were scoring her own flesh hard enough to draw thin streaks of blood.
Another quick glance revealed that Aednetta’s big toenails had been tipped with narrow sheaths of gilded metal sharpened to points. At the same time, her tongue was darting in and out of her mouth as she moistened her pale lips.
To further enhance her appearance, Aednetta had cinched her slender waist with a scaled belt of rosy gold. The complex pattern seemed to coil around her narrow body like a serpent. More gold glittered from her ears on rings so heavy that her earlobes were dragged downwards. Her braided hair was partly loosened and fell almost to her calves in attractive waves and curls so thick and voluptuous that even Arthur and Stormbringer felt her seductive pull. Only the image of those deadly nails as they drew blood from her own flesh stopped the rise of heat in the Briton’s mind and body. Almost every red-blooded man in the audience wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through that cloak of pale hair. Yet few could fail to recognize the cold, knowing triumph that lay under her cloak of innocence. After looking deeply into Aednetta’s pale-blue eyes, Arthur knew that she would remain an implacable foe until one of them was dead. He had no idea how he had offended her, but the reasons mattered little. She had primed the king all night, so the ruler would follow her instructions implicitly.
The entire royal party moved through the central aisle of Heorot, with the captives and Stormbringer close behind them. The assembled warriors, landowners, aristocrats, and citizens hurried behind them to find vantage points where they could watch the combat in relative comfort. In the undignified scramble behind them, Arthur gained some insight into how cheerless and bare of amusement winter must be in the Dene lands.
The spring sunlight hit the captive’s eyes with the force of a bright, white blow. On any other day, Arthur’s thoughts would have winged away with the gulls to distant and exciting shores.
But today was for death, not for possibilities and promises.
A large circle was constructed by an eager press of bodies against a ring of fully armed warriors. Highborn or low, the Dene had come to this contest of arms as if to a celebration.
The noise from the excited crowd was deafening. As the king approached, the crowd roared and chanted words of worship, although Eamonn said quietly to his friend that the witchwoman was ignored in the frenzied acclamation. The warriors beat the hilts of their swords against their shields, creating a crazy cacophony of noise that lasted until Hrolf Kraki seated himself on a temporary dais above the crowd where he would sit and watch the violent proceedings. That blood would be spilled was beyond question, and Arthur recognized the crowd’s demands for death and pain.
I will not die, Arthur vowed silently. I will not!
Then the voice in his mind screamed out a warning as he saw the size of their opponents.
A grizzled warrior introduced Rufus Olaffsen to the expectant crowd who roared their approval as the heavily armed man crossed his sword over his shield in salute. He was well over six feet and towered over Eamonn. Under an embossed ceremonial helmet Rufus’s face was weather-beaten, tanned, and handsome, although his features were bisected by a long scar across his face that almost reached his right ear.
“I think your enemy was scarred by a left-handed warrior at some time in the past,” Arthur told his friend. “You must change hands if you get the chance, because it just might confuse him. Watch his eyes also, for he becomes vulnerable if his thinking is announced in advance.”
Eamonn nodded his understanding. “I see it!” The nearest Dene cuffed Arthur to silence him, and the young man’s sight dimmed for a moment with the force of the blow.
Eamonn had already recognized his opponent’s flaws as soon as he had taken his first glance at the king’s champion. Rufus Olaffsen’s eyes were grimly determined, but his hazel stare was shallow. While he would obey his masters until death, did this particular warrior have the originality, the capacity, or the experience to defeat an enemy who refused to fight by the rules?
And then Thorketil was introduced to the crowd, and the response was almost hysterical.
Stormbringer had told the Britons that Thorketil was perceived by many to be a warrior out of legend, so Arthur expected the crowd’s approval. What was unusual was the way the densely packed bodies of the audience heaved away from the tall figure that approached the circle, bareheaded and threatening from head to foot.
Arthur estimated that the giant must top seven feet in his bare feet. Unlike most Dene, this warrior was heavy, with slabs of muscle so large and bulging that at first glance the warrior’s frame appeared to be deformed. His hair was the color of driftwood, partly bleached by salt seas and hot suns, and partly darkened by long immersion below pounding waves. Even his thick mane was somehow inhuman, like the ruff of a monster out of legend.
If I can grab some of that hair, he’ll discover that it’s unwise to take an enemy for granted, Arthur thought. I’ll drag his head back and cut his throat in an instant. I can’t give any chances to a monster like this man.
Thorketil had bright-blue eyes that protruded a little from his skull. His odd appearance was accentuated by a bulging forehead and a thick, heavy jaw. As Arthur had been warned, the coarser bones of the warrior’s face suggested the stupidity of a malformed child, but the protuberant eyes were quick and calculating. How many men must have perished because they assumed that Thorketil was only a mindless hulk?
I won’t be making that mistake. Let’s hope that Thorketil is accustomed to frightening his opponents to their deaths before he strikes an actual blow! Arthur examined his opponent from head to heel and realized, belatedly, that he was being coldly examined in turn.
Then the Britons were placed into a position below the dais where they were forced to stand like suppliants or slaves. As Rufus began to enact a series of simple exercises to warm up his muscles, Stormbringer bowed to the king and offered Eamonn the use of a large Dene shield.
“Rufus will be using a shield, as will Thorketil. You can’t afford for a single blow to fall on either of you, so I hope you’ve reconsidered your use of this defensive weapon, my friends.”
“I agree,” Eamonn responded quickly. “I’m prepared to use a shield, but I’d prefer to use a smaller one. I don’t want to be hampered by any extra weight.”
Stormbringer was surprised by the young man’s composure, for all traces of nervousness had vanished. Had the Dene captain known Eamonn a little better, he would have understood that Eamonn suffered from a vivid imagination and the longer he had to wait, the more nervous he became. By being in the first contest, Eamonn had been spared the anxiety of having to wait for his moment of truth.
Arthur nodded his approval when a child-sized shield was brought by one of the Dene warriors. Although small, the shield possessed the same heavy metal boss and wooden armor of a full-sized protector. Eamonn would certainly need to wear his enemy down, so this shield would become essential against his taller opponent. As for himself, a shield would make his Dragon Knife useless if it remained in its scabbard. Arthur was sure his knife would be a key factor in his contest against Thorketil, although he had no idea how it could best be used.
Arthur rejected Stormbringer’s offer of a shield, then watched as impatience mounted in the eyes of his patron. The use of two blades in personal combat wasn’t a familiar concept to Stormbringer, although he was personally adept in the use of axe and sword as dual weapons of choice. For the Sae Dene, a knife was too paltry a weapon to harm an enemy.
“You must understand, Stormbringer, that British warriors are under attack from childhood,” Arthur explained to his mentor. “I know your people are raised in a cruel and unpredictable environment, but we Britons have been at war for nearly one hundred years. As I told you, I was forced to kill my first man and take my first wounds before I was ten years of age. I must be allowed to fight Hrolf Kraki’s champion in my own way.”
Stormbringer nodded slowly. He understood the nerve-stretching agony of waiting for trouble that may or may not come, compared with the self-control that a man can exert once the danger is clear and immediate.
A grizzled master of ceremonies proceeded to introduce Eamonn to the crowd as a British prince. Eamonn bowed towards the king, his opponent, and the onlookers with irony written in every line of his body, but his courtesy effectively stilled the noisier ruffians. Silence fell as both men entered the killing circle.
Predictably, Rufus Olaffsen struck the first blow as he charged at Eamonn with a bloodthirsty roar of challenge. His upraised sword was brought down to cleave Eamonn’s head in two, if the Briton had been so foolish as to wait for the blow to fall. The younger man skipped to Rufus’s left and his sword struck sparks on the cobbles.
Muttering an insult under his breath, Rufus turned to slash at Eamonn’s legs, giving an immediate indication of the speed of his reactions. Once again, Eamonn sidestepped the blow, while Rufus tapped his sword against his shield in the universal signal that the young man should be prepared to go onto the attack.
With minimal pressure being exerted on him by his young opponent, the Dene warrior decided to taunt the young Briton into making an inopportune move. Rufus hissed under his breath and spoke slowly and loudly so that the first ranks of the audience could clearly hear him.
“Come and fight me, little man! Or are you still such a boy that you can only use a child’s shield? I’ll have to tan your backside with the flat of my sword if you don’t stop dancing around like a girl.”
Eamonn gritted his teeth and closed his mind against the half-understood insult.
Fortunately, he had no real idea what Rufus had said. Even so, Rufus punctuated his insults with several rude gestures and swung his hips in a parody of a girl, an insult which any fool could interpret.
Arthur had warned him that Rufus would use offensive words and insults if Eamonn should prove difficult to catch, but the contempt in Rufus’s voice and his demeanor stung Eamonn’s personal pride.
Keep your head, Eamonn, Arthur prayed silently.
Blaise watched her brother square his shoulders and ignore a pointed insult aimed directly at her. For her part, she didn’t really care what the Dene called her. This clod could call her a slut all day and into the night, as long as her brother remained safe. Sometimes, it was useful to be ignorant of a language. She recalled her complaints on the roads leading into the north and felt a pang of shame for her whining.
Somehow, Eamonn had managed to keep his head under the barrage of invective, until shortness of breath eventually brought Rufus’s insults to a stop. The younger man continued to dance around his opponent, while Rufus attempted to find a gap in the defenses of the Briton. The Dene began to feel the heat of irritation rise like bitter curd in his mouth.
Although the sun lacked any sting in its brilliance, both men were soon sweating heavily from their exertions. Again and again, Eamonn circled his larger opponent in such a manner that Rufus had to look towards the light that dazzled off the boss of his shield and the metal plates of the young man’s armored vest. On at least three occasions, Eamonn noticed that Rufus’s eyes squinted from the reflected sunlight. Good! I might be able to capitalize on a brief moment of sun blindness, the Briton thought with savage pleasure.
“Stand still and fight like a man, you coward,” someone in the crowd shouted loudly.
Still others began the chant of “Fight! Fight! Stand and fight!” so that the air was thick with a cacophony of catcalls and abuse that Eamonn struggled to ignore.
Then, as Rufus managed to maneuver the Briton towards a corner, several arms snaked out from the crowd and around the guards to grasp at Eamonn. As Rufus charged in to take advantage of this new development, Eamonn managed to tear his body free and avoid the savage thrust designed to gut him. However, the blow was impossible to avoid entirely, so the British captives watched, aghast, as a fine line of blood began to seep from a cut along Eamonn’s breast. Although the sweep of the sword slice was almost spent by the time it split his skin, the cut was almost twelve inches long and would soon begin to weep profusely. As he danced away, a red stain began to widen along the edges of the protective leather tunic.
Eamonn had no time to staunch the flesh wound and control the dangerous flow of blood, so realized he was in dire straits. He must even the score now, or he would lose this bout! The Dene had been the first to cheat, or benefit from cheating, so Eamonn felt free to fight with every dirty trick he had ever learned.
For his part, Rufus was certain the contest was all but over, and Eamonn was at his mercy. Strutting like a cockerel on his dung heap while dragging out the moment of victory to savor it, the Dene swung his sword in a shining parabola for the delight of the crowd, all of whom stamped and cheered until the hard-packed earth and cobbles vibrated under their enthusiasm.
Flamboyant with confidence, Rufus stepped in close to finish Eamonn off but, carelessly, he lowered his guard for the first time. Using the reflection from his shield to dazzle the Dene’s eyes, Eamonn capitalized on the Dene’s error. As Rufus was momentarily blinded, the younger man used the sharpened edge of his shield to strike at Rufus’s face directly under the warrior’s noseguard. At the same time, Eamonn took the enormous risk of leaving the inviting target of his own body exposed to Rufus’s sword. His own blow caught the Dene squarely on the sinew under the nostrils, causing Rufus to squeal with pain. An immediate rush of tears further blocked off Rufus’s vision, and the warrior almost made the fundamental error of lowering his shield. Then, as the Dene castigated himself, Eamonn kicked Rufus in the balls before his opponent could regather his wits.
The low blow dropped Rufus like a stone, while every man in the crowd groaned as their hands inched towards their own groins.
With eyes reddened by bloodlust, Eamonn swung his sword in a precise sweeping motion that opened Rufus’s arm to the bone from shoulder to elbow. The razor-sharp blade clove through flesh, muscle, and sinews with ease, and only the discipline and precision of Eamonn’s swordplay saved Rufus’s arm from amputation.
As Rufus dropped his shield and gripped his suddenly nerveless and useless arm, pain and shock brought the Dene warrior to his knees. The crowd howled in fury and disappointment.
“Stand up and fight, you coward!” Hrolf Kraki shouted at his defeated and unresponsive champion, while Arthur watched with disgust as every word struck deeply into the heart of the king’s loyal retainer. Rufus Olaffsen was bereft as the strong rock of his honor crumbled under his shambling feet.
With a superhuman effort, Rufus used his shield to support his agonized body as he attempted to clamber painfully upright. Eamonn waited courteously, choosing to give Rufus a chance to continue the bout if he was capable of doing so. Staggering and weaving, but with his feet widespread to support his weight, Rufus tried manfully to overcome the agony of his arm and groin wounds. But Eamonn was now a misty, wavering figure that he couldn’t keep in focus.
Like a wounded bull, Rufus shook his head to clear his vision. Slowly, far too slowly, he forced himself to raise his sword. Arthur swore under his breath, for Eamonn would be guilt-ridden for the rest of his life if he had to kill this man who had shown such determination in this combat.
“Another good man who’s been ruined by a bad master,” Arthur exclaimed to himself.
Beside him, Stormbringer shot a surprised glance in the young man’s direction when he realized that Arthur was serious. It’s a pity that this fine young fellow must die at Thorketil’s hands, the Sae Dene thought. But, wisely, he kept his opinion to himself.
From a vantage point at the back of the crowd where he was perched on the roof of an outbuilding, Frodhi called Eamonn’s name. When both Eamonn and Arthur looked towards the sound, Frodhi raised his thumb in a gesture of approval. Unfortunately, Hrolf Kraki also saw the movement of Eamonn’s head. As quick as a snake strike, the Crow King turned to discover the object of Eamonn’s attention and watched Frodhi’s gesture.
Hrolf Kraki knew instinctively that he was being gulled; he realized instantly that his jokester cousin had been mocking him in some way; and he was angry and enraged by Rufus’s failure and his own loss of face in the crowd’s esteem. He would have acted precipitately if Aednetta hadn’t pinched the soft skin on the underside of his forearm to remind him that he was in open view of the population of Heorot. Her warm little hand burrowed into the arm of his robe, an intoxicating and deliciously wicked distraction.
“At least the Troll King will finish off the other Briton,” the Crow King insisted savagely, while savoring his pet name for his champion. “Thorketil will devour the British upstart, and then spit out the bones for my amusement.”
Stormbringer turned in the king’s direction and inclined his head in deference, but Hrolf Kraki could see something closely akin to contempt in the action. “I’ll chew your bones as well before this year is done, you bastard,” the king vowed as he irritably shook off Aednetta’s restraining hand. Stormbringer seemed to sense the enmity as he glanced at his king before returning his gaze to what was happening in the arena.
Stormbringer was unaccountably excited by Rufus’s loss to Eamonn because there was now some hope that the Britons could win, but his innate common sense told him that the sheer strength in Thorketil’s bulk would favor him during Arthur’s bout. Even so, the Sae Dene was sure that the young Briton would be difficult to kill.
“What a fucking waste,” Stormbringer swore under his breath; Arthur, unable to tell whose fate was under consideration, would have been surprised to know that it was his own.
Predictably, Eamonn knocked Rufus off his feet with the same lack of triumph that had soured Arthur’s pleasure in the victory. The Dene fell to the ground but, like a true warrior, he tried desperately to roll over and hoist himself to his feet once again.
“Stay down, Rufus Olaffsen,” Eamonn hissed at the Dene. “No man will judge you to be a coward, for you’ve already proved your courage in this contest.”
The Briton had already forgotten the barely understood insults that Rufus had hurled at him. Such ploys were the way of all personal battles. But Rufus was unable to accept his loss. Once again, racked by pain and with blood streaming from his wounds, he forced himself to stagger to his feet and charge blindly towards Eamonn’s hazy form. Regretfully, Eamonn used his sword hilt to strike Rufus behind the ear as the pain-blinded man stumbled past him.
The contest was over and Rufus was dragged away with scant concern for his wounds. His bleeding head thudded sickeningly on the first step of the forecourt.
Without preamble and without waiting for any introduction to the crowd, Thorketil strode into the circle and rammed a plain helmet over his mane of hair. Staring implacably in Arthur’s general direction, the Hammer of Thor made the universal beckoning gesture that invited Arthur to join him in the center of the makeshift arena.
Arthur turned to see if there was any reaction on Hrolf Kraki’s intent face and noticed that the witchwoman had moved so that she was standing behind the king with one long-fingered hand resting in a proprietorial fashion on his shoulder. With the attention to detail of a man about to face death, Arthur noticed that her nails had been stained dark blue with woad, a strange affectation that suggested her fingers had once been frozen by terrible cold. The oddity registered strongly in Arthur’s consciousness.
“It’s time!” Arthur said to his friends. “Thorketil might be a troll, but he’s a great troll. So pray for me to prevail in this trial of strength!”
Maeve threw herself into her brother’s arms, and whispered a few brief words of advice into his ear before Stormbringer pulled her away, allowing Arthur to enter the circle with his Dragon Knife in one hand and his sword in the other.
“Briton! You! Briton! Where is your shield?” the king demanded.
“I don’t use a shield, Lord King, but I use my long knife as my second weapon. If your champion comes within my guard, one of us will die and no shield will change that truth! I will keep my knife, and your champion may use whatever protection he prefers.”
Arthur ignored Hrolf Kraki’s baffled face and knelt on the edge of the killing circle where he could compose himself by sinking down into that cavern in his mind where instinct lived within a cool and narrow focus. When he could no longer feel the cold of the earth through his knees, he rose to his feet. His eyes were now as calm and as grey as the empty seas.
“I’m glad you’ve prayed to your gods, Briton, for you’ll be joining them soon enough,” Thorketil sneered as he hefted his inhumanly large shield with its boss shaped like a bull’s head.
“May Mithras continue to protect you from harm,” Arthur replied. A bull was often sacrificed to this Roman deity, so Thorketil’s choice of emblem, whether conscious or not, was very appropriate. But Arthur’s salute thoroughly confused the giant warrior, for the Dene weren’t very familiar with Roman customs.
Thorketil responded to his embarrassment by snarling deep in his throat in the mistaken belief that Arthur was mocking him.
For one short moment, the giant was frozen in anger, but then he brought his red temper under control with a practiced discipline that Arthur recognized and admired as the mark of a gifted warrior.
The young man dropped into a fighting crouch then, and the twin blades began to weave patterns in the air that seemed like bands of silver light in the sunshine. The tips of the weapons circled like spools of thread, an effect which seemed to distract Thorketil’s eyes and hypnotize him with their steady, even tempo. Then, without further warning, Arthur moved forward at lightning speed and the tip of his knife tore its way through Thorketil’s leather tunic as if the sturdy armor was made of smoke. The suddenness of this attack was the only reason that Arthur managed to breach the Dene’s guard.
A faint line of blood was left in the Dragon Knife’s wake but, like all its victims, the great troll imagined that the blade had bucked in its master’s hand, as if it was hungry for blood. Thorketil shook his head to kill a sudden rush of superstition, while the crowd howled in mingled amazement and horror.
Then rage filled Thorketil’s vision with a red mist. No man had ever breached his guard so easily; Thorketil was humiliated and furious with his enemy and with himself. His pride could not permit another blow to drag his reputation for invincibility into the dust, so he slammed his naked blade upon his shield to show that his arm was unharmed.
An ugly, half-formed smile appeared on his face—one that few living men had ever seen.
“Well done, little man. You can boast in Hell that you managed to shed some of Thorketil’s blood before he killed you.”
“You talk too much,” Arthur answered from the coldest spaces of his brain.
Thorketil chose to make a dramatic charge to restore his status in the eyes of the crowd. Rushing at Arthur, he raised his shield like a battering ram to drive the younger man down into the dirt where the Briton could be dispatched with a simple stabbing blow from above.
The ploy had worked repeatedly in the past, for most enemies never expected such explosive speed from so huge a man.
The trick would have worked again, except for Maeve’s final message given to her brother at the commencement of the bout. “Watch his eyes,” she had warned Arthur before the bout commenced. “He’s never learned to disguise his thoughts, because he’s never had to learn how to use guile. His physical strength has always been enough to win.”
Clever Maeve! Arthur thought as he allowed his body to take over the tactical considerations of the bout that stretched out before him.
It was only Arthur’s exceptional speed that saved him from a crushing blow from the shield’s deadly boss as he threw himself to the right, and away from Thorketil’s monstrous sword. The many years of practicing swordplay with Germanus, who had seemed at the time to be a veritable giant, saved the young man from an ignominious death. On his feet in an instant, Arthur used his acrobatic grace to tumble behind the man-mountain while swinging his own sword to one side. As he fell, the tip of his sword touched Thorketil’s ankle. The strike was solid enough to raise blood, but not enough to cut directly through the tendon and bring the troll to his knees.
On his feet at once and on guard, Arthur and Thorketil struggled for mastery for a long time, far past the point of exhaustion for any normal warrior. Thorketil was slick with sweat, so the dampened curls along his hairline were the color of stained old bones. But Arthur was carrying bloodied injuries from a dozen small scrapes and cuts in places where the monster had almost caught him, so each small wound was draining him as they sucked away at his icy calm.
Now is the time for courage, the voice of his beloved Bedwyr whispered in his ear, and Arthur repeated the words aloud for comfort. For the very first time, the young man could taste the bitterness of defeat in his mouth, because he had tried every trick he knew against Thorketil and each attempt to gain the ascendancy had failed.
For his part, Thorketil had that same unpalatable taste in his mouth. Again and again, he had pitted his unnatural strength and speed against an elusive target and had failed to finish off this irritating opponent, one who should have been crushed with that very first blow. For the first time since he had been a tormented boy, teased and tortured because of his size, Thorketil began to consider the possibility of failure. Although he refused to show this fear of defeat by even a single slumped muscle, each attack was becoming a little more difficult to mount than the last. Thorketil longed to be done with this Briton and his dangerous little knife.
“Will you finish with this irritating Briton, Thorketil? I had hoped for better from you.”
For one moment, Hrolf Kraki’s unjust words clouded the giant’s brain. But his ire was clearly aimed at the Crow King, so the young prince readied himself for an inevitable attack.
“You’ve shamed me before my king, little man. I’ll crush your skull with my own two hands and feed on your liver for your sins,” Thorketil promised, and made a further rush at Arthur, his courage bolstered by his fear and humiliation.
For once, Arthur chose not to retreat but allowed his knife and sword to block the blow from Thorketil’s huge sword above his head. The metal in the crossed blades screamed, but the two craftsmen who forged the weapons were master metalsmiths and they had wrought each edge with love. The sword and the knife never wavered, while Arthur’s muscles cracked and strained with the effort of holding the troll’s huge weapon at bay.
A flash in Thorketil’s eyes warned Arthur that the Troll King was about to use his shield to smash him to the ground. From somewhere unknown within himself, Arthur dredged up enough strength to defy the combined forces of Thorketil, gravity, and Fortuna herself.
“Words!” Arthur whispered into Thorketil’s ear. “I am the Last Dragon, so the gods will never allow you to kill me! No troll can put me under the ground, not even one who lives in the sunlight.”
Even as Thorketil swung the huge shield to strike Arthur on the back, Arthur’s reflexes took over, and he made his move. Quickly, so fast that the onlookers could barely anticipate his sudden disengagement, Arthur allowed his torso to slide away from the close body-to-body contact. The weight of Thorketil’s huge sword, too heavy for any normal Dene to lift, forced it to fall downwards towards the ground while pulling the surprised Dene warrior off-balance.
Arthur acted instinctively. He rolled away on the uneven ground and leapt to his feet with renewed strength. Skipping behind the giant, who had taken longer to regain his balance than the lighter Briton, Arthur slashed just once with the Dragon Knife and felt the blade bite deep into the tendons behind Thorketil’s outstretched knee.
Thorketil knew instantly that he was finished. His hamstring was severed and he would never stand on the field of combat again, nor hear the acclaim of the crowd as it washed over him. He realized that the boats would sail in the spring without him and the red work which had given his life purpose and respect had been stolen from him forever.
On his knees, Thorketil bared his throat, screamed once in unbearable anguish, and then begged for death as his blood began to turn the packed brown earth into red slurry.
“Kill me! You’ve beaten me—so cut my throat and have done with it. I am nothing without two good legs, and I won’t crawl in the dirt like a back-broken lizard or beg in the marketplace for the amusement of the crowd. Please, Briton? Allow me some pride!”
Arthur looked towards Hrolf Kraki, who was slouching on his throne in obvious irritation. With some effort, the king hid his chagrin in an outward show of boredom.
“Kill the bastard and we’ll get this whole mess over and done with.”
Arthur felt a surge of revulsion at Hrolf Kraki’s callousness, because the king seemed untouched by Thorketil’s tears and the obvious loss of everything that mattered to the warrior.
The Crow King’s eyes were hard and dry.
“This man has been crippled to advance your interests, master,” Arthur asked with real concern. “You are the king, my lord, but Thorketil is owed something more than a casual rejection. Why should I stain my soul with the blood of an honorable warrior?”
Hrolf Kraki’s malignant frown would have melted glacial ice, but Arthur stood his ground and faced down the king’s obvious hatred.
“If you want to claim the life of an honorable servant, then you must use another man to carry out such an ignoble task. We honor such men as the Hammer of Thor in my homeland, so I must suppose that the Dene people place no value in valor, sacrifice, and nobility. I’ll not kill your champion—for he is a true man, a remarkable warrior, and a loyal servant to his king. If you want him dead, then you’ll have to kill him yourself.”
The growl from the crowd was low and deep, as if a wild beast had turned its hungry eyes upon the king. Hrolf Kraki shifted in his seat as he recognized their change of mood, but Aednetta’s fingers dug into the large muscles across his shoulder as she encouraged him to regain control over the disastrous train of events.
Arthur joined the other captives below the throne. Unfortunately for Hrolf Kraki, Arthur had spoken in Dene and, while his pronunciation had been execrable, the closest townsfolk had heard and understood every word. Those who hadn’t heard Arthur’s response demanded a précis of his words of defiance from their more fortunate fellows, so the young man’s rejection of the king’s ignoble order was speedily passed back through the audience. Ordinary Dene folk were observing their king through newly opened eyes, while nodding their heads respectfully towards both Arthur and his erstwhile enemy.
With a sudden surge of fury and blind to the harm he was doing to his own reputation, Hrolf Kraki demanded that his guards should drag Thorketil away. The crowd groaned and Arthur saw two spots of redness appear on Hrolf Kraki’s wind-burned face.
Aware that any loyal Dene was obligated to save the king from the consequences of his callousness, Stormbringer hurried to provide an alternative solution before the guard obeyed Hrolf Kraki’s orders. The warriors’ faces were frozen and expressionless as they tried to hide their repugnance for the task they had been allotted.
“As your loyal servant, my king, I would ask a boon of you. I ask that you give Thorketil and Rufus to the Sae Dene in recognition of the many services they have given the Dene during your reign. Thorketil doesn’t need two strong legs to serve in your ships, not when he is such a powerful and knowledgeable warrior. Rufus would also be invaluable to us, and I believe his wounds will heal in time. If you are in agreement, I will find many opportunities for these heroes to continue in your service.”
Only too conscious of the mood of the crowd, Hrolf Kraki considered the diplomatic and strategic advantages of complying with Stormbringer’s request. He realized immediately that the Sae Dene’s offer was an excellent means of saving face and defusing a possibly dangerous outcome. Still, resentment towards Stormbringer bloomed in the king’s heart like a poisonous flower.
Still begging for death, Thorketil was carried away by four of Stormbringer’s warriors, so Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He might have won his bout with Thorketil, but he had been lucky: lucky to withstand the feelings of defeat that had almost overwhelmed him; fortunate that Thorketil had tried to browbeat him with words at a crucial stage of their contest and, most important, lucky that years of training had prepared him for a risky maneuver whereby he disengaged his own weapon from its place of safety below Thorketil’s heavy sword.
Arthur thanked God that the Hammer of Thor’s shade would not join those dead who already came to his bedside in the minutes before sleep overtook him. Those long-dead visitors implored him or cursed him with empty eyes.
“This contest is over, Stormbringer. I expect you to bring your captives to my hall to face my judgment as soon as the forecourt is clear,” the king ordered. His voice was perfectly steady and composed now, although Hrolf Kraki’s hands suggested that he desperately wanted to kill someone.
With sinking hearts, Eamonn and Arthur limped after Stormbringer, who had taken the precaution of removing their weapons, which were spirited away by one of his warriors. Arthur hated to lose both of his blades, while his left hand still itched for the feel of the Dragon Knife in his palm. But, for safety’s sake, he accepted that his weapons should be kept as far as possible from Hrolf Kraki’s reach.
Instinctively, Maeve understood that the next turn of the sun would be crucial to the salvation of the Britons and the position of Stormbringer, who was now their patron. She had watched Aednetta’s features as Arthur’s contest of strength had played out before her and, although the witchwoman’s face had remained impassive, her telltale blue claws had displayed her growing impatience more clearly than any words. Even Aednetta’s exultation when Hrolf Kraki had ordered Thorketil’s death had been obvious to Maeve’s observant gaze.
The real struggle with the witchwoman was yet to come.
Stormbringer, the captives, and a slew of warriors waited within the long, echoing vastness of Heorot for the king to explain his wishes. All the witnesses showed some signs of trepidation as Hrolf Kraki settled himself onto his ornate throne with Aednetta seated gracefully at his knee.
A heavy silence fell when Hrolf Kraki raised one hand to impose order on the throng.
“You! Arthur pen Artor, or whatever heathen name you give yourself. You and your friends have won the trials of strength by the truth of your bodies. I am forced to accept the wishes of Heaven and the laws of this kingdom, but I am most displeased. I’ve lost the services of two good men because of your impudent and insulting ideas, expressed openly, concerning my adviser, Aednetta Fridasdottar.”
Hrolf Kraki paused, and Maeve watched as Aednetta’s nails traced patterns on his knee in encouragement.
“Your disparaging comments were unwarranted and unwelcome. You sought to ruin the reputation of my counselor and bring my rule into disrepute. You may have avoided earthly punishment in combat on this occasion, but your sister has yet to answer for her inflammatory insults.”
“Lord King, my sister—”
Arthur tried to interrupt, but Hrolf Kraki cut across him.
“Be silent! Your sister claims my counselor is in league with my father’s murderers. There’s no excuse for such slurs and, while Aednetta Fridasdottar doesn’t choose to vent her revenge on a child, I’m not so generous.”
Gesturing to her brother to maintain his silence, Maeve moved forward to stand below the king’s dais in a pool of light from the setting sun. She appeared to be small and slender, with beautiful red hair that hung to her knees like a curtain of the rarest silk from Constantinople. No man present was impervious to that wonderful hair, regardless of his age or his contentment with his wife or his family. Maeve’s beauty turned the witchwoman’s obvious charms into a tawdry counterfeit of innocence that was blatant and contrived. Each man yearned to touch Maeve’s hair and feel the river of vibrant life that coursed through every strand. Each man longed to protect her and win regard from her direct green eyes. Even Hrolf Kraki had felt her charm, and Aednetta’s claws almost drew blood from his knee as she sank the nails of jealousy into his flesh.
“Lord King and master of the Dene,” Maeve began to speak in the Dene language in a clear, bell-like voice. “I regret any pain that I may have caused you. But I will be forced to repeat my words again, because the only excuse for such impudence is the truth of what is said. I had an inspiration yesterday, suddenly and without warning, so I spoke of my beliefs with complete truth. But if I was wrong, I must be prepared to suffer for my actions.”
Maeve’s eyes never wavered from the king’s face. He felt the truth in her words, like ribbons of gold thread, and, for a moment, he was ashamed of his callous actions during the noontime combats. More important, he felt regret for his treatment of Thorketil, and wondered, irrationally, why he had acted with such arrogance and cruelty. For a single pivotal moment, it seemed to Hrolf Kraki that he hadn’t always been a man with such a capricious temper that led to frequent fits of rage. Impaled by the young girl’s clear and innocent regard, he saw Stormbringer behind her, the same Valdar Bjornsen who had always been his friend. How had he become such a tyrant? Why had he changed, both as a king and as a man?
Then Aednetta startled the king out of his reverie as he turned to look at his counselor. All unmanly thoughts were swept away.
Maeve felt the king lose interest in her, and his body changed subtly as he became rigid and predatory once more. But she knew she had reached him—if only for a few moments.
“Even now, my lord, you have placed yourself in the power of Aednetta Fridasdottar. She encourages you to act in ways that were once foreign to your nature. What do you truly know about your wise counselor, and how strong have your relationships been with your allies in the months since the witchwoman came to Heorot? You must remember, Hrolf Kraki, that there are greater threats to your people than Grendel’s mother. You’ve been led astray through the lure and power of a woman’s eyes.”
Maeve saw a redness flare in the king’s expression as he lumbered to his feet. Quick as a young deer, she turned to the assembled nobles and spread her arms to beg for their support.
“Answer me then, loyal jarls and warriors of Heorot. Has your king shown his usual wisdom since the witchwoman first warmed his bed? Do the men of the Noroways stand firmly at your backs while they defend Dene interests? Will your allies in Skandia come to your aid when the Hundings begin their attacks on the outer settlements? Answer me fairly! Is Hrolf Kraki as he once was—a wise and generous king?”
The Dene warriors shuffled their feet and tried to avoid one another’s eyes lest they should be accused of conspiring to act in a treasonous manner.
And so Maeve turned away from their cowardice with a shy smile. “I can see how it is, my lord. It appears that the Dene have forgotten how to think and act like men.”
“Enough, woman, of your lies.” Hrolf Kraki’s voice was shrill and almost womanish in his anger.
“Then you should cast your gaze on those loyal warriors who refuse to meet my eyes, or yours! I’m only a girl who is sorely lacking in knowledge of the world, but I saw into your soul only a moment ago and recognized a man who had dreamed for many long years how he would take back what had been stolen from him through blood and death. I saw you, late at night, as you hungered for the death of Snaer, the man who usurped what was truly yours by right of birth. No coward convinced the Dene to rise up and smite the tyrant. For many good years, a true and strong man has ruled them with generosity and hope while caring for his people, for that is his duty.”
She paused to draw in a rasping breath.
“Look at them. Look at your warriors! And then look at yourself! How far have the Dene fallen? Even Stormbringer, the Sae Dene, is now mute under the power of this wicked woman.”
Hrolf Kraki snarled, but he was busy assessing the faces of those men who refused to meet his adamantine gaze.
“Your allies will desert you if you don’t cast her off. Or they will attack you, for they will deem you to be ensorcelled. Even as I speak, word comes by ship that your end approaches if you don’t begin to act like a man. You may kill me if you wish, my lord, but my words are true. The Dene will perish and Aednetta Fridasdottar will dance upon your splintered bones.”
Just as Hrolf Kraki rose to his feet, with spittle darkening his beard and one pointing finger shaking under the force of his passion, a messenger stumbled into the hall, clutching a torn and burned banner to his breast. The dyed cloth with its rampant dragon was thick with dried blood, while the man who carried it bore serious wounds that stretched from his hairline to his jaw. They were still bleeding sluggishly, leaving the courier pallid from loss of blood.
He fell to his knees in an untidy puddle of torn clothing, ruined armor, and tangled hair, while the dragon banner was humbled as it lay on the wooden floor of Heorot.
“See, Lord King?” Maeve shouted over the hubbub of consternation that rose towards the rafters. “This messenger has come to your palace, bringing word of the treachery that will soon spell out your doom.”
“Let the courier speak,” Stormbringer demanded. “By his wounds, he bears a message of trouble. By the Lord High Jesus, let the courier speak!”
“I bear a terrible tale of treason and murder, my lord,” the courier managed to rasp in a voice almost destroyed by the tumult of the battle that he had survived. Every man present was silent and shamed.
“The King of Gothland has attacked Skania, and many towns and villages have been laid waste. Traitors bearing your name told us that you ordered the towns to be opened to the enemy because you had signed a treaty with the Goth ruler. When our elders were so foolish as to believe these lies and opened the gates of our towns to the enemy, they were all put to the sword. My master, Leif, has sent me to beg aid because he still holds on to much of our lands and awaits the arrival of your warriors. We have placed all our trust in receiving assistance from you and your warriors, my lord.”
The wounded man sat bolt upright in distress. His breathing was labored and he seemed to be on the point of collapse. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward.
“Who has committed this treason? Who has betrayed my people through the misuse of my name?” Hrolf Kraki roared, and Heorot’s rafters shook with his anger. Aednetta tried to soothe him with her blue-tipped hand, but he shook her off impatiently. “Who has conspired to destroy the Dene?”
Maeve spoke so quietly that her bell-like voice shouldn’t have been heard. But it was.
“You have, my lord! You and Aednetta Fridasdottar have betrayed the Dene!”
Her brows drew together in puzzlement, as if the king’s questions had surprised her. “I was sure that you understood me.”