Tides of War: Avenger

Hror son of Herun bore no light when he descended into the sea-cave. It was the moon-dark, and clouds lay low over the sky. It was midwinter and ice rattled in the waves like bones cast upon the shore. He felt his way through the dark with his sword in hand, heart hard within him. He came here for the words that would set him loose upon his enemies, and if not, to devour him whole.

The cave was wet and dripping with salt like teeth; he felt bones underfoot as he walked, grinding the brittle pieces with his bootheels. The cold made his breath into ice in his beard. He climbed down the hollow slope into the deepest part, where waters lashed at unseen rocks in the dark, and then he rang his sword upon the stones and called out into the night, and the night answered.

Something huge heaved itself up from the water, serpentine and terrible. Eyes opened like pale lanterns in the dark, and he heard the hiss of venom where it dripped down. He stood fast and did not flee, for he knew death was very close, and he must not know fear. “Sceatha, Worm of Darkness, harken unto me.” They were ancient words, spoken in dark stories passed down in whispers beside waning fires. He made them resound in the dark.

“You know my name,” the beast answered. Its voice was cold and hateful, yet there was a seduction in it, a calling. “You invoke me. Speak my name and speak your own. What is your asking?”

Hror gripped his sword in both hands by hilt and by blade. “Sceatha, Worm of Darkness, I am Hror, son of Herun. King Oeric married my sister Afra to Thane Torgged almost sixteen years gone. Torgged beat her, dishonored her, and she died from birthing his child. I was only a boy then, so I bided my time. I waited. Then I went before Oeric and demanded a blood price for her, but he refused me. He fears to cause strife with a Thane of King Arnan. I called him coward and drew steel upon him, and now I am exiled from his Shield-Hall. My enemies are two kings and a thane, and I have only a score of men who still stand loyal to me.”

The great worm shifted in the dark, and Hror felt his breath turn cold as it drew closer. He saw his own breath plumed like smoke in the light from its lantern eyes. “What is your asking, Hror, son of Herun?” The voice was close and jagged, like being dragged over sharp stones. By the light of its eyes he could see only part of it – saw-scales and sword-teeth and barnacles encrusting. He saw pale crabs scuttle over the beast’s face and drop to the stone at his feet.

He gathered himself and looked up into those blazing eyes. “Revenge.”

o0o

They rode the seas in the dark of winter, when no one with wisdom went to war. The sea between Vathran and Hadrad was thick with ice in this season, great blocks moving like small nomad mountains in the mist. The men pulled at the oars of the two ships, fighting through the cold waves that slopped over the gunwales. Hror was at the tiller of the lead boat, steering his best through the hard sea, eyes ahead for a sight of land.

The Sword Islands were treacherous this time of year, the shallows fraught with rocks concealed under the ice that lay in the swells. He had known these waters better when he was young, and never in the deep winter. It was bitter cold, and every man’s coat and hood lay under frozen spindrift, the oars and boats themselves sheathed in ice.

Then he saw the headland, and he pointed and steered for it. The mist parted and showed them the raw, gray cliffs wreathed in winter’s breath. This was the bitter shore south of the head, where the beaches were stone and the rocks were everywhere beneath the waves. No one but a madman would try to put ashore here in this season.

They put ashore, leaping into the surf and staggering through the cold as they dragged the boats up onto the beach. Sea birds called sullenly as they wheeled overhead, hoping the men would leave some scraps they might gorge themselves on.

Hror got his men out of the boats and up away from the cold surf. They were hungry and freezing, working their cold hands to try and loosen them after hours of rowing. Like his men, Hror had lived for years on the hard edge of the world, none of them would falter. North across the uplands lay the Shield Hall of Torgged. He pictured the men hunkered down against the cold winter, fires roaring inside in the pits, time for nothing but drinking and songs and tales of old wars. He thought of his sister buried under a cairn, forgotten and unmourned. Unavenged.

He took a spear from the boat and planted it in the earth there beside the hateful sea, the iron blade upright, and he touched the metal with one hand, promising blood. “Tonight we will feed fires and drink blood,” he said to his twenty men. “I will take the thane’s head and put it here upon this spearpoint, so that all may see the consequences of my wrath.”

His men did not shout or shake their fists; they only glared with a hatred that was buried deep within them. Cast out, the only men who followed him still were those who had no one else who would take them, or who smoldered with so much burning need for bloodshed that they would follow any who led them to a place of killing. Hror did not care why they followed, so long as they did.

The mist was heavy on the hillsides, and snow began to fall as they climbed up from the shore. Each man shouldered his shield and carried a fighting spear. Every man had a sword belted at his side and many had an axe as well. These were hard men, and they seemed to breathe out smoke as they marched to the call of blood.

They came to a path and followed it, heads down into the wind that came in from the sea. They passed carved wooden posts that marked the way, and they drew down their helms and took their shields from their backs and put their arms through the straps so they would be ready. The light glinted on their spearpoints and they moved slower and more carefully, crouching down. Through the mist they saw the shape of the Shield Hall, and it seemed to float upon the mist like a ship at sea.

It was winter, and so there were no farmers in the fields, no shepherds wandering. They drew very close before they were seen, but they heard the shouting and knew the time to move slowly was done. Hror screamed a war cry and led them forward in a wedge, shields held edge to edge and spears outthrust. They rushed upon the doors of the hall and flung them open even as men within hurried to pull them shut.

Unprepared, unarmed, the men of the hall tried to push them back, and Hror was first to drive his spear in and draw it back bright with blood. He shouted and his men answered and they pushed into the hall, stabbing, treading upon the fallen as they forced their way inside. Hror felt the joy of killing, felt the impact shiver up his arm as he thrust in his spear and the shock as it bit bone.

The inhabitants of the hall were caught by surprise, and few of them even knew what was happening. Some of them seized up spears and axes and rushed to defend their home, while many more simply fled. They thought they were assailed by a greater force than a score, and they did not linger to find the truth. Women took hold of their children and rushed for the other ways out, and Hror was pleased to let them go. He had no use nor desire for them. He wished only for the blood of warriors.

The hall was vast within, larger than any he had seen, and his force was dwarfed by it. They spread out in a shield-wall, shoulder to shoulder, and they butchered their way across the floor, leaving corpses behind them. Before them was the long firepit, and warriors of the Thane gathered there, rallying before the flames. Hror saw the gold-crested helm of Torgged himself, and he felt the fire in his blood that drove him on.

He led his men in a wedge of steel, and they crashed into a knot of men twice their number. Shields battered against one another and iron points rang on helm and mail shirt. Torgged’s men had not had time to draw on armor, and so they were cut down, but some of Hror’s men fell as well, and he felt the chance he had gained bleeding away from him. He lunged in and struck savagely, and his spear-haft snapped apart.

Furious, he saw Torgged before him, and his fury burst free of all restraint. He drew his sword and hurled himself against the line of enemy shields, bursting through by sheer weight of his assault, and so he came face to face with the man he hated.

Torgged was a taller man, with long arms and great reach, but Hror was younger and more filled with wrath. Their shields smashed together and they loosed on one another a storm of blows, swords ringing as they cut notches from the shield-rims. The other men drew back as they circled one another, striking again and again, no other man daring to interfere.

Hror kept his shield high and close, guarding himself. Torgged smote at him again and again, and the blows rang against the battered edge of his shield. He judged his timing and struck back, aiming for the golden crest of the Thane’s helm, but Torgged was prepared for that, brought his shield up and deflected the blow cleanly. He returned a powerful blow that knocked Hror’s own shield against his helm and staggered him.

The men roared to see the blow, and Torgged rushed in close to strike again, but Hror was stronger than that. He sidestepped the charge and brought his sword sweeping down on the Thane’s back, the edge of his blade snapping the links of mail and drawing bright blood. He felt bone break under his sword’s edge, and his heart leaped in his chest.

Torgged staggered, and his men rushed in to form a wall around him, but Hror would not be stayed. He battered them aside with his shield, cut down at them and left two bleeding on the floor. One seized him by the leg to try and keep him back, and he slashed down and severed the arm, left it hanging from his ankle as he pressed after his foe.

The Thane shrugged off his guardians and tried to stand, but Hror was on him, striking terrible blows to drive his shield aside, the sound of them echoing from the walls like the sound of branches breaking under ice. He drove the Torgged back, and then smote him on the helm so fiercely he was driven to one knee. The men from both sides howled and rushed in, striving against one another. Hror brought his blade down and it sheared through mail and clove into the Thane’s shoulder. Dark blood rushed out, and the men fell to the floor.

The will of the defenders broke, and they scattered. Hror’s men leaned on their spears and their axes, gasping for breath. The fight had been so furious and yet so short, it seemed to have gone by in a few moments. Five of Hror’s men were down, but they had scattered the floor of the hall with no fewer than twenty corpses.

He looked down at Torgged, who lay at his feet, hand to the gushing wound in his shoulder. He reached down and gripped the straps that held the golden helm in place and cut them with his blooded sword, ripped the helm free so he could see his enemy’s face. “I curse you, Torgged of Elweag,” he said, his voice raw from battle shouts. He unlaced his own helm with impatient, bloody fingers and threw it aside. “I show you my face, so you will know who kills you, and that the gods curse you in this life and the next.”

Torgged’s face was ashen, blood staining his beard. He looked on Hror as a man in a dream. “You, I know you. You are Herun’s bastard son. The madman.”

“If I am a madman, then I am the madman of the gods.” Hror bent down and took Torgged’s beard in his hand. “I am sent by the will of dark powers, the Undergods, and they have given me my revenge.” He set his blade against the man’s neck under the beard and drew it across sharply, cutting the flesh open, setting loose a sea of blood that poured down. He cut deeper and deeper, sawing, until he finally stood up and hacked through the bone and the body fell headless to the bloodstained floor.

One of his men came running to him. “The warriors are gathering outside. They have seen we are few, and they mean to trap us!”

“We will cut our way free,” Hror said. “Scatter the coals and light torches. We will burn the hall before we go.” He thrust the head of Torgged into a sack and hung it from his belt. “We will light up the darkness.”

They kicked the coals from the fire pit, scooped them up with their spearpoints and axes and scattered them across the floor. The men kicked over the tables and benches, and they took the oil lamps hanging from the beams of the roof and threw them against the walls where they shattered and spilled fire like blood. The flames rushed up the walls and caught the tapestries, began to rage. They could feel the heat pressing against them like a weight.

Hror took up a torch and dipped it in the fire, brought it out burning, and he led his men back toward the great doors of the hall. He spat on the effigy of the Speargod, and struck the impassive wooden face with his sword to leave a mark on it. Then he held his torch to the carved beard until it blackened and smoked. “I take my revenge in the name of the Undergods! I send them blood and the heads of my enemies!”

He threw the torch away into the burning hall, and then with his bloody sword in hand and his battered shield ready, he led his men through the doors and into the night. They trampled the bodies of the slain, and burst forth from the hall as though from the burning mouth of the Fire Kingdoms.

The men of the hall had gathered, armed with what they could gather, and met them there while sparks and burning embers fell all around them. Hror had fifteen men left, and those against him were three times that number. But his men were all hardened warriors in full armor, and their spears were like a wall of iron points that pierced men and brought them down.

The two forces crushed together in a death grip of fury, spilling blood on the snow that steamed and smoked in the freezing air. The fire roared through the doors of the hall behind them, making a hellish light for them to fight and die beneath.

Hror and his men hacked their way through, leaving a path of butchery behind them. Hror took a wound on his cheek, and his shield was battered and his sword was notched, but a dozen of his men still followed him, and a dozen of the foe lay crumpled in their wake.

He turned and faced what remained of his enemies, held up his red sword like a brand. “Come no further! If you come against me, I shall slaughter all of you, and none shall remain!” He spat upon the ground, daring them.

A tall man came out of the burning hall, and he wore mail and carried a long shield blackened by the fire. He had a bright sword in his hand, and for a moment he looked so like the fallen Torgged that Hror felt a moment of fear. Then he saw this man was too young to be he – a boy almost.

“I will fight you,” the boy said, holding up his sword. “I will pay blood for blood.”

“I will send you to the next world, boy. Turn away and do not try and steel with me.” Hror was tired, but he felt the strength of battle in his arms, and he knew he would not be undone. “I will feed your blood to the earth.”

The boy cast a long shadow in the light of the fire. “Face me sword to sword, if you have courage.”

Hror snarled and went to meet him, and they met there in the cold night, snow coiling around them, fire their sunlight. They rushed together and met in a storm of blows, swords ringing on shields like bells. Hror smote the boy’s long shield and split it from the top to the bottom, but the blow he took in return splintered his own shield and left him shaking the broken pieces from his arm.

The boy drew a long knife from his belt, and Hror pulled forth his wide-bladed axe. They circled there in the firelight, and their shadows flickered on the red-stained snow. Hror struck with sword and axe, but he found his opponent too quick and long of arm to be brought down easily. The boy cut at him, slipped aside, and stabbed hard with his dagger. Hror felt the point dig against his mail, and then he drove his enemy back with a flurry of strokes. He was breathing hard now, feeling fatigue in his limbs.

They fought across the battleground, their men watching them silently, and then the roof of the hall gave way and fire rushed up into the sky. The sound was like a dreadful, deep ripping as the roof collapsed down into the fire, and it distracted Hror for a moment. Their steel met in a sudden tangle, and then that reaching dagger cut through his left eye and ripped it out, sent him reeling back. Blood gushed across his face.

He saw the boy coming again and he cut high with his sword, then spun recklessly and cut with his axe, hacking into the flesh of the boy’s thigh. Blood splattered out, and he fell. Hror stumbled back, sword held out in warding, pain screaming from his ruined eye.

The boy pushed up from the snow, but he could not stand. “Come closer! I am not done! I will cut you down for slaying my father!”

Hror spat blood on the snow. His breath rushed in and out of his burning chest, and the smoke from the burning hall choked the cold air. “Father! He was father to no one!”

“He was my father! My mother died birthing me, and he was all that remained to me. Face me!” The boy struggled to his feet, but some of his men came up and held him, restrained him from lurching forward. “Face me!”

Hror felt a knot in his chest, unexpected and cold. “That child died,” he said. “It died.”

“I live,” the boy said. “I am Balra, son of Torgged. Now I am Thane of Elweag. I will see you dead for this!”

Hror turned away. Now he knew why the boy looked familiar. It was not because he looked like his father, though he did. No, it was because he bore the features of his mother. The face of Hror’s sister. He had walked the world’s rim so long, out in the cold beyond the fires, that he had heard nothing of a son. “That child died,” he said. He gripped his sword tightly, and then he turned and threw his axe on the ground between them. “I will not fight you, boy. Take this lesson, and live to be wiser.”

He left then, hand over his bleeding eye, leading his men away as the snow fell thick and the night grew colder. They left the bright glow of the fire, and the warmth, and went back down the long hillsides to where their boats lay on the hard shore.

The spear still stood where he had placed it, embedded in the stony soil, and now he took the bag from his side and drew out the head of Torgged, pale and bloodless in the torchlight. Blood dripped from the neck, and the eyes were half-open. Hror imagined they mocked him. Furious, he stabbed the head down onto the spear, saw the blade go up through the throat and sever the swollen tongue.

Hror spat on the head, and then he and his remaining warriors climbed into their boats and pushed away from that bitter shore. The sea rattled with ice as they pushed through the waves, and Hror gripped the tiller with a cold hand, the other hand covering the bloody ruin of his eye. He remembered the eyes of Sceatha the Worm, and he remembered that while the Undergods might give what was asked, there was always a price that must be paid.

o0o

The breath of the sea-cave was a curse in his lungs when Hror returned to it on the night of the blood crescent moon. The waves echoed like distant thunder in the deeps, and he felt the salt spray on his face as he went down to the place where bones lay like a harvest. He rang his sword upon the stones, echoing, and he knew he would have an answer.

The worm heaved itself up from below, a half-seen mass of scaled flesh and ancient bone. He saw its eyes and smelled the hideous carrion breath with the hint of sweetness carried on it. It sniffed at him, and he knew that such as this could scent the blood he could not wash away.

“You have had revenge,” Sceatha said, grinding skulls within its jaws. “One flame snuffed out. One candle darkened. Two more to go.”

“Two more,” Hror said. He remembered the face of his nephew, the face of a boy who did not know him, and now knew only hatred. “But that will not be enough. Men will die for what I have done, and not only those I wish. War will flow from this deed like blood from a wound.”

“Yes,” the unseen serpent breathed. “Oh yes, that will please me. Harken to me, son of wolves, world-rim walker. For I will sing a song of war.”

Hror bowed his head, and then he nodded. He gripped his sword tight in his hands, felt the edge biting his palm. There was not to be any turning aside now, no undoing. Now there would be an axe-age, a sword-age, a letting of blood and a harvest of men. Now he gave himself over to the tide of war, and let it carry him.