Crune followed the light of the fire up into the hills, tasting the
breaking of winter on the chill air. Now and then he heard the sound
of ice splintering in the stream. The year had turned, and now blood
would run with the rivers, and he intended to see that the blood was
not his own.
The bonfire was laid in a hollow, hemmed in by briarthorn and a small
ring of white stones dug up from the earth like teeth. He did not
see the one who waited for him, and that made him nervous. He was
alone, and any one of his enemies might choose to lie in wait to slay
him. He put his hand to his sword and listened, seeking the small
sounds of mail and leather.
There was no sound, only a shadow as the weirwoman stepped from the
darkness and into the light of the fire. She wore a black shift that
draped over her tall frame, and her hair was so black it seemed to
melt into the darkness behind her. She was beautiful, with her fine
white skin and her eyes such a pale blue they were almost colorless.
There was something ghostly and unnatural about her, and signs of
magic power were drawn on her bare arms.
“Welcome,” she said. “I have waited for you here in the hollow
of the fire. I was not certain you would be brave enough to answer
my call.”
“It was I who sent word to you,” he said. “The Thingvell is
called with the thawing, and all the thanes are gathering to the
shield-hall of King Arnan. There will be words about the blood price
for Torgged, and that Hror son of Herun still walks free,
unpunished.”
Crune came down into the hollow, feeling the heat from the fire
against his face. His back felt cold, as if something fell pressed
against him, looking over his shoulder. These hills were riddled
with barrow-mounds and older tombs, and he knew more than enough
tales of the wraiths that were said to lurk in this place. Grialle
the Weirwoman was no less dangerous than any other phantom, but at
least she was flesh and blood.
“You care nothing for Torgged,” she said. “Nor do you care for
Hror. What do you seek here?”
“Opportunity,” Crune said. “There are those who see weakness
in Arnan because he failed to punish Hror for his raid. He put a
blood price on him, but none have claimed it, and many believe he
should go to war with king Oeric over the insult.”
“So you seek a war,” she said, folding her long arms into the
blackness of her robe. “A war to kill a king.”
He smiled. “Arnan is a weak king, and now he turns men against him
with the whispers that he is a coward. He fears to face Oeric over
spears. There will be men who come to the Thingvell with the desire
to see him driven from the throne. But to unseat a king, there must
be someone chosen to take his place. I would be that man.”
“So you come to me,” she said. “You would be the sower of
discord, the gatherer of treachery and the hand that wields the
knife.”
“I would,” he said, dragging his fingers through his red beard.
“I ask of you a cursing, a working of your powers. I wish for a
sign to be seen that Arnan is weak, and that the gods do not favor
him. Show the gathered thanes that he is afraid, and I am not. I
will take the moment, and I will seize the crown.”
“A crown for a wolf,” Grialle said. “I can give you what you
wish, if you can pay the cost.”
“Name it,” he said. “Tell me what you wish.”
“You call for the power of the Undergods,” she said. “No
Spear-Father will grant you your serpent desire. I will conjure dark
powers for you, and they will need to be fed.” She smiled and
beckoned. “Come, let us speak the names of the dark ones
together.”
o0o
Winds blew hard from the sea as the ships gathered, and the
procession of thanes came up the white road to the great shield-hall
of Arnan, King of Hadrad. Some men came over land, but most of them
followed the sea road and beached their gilded ships on the hard,
stony shores. They came with their women and their eldest sons and
their hearth-warriors, and each man set a spear in the earth beside
the great barrow, and made oaths to the Speargod who was father to
all men of war.
The great hall was vaster than any other in the kingdom, with a high,
peaked roof and timbers larger than a man could reach around, hewn
from the great trees cut down in the northern forests. The pillars
were carved with the faces of dragons and wolves, and the great door
was sheathed in hammered bronze that glowed in the soft light that
descended through the spring mist.
Inside, the floors were polished until they gleamed like gold, and
the roof-beams were black with the smoke of years. The firepits
blazed and there was mutton and beef and venison roasting on spits.
The smells of bread and beer and smoke were thick in the air, and men
who had not seen one another for a year shouted and laughed and
embraced, even as others glared and plotted and dreamed of death.
This was the great gathering of the lords of the realm. Every thane,
great or mean, came once each year when the ice began to melt, and
they all gathered at the oaken table of the king.
At the high table, on a wooden throne set with gold and polished
stones, sat the king himself. Arnan was almost forty, with heavy
arms and a beard that was only beginning to turn white. He wore a
dark robe and a crown of gold, but beneath the gilding was the iron
crown of his ancestors. Crossed axes hung on the wall above his
throne, and guardsmen broad as oxen stood watch to either side of
him. Men looked on him, glancing quickly, and then away. All of
them knew the murmurs that gathered here this year. This would be no
easy, peaceful Thingvell.
Crune moved through the crowd like a wolf, sniffing after the trail
he wanted. He spoke to men he knew, and those he had never met but
knew they were discontented. He clasped hands with war-hungry men
from the northern marches, and with the hard clansmen of the Sword
islands, touchy of their honor and jealous of their lands. Vathran
was across the sea to the north and west, and the islanders always
bore the brunt of any border strife. He would need them.
He heard when Balra arrived by the tumult of voices and the hush that
followed. He saw the young man move in among the thanes with his
bodyguards close to him. He walked with a stout cane and a limp from
the wound Hror dealt him, and that wound itself was like a silent
rebuke to the throne.
Crune moved to intercept him and speak to him before he was presented
to the king. Balra was the flashpoint around which this brooding
storm gathered. He was a young man, new to his rank, and he would
hunger for revenge. But he would be unsure of himself, and the tale
was told that Hror was his kindred, so no one knew where his heart
lay.
He placed himself in Balra’s path and met him, held out his hand
and clasped the young man’s forearm. He was a tall,
straight-backed youth with bright eyes and a pale face. He had an
uncertain look to him, as if he sought to read men’s faces and know
what was in their hearts.
“We all know of your misfortune, Thane Balra. I am Thane Crune,
and I stand with you in demanding justice for your father.” He
gambled that the boy would agree, was glad to see a small smile and
feel the firm grip of the boy’s hand. “Not many men of your
years can claim to have fought Hror son of Herun and driven him off.”
“I was fortunate,” Balra said, ducking his head slightly. “I
did what I thought was right in the gaze of the Speargod.”
“Indeed,” Crune said. “But many men have no doubt said the
same and died for their courage. You live, and you cut out his eye.
An auspicious beginning for the life of a warrior.”
The boy looked somewhat abashed, and Crune hid his smile. This would
be easier than he had believed. He stepped closer and led Balra to
the side. “It is shameful that the king has not taken action to
see that your father’s death is answered. I am not the only one
who believes it to be so.”
“The king sent word to King Oeric, and Oeric allowed the blood
price to be pursued in his lands,” Balra said. “He promised he
would not interfere.”
“And yet,” Crune said. He looked up and saw a mixed group of
other thanes standing near, listening but not intruding. Some of
them he had the measure of, but not others. It was time to be bold.
“And yet only the Kin-Killer takes on the task, and he is ambushed
on the way and driven back. No other has dared to go in search of
Hror. Oeric may swear that Thane Ranne acted on his own, but I don’t
believe it.” He clasped the young man’s shoulder. “Do you?”
The boy looked at him, glanced at the other men standing close, and
then he shook his head slightly. There were murmurs of agreement all
around them. Crune saw heads nodding, saw anger on their faces. He
lifted his voice a little, playing to the crowd. “Oh yes, Oeric
generously allows men to go and hunt for the renegade he says he
repudiates, but when a man seeks to gain that satisfaction he is
ambushed by one of Oeric’s own thanes. Is that justice?”
More grumblings of assent, and Balra looked around him, seeming to be
suddenly nervous. “I should seek that vengeance myself,” he
said. “I only await until my wound is healed.”
“And so you should,” Crune said. “But not with a single
shield-hall’s worth of hearth men and whatever ships you can
muster. You should seek after Hror at the head of an army. There
are many thanes here who would support you, who would pledge ships
and spears to the undertaking. I would do so myself. I command
eight ships, and can bring four hundred men with armor and axe and
sword. All of us, together, could bring forth an army that no one
would dare ambush.”
He hoped to hear more sounds of agreement, and he looked around, saw
men nodding, heard their voices raised in assent. Just at a glance
he thought there were perhaps six more thanes who seemed eager. That
many lords could gather a few thousand warriors – a genuine army.
With a force like that he could scour the shores of Vathran.
“An army,” he said, louder. “We should not suffer petty
outlaws to come to our shores and kill our kindred.” Voices called
out in answer, and men shook their fists. “And when we demand
blood for blood, as the Spear-Father spoke, must we be satisfied with
meekly begging permission from a perfidious foreign king?”
The refusal did not come from one throat, but from many, a rumble
that rose up all around. “Shall we go on our knees and plead to be
allowed to avenge? No! I say no!” Crune bent down and hammered
his fist on the table, and a dozen men pounded their fists in answer.
He heard indrawn breaths, and the crowd behind him thinned. He knew
who it was before he turned, and he smiled for a half a heartbeat
before he straightened. When he turned to face King Arnan, he held
his features in a mask of grave anger. “My lord,” he said,
stiffly, refusing to bow. He knew that in coming down from his
throne Arnan had committed a serious mistake, one that he did not
intend to allow.
“Thane Crune,” Arnan said in a formal tone. “It seems perhaps
you have something to say before this Thingvell is called to moot?”
Crune felt the world turn upon him, as though he were the axis of the
summer tree. “I will say it before the moot, I will say it loud so
all may hear.” He raised his voice louder, and the hush spread
around him as more men saw him face to face with the king. “This
Thingvell is a sham, a place for men to stand and give homage to you
and bow and scrape, when all of us know what is the real heart of the
matter.”
Arnan scowled, his brows drawing together. Crune saw his glance
shift side to side, and saw him realize he had misstepped. He had
placed himself face to face, rather than sitting atop the authority
of the throne. Here only his two bodyguards separated him from the
other lords, and he was diminished.
“You would do well to speak with more deference,” Arnan said. He
coiled his fingers in his belt, as if he wished to grip his sword and
did not quite dare. “I am your king, Crune.”
“Indeed, my king,” Crune said in a softer tone. The crowd was
listening intently, and he did not have to shout to be heard.
“Indeed, you are my king, and deference you know very well, as you
have gone far to bow and scrape to the treacherous king of Vathran.”
He stepped closer and the bodyguards tensed. “They let that
brigand Hror raid and kill on our lands, and you do nothing. They
ambush those who seek the proper blood price, and again you meekly
keep silent.”
Arnan drew himself up, taller than Crune and making use of it. “The
death of Thane Torgged is not your feud to pursue.”
“No, it is his son’s.” Crune took Balra by the arm and pulled
the almost hapless youth into the circle with him. “He has come
here to seek answer for the insults he has borne, and to call for
redress! Will you give it?”
Arnan glanced side to side, caught, and Crune felt the mood of the
crowd shifting, becoming angrier. It was time for his stroke, and he
had to hope the weirwoman was equal to her task. The moment was
keen, and he felt it almost ripe, so very close.
He stepped back and pointed at the king. “By the gods who shelter
us, I cry that you are false! Whether you are coward or bribed with
blood gold, you refuse to seek the vengeance we require! You are the
king, and it is your charge to protect the lands of your Thanes. If
you will not, then the gods themselves may curse and blind you!”
The fire beside them suddenly reared up, blazing bright and green as
though it were fed with poison, and Crune averted his gaze. He heard
shouts and screams, and then the king cried out, and when Crune
turned to face him he saw the man staggering in the grip of his
guards, clutching at his face.
“What have you done?” one of the guards shouted. He stepped
closer to Crune, drawing his long blade. “You foul trickster, you
have bewitched him!”
Crune leaped back and drew his own sword. “Not I! I spoke the
truth! It is the gods who have accursed him!” The crowd gave
back, and he looked around himself. He had not counted upon this.
He waited for voices to shout down the challenger, but none did.
Their blood was up, and they wanted a fight.
The bodyguard pointed his blade at Crune. “Then we shall fight,
and the gods shall decide the truth of it.”
The king wailed and sank to the floor, covering his eyes. Crune
could see his face was burned, and a greenish smoke drifted from the
fire. He looked to the crowd and saw he could not evade this, and he
nodded. “Very well, let the gods decide.”
There was a roar at that, and men pounded their fists on the
tabletops. Some of them seized the benches and long tables and drew
them back so there was more room for the fight. The guard took off
his helm and held it to the crowd before he tossed it on the floor.
He wore mail and heavy leather braces, while Crune wore no proper
armor.
“Tell me your name,” Crune said as he tried to think of a way out
of this. He was not ready to face a hardened killer in mortal
combat. “I would know who champions the king.”
“I am Haldr,” the man said. He had the dark hair of an uplander,
and hard black eyes. He was no boy, and Crune did not like the way
he moved, with assurance and no fear at all. His sword was long and
wide, but he handled it easily. Crune touched the dagger sheathed at
the back of his belt, and knew it would not pierce good iron mail.
“Then let us try at arms, Haldr,” Crune said. “I say the king
is cursed by the gods for his cowardice. If I win, we go to war.”
“And if you fail, then he is cursed by dark powers, and it is you
who are false.” Halder worked his shoulders to loosen the armor
and saluted with his long blade. “Now guard your life. Let us see
if your sword is as quick as your tongue.”
“Come, and find that it is,” Crune said, his heart beating the
cadence of battle drums, and he muttered a call upon the Undergods as
he went to meet his opponent, pacing carefully on the golden floor of
the hall. He had given himself over to dark powers, let them sustain
him now.
They closed there in the firelight in the bright hall, and there were
no shields to guard their lives, only steel and skill. Crune closed
carefully, and then gave back when Haldr came on him like a storm,
striking blows that would have rent mail had they struck home. He
had to counter that force with speed, and with cleverness. He
watched his larger enemy, saw how swift he was, but his feet were not
so sure when he circled as when he advanced.
Crune moved left, knowing it would put the fire at his back, and make
his small motions harder to see. He knew he could not evade his
enemy for too long, or it would look like cowardice, and he must not
show any fear. He weighed his sword in his hand, readying himself.
When Haldr rushed him he was gathered for the attack, and he feinted
to the right, evaded the slashing sword, and shifted his own word to
his left hand as he ducked past the larger man.
He turned and Haldr moved to evade his counter, but the sword was not
in his right hand, and with his left he struck a furious blow against
the iron mail, bursting links on Haldr’s arm and drawing blood. He
danced back and a shout went up from the crowd at the first blooding.
It was a slight wound, but it bought him breathing space.
Haldr seemed to take no notice of it as he returned to stalking,
moving in closer with relentless steps. He gave no ground, showed no
hesitation, and Crune envied him that. He wanted to spare a look at
King Arnan blinded on the floor, but he dared not take his eyes from
the near-giant who he faced. He had seen too many duels like this,
and he knew the shape they took – circling and waiting, a few
exchanges of blows, and then the opponents came together and blood
flowed, and one man fell. Already he was breathing hard, not from
the exertion, but simply from the enormous tension, the need to watch
every motion his enemy made.
He saw Haldr gather himself and then rush on him with the sword
slashing. Steel met steel and sparks flashed as Crune parried, the
force of the blows ringing up his arm. He struck back with quick
blows meant to force his opponent to keep back, but Haldr would not
be slowed, came in close and tried to grapple him.
Crune drew the knife from behind his back and stabbed in low, under
the edge of the mail, and Haldr stumbled as the blade wounded his
thigh. Crune heard mutterings from the crowd as he dance back for
space, and he knew the blow would be seen as perhaps a less than
honorable stroke. To answer it he threw the bloodied dagger aside
and set both hands on his sword. Haldr turned to come after him, and
now his face was dark with anger.
The big man came rushing in, driving his sword down in great,
sweeping blows. Crune evaded one, parried another, and then they
crashed together and the weight of the bigger man force him back.
His feet struck the stone edge of the firepit, and he had nowhere to
retreat to.
Instead, he dropped his sword, grasped Haldr by the hauberk, and
turned as he pulled, using the man’s size against him. He dragged
both of them over into the fire, and he rolled on top, pinning the
other man down under him. The heat was hideous, and flames crawled
over them both. Crune felt flames burn his legs, and Haldr screamed
as his back was burned. He let go of his sword to get better
leverage to push out of the fire, and Crune caught the hilt and
smashed the pommel into his opponent’s face, knocking him back.
He could have left him there, but he would seem vicious if he did.
Crune caught the big man by his mail and dragged him out of the fire,
rolled him onto the floor with his armor and clothes smoldering.
Haldr moved slowly, dazed from the blow to his head, and Crune took
up his dropped sword and used his foot to roll the big man over on
his back. He put the point of his sword through the man’s beard
and up against his neck, and then he looked at the crowd.
“The gods have decided the truth of it,” he said, panting for
breath. He pointed at Arnan, who still lay on the floor, clutching
his eyes. “The king is cursed, and my accusations have been proved
upon him.” He took his sword away from Haldr, who lay looking at
him with a dazed expression. “I will not kill a man for being
loyal to his king. Loyalty is the strength of men. It binds us
together against our enemies, and we must not forget it.”
He thrust his sword upward to the smoky beams overhead. “I will
gather my hearth-men and my ships and sail to bring Hror son of Herun
the justice he has earned for himself, and any Thanes of King Oeric
who stand in my path will receive war as their payment!” Voices
came in answer, men shaking their fists and shouting to match him.
“Who will sail with me to war?”
The shout then was louder, and rose up to the roof above and seemed
to shake the hall itself. Crune looked down at the blind king and
kept his smile secret. It did not matter who was king in this
moment, only who the men followed with their steel. He caught a
glimpse of something dark through the crowd, and there for a moment
he saw a black-robed shape and eyes so pale they seemed white. Crune
turned away. Let the weirwoman haunt him; he would give her the
blood she craved, so long as he gained the crown he coveted. Not
yet, but soon. Very soon.
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