The Wolf Hammer, page 12
part #1 of Odin's Bastard Series
I caught it, and he sniffled with appreciation at my skill.
“Stew, so make them small,” he said. “More guests all the time. All the rooms are filled to the brim. Elves ate most of our stew yesterday, and today, kings and more kings, and shits of all kinds. All will want food for their filthy bellies.”
“The lot,” I agreed. “They eat like pigs. Hard to look at.”
“Pigs eat how they eat,” the man said, and gave me a long look. “You are new.”
“Hired us just now,” I said. “Been starving, but they got us here to help. I suppose we won’t have to starve any longer.”
“You eat what I give you leave to—”
Eglin’s voice echoed from the corridors and the rooms of the king.
The guard was hesitating and thinking about knocking, but then he relaxed.
The cook snorted. “Touchy little prick, the prince. It is him, eh?”
A servant roused himself. “Yes, that’s the one. Eglin.”
“Probably upset about his belly,” the cook laughed. “He could come here and help out with the stew. The High King’s feast has to be prepared in the other damned house,” he said as he cut at the potatoes and onions. “So, we’ll be going that way soon. Make this ready, then we set it to boil, and leave the mead out there in the hall. Where is your friend?”
“Aye,” I said. “He is below still—” and then we all heard Eglin leaving, door banging, the castellan speaking loudly to him.
Few servants were coming in, and all crashed to sit, some still holding dirty platters, exhausted.
“Make sure the cauldron is heated,” the cook grunted, and began wiping his fat fingers. “I’ll put the boys back to work.”
I turned and saw a truly massive cauldron over a large fire pit. It was bubbling in the corner, and I smiled. A ladder led up to it, and the fire was burning bright underneath. One of the servants got up, harried by the cook’s snapping fingers, and walked that way, picking up a ladle to sample the stew.
“Scum eats that,” the cook said. “The common food. Scraps and fat. Save the stringy parts for that.”
“Aye,” I said, and took a deep breath. “My friend seems to be sampling the mead.”
He looked horrified, slammed the cleaver to the wood, and ran to the edge of the hole. He went to his knees and looked down. Then he screamed, eyes large. “No! That’s Cheek’s Gold! That’s the expensive…no! Let go of it, you brute!”
I heard Borin laughing below.
The cook got up and watched me in horror.
I looked down as I cut the meat. “I cannot control him. He is a hopeless drunkard. Mean as shit.”
“What do you mean—”
“He won’t stop,” I said. “Usually, I have to tie him up. You’ll need a cudgel or two. One usually breaks. He’s got a thick damned skull.”
“I cannot tie him up!” said the cook, his greasy lips quivering. “He is stronger than I am. And drunk to boot. Cheek’s is very bold, fragrant, and strong!”
I turned to the servants. “Lock the doors. And then get a cudgel or two, and rope. But you have to be very tough. He will drink until he is senseless.”
“You are fired,” said the cook. “But only after we get your damned friend out. Keep cutting until then.”
“He is a pig, truly,” I agreed. “But you should move fast. He knows you are coming. He’ll find something better soon.”
The cook blanched and snapped his fingers.
Two men locked both doors with latches, leaving the guard shocked on the other side.
Then they all got wooden cudgels, meat hooks, and an ax, and moved to stand with the cook, who was holding a rope.
They looked down. “Will you come up easy, or shall we come and get you?” one asked.
The servants were all healthy, strong men and looked keen on letting out some steam.
Borin laughed again.
One nodded and jumped down the stairs. Another followed. Then the rest, save for the cook.
I licked my fingers and moved to stand behind the cook, who was looking down in horror as sounds of smacking and stabbing began. I kicked him, and the cook fell forward and rolled below.
I turned away and leaned on a counter. There was low laughter, begging noises and then stabbing sounds again, steel meeting flesh.
I waited for a while, until the sounds below went quiet, and watched the trapdoor as Borin came out.
He was holding a great horn, and it was filled with drink.
He grinned and licked some blood off his lips, and he was covered in it.
“The black tunic was a great idea,” he said, blood dripping. “Here. We do it now. We do it fast. Go first, I come after.”
I grunted.
I took the horn, and I walked for the doorway to the king’s quarters.
I pushed open the latch and walked inside to the corridor.
The guard turned to look at me. “All good?” he asked.
“A rat,” I said. “We got it. Don’t eat the rabbit stew.”
He laughed.
I walked for the doorway, and he blocked it.
“You aren’t going there, are you?” he asked.
“The king’s drink,” I told him, after a moment of awkward silence.
“The king,” said the guard, “has not asked for it.”
“The elf will want it,” I said.
“The elf doesn’t drink,” he said. “He is on guard duty.”
“Then you have it,” I told him, and handed it to him.
“I am a guard too,” he said.
“No, not anymore,” I snarled.
The man frowned, and then I rammed the horn into his throat.
I stabbed it through with terrible strength, and I was drenched in blood and mead, as I wrestled him down. He was kicking and wheezing, and I ripped the now broken horn back and forth, until the blood was leaking in a deep pool. I looked up to see Gar Atenguard on the open doorway.
His mouth was moving, and he tried to scream, and then he whispered, “You.”
I swung a bloody fist, and it crashed into his royal nose, and he fell inside.
The elf got up, shocked, and then a bolt shattered his skull.
The elf fell on the floor, dead.
Borin clapped my back. “See? Nothing to it. Go in. I’ll keep an eye out.”
I stepped inside and listened.
The other guard had heard nothing.
I stood over Gar, eyeing the room. There was no threat.
I had wanted to ask Gar questions, if possible.
It wasn’t.
I watched him with anger and rage, and he was trying to speak, but his mouth was a bloody heap of lips and teeth, and I cursed my luck.
It got us that far, my luck, and now I could ask him nothing.
I circled him and then knelt to take his ring. I tore it off his finger.
His eyes were on me, betraying utter fear and horror, and he knew he was going to die.
There was something else in it.
“You know me?” I asked.
He nodded, painfully. His neck was probably broken.
I rubbed my face. “I’ll make it painless and fast. You tell me. Do you know why my mother died, and father?”
He growled and tried to speak, but the blood was choking him. Tears were running down his face, and I held mine and eyed him.
He had been in Lorin.
And he could answer no questions.
“Did Yggra kill my mother?” I asked him harshly.
He shook his head.
Did he lie?
“Do you know who did?” I snarled.
He shook his head weakly. Then he nodded.
I cursed and raked my face with my fingers and rested my face on my palm. “Will Tarl Vittar or your son Yggra know my answers, and does one of you have our journal, and my wife, and nephew, Morag Hardhand?”
He nodded and shook his head, and then he died, convulsing and pissing as he choked.
I stepped on his throat, and he fell silent.
I cursed again and pulled the man to the corridor.
I saw men rushing in a room down the corridor, preparing food, and then pulled the king, and Borin, to the kitchen. Borin had dragged the body of the guard there already, judging by the trail of blood leading to the cellar.
He eyed the king and lifted an eyebrow.
“Answers?”
“I might be lucky,” I said, “but it seems to run out when I need answers.”
He chuckled. “So. Now what?”
“Now we take the ring, and leave,” I told him. I looked at the great cauldron, and Borin’s eyes brightened. “You mean to hide him in the stew? A brilliant idea!”
“I was thinking of starting a fire, you idiot,” I said. “Kick the burning branches down below.”
Later, we left, and Eglin was carrying the ring of his father.
He could not stop touching it, but he also would never be the same again.
“Take the ring,” I told him, “to Ajax. He’ll put it on Lug’s body, and we’ll have Vittar’s men find it in the morning, near his tent. And when you see your brother, curse him, and tell him the High King will never let him rule, the murderous dog. That you were supposed to lead the ships to attack the gate, not him. Only great heroics might save him. You will see. He will think such heroics are needed. He’ll think he knows the sea-gates are weak, the enemy demoralized. He will go for it. Then, after, this is what we do.”
I told them.
He grunted. “What if he doesn’t play along?”
“Then,” I said, “we will make you a king later. We have to take the city below the castle, though.”
He sighed. “When will you tell me your full plan?”
“When we are inside,” I said. “And if we live. At least you might die a king.”
He shook with fear all the way back to the White Tower.
***
The king of Vittar, Tarl, stood in the middle of the room, on an abandoned tavern, overlooking the entire bay, the city, and the sea. It was a fisherman’s cabin someone had made into the winery, then a tavern. It was a comfortable looking place with large windows with real glass that rattled with the wind from the bay.
The king was staring at the maps and wiping his face. “You told them what, King of Aten?”
Yggra was standing uneasily, watching everyone, his finger adorned with a red ring.
Yggra had moved early. Very early.
He had ordered the fleet to take the chain.
He had told the crowd so much.
“I told them to test the sea-wall, the gate,” he said. “We are sailors and know how to wage such war. I also heard it is weak, and they wish to surrender.”
Tarl was looking at the young man with disdain. “Your father left. Now, they say he is dead. Your brother says he was almost killed by his guard. And knowing the High King is coming to judge the case of Gar and your brother, you are trying the impossible. We were going to siege until Graymoor came here,” he said coldly. “This is foolish.”
Yggra straightened his back. “Sometimes, such chains are not all that they appear to be. Weakened by the sea, scalable, or even breakable. We will try.”
“You idiot,” Tarl Vittar whispered, as if to himself, only louder. “You damned idiot. Is this because the High King will decide between you and your brother? Answer!”
“What?” Yggra asked softly. “No. I am simply doing my duty.”
“I led this army,” Tarl snarled, his sour face even sourer. “I do. You idiot.”
“What did you say?” Yggra said.
“He said, you idiot,” Rikas Vittar, her tiny, shapely frame covered in a chain, a whip on her hips, uttered imperiously.
Tarl looked very tired and let his daughters mock the fool. Rikas and Gilad stared morosely at former Adeling Yggra, and were happy to.
They were also right to do so, I admitted grudgingly, and the other mercenary bands didn’t disagree. Every one of them looked unhappy.
Losing galleys for nothing would make the siege harder.
I looked out of the window to the sea and saw the White Tower, the bastion of rebellion in the Verdant Lands. Men were rushing like ants along its walls.
Like a bright needle on a rocky spur, the castle was guarded by impassable slopes to the south, and the sea and sea-walls to the south. It was ringed by a single wall, above the town below, but most activities were now on the walls, and on towers of the sea.
The sea-walls were well defended. Far too well.
Down below on the beaches, I saw our men, and most of the elves, watching.
“We have,” Yggra hissed, “taken such before.”
I watched as Aten’s ships were bobbling on the waves, the rowers were keeping the twenty galleys in line, trying to approach the damned walls.
“They know how to sink ships,” said Rikas softly, but with utter disrespect for Yggra. “And you have never in your life taken such. Not even in your sad dreams. I doubt that the chain is weak. And they don’t look like they are getting ready to surrender.”
“With respect,” Yggra said proudly and showed the ring of Aten, “you are speaking to a king. I—”
“Only if the High King,” Gilad interceded, “agrees. Your crown is not very steady on your thick head. Or, rather, the ring looks loose on that dainty finger.”
Yggra cursed and glared out to the sea.
“And the High King will be upset,” cursed Tarl. “At me, as well as you. This is a stupid move, Yggra. A premature one, and now you are going to lose a lot of men and ships.”
“Aten has more than enough ships,” said Yggra. “We are trying, at least. It is better than a long siege. And if it must be a siege, let it be a siege of the castle, and we will have the comforts of the city.”
On that, I agreed.
It was my plan, after all.
Tarl, his long face pale, pointed his quivering finger at Yggra. “It will be on your head. If you have one.”
Silence, but for the drums out on the water.
“How are they doing?” asked Tarl, not daring to look. “If we take it, we will have to take the city as well.”
Gilad spoke with a bored voice, quite like her sister’s. They were masters of laconic truths. “If.”
Rikas nodded. “They look pretty, the ships, but that’s all they are. The sea is too rough, and the catapults won’t hit a thing or break the walls. The chains across the entrance will be guarded by archers. The towers are thick and full of angry men. Oh, they are in range.”
I saw how ten galleys of Aten, their decks awash with marines, Aten’s best, were approaching the chains, while ten hung back, but arrows by the dozens rained down on all of them. Flesh was punctured, men were falling overboard. One galley, hit by something I couldn’t see, lurched and rammed another, breaking oars and throwing dozens of men to the sea.
The galleys with giant catapults were now throwing fire and fury on the towers, and one larger galley than most was rowing past the others for the chains.
“Shit,” Borin whispered, and it was heard all around the room. “That’s not going to do it.”
Tarl Vittar finally turned away from the maps, tossed them to the wall, and walked near me, to see what was going on.
He was so close, and I could easily snap his neck. All I had to do was to reach out. His men were around the room.
I glanced back and saw a few cloaked figures. They were the High King’s Exiles, guards to the various royals. After Gar’s death, and the elven loss, they had upped their duties.
I held my hand with the other to stop my murderous instincts.
Below, things were going badly.
It seemed every arrow, every imaginable weapon, and even rocks began bombarding the leading galley. It seemed to lurch and dance with each strike. Men were dying on the decks, hovering under miserable shields, which looked like pincushions on an old matron’s night table.
The ship’s mast broke off, bits of wood exploded from the sides, splintering into driftwood, and then colossal stone arched to the sky from the walls, crashed down and slid across the deck.
“Yes, they are definitely surrendering,” Rikas murmured.
Yggra closed his eyes.
The ship stopped and veered to its side.
And then, all eyes went to a figure on top of the tower.
The two cloaked figures twitched and stepped forward. “That is no man,” one said.
“Jotun!” another answered.
The elves were right.
The enemy had help.
I groaned in my head.
A man-sized figure could be seen on top, but it indeed was no man.
They were rare in Midgard, but this one was a jotun in a human form, for they were often shapeshifters, and that jotun was calling on the power of fire magic. Suddenly, the floundering galley was on fire, engulfed by living flames that danced from one end to the other, and the ship was suddenly an inferno filled with dying men.
The rest of the galleys retreated in haste. The figure hopped out of sight.
“When the High King and Graymoor get here this coming day, how do you think this will look?” asked the Vittar. “They will ask me, why I…nay. I will make sure they ask you.”
Tarl roared, kicked a stool, and hopped away. He held his head, and we watched the ships pull away, being hit by arrows.
Men were dying.
One galley broke in half as a dozen stones struck it.
Another burst into flames, men jumping overboard.
The jotun, a bastard, was again in sight and was dancing on top of the tower, and the White Tower soldiery was cheering him. You could hear them all across the bay.
One of the Exiles, an elf of red hair, angled forward. “We have heard of that one,” he said with a melodic, cruel voice. “It lives there and hires herself out to serve whoever pays most. Naergoth has met her. It is a she, by the way. Chal, she calls herself. She is trouble, no matter how many ships you get here. Full siege is needed.”
“As I said,” Tarl snarled. “As Gar agreed. Until we have the men. There must be an attack on the keep and the wall both!”
Yggra was fidgeting hopelessly, touching the ring he finally had, feeling it would be lost in a bit.
“We cannot get there,” said Tarl with a heavy sigh. “I don’t understand why the Jarl insists on this war. Why the elves demand we do not even try to negotiate.”
