The Wolf Hammer, page 4
part #1 of Odin's Bastard Series
The march had been brutal, taking us across hills, mountainsides, and deserted kingdoms, and while some relative jarls of Graymoor gave us aid, the army suffered.
I remembered faintly how we had suffered.
The surviving eighteen thousand men had shrunken to fifteen, for garrisons, sickness, and hunger gnawed at the troops. Silence reigned as men slept by the fires, and men wondered at their future, and the razing of Aeginhamn was there, in the forefront of their minds.
Father, and his hammer, and his terrible rage drove them on.
And in the meantime, Reignhelm gathered his men, the greedy jarls hoping for a crown, the ones who hated east and believed Odin would indeed prefer west over east, the ones who saw profit in the new arrangement, and there were many of them in the Verdant Lands.
Days from Malignborg, the taking of the great river Heorot was a bitter contest, and there, Harrian’s horses, the banner of a Headless Horse high, killed two thousand men of our allied jarls. It lasted until Erik’s men forced them back from the fords and butchered many of them. Erik killed their new king in single combat.
The final road had been open.
The Eye Keep had been two days away.
That road led to the fields of Lorin, the Flower Home of Verdant Lands, where vast blossomed plains spread across the horizon. There, the enemy brought all their might from fifteen new kingdoms. There had been Tarl Vittar and Aten’s men as well. Palan’s army had gathered, and Malignborg’s thousands, and many, many others from across their land. Reignhelm had brought his power and had done his best. I remembered the silvery wall of shields marching out of the west, as endless masses of High King’s men were coming to a stop in the east.
I remember Father preparing the men that night, and while there were twenty thousand enemies to our ten, he had been hopeful. Was he not the Wolf Hammer, the Bastard of Odin, and did not the enemy fear us like sheep would a dire wolf?
I was pulled back by the people in the room.
“Lord,” said the woman. “My companions…my captain Fang grows impatient.”
“Damn well I do,” said Fang with the crossbow aimed at me, close now. “I have demands.”
I shook my head. “We lost? How?”
They looked at each other.
Ajax nodded. “We lost. The Exiles, see? They did it. And they made us all exiles too, just not paid ones. We need means, see?”
Exiles. Yes. The accursed elves. I hated them.
I remembered my men, dying and killing. I held the right flank, with a thousand of Hardhand men and women.
I remember not seeing the center, where Vittar and Malignborg had advanced on my father and Graymoor, or the left, where Alarik and Erik, and the allied jarls were holding against Aten, Palan, and others.
My men were brave.
The shield wall was tight, the men guarding each other ferociously, the spears sturdy as they stabbed the enemy over the first rankers. In a third rank, with my standard-bearers, couriers, captains, I had stood, screaming for men to hold.
A man’s job was to fight, but an adeling was there to make sure they died well.
I had done just that.
I had stood until men had been too tired, or wounded, to fill all gaps and then I had taken a spear and had gone to the battle. I had killed a man, thrusting the spear through his throat as his shield was stuck on a dying Hardhand’s hand. And then I did it again, and again, for hours, until the battle transformed into an exhausted match of pushing, broken shields, and quivering warriors. The men had been panting, barely pushing at each other. Even when Harrian’s remaining cavalry propelled forth to attack us, to break us, their last reserve, we still held, living in a world of spears and shields and short, final moments of pain.
And then a great yell of triumph echoed across our ranks.
For men said Father had breached Vittar troops and the High King was wounded.
I remembered their faces as that rumor circulated.
Hope. Hope and joy.
It spread.
I saw far the flags of our allies from the east, dipping with joy. Marringold, Gulthaard, Spriggan’s Tear, Graymoor, our people, jarls about to win a war, all their glory at reach. It could be tasted in every mouth, the victory. Their hopes rekindled, bravery doubled, the exhausted army pushed. The center growled, advanced, and shields fell as Hardhands pushed over Vittar and Aten’s shield wall.
I had seen Father, roaring on his horse, hammer high.
And then the Exiles, High King’s elven allies from elven world of Aldheim, released their war-magic in Midgard for the first time.
Nay. There was more.
Graymoor had turned back.
We had all seen it.
We saw there was sudden chaos in the ranks as Graymoor’s thousand troops stepped back, running out of the wall where the elves rode and turned on our flanks. I saw Lon Graymoor’s men around Erik’s flag. Around Alarik’s, too, in a moment, swords heaving. I saw Father’s standard pushing back against Graymoor’s men, and Graymoor striking Father’s men with a sword, the twins riding at my father himself.
It was only then when the elves had attacked the army.
They cut swaths of magical fires across that flowery center field and killed a thousand of our almost victorious men, then two. The powers no human could use or feel, the forces we couldn’t see—the skills pulled from the Filling Void, into where the fiery rivers of Muspelheim and icy ones of Nifleheim poured, creating an ancient source of life and power—were used to destroy a rebellion.
Fiery and icy spells of death summoned from the great cauldron now claimed human lives.
In Midgard, the world of men, elves decided on its future.
Was that, too, as Odin had wished?
There were only twenty of the Exiles.
The elves, beautiful and ancient, if still mortals, had bound their thick hairs in braids. Their armored lizards had held them higher than their foes, and their spells guarded them against arrows and javelins, though some did fall dead. The spells of these Exiles of Aldheim destroyed Hardhand ranks for long minutes. Fiery walls—so hot they melted men in their armor—split the troops, leaving ashy remains of men behind, or icy, frozen corpses.
A golden-haired elf was riding amongst them, pointing a spear at Father, who was fighting Graymoor.
I saw Father’s flag burning, the crowned fist turning to dust in winds. So many men were there, around that place, kings, enemy, our men, all trying to get to him.
And then the spells had cast our right flank into disarray, ripping apart enemies and our men alike, an icy wind tearing through us with snowy brilliance, tossing men and horses around like toys, ripping flesh from frozen corpses.
I had staggered away, losing most of my men in the blizzard. I had barely seen the bloody rout, but I had heard the shrieks of death, calls of victory and lamentations of horror. I remembered Harrian riding over our last men with spears, and cavalry with archers hunting men across the snow-riddled, burning field. I had turned, hoping for a swift end, for my wife to escape, and then I remembered an arrow hitting me in the chest, and then another in my face, or forehead.
My wife.
She had been there.
“Adeling! Snap back here so we can decide what to do with you!” roared Fang, and I focused on him.
I touched my sore face and forehead and reached for a ragged wound under my chainmail and tunic.
“What is it, Lord?” asked Ajax. “The face is still there. There is something else there, though.”
“Don’t distract him,” Fang growled.
Breathe.
I did, drawing air in.
I couldn’t remember a thing after falling in Lorin’s field.
My wife’s face flickered in my thoughts.
“It doesn’t matter, adeling,” said the gruff one, Borin. “Wars get lost. Just four thousand fled, and most were captured, and just half of those managed to get back here. We doubt they would leave an adeling of Hardhand dancing about, then to walk off, and sail merrily back home. But the fact is that you are here, and nothing else really matters, eh?”
“Lorin,” I rasped. “When?”
Fang grunted. “Odd voice you have, like a ghost wheezing. Like wind farting, Lord Prince. The battle was a month ago. You are back home. And home…it is razed. We lost there, we lost here. The jarls who survived are servants to the local king, and that king serves the High King.”
“Local king?” I wondered, trying to hold my terror in check.
What of my wife?
“The High King paraded his men here, after Tarl Vittar’s and Atenguard’s men burned the city.” said the woman darkly.
“Who is the local king?” I snarled.
“The Hardhands are gone,” she said. “We are no more. This is now Lon Graymoor’s land. He has his own land and was given ours. He is the King of the East. He took a knee in Lorin, while Reignhelm—”
“Graymoor?” I asked, gnashing my teeth together. “Yes. He turned on Father in the middle of his battle.”
“Graymoor did,” she said brutally honestly. “He didn’t flee in Lorin. He broke our ranks as the Exiles attacked, and some say he killed all your family.”
I stared at her.
“Some say,” Ajax sighed. “We didn’t see. I know Erik died fighting, but it was chaos, as Graymoor’s men pushed through us in the left. We don’t know who got to your father’s corpse first. Who looted him. Vittar was there, Atenguard, Graymoor. High King, even, was close. Look. It matters little, of course. The elven war-magic…” She looked sad. “Well. You see. And the people here? You wish to know?”
“Go on,” I said softly.
The woman spoke. “The High King came here and scattered the people across the east, burned and looted the city, and banned all our people from living here. Hati’s Valley is gone. Hundred thousand people are leaving it for the other jarldoms. There are some two thousand men of the army here, and they are banned from living in the east. We came yesterday, exiles ourselves, but we cannot stay. We have to leave in a few hours back for the west or the north, or the Golden City, even.”
What of my wife?
One looked at the other, and the female shifted and squatted near me. She was beautiful in her sympathy. “We don’t know. I know what you are thinking about.”
“My wife?” I asked the question. “My brother’s boy too? Morag. You do not…”
Borin grunted. “Don’t know about your wife. I know of Morag. I do. The enemy found him here and took them to the docks with other nobles. One of the bastards holds them. Not sure which.” He shook his head. “He is in danger. They’ll want to kill the lot. Perhaps they will keep him a prisoner for a while, to make sure Graymoor does indeed serve Reignhelm. Would be a nasty contender for the throne.”
Ajax smiled. “I didn’t know you have these deep thoughts. I am surprised.”
Shian grinned. “I was talking to him about it, just now.”
“Oh!” Ajax said. “Reality returns. Good.”
I stared at them.
“Taken?” I whispered.
Shian stepped closer, beautiful in her compassion. “We know not who took them. You are rightly worried. We care.”
Borin shrugged. “What? No. We do not. It doesn’t matter to him, either. He’ll be dead, see? Right, Fang?”
They were quiet.
The bald one stepped forward. “He is right. You are unlucky to run into us. I was part of your brother’s command. Erik’s. The Dark Swans. You see we are the least worthy men of the east. There are some four hundred Swans alive, and it is because we know how to survive. It is often not honorable.”
“Dark Swans,” I said, shivering with fear for my wife, and not for myself. “The company made up of criminals,” I said dully.
He nodded. “Murderers, thieves, and other similar scum. We were doing great services to your father anyhow.” Fang nodded at the others. “We don’t know much about each other. I do know that Shian was a thief. Pickpocket. Possibly a whore. She can find out anything, but how, I always wondered, and from men, mostly? Whore.”
“I am not,” she said softly. “I can find out anything, though. And I am a thief. I got caught for thieving.”
“You are a whore to me,” he answered with a leer. “One day, if not yet. Ajax, the fox-face—”
“Wolf,” he murmured.
“Fox-face was also a thief, but on a grander level,” he said. “No pickpocketing. Just plain highway robbery. And the last one, grave robber.”
I looked at Borin with spite.
Borin grinned. “Man has to eat. Corpses need no gold or silver. And they caught me anyway, see? I’d not be here otherwise. I’m also the best swordsman in the east. Possibly the west too. I am gifted.”
I spat at his feet.
Borin was not happy. He was scratching his neck, cursing under his breath.
“Now, now, your highness,” said Borin. “Hardhand lands and honor are both a thing of the past. They wouldn’t know you anyway, the least of the brothers. Graymoor will make sure the Bastards of Odin will not be remembered in the books or songs, as he tries to make himself a legitimate king, and he is collecting hostages. He is collecting nobles from all across the land. Jarl’s daughters, and their wives.” He winked. “Some say he is making himself a nice little group of noblewomen of the finest eastern blood, and he’ll make them all relatives, or he’ll marry them off again. He’ll be busy.”
I felt the growing anger; the familiar anger Father had told me to keep in check.
The anger he had been unable to check.
It was a Hardhand curse. Rage. In battle, useful, out of it, deadly.
“What did you say?” I asked him darkly. “That I will be dead?”
Fang scratched his chin. “Possibly. We could sell you to the Graymoor, dead or alive. What say you to that?”
They were silent and watching me.
“To Lon Graymoor,” I whispered. “You’d sell me off.”
“To the Graymoor,” Fang agreed. “He will rule. There is no denying it. He will serve the High King in his wars to put down the last resistance in Verdant Lands, and in here. He’ll even join Reignhelm to take Barrac of White Tower, his own kin. Then the north follows, unless they bow their stubborn necks. They might, since they didn’t help us, as they promised. He’ll follow Reignhelm faithfully, like a dog, eh? He’ll want you.”
I shook my head. “I see.”
Fang smiled. “And since we must leave the east, not a few days after we came back,” he said, “perhaps we might bargain with Graymoor himself? We seem to have found no food or treasure, all of us coming here in ones or twos, emptyhanded, but we found something valuable after all. I care not who brought you here, but you are our way to riches.”
Ajax looked shrewd, but Borin looked cheered up. “Mead, rich meat,” he murmured. “Graymoor sets a good table.”
Borin was looking at his dagger with a raised eyebrow.
The woman was backing off, looking uncertain. Ajax’s face was unreadable. He adjusted a thick gauntlet and scaled armguard that covered his entire right hand and put his hand near his sword’s hilt.
“You would sell me?” I whispered, and the rage was red hot now, burning in my veins.
“Yeah,” Fang said harshly. “Keep your tone in check, boy. They’ll want your weapon too. Perhaps even more than they want you.”
“I am,” I began and pushed up, “not sure I understand you. I have no weapon.” I leaned on the wall, gathering resolve. They observed me, eyes guarded.
“Your forehead,” Borin murmured. “What is that? Punishment?”
Fang grinned. “Forget his forehead. I’ll put a bolt in it in a bit.”
“I think not,” I said harshly, ignoring the threat they presented. I balled my fists. They were simply robbers, no longer soldiers, but thieves. “Bring the war, then,” I said bitterly.
Fang whistled and nodded at the ground. “Yeah. We shall. Never met a man to beat me when I hold the crossbow. Always hit my mark.” He winked. “But I might be persuaded to let you live for a while. We could sell that thing and you as well.”
He nodded to the side, to the shadows where I had rested, and beyond it, was a smoking corpse I had not noticed, though I had smelled it. It had a terrible mass of burned meat, his arm, and fresh blood was seeping through cauterized wounds in the shoulder. He had died, not too long before.
“See, I was looking for the dead one,” Borin said. “I had a friend. He seems to have found something dangerous. See the hammer?” he asked.
Then my eyes went to the side of the corpse, and I saw the weapon.
I stared at it.
It was half buried under the corpse. It was five-foot-long, black as night, the handle filled with subtle dverg and elven script, and the baleful, snarling hammer’s head, carved like a silver-maned wolf, seemed to be staring at me.
It was the Wolf Hammer.
Our legendary weapon.
It was the weapon and boon of gods, and Reignhelm had desired this very thing from Father.
How come it was there?
How come I was?
And what would follow now?
It would have been Alarik’s duty to take it up, to be the Regent of the East, the Son of Odin, the grand champion for Odin in Midgard when Father died, to travel the land and put down foes of Odin. It was magical, and some said it gave man the powers of a Jotun, a giant. What else it did, I didn’t know.
The family had carried it from the start of ages.
And if they were dead?
Would I serve Odin next?
Finally.
“The man,” Fang said, “tried to pick it up. Is it particular to your family?”
I nodded.
It could only be carried by Hardhands. That’s what Father had said. We had other items like this, solely for the blood to use.
The journal of Father’s, for example.
Though, I knew, the book didn’t kill a man who picked it up. It just didn’t open up.
Fang was right to smell riches.
Despite all, the Graymoor would indeed pay a lot for it.
