Bedlam Unleashed, page 12
“I know not what you speak.” The blade came up, and I was free only to dodge the nasty blade again. I said quickly, “We only came looking for a boat.”
Knowing luck was sure to leave me soon, I bucked my pelvis up hard and sent Rozenwyn from her seat. I slipped from beneath her, grabbed the dirty smock she wore and, with all my strength, threw her off me. The action wasn’t too rough for she simply rolled to the floor on her side—enough time to get my boots beneath me—and we were both upon our feet.
My luck did run out for several hands suddenly gripped me from behind. My arms were wrenched back and held firm by another pair of tavern wretches.
Rozenwyn stepped in front of me, knife held high, and slashed down. I sucked in my gut but not enough. My shirt was torn open, and I felt the heat of the blade’s cutting edge etch across my belly.
“Let us enjoy this victory over these murderous Norsemen,” The towering woman bellowed as she threw up her knife. I was to be gut like a pig.
Behind her, Erik swung the huge battle-axe around, cleaving one man in two through arms and chest, taking the sword arm clean off another. In the same stroke, with a score of dead or dying bar patrons at his feet, he let the axe fly. It went to the right of Rozenwyn in the direction of the bar, disappearing from my view which was centered on the big Cornish wench.
In an eye-blink, as if a breath had barely been drawn in that last instant, Erik was behind the woman. His big hands clasped about her wrists. She screamed as the knife fell from her dirty fingers. He spun her about and, pulling her close, savagely slammed his forehead into her own.
“The she-demon must be returned to her own plane. The gate of Hel is open,” Erik informed me as he pushed the staggered woman away with his hands.
The giant Norseman drove her back towards the fire as two more men clasped hold of me. I threw one off, but one grabbed me around the midsection from behind. He got close to my ear and muttered curses as the other two kept my arms held firm.
“Mercy! You would not do harm to a woman!” Rozenwyn cried. Her nose lay splayed to one side of her ruddy face. Her voice now lost its edge and pleaded in a sickly sweet tone. I suspected a ruse and doubted Erik would show weakness for the fairer sex.
Erik spat back. “Being born male is a chance. Being a man is a choice.” His eyes flared, and he said quickly in his insane voice, “The light seeks you out to embrace your blackened heart. Your evil burns me, and the light will quench this flame with flame!”
She swallowed hard, and the men holding me seemed unwilling to abandon me and take on the giant.
Erik trembled and then snorted, “You took up steel against a Norseman...”
“Erik!” I called out, knowing exactly where he was going with his logic, but there was no stopping destiny.
My giant companion took hold of her, a hand to her scalp and another in her guts. He hoisted Rozenwyn off the floor and tossed her. The big woman landed heavily within the mouth of the hearth. She screamed—in shock, in pain, in anger—as the flames engulfed her.
I twisted my head toward the man near my ear and bit into his cheek. His grip slackened, and I felt him back away.
Rozenwyn rolled and, roaring like a banshee, struggled from the crackling hearth with flames dancing about her. The man’s cloak Rozenwyn wore seemed to burn as if covered in oil; perhaps some ale that burns saturated the garment.
Erik drove a meaty fist into her mid-section and sent her careening back into the fireplace.
“Die, spore of Nastrond!” he howled, taking up a sword from the pile of downed Englishmen and driving it through the woman’s chest, sticking her to the flaming log pile. “No more will your evil stalk this land!”
Grimacing at Erik’s insane ravings, thinking her so dire for just opposing him, I surmised that her clothing must have been bathed in her own brandy for there was a huge gush of flame that erupted from the fireplace. It drove even Erik back. Her dying scream mingled with the frantic crackling and popping of flame as the fire licked all around the hearth. I feared for a moment the whole place might go up.
Erik turned to the folk holding me. His head was lowered, stringy thick hair hanging over his furrowed brow. His eyes were dark and filled with death; a look even giving me fear. Not wanting to meet their fate this night, the men let me loose and hurried, stumbling, through the shattered doorway.
I expected more battle from the burly barkeep behind the bar. Turning, I found him still at his post but lodged against the wall with the double-bladed battle-axe buried deep in his broad chest, stuck through him, pinning him to the planking. His fat jowls hung slack, and his dead eyes only showed their whites.
“Bravo,” a raspy voice said close behind me.
I spun about, hand closing around the thin, loose-fleshed throat of the old man who had been sitting not far from the fire. I quickly relaxed my grip before I crushed the ancient’s gullet. He rewarded me, much to my surprise, by slapping a gnarled cane between my legs.
“I’m not of them child-slavers and stealers of innocents,” the old man warned as I staggered back with my breath gone and groin aching all the way up into my throat. “I only came for they don’t water down their stolen liquor.”
Erik went about plucking the swords and other weaponry from the death-still forms on the tavern floor. He came across the mousy corpse of Colin who had gotten in the way of the blade-swinging and spat on him. For the moment, he seemed unconcerned with the old one or the cane assault on me.
My first words squeaked but I restarted and said, “What do you speak of, old devil?”
“Your friend wasn’t far off from calling Rozenwyn and her thugs a band of evil spirits. You did the job in one night what our constable couldn’t do in the three months.”
Erik grinned, stepped behind the bar, and gripped the battle-axe again. The dead fat man thudded to the floor like a heavy sack of meal. “Alanis needs to see as I do, ancient one.”
The elderly man said, “Rozenwyn and her bunch came in here a while back. This town is dying, and they set up their roots. Story is she was the bastard of men from the land of ice who came a-Viking!”
I looked at the fire and wondered after his words. Perhaps this is why she loathed us so and had such a stern soul.
“They’ve been roughing up the townsfolk and doing some rather nasty business with the children,” the old crone said as he turned and shambled over to a corner of the tavern. He moved a large table aside with a grunt, and groaned as he bent down. With a popping of old vertebrae, he hauled up an iron ring attached to a short chain hidden from sight.
“What have you got there?” I asked with a shamble of my own. The pain was slowly easing from my loins.
“Many sailors came here to ferry off or trade in their cargo. I know the chamber was over here. Still, it was none of my affair.”
The man moved aside as I took the chain from him and yanked back on it. A trapdoor creaked open slowly. I gazed down and gasped as a dozen dirty-faced gazes stared back up at me. The old man’s words drifted back to me. Child-slavers.
“They would sell these children?” I asked, seeing the blinking eyes of the grubby youths.
The ancient man rubbed his nose and sat in a chair. “It is done, even in Christian places across the channel. The Danes swear to Jesus nowadays, yet many land-owners will pay for a child thrall as a help-mate. The Norsemen will take a young maiden and use her as a slave as well. You should know of such things.”
True enough, the man did not lie about the practices of the Norse or Danish land-owners.
Erik pushed me aside and leered into the deep cellar. The children drew back as they saw the face of Bedlam cast down upon them. Erik stood up and hissed, “You knew this went on, as did the constables, and did nothing?”
The old one seemed resigned as he said to Bedlam, “You judge me, you filthy pagan rapist? Who are you to call us sinners? You slew a woman. Where is your sense of chivalry?”
Erik squared his shoulders to the old one and growled, “It’s not the act of taking slaves that makes me see blood, old fool. It is that you would betray your own kindred to a foreign born foe. Why? To get peace from the Norse hordes? Speak to me not of chivalry.”
“Not only Vikings pay for such a prize. Many in our own realm would reward a sailor handsomely for children, for one reason or another.”
I stepped forward to speak, but Erik shoved me across the room like I was a doll. Glaring at the old man, Erik declared, “I shall give you the judgment even Thor would mete out on such a thing.” Erik raised a boot and stomped into the stomach of the old man. The chair fragmented and Bedlam pinned the old one to the side wall. A look of astonishment fixed to the old one’s face as he clutched his broken midsection. Erik took hold of his axe with both hands and drew back. Several of the children were creeping out of the cellar as Erik Bedlam split the old man’s skull in half.
Once the children were all assembled in the tavern, I looked up at Erik. I never had to ask him, for he did not know what to do with them either. Again, the big man drew back his axe. One of the children squealed as the giant man swung down again. This time, he broke the communal chain that linked the youths.
“Go,” Erik murmured to the young ones as he went to the bar and searched for booze. “Let the gods see to your welfare. If you are strong, you will survive.”
Quickly, we picked up what weapons we could use, what liquor we would drink, and all of the coins worth any value from behind the bar.
* * *
As we strode upon it, dark waves lapped the English shoreline. The gray surf rolled with dour whitecaps. The black sky was jaggedly cut far off against the night-hazed horizon line.
“No shortage of boats,” I said as Erik drank his fill, and I surveyed the line of small wooden vessels. “We better pick one we both can handle and skim the coastline. If their Constable finds his manhood, we will be at war again.”
Erik gestured at one small craft with a strong mast and said, “That is as good as any. Alanis, the drink is heavy on me. Go to yon house of women and indulge.”
I glanced back up at the whorehouse and laughed. “But the Constable…”
Erik dropped our supplies in the boat and sat down. “Bah. The Constable is not going to trouble us. He is in the house of women, forever.”
Again, I looked at the house and thought about what he said.
Eternity Is Near
“The sufferings that fate inflicts on us should be borne with patience, what enemies inflict with manly courage.”
Thucydides
* * *
After securing a small sea craft in Bridlington, Norse Mercenaries Alanis Johansson and Erik Bedlam sail farther down the East coast of eleventh Century England. However, the winds of Thor have drawn them again to the land not of their birth and to a horror beyond their comprehension…
* * *
ACT I – Landing
* * *
After a trip leaving us more than happy to depart the sea, we grounded the small craft on the sandy shores. Though I grumbled about the stubborn sea and her damnable current that had defied our crossing attempt, we left the waterlogged boat in good spirits. With the deranged berserker Erik staying half drunk (thus keeping his ravings somewhat subdued) his lucidity this afternoon was good. At times, I wondered if the metal shard left in his skull bothered him more than other days.
Abandoning the vessel, we set off again inland into Britannia. Erik carried his immense double-bladed battle-axe he stole from the whore house in Bridlington. He carried the axe over one shoulder and kept his other hand on the handle of the Scottish claymore at his belt. Though packed down with a sizable amount of gold, moderate amounts of brandy, a pinch of sleep and practically no food, we felt excellent. A great distance had been put between us, Scotland, and any other terror in the land.
Two hirsute Norsemen walking across an English coastline would not be met with any more mercy than we had previously encountered. Not fearing nature in this spring season, we kept away from well-traveled paths. However, at every point where we thought we might find a comfortable moss bed or thicket of fern to settle our weary bones for a moment of eye rest, the warm sun seemed a beacon to search us out. The barking of dogs came from afar, and the breeze seemed to carry the calls of hunting men. It may have been fatigue, or our own paranoia from so many days of mischief, but my giant companion and I both felt as if resting in daylight would find us bound by rope when we awoke. From so many troubled eves, we looked forward to the shelter of night to fall.
Following the surf-shattered coastline, the hours of daylight fell away. The woodlands were thick in this region, but lined with many paths to follow. Some were mere footpaths of trampled grass created by man and animal alike. Other paths were wider or two-tracked though still fairly unkempt and rough for any wheeled vehicle.
Hunger gnawed at our bellies, and we decided to edge slightly inland to hunt for dinner as the sun started its descent towards evening.
Creeping just outside a path cut through the tall grasses, hoping to meet the deer or boar that made it, we stopped with a wave of my hand. I listened, only catching the hum of the breeze in my ears. Though the warm wind bid me no malice, I shivered upon a realization.
“No animals are about,” I muttered to Bedlam.
Resting against a huge oak, Erik snorted, “Aye, ‘tis so, Alanis. Not even a wild dog to be roasted hereabouts.”
I led us onward into a stout thicket, moving about a row of cloth-tearing bramble. It was then that we turned a corner and saw the avenue of the crucified.
Both of us were speechless, witnessing the lines of trees in the tall grasses, each bearing a human body, nailed in place with long iron spikes. Each form was upside down, unlike the crosses the Christian churchman place on themselves as a talisman. Each looked skinned, wasted away, rotted and picked raw by birds—yet we saw no fowl.
Though the shock was sudden, we walked forward, banishing our fears. Bedlam said, “They are like the grass of autumn, these men.”
Looking at the dead bodies, I offered, “Like old leaves?”
“Yet they have no heads,” Erik observed. “Not a one.”
Kneeling by one tree trunk, I quickly jumped back. The insane fighter was correct. Odd that I missed this feature at first glance…
Bedlam nodded once and took up his axe across his midsection. With a wide swipe, he buried the weapon in the sternum of the nearest body. The corpse split fast and Bedlam laughed. “They are like men of straw, Alanis!” Truly, the body was so dry it tore and fell away like flaky shards of some ancient parchment.
I crossed the path and knelt by another nude carcass. Its decomposition was so bad it was impossible to tell the sex of the pathetic victim. Though the climate was moderately warm, I felt chills on my hairy arms.
“Ah!” Erik’s face brightened, and he gestured down the path. “Perhaps this girl can give us true insight.”
Stunning me deep, a small, scrawny girl darted into the open from the trees and ran right for us. Her hair was a dark greasy tangle about her tiny oval face. Clothing not much more than tattered rags hung off her thin frame, and she showed neither fear nor little regard for our presence. When she nearly ran into us, I guessed she was blind to our existence. The girl slammed into Bedlam’s left calf and bounced off with a grunt. On the ground, the grimy little urchin shook her filthy hair and blinked.
“Greetings,” I said calmly in old English to her. We must’ve looked like giants to the child, but her features only showed moderate fear.
“Are you here for her?” she asked pointedly, showing anger in her voice.
“Who is that you speak of, child?” I knelt on one knee, but she backed away. Her eyes were locked on Bedlam, towering over her.
“The Viking princess,” she said as if we were fools.
Brows raised, Erik and I regarded each other with wide eyes.
Bedlam rumbled, “What is thy name, damsel?”
With more defiance than I could believe she mustered, the girl snapped back at Bedlam, “I am Blythe. I am from Dunwich down the coast. A company of us were snatched as prisoners and brought here to the Wizard of Leftwich.” She gestured at the bodies on the trees, as if she were one of them.
I asked her, “Yet you are free. Hmm. How is that?”
She shrugged. “Too many to keep track of at the moment of truth.”
“Who is this Viking princess, and who is this Wizard?”
“She is the divine maiden Haley Wenda, from across the seas. She came with the killers from afar to rescue her father, the great chieftain Thorn Wenda, and now is the prisoner of the dark mage Kendrick, son of Prescott.”
I pondered her words and that she certainly didn’t speak like a child.
She continued. “The foul Kendrick had been in search of Thorn Wenda to settle a blood feud or some matter. When the terrible mage found them both in Leftwich, he locked them in the bowels of the old castle and holds them for heinous purposes.” The young girl Blythe added this with much dramatic hand gesturing as she looked south down the roadway.
Bedlam took a step forward, and the girl scooted away from him, strong in will no more. Erik inquired roughly, “Who brought prisoners here from your hamlet?”
She shrugged, and waved at the trees. “They were killers and thieves from afar off, not from Dunwich. Some were pirates in the port city. I was taken from my bed.”
I pressed the point and asked, “But someone brought these men here? How long ago?”
Blythe answered me and said, “Yesterday.”
Bedlam ground his teeth, and he stepped toward the nearest headless corpse. “Alanis, I sense…” His voice vanished, and his eyes closed.
Not sure if his visions were madness or not, I questioned Erik, “Do you see spirits around these bodies?”
Erik shook his mane of hair from side to side. “Nay, brother, there is no sight nor smell of the gods here.” A tremble ran across the giant’s body, and he mumbled, “None at all.”
