Fury Page 2

  “It is a wyrm’s tooth from the dragon that lives north of here. Have you not heard of the Wyrm of Finnsburg? The killer called Fiendal. All children in the whole of Danelaw know these tales. Who are you stranger?”

  Niels was at a loss. Half of his brain was numb from the trip, he was so grateful to be on dry land again, and the other half of his wits was lost in her ample cleavage. “My name?”

  “You do have one?” she asked.

  “I’m Cap,” he stopped himself before saying more.

  “Well Cap, you must be new to our lands. Fiendal is the most feared thing in the countryside. Even more so than that pig of a king we have now.”

  “Who?” he asked dumbly, trying to get his wits about him once more.

  “If you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you,” she said.

  “Tell me about the dragon then,” he said. “They don’t give their teeth willingly.”

  She smiled and shook her head. He loved that smile. “They say that a man came riding, born with the fury that burns in all heroes, and he ran a magic sword into the dragon Fiendal and tore free three teeth. That put the dragon to sleep for a hundred years or so, I’ve been told. But it’s awake again now.”

  “It’s awake again?” asked Niels, incredulous. “But that tooth?”

  Dahlia smiled. “Uh huh. We have one, another is in Finnsburg Hall and a third went to the king in Hellainik.”

  “Did he kill the dragon?”

  “Of course not. No man can kill a dragon. Anyway, it all happened before I was born,” she said. “Wilum, maybe you could recite the tale again?”

  “You have a bard here?”

  An old man snapped awake and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I know it, but I’m not a bard. I’ll recite the poem for you, young man, for a copper.”

  Niels looked to Dahlia who had walked back to the kitchens.

  Wilum licked his lips and doffed his cap and held it out to catch the mentioned coin. His white hair stood out erratically now that the cap was not containing it.

  Niels was sorry to see Dahlia gone, and with the old man staring at him expectantly, he fished in his coin purse for a copper and tossed it into the old man’s cap. “All right, here is a copper for Not-A-Bard.”

  Wilum stood and took a drink from his ale cup, composed himself, leaned slightly on his cane, closed his eyes, and began,

  “A king is a man, who rules by his own hand

  But t’was heroes like Sigurd Grimsson who tamed this land

  Whether blood handed raider, slayer or dark deceiver came

  They all met their end with his blade shining red just the same

  With bandits, beasts, and buccaneers he did collide

  Giving one and all of them that final steel ride

  Across the mountains and the plains, his black company rode

  And here in the valley, first he heard of that great long tailed toad

  For Fiendal the dragon was about and hungered he for blood

  The death he wrought on this good land covered it like a flood

  Now the sword, spear and axe did brave Sigurd wield

  But none of them could break through that dragon skin shield

  Steel made by man is what Sigurd intended on Fiendal to feed

  Though it was broken bones soon that made the dragon bleed

  For no weapon forged by man could strike the deadly blow

  It was a blade crafted by a wolf witch don’t you know

  Halla made a broad double-bladed axe of silver and gold

  A wise smith, she covered it with runes ancient and cold

  With this weapon in hand alone, did Sigurd knock free

  And steal from the dragon teeth numbered but three

  Back to his marsh and the cave and back to his lair

  Did Fiendal run away and to this day stay there.”

  Wilum finished, took in a deep breath, and then sat back down. There had been no hesitation nor pause, and Niels had no doubt the old man had memorized the verse long ago. It felt old.

  “Very moving,” said Niels. “But is any of that true?”

  The old man shook his head in disgust. “Didn’t I just tell you all about it? The lady just told you about it and you can see the tooth for yourself right there!” Wilum pointed with his cane at the tooth above the mantle.

  “Why haven’t I heard of this dragon before? This Wyrm of Finnsburg?”

  “Because it is like a giant snake you half-wit. They sleep for years once their belly is full. And when they have slept and grown enough, they come out again and the land is cast in misery as they feed an insatiable hunger.”

  “Let me guess, no one has seen one in a hundred years now?”

  Dahlia cocked an eyebrow and looked to Wilum and he back to her.

  “Should I tell him then?” asked Wilum.

  “Why not?” offered Dahlia. “If he has any sense, if that scares him, he should get back on the boat that brought him here.”

  “Tell me what?” asked Niels.

  Wilum cleared his throat and said, “The stories are all true, after all there is as much truth in myth as there is anything in this world. Maybe more truth than what you hear prattled on as news and wise words in your big cities, ya know-it-all-shite.”

  “Insults are not an answer,” said Niels.

  “Answers? It’s the truth, I’m telling ya. Fiendal has awakened and is moving over the borderlands, feasting on men and livestock. Makes no never mind to him, I’m sure, whether you believe in him or not. He would eat you just the same.”

  “Him?”

  “Of course, it’s a him.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Niels with a laugh.

  Wilum grew flustered and pulled off his cap. His red face stood out in stark contrast to the bushy white sideburns. “Because, he doesn’t lay eggs.”

  “Now there is something. Who has or has not seen a dragon laying eggs that sleeps for centuries?”

  “Aye, more wyrm’s have been seen deep in the marsh, only Fiendal is greater and thusly sleeps longer than the others.”

  Niels rocked back on his chair and sipped from his ale. “More monsters, these wyrm’s, and they sleep for what, centuries? And now they have awoken, and you know his name and sex. Did I miss anything.”

  “Don’t be rude to the folk who made your drink,” said Dahlia.

  Niels bowed his head. “I apologize, I’m just trying to understand how much is true and how much is the locals having a go at me.”

  “That’s not an apology,” she said.

  “I am sorry if I have offended you or the old bard.”

  “I’m not a bard,” said Wilum.

  Dahlia stood before him looking cross with her hands on her hips. “I’m not having a go at you. You asked about the legend and we told you. Just be glad you are here and not at Finnsburg Hall.”

  “I’ll make sure I don’t go to such a place, lucky for me, my business will take me to Hellainik.”

  “You’re going to the capitol then?” asked Dahlia. “What takes you there?”

  “My Lord has urgent business there with the usurper, Vikarskeid.”

  Niels heard someone move and then go out the door, but he didn’t see who it was. He was leery, it could have been trouble, but it also could have been nothing. No one who had been in the tavern looked worthy of his notice when he came in but looks can be deceiving.

  “I preferred the Usurper Sellsword to Vikarskeid,” said Dahlia. “At least he cared about the kingdom and tried to rule it honorably. But now taxes have gone up and threats from raiders or dragons run rampant without even a hint of protection from the king. We need another revolution.”

  Her words warmed his heart and where he had just worried about saying too much and the trouble he might be in for speaking his business too loudly, he felt at ease now with Dahlia speaking so plainly in front of the whole tavern.

  “I can appreciate your words good, lady, and they do warm my heart. Trust me when I say, change is coming
to Vjorn again.”

  Dahlia laughed.

  “What’s so funny? I am a fellow patriot of Gathelaus the Usurper King.”

  She took hold of his shoulder and tugged on his cloak. “I am in a business where I must needs be friends with many creeds and customs, biases and feuds. I told you what you wanted to hear; I saw the blue tartan beneath your cloak. Only a man of Gathelaus would wear that. Vikarskeid has changed the uniform of the army and forbade anyone from wearing the old colors of the guard. If you had a lick of sense you would lose that before any of the king’s huntsmen prowling about see you.”

  “So, you aren’t for Gathelaus?” asked Niels, glancing about the room, wondering if he was about to be ambushed.

  Dahlia shook her head. “The new king is same as the old king as far as our lives are concerned. It makes little difference to us. But I must be prepared to sing his praises or scorn him with equal enthusiasm depending on the company. Lately there have been men here looking for those such as you.”

  “How do you know I wouldn’t scorn you for saying this?”

  She smiled again and touched his cheek. “Your eyes are too kind for me to fear you. I can see the love of life in your eyes. You are a good man.”

  “You can tell all of that by just looking into my eyes?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Of course, I can. A lady in my line of work knows a lot about men. Do you want any supper with that ale? Night will be coming soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  2. The Disagreement

  It had been a few minutes and, while Dahlia was preparing his supper Niels sat, just enjoying the moment. It was strange, he had only been talking with her and she had only barely caressed his cheek, but he was more excited by this woman than he had been in anyone for he didn’t know how long. His mind raced at the possibilities. Should he remain here? No, he couldn’t abandon Gathelaus and the quest to reclaim the crown. He had work to do for his friend, king, and the good of the nation. Perhaps she would ride with them to Hellainik and partake of the revolution to come? No, she was no warrior, she was a barmaid in a tiny fishing village he didn’t even know the name of. Perhaps he had simply been away from women too long and was smitten with the first one he had spoken to in weeks. Granted, she was incredibly beautiful.

  He almost didn’t hear the thunder of rapidly approaching hooves. Guessing it was Gathelaus returning with several horses for their journey, he remained seated, guessing he would have to order another ale for his commander, since he had already downed the one meant for his friend.

  But it wasn’t Gathelaus entering the tavern. It was a crew of men, perhaps six or seven of them.

  Niels was tipsy from the ale and sun coming in behind the men momentarily blinded him. Once the door was shut and they moved in, he got a better look at them.

  Several looked like Tolburnian cutthroats, another one was a big red-haired Azschlander with a massive knife at his belt. Two resembled civilized members of the Sho-Tan horde with conical helmets and long horse sabers, still another seemed to be a slant-eyed killer from Shang-Henj with a long drooping mustache. There was even a small dark Pictish tribesman from the far northern steppes; rumor was that his people ate nothing but meat or whale blubber for they lived along the Ice Sea and had no growing season. A hooded man appeared to be their leader, he entered last and took a place at the far end of the bar with his back to the wall.

  Wilum’s former surly attitude changed into a bird and flew out the door, he acted like he had somewhere to be and got up to leave the tavern.

  “Where are you going, grandfather?” asked the hooded man. “We’ll miss your tall tales.”

  This brought an uproar of laughter from the hooded man’s crew, but Wilum was not dissuaded and pushed to get out the door.

  One of the conical-helmed men barred his way. “You forgot to ask permission to leave,” snarled the man.

  “Begging your pardon,” said Wilum, almost whimpering. “But can I go please, sir. I’m not feeling well.”

  All eyes turned to the hooded man to see if he would give his approval.

  “Get out,” said the hooded man, thumbing toward the door.

  Wilum moved as soon as the other shifted his arm out of the way. As he reached the threshold, the man kicked him, sending the old man sprawling into the mud. The crew of cutthroats laughed.

  “Is it so hard to get good entertainment?” lamented the hooded man. His men gave a resounding note of black-humored mirth once more.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t beat them, their tune might sound sweeter,” suggested Niels.

  The hooded man took notice of Niels and craned his head in wonderment. “Who are you? Music lover?”

  “Name is Cap, and that man while he is no bard, didn’t deserve that treatment.”

  The hooded man made a sound that Niels didn’t quite understand. Was it a chuckle? A cough? “Cap, huh? You passing through this cursed land?”

  “Yep, just passing through.”

  “Best keep your opinions to yourself then,” said the hooded man.

  “I always do.”

  The hooded man grunted and brought a hand to his stubbled chin, which was the only part of his face Niels could see. “Dahlia, a round of mead!” he shouted. “And one for the stranger here, too.”

  Dahlia brought tankards of mead and gave a slight shake of her head as a warning to Niels to be silent.

  “You been traveling far?” asked the hooded man.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t believe how far,” said Niels, as he focused on Dahlia and the large mugs.

  “Try me,” replied the hooded man.

  “Let’s just say, I’ve been places you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I can believe a lot,” prodded the hooded man. “Try me.”

  “Where have you traveled from?” asked Dahlia. “Mankares, right?” She gave another look of Be Quiet to Niels.

  “A lot farther than that love, a lot farther.”

  Dahlia rolled her eyes, as if Niels had just said the stupidest thing possible.

  “Oh, a world traveler, huh?” taunted the hooded man. “I suppose our backwater here is nothing special to you then. You’ve seen some fabulous things?”

  “I’ve been lots of places, what’s it to you friend?” asked Niels.

  The hooded man gave a malevolent chuckle, answering, “I ain’t your friend, but I was making polite conversation.”

  Niels looked the hooded man up and down. He couldn’t tell his age or much of anything else about him. The clothing looked well-traveled and worn, but he only had a dagger on his belt and not a sword. Who was he?

  Niels replied, “Then it seems we’re just having a disagreement. I’ve traveled far, that’s all there is to it.”

  The hooded man prodded farther. “Maybe all the way from the lost continent, Dar-Al-Hambra and even Hellainik before that, eh?” asked the hooded man pointedly.

  “Aw, crap,” growled Niels, as the sound of steel sliding from leather filled the room.

  The hooded man stood and directed the others. “You’re gonna take off that sword belt, without a fuss, or my man behind you will stick that flatbow bolt he has trained on you, right in your skull.”

  Niels couldn’t see the man with the flatbow, but there was no reason to doubt. He could see the fear in Dahlia’s eyes as she faced him, and she was looking at someone behind to his left.

  Niels remained as calm as he could muster. “Seems you know who I am then?”

  “I do, where is the other one?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play smart with me. I know a whole lot more than you think. Maybe I just want to know how big a liar you are,” threatened the hooded man.

  “He went out, looking for horses. Can’t say as I know where, since I’m in here with you.”

  The man grunted and was answered by another man who said, “Truth.”

  Niels wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was the tribal looking savage that had answered.

  “How did you k
now we would come ashore here, of all places, when I didn’t know that myself? Our ship was swamped, we should have been a lot farther inland,” asked Niels, stalling for time.

  “Dagoo here,” the hooded man motioned at the Pictish tribesman, “has his ways. He can hardly speak the proper tongue, but he has a way with the spirits. The spirits always know, and if you ask the right questions, they’ll tell you.”

  “Interesting, and who would you be?”

  The hooded man said, “I’m Tarbona, and these are my huntsmen. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  “Can’t say that I have. You been waiting here long?”

  “Two days,” said Dahlia, sounding annoyed.

  “Shut up. And you, hurry and drop that sword belt,” ordered Tarbona, as he drew his own sword from beneath his cloak.

  “Alight, take it easy,” said Niels. He looked at Dahlia again and winked. “Sorry, love.” He mouthed silently. Duck.

  She shook her head, mouthing Don’t.

  Niels reached with his left hand and stole the great crock of ale from her hands while wheeling and drawing his sword with his right. Niels flung the crock back, smashing one of the twisted men in the face and throwing off the aim of the flatbow assassin.

  Dahlia screamed and ducked down.

  It was a dangerous ploy that worked, the assassin with the flatbow was distracted just enough his timing and aim were thrown. By the fraction of a second he did fire his bolt, Niels had cleaved the conical-helmed man nearest him across the throat and held up the dead man like a shield. This was convenient but unneeded as the wild bolt struck one of the shooters own compatriots in the back, just as he raised a blade against Niels.

  The wounded man cried out and went slack with the shock of the bolt.

  Niels chopped the wounded huntsman with a shattering blow across the shoulder breaking mail, bone and lungs beneath.

  Tarbona raised a sword high for a killing stroke, but Niels kicked a table at him, sending him away, as the sword came smashing down and the flared tip stuck fast in the hardwood.

  The regular patrons along with Dahlia and the barkeep fled.

  The remaining huntsmen roared and charged with naked blades in their fists. While the tables gave slight room, blocking all the men from crowding him at once, it also made it so Niels could not escape as swiftly as he would have liked. He was fully surrounded by ravenous steel.