Fury Read online

  Only after the monster had been gone several minutes did Knut speak. “This is how we must live every night now to survive. We leave our home and shelter here. Every day I farm what I can, but it is hard work, I have lost all livestock. I have no help.”

  “Your home?” asked Gathelaus.

  Knut continued, “I repaired my door the first couple times, but Fiendal breaks it down every time he comes by. He even did the one time I left the door wide open, as if it was an affront to him. He is no stupid beast. He is proud and vindictive, but not stupid.”

  “Is all of the countryside like this?”

  Knut nodded. “Those that live have had to adapt. We live like frightened rabbits. Doing what work we can in the day and living in holes in the night when the monster chooses to roam.”

  “How long has this been going on?” asked Gathelaus.

  “Ain’t you King Vikarskeid’s Blade Wardens sent to do something about it?”

  “How long?” demanded Gathelaus.

  “Three months,” answered Knut, seeming confused by the question.

  “And no one has done anything about the dragon?”

  Knut snorted. “What can any man do against a dragon? You two must have been on somebody’s shit list to be sent here. His skin is like iron, nothing can cut it. There is no puncturing his outside. His teeth are like swords, and his feet are worse, claws as big as a steer’s horns. He kills with his feet or his mouth.”

  “No fire?” asked Niels.

  “Fire?” asked Knut confusedly. “No, I haven’t tried fire, but I’d never get close enough to attempt that neither.”

  “No, I mean does it breathe fire?”

  “Fire? No, it’s not a damn wizard.”

  Gathelaus asked, “Does Lord Hoskuld still live?”

  “So far as I know. Didn’t he send for you? Are you Blade Wardens of the king or not?”

  “I don’t serve Vikarskeid,” said Gathelaus, finally.

  Knut held up a pitchfork. “Well who are you then? Bandits? Think you can come in and rob the countryside because it is destroyed now, huh? Well, more the pity on you, there’s no wealth here. Look at my stores there, potatoes, beets, and onions, and when that’s gone, we’ll die. We won’t make it through the winter like this. There are hardly no livestock left to the land and most folk are dead. So try me if you must, but I’ll bleed you before I go down.”

  “Hold,” said Gathelaus. “I’d never do harm to you or your family.”

  “Family,” sniffed Knut. “I lost my eldest son to Gathelaus the Usurper when he asked for a levy of men, then my other two boys and a daughter were taken by Fiendal. My family is almost gone.”

  Gathelaus watched the mother clutch the two young children close, tears rained from her eyes.

  “I will find a way to end this scourge,” he said. “I swear it.”

  Knut shook his head. “Like I said, you are a pair of fools.”

  “Maybe, but I am Gathelaus, the Usurper King.”

  “I was wrong,” said Knut. “You’re a wandering mad man.”

  “No, he speaks the truth,” said his wife. “I saw him once in Hellainik. Not so covered with mud, or with the beginnings of a beard growing, but it is him.”

  Knut cast a wary eye over Gathelaus, then cried out and raised his pitchfork menacingly once again.

  Gathelaus made no move to defend himself.

  “Husband, no!” cried his wife.

  Knut glanced over his shoulder at her, then slammed the pitchfork into the shelving beside Gathelaus and dropped to his knees, growling in despair.

  Gathelaus put a hand on Knut’s shoulder, saying, “I owe your family for its support more than I can repay, but I will cleanse this foul creature from the land or die trying.”

  “Nothing can be done,” said Knut through falling tears.

  “Tell me all you can of the dragon,” said Gathelaus.

  Knut began, “Once Finnsburg was a place of joy and happiness. It was ideal farming country, wide long meadows fenced in by marshes stocked with fish, stout pine forests and snow-clad mountains. Situated halfway between the Danelaw and Hellainik roads, Lord Hoskuld’s family sold cattle and grain in all directions.”

  “At least he did, until the dragon, called Fiendal awoke.

  “The wise women foretold of a good harvest and there was. When Sow-Wein, the final harvest festival, was nigh, the people in the hamlet of Finnsburg gathered to find joy. We came together and danced and sang. The great golden Hall of Lord Hoskuld was finished and blessed that it would be our hamlet’s crowning jewel.

  “Lord Hoskuld declared a celebration. He gave each man a gold and silver ring, a generous bonus for our labors. He brought in a grand piano and a dozen bards for the harvest festival night. Barrels of beer and casks of whiskey were divvied out freely, and even the red-lantern girls from Hellainik came. They all banged the drum and sang the songs of life, lust, and laughter. And we reveled as loudly throughout the valley as had never been heard since the dawn of time when Fiendal himself was spawned.

  “So rudely awoken from his long slumber, the stalking demon despised the raucous melodies and blaring horns, the giggling women and carousing men. Waiting until dark, the monster watched, and when even the horned moon hid behind a veil of clouds, he struck—for his heart was both vicious and cruel. He delighted in the fear and drank deeply of our terror.

  “Tramping into the carnival square with the speed of a ravening wolf, Fiendal slashed both man and beast. Horses screamed as they were torn apart and men cried out for their mothers as they died. The lizard’s mighty jaws clamped down, and those that could ran and hid in deep shadows. He crushed oxen and armored footmen and swallowed drunken snoring fools slumbering upon card tables. Some brave souls tried to slay the demon, but nothing could penetrate his thick scaly hide. The thunderous repeat of sword strokes, curses, and arrows, and spikes only further upset the monster and these men only died next.

  “Fiendal slew thirty souls, and by dawn’s early light the nightmare vanished back into the misty marsh. His great three-toed tracks left a wake of such awful destruction upon Finnsburg Hall that men whispered afterward across the territories when mentioning the doomed hamlet, for fear that they may summon the dread demon to their own abode.

  “Heroes and hunters came, mighty men all, and yet these mighty heroes and hunters died as no bolt or blade could harm the thick-scaled monster. Too wise for poison or traps, immune to spells and wards, Fiendal has become a blight on a once fair land. Shamans and wizards from the five nations were consulted and all said the same, this land was Fiendal’s. Leave it to him or die.

  “Hoskuld is a stiff-necked man and he refused to leave his family’s land and he remained there with a handful of folk, though he hid behind thick doors in small rooms when the sun went down.

  “In the weeks that followed, the monster returned chaotically, feeding upon whatever it found whether man or beast. Finnsburg soon had more ghosts than men to work the land and it is said bad luck covers the house of Hoskuld like flies over stink.” Knut finished and sat back on his haunches.

  Knut’s wife, however, took up the last, saying, “Lord Hoskuld’s golden hall of dreams and lands have been a sad and somber place full of grim despair, and will remain so, until a king comes riding.”

  7. Sour Welcomes

  The next morning, when Knut assured them it was safe to travel short distances as Fiendal seemed to only hunt after sundown, they began the walk to Finnsburg.

  Knut walked them to the road and pointed the way, saying, “They won’t likely have any horses for you, they’ve probably all been devoured, but you could always ask. In these parts, an animal is probably worth more than any five in your cities, but everyone is afraid it won’t last once Fiendal breaks in and steals them dead.”

  “I’m grateful for your taking us in,” said Gathelaus.

  “Our pleasure,” said Knut’s wife.

  Knut grimaced.

  Gathelaus said, “Did you know ab
out a tinker’s wagon, a mile back down the road? He won’t be coming back for any of it. He’s dead.”

  Knut shook his head. “No, might have some good things I suppose, but I’ve been struggling to just have food for my family. Winter will be mighty harsh without a supper.”

  Gathelaus said, “You should at least grab some things from the tinker’s wagon for yourself, then. Our thanks for your hospitality for the night.”

  Knut shook his head. “I’ve lost my faith in many ways, but I hope you can do something against this monster.”

  “A king can find a way with the gods help,” said his wife, as they bid he and Niels goodbye.

  Rain fell like tears as Gathelaus and Niels approached Finnsburg. It was seated on a low hill overlooking the valley. It was as commanding a view as could be afforded here. There was a low stone wall, no more than eight feet, topped with wooden pikes another four feet high that surrounded several acres around the homes and hall. The great hall was the main feature amidst the thatch covered homes and barn. It was as large as any hall Gathelaus had seen at numerous castles and kingdoms, standing perhaps three to four stories high, but there was not even a wisp of smoke rising from its many chimneys.

  As they approached, they saw no clear sign of habitation and wondered momentarily if perhaps it was truly deserted. Knut said he had not visited its walls, despite the proximity, for many days.

  They strode through the broken gates and were surprised to be challenged by a scrawny buck-toothed wall warden. “Who’re you?” demanded the wall warden with fear only slightly hidden by disdain. “We have no truck with beggars here, be gone!”

  Gathelaus ignored him and walked on into the empty courtyard. It was strewn with refuse and stunk of death. “Where is your lord?” he asked, knowing his voice burned like hot hammered iron.

  The wall warden leveled his spear unsteadily, “I said be off with you! Before I call a dozen men to come slay you both!” He held out a horn as if he might summon an army.

  Gathelaus gave a disarming smile, knowing it did not conceal his penetrating gaze. Armed as they were, they should have been perceived as fighting men, but covered in mud and blood, the wall warden foolishly assumed them to be beggars come calling in a starving kingdom.

  Niels snatched the spear from the wall warden’s hand, saying, “Call your fifty men, or can you conjure fifty corpses by the smell of the place?”

  The wall warden looked about disarmed as he was, but neither stranger made a further move at him.

  “I’ll have you for that,” he protested at Niels for taking his spear.

  “Where is your lord?” asked Gathelaus again. “Take me to him.”

  He gripped the wall warden’s arm like a bear trap, twisting it hard and firm as if to break his bones. “Name’s Gathelaus. I’m here to see Hoskuld,” he answered, the slack-jawed watchman.

  “You’re Gathelaus? Was the king? Sorry, I reckon. Follow me then.”

  “Uh huh.” Gathelaus followed the wall warden to the manor house.

  The wall warden said, “The yellow-haired man at the door is Bors, my commander. Lord Hoskuld is within.”

  The hamlet commander, Bors, held the door open. Gathelaus passed through with nary a look at the man and addressed Hoskuld who lay stewing in his misery at the dinner table. “’Lord Hoskuld.”

  Hoskuld blinked and wiped his bloodshot eyes. “Gathelaus?”

  “It’s me.”

  Hoskuld remained seated, though it was plain to Gathelaus that he considered standing for his former king then thought better of it. He was lord here, and Gathelaus was no longer king. “I haven’t seen you since your coronation in Hellainik. What brings you to my unhappy door?”

  Gathelaus grinned at him like the devil. “You know why.” He bowed slightly to a handful of women who eavesdropped from the far edge of the hall.

  “You come to bring more misery to my hall?” accused Hoskuld, his shouts echoing in the near empty room. “We sent you our sons and they died defending you from a wizard, that I was later told you slew single handedly. Is that true? Makes the deaths of our sons seem pointless, doesn’t it?” Before Gathelaus could answer, Hoskuld continued bitterly, “Regardless, the usurper was usurped and the new king, Vikarskeid, considers me and my folk little better than your other back woods lackeys. We are taxed beyond our means, and then on top of that, the dragon which has slept since the time of my grandfather’s father, wakes and does evil on our land, so that we might all die of starvation and never see the halls of the slain.”

  Gathelaus stood silent and listened. Niels watched the hall warily, wondering if the few men Hoskuld had left might suddenly rush them for revenge, but none moved.

  Hoskuld wept, saying, “Why are you here? Will you deny these things? Will you try and trade apologies for blood? Scorn for tears?”

  Gathelaus proclaimed, “I will not. Your sons died defending me against a wizard that I avenged them for. Vikarskeid I will see dead one day soon, and for now, I am here to slay the dragon that curses your lands.”

  Hoskuld buried his head in his hands, saying sarcastically, “I’m thankful, I really am, but there isn’t a thing any man can do. So you may as well see yourself out. Fall on your sword for all the good it will do. That might bring a smile to my face one last time.”

  “I’ve met some of your folk, I have seen the dragon. I will find a way.”

  Hoskuld shook his head. “You are deluded Gathelaus, old Usurper King, I had the last company of warriors I could command try and stand against Fiendal.” He stood from his table and emphasized, swinging his fists. “Not a sword edge or spear point could penetrate his skin. Not an arrow, nor a burning torch did slow his terrible step. You’d get farther with your teeth against an oak than with an axe against his scales. You cannot slay that which cannot die.” He paused amidst tears, muttering, “He took away my wife and my sons. He even took my leg.” He peeled back a bit of his robe revealing a wooden leg. “All I have left is a daughter.”

  “Everything dies, even gods and monsters,” answered Gathelaus.

  “Perhaps, but for today we have almost no sheep left. We’ll have no wool, no mutton, no clothes, and the deaths of gods will pale before frozen children,” said Hoskuld bitterly.

  “I am here to do what I can.”

  Hoskuld pointed at the door. “I’m ruined, and you had best leave this cursed valley before you join all my people that are dead. This Fiendal, a true demon beast of hell … he took four men in the bunkhouse night before last. Good warriors, loyal thanes all. Please, just leave my hall. I care not anymore for hope or promises. The world I know has gone to hell.”

  Gathelaus answered him, “The world may go to hell, but that is no excuse for good men.”

  Hoskuld harrumphed at that and said, “I cannot ask anymore of anyone.”

  “You are not asking, I’m offering. You say that Fiendal cannot be pierced, poisoned, or cut.” Gathelaus sat down across from Hoskuld and scratched his stubbled chin. “But there is always a way. And I will find it.”

  Bors proclaimed, “You heard right. Nothing more can be done. You best head on out. I know you’ve been considered an invincible hero to a whole lot of men, but that’s only men who are fools. Besides, Vikarskeid got rid of you and Fiendal is far worse than any man.”

  Gathelaus looked at him coolly. “I’ll deal with Vikarskeid as I already told your lord, after I slay your dragon.”

  Bors persisted, “This is different. This thing is a wicked curse from the gods. There isn’t anyone alive who knows how to kill such a thing as this.”

  Gathelaus took hold of a wine bottle from before Hoskuld and downed a great draught before answering, “Killing’s an instinct for good or bad. One of the only talents I’ve got. I’ll find a way.”

  “Can’t be done,” Bors taunted as he strode around the gloomy hall. “Gathelaus, you may have quite a reputation as a blood thirsty killer, but I have no doubt most of those slain were met with a knife in the back. I heard about yo
u in Tolburn with your company of Sellsword’s. You and a man named Gunnar ran that company of cut throats, and what happened to Gunnar?”

  Hoskuld grumbled, “Enough Bors.”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Gathelaus. “Go on and tell it since you know the tale so well, friend.”

  Bors wiped his thin beard, answering, “I will. You served in the Kathulian wars under Gunnar, some minor prince paid you to usurp the throne for him. Funny how that is always your way. So you and Gunnar’s men went to Kathul to arrange this informal coronation of the lost prince.”

  Gathelaus nodded. “True enough.”

  “Then one night Gunnar was horribly murdered. Seems just a day or so later, you up and fled from the palace in Kathul and you also inherited his command of the mercenaries. Pretty suspicious. You think any of that was bad, let me tell you something … this here … is gonna be a whole lot worse.” He gestured all around to drive home the point.

  “You talk a lot of rot for a drunk. I took bloody handed vengeance on those that murdered Gunnar. They’re dead and buried like anyone else that ever crossed me, and all of them had sword cuts in the front. Everyone knows my record as a mercenary captain, as well as that I took care of those wizards in Aldreth and their giant basilisk. I’ve already wrought vengeance on the wizard that stole the sons of this land. And there’s still plenty of tales I have never told anyone from far across the sea. But in all my years of travel, I don’t recall ever hearing any such tales of courage about you around the campfire, except maybe the one about why you’re still alive but none of your lord’s sons are, friend.”

  Bors frowned and slunk away amidst the giggling of the women folk.

  “You might’ve been too hard on him,” said Hoskuld, limping forward. “He’s a good captain of the guard.”

  “Sometimes barking dogs need a kick.”

  Hoskuld nodded but said nothing as he lit his long pipe. Outside, the rain pelted the windows with an incessant rapping and the trees swayed against the wind. Gathelaus sensed a dark aura hanging over Finnsburg that had leeched the will power from its inhabitants.