The Last Laugh

The little village upon the edge of the hard shingle was a small cluster of shacks barely worth the name. The men had scoffed at the captain’s order to beach the longship, thinking he had been jesting, until he had started cuffing those nearest, cursing them for cowardly dogs until the tiller had been turned and they’d headed for the faint pin-pricks of light bobbing in and out of view. There was a hard edge to his eyes, a set to his cruel mouth as they all reached to their oars, unshipping them into the foaming chop, pulling the lean longship forward through the iron grey sea. The men grumbled, but none would speak a word of dissent that Thorvald Iron-Handed could hear. Of all the captains, he was the most successful, the most lauded, but also the most ruthless and blood-hungry. By his count, even though their ship already lay low upon the waters, sealskin tarps stretched taught over much treasure, it had been a bad voyage. There had been little fight in the towns along coast and rivers this season, many going so far as to just leave their goods mounded at river mouth or upon the headland where it could be clearly seen by the raiders once their ship had been sighted. So now, to slake his foiled thirst for slaughter, he’d had them put in here, beach the boat, arm themselves all to raid these meek, milk-pale folk of what little they could scrape from the rocky soil or drag from the hungry sea.

There had been less fight in them though than any of the other towns, and so now Thorvald strode before the cowering villagers they had rounded up, his eyes flashing fire, once more finding his lust thwarted. Only two had put up any resistance and he had not even been the one to cut them down. Finally, spitting out a curse he turned back to his men, the sneer twisting his features giving even them pause.

“Fah!! Take this pittence” here he kicked at the meager pile of saltfish and turnips the trembling villagers had piled before him. “Take it to the ship and then burn this sty to the ground.” The men looked from one to the other, hesitating. “Did you not hear me!?!? I said burn it all you dogs, maybe once we leave them with truly nothing it will put some iron into their spines.” This was doubtful, as even his command to have the village raised had only elicited a despairing moan from the clutch of wretched folk trembling there before this hard, cruel man and his band of wolves from the sea.

The men gathered the meager spoils and turned to the ship, each reluctant, but none willing to defy the captain, a named man. All save one. He stood alone as they moved away, the stiff breeze from off the water tugging at his braids, tall, but lean, his beard still fresh, the ship’s boy. He looked from the captain to the villagers and back, setting his shoulders even as his hands shook.

“No”

“What is this? What is this I am hearing Oddr Ulësson? Do you tell me no boy?” A slow, evil grin spread across the face of Thorvald as he stepped forward, his tone incredulous yet hungry. Perhaps he had found his sport after all.

“I do tell you ‘no’ Thorvald Iron-Handed. There is no honor in this. Your ship is already loaded so that the waves lap the gunwale, they have given all they have, burning their hovels is just setting them to a slow death with winter coming. Let us go, there will be praise and honor for you in plenty upon our return, there is no need for this.”

“There I need because I have said there is need boy!” Thorvald rushes forward suddenly, the back of his hand crashing into the boy’s face, staggering, yet not felling him. He grabbed at the lad’s tunic, yanking him straight, his face a hair’s breadth away. “I will not be schooled on honor from my thrall. You forget your place boy, you are not even one of my men, you were bought to pay for your father’s debts to me, so it were best you cease your bleating and do as you are told before I have you whipped as I would one of my horses.” Spittle flecked Oddr’s face yet his eyes never left Thorvald’s. The captain could see the fear in them, could see the near animal panic at the edges of them, but deep, deep down he could also see defiance, and hatred. Yes, maybe there could be some fun to be had here.

“No, I will not” there was a bit more iron to his words this time as he stared down the captain. The exchange between the two had stopped the others in their tracks, left them watching, whispering amongst each other. They were wagering amongst themselves, not so much as to who might win in this contest of wills, but whether or not Thorvald might let this brave but stupid cub live.

“So, are you challenging me then Oddr Ulësson?” Thorvald emphasized the surname as he said it. “Are you looking to get your name out of me boy?”

“I am not looking for a name, but if you wish to burn this place to the ground Thorvald Iron-Handed then you will have to do so over the body of Oddr.”

Thorvald shoved Oddr back, laughing, a hard, cruel barking. “Very well then, I could use the sport. If you show enough mettle, I might even let you live.” He turned to the men then, his eyes gleaming bright as he drew his sword from the sheath at his hip. “Let all here witness, I have been challenged by Oddr Ulësson. Bring him sword and shield and let us see what kind of man he is.”

One of the crew stepped forward, bringing to Oddr a sword and round shield. No words were spoken as Oddr armed himself and the crew circled the two men, ringing them round. The two stood, eyeing one another, the captain at ease, the point of his blade low, not even bothering with his own shield. Oddr gripped his blade tight, but his stance was poor, his inexperience clear, yet he did not tremble nor shake as he advanced, shield up, the set of his mouth grim and determined.

Thorvald came at him suddenly, hard and fast, blows ringing down upon the hastily raised shield, Oddr’s arm numb almost instantly. He staggered back, the onslaught pushing him around the ring. Every desperate slash or thrust of his was turned easily aside, and for every swing of his he met twice as many from the captain. The two men clashed together once, twice, thrice, each time leaving the boy staggering, with some fresh blossom of blood upon his tunic. Yet still he stood.

“Have you had enough boy?”

Oddr’s only answer was a snarl, lunging at Thorvald, shield advanced only to be batted aside, the captain side-stepping, the pommel of his sword coming down hard upon the boy’s head, sending him sprawling, bright lights exploding behind his eyes as he lay out upon the shingle. Thorvald turned to his men, the bark of his laugh echoed among them. It was silenced though, as slowly, Oddr stood, turning once more to face him.

“You are a slow learner boy, yet I will teach you your lessons well” Thorvald snarled, his amusement cut short, once again whirling to batter at his foe. There really was no match though, and once and again the captain’s blade found its home in Oddr’s flesh. Yet for all his wounds, the boy stood, his body sagging, barely able to raise sword and shield yet not once giving any sign of yielding. As long as he stood, Thorvald must fight him and Oddr was determined to stand until Ragnarok took them both. It was a lamb to the slaughter, yet the hard men watching could not help but feel shamed at the display.

There was one last, desperate lunge, Thorvald batting aside the shaking blade, the tip of his own sinking into Oddr’s belly with a wet shearing sound. As it withdrew, the boy sank to his knees, sword and shield falling away with a clatter as he clutched at his wound. Thorvald looked down into the wide, unfocused eyes, his face twisted in savage glee.

“You have given me good sport boy, but there was no chance you could best me. Still, you have put a smile upon my face, so perhaps I shall return the favor.” Here, Thorvald raised his sword, pushing the blade lengthwise between Oddr’s lips, dragging the edge fast and cruel, cutting into his cheeks. Blood and spittle ran down, the skin of Oddr’s ruined face as the captain leaned forward, fingers knotted in the boy’s hair, yanking his head back as he whispered into his ear. “To remind you boy, I will always have the last laugh.”

Thorvald stood, turning away as the world seemed to dim around Oddr. The figure of Thorvald, the men, the village, all of it faded, to be replaced by a dark shore lapped by midnight waves. The crunch of boots on shingle announced the approach of another, but Oddr could not move, could not turn his head to see. A tall, dark man came into view then, dressed in clothes simple, yet rich. His teeth were bright as he smiled, looking down at the broken body before him.

“Well then, was it worth it, Oddr Ulësson?”

“A-a-a-a good…g-good…death” the words could barely be made, Oddr’s cheeks puffing out as the air to make them blew through them. The dark man laughed then, his head thrown back, hands clutching his belly, the sound a pure, wild mirth.

“Do you truly think so? Oh my, but if that is not so truly sad I can’t help but laugh to fight back the tears.” The man crouched in front of Oddr then, his hand resting lightly but firmly upon the back of Oddr’s neck, guiding his head to look out over the waters, the sea moving as if it were oil. “Look you there boy, and see, see what your ‘good death’ buys you.” Dimly, at the edge of sight a longship hove into view, impossibly big, row upon row of oars dipping silently into the water, the prow gleaming dull grey. It was a ship of dead men’s nails drifting near the shore. Oddr tried to shake his head in protest, but the man held his gaze upon it. “If you die here, that is your reward, there, building that ship even higher. I am afraid there will be no mead, no tales of valor told, no, that is not for the likes of you my boy. My father favors more men like your captain. Those are the ‘heroes’ he would praise.” Oddr shook, a cold filling his limbs as he looked upon his fate, trading one set of oars for another but this time for all time, his back bent, never anything more than a thrall. “It is a rather cruel jest I’m afraid, but the gods all seem to be fond of those. In fact, I have one myself I’d like to tell you, if you’d like. If you listen well, you can tell it to your captain too, I think he would enjoy it.” Without waiting for response, the dark man leaned in, whispering into Oddr’s ear. For the rest of his days, Oddr would not remember the words themselves, just that they poured into his mind like a cold fire, like the flames that would flicker and crackle blue-green across the north sky and that they filled his mind with a dark, morbid mirth. The dark man finished his joke and pulled back, looking Oddr in the eye, a grin upon his lips. Oddr swayed, nearly gone, yet at the last, here at the end, a small chuckle escaped his ragged lips…

…upon the beach, the sound cut through the air as if it were a clap of thunder. The circle of men that had been turning away to once more carry out Thorvald’s order to raise the village stopped, all eyes returning to the figure upon its knees. There could be no mistaking the sound, yet coming from that ruined mouth it sent a chill even into the heart of Thorvald Iron-Handed himself. At first, it was a mere burble, it could have been passed off as the boy just struggling to breathe his last, but it continued, rising in waves, a chuckling growing to full laughter. The head thrown back, the mouth seeming open unnaturally wide, blood flying in flecks as the harsh sound rang out. It was horrible, terrifying, godless laughter, the sound hanged men make as the noose drops about their necks, the laugh of men before a battle they know they will not live through. They all stood, watching frozen as Oddr slowly stood, his face twisted, a horrible mask, bone white and blood red. Still laughing, he turned his gaze to Thorvald, eyes like blue flames burning above that rictus grin. The captain barely had time to turn, his sword coming up, the blade piercing through Oddr’s upper arm only to be wrenched out of his grasp.

Oddr swung wildly, snarling and laughing, his fists crashing into Thorvald one and again like waves pummeling the cliffs, just as persistent, just as inexorable. The captain reeled backwards, trying to reclaim his blade from the arm of his foe, his hands batted aside each time. With a wicked grin, the hellwight the boy had become stood back, drawing out the sword from his own limb, bringing the weapon to his bloody lips, licking the salt from it before stalking forward once more. Thorvald stumbles back, fumbling at his belt for the short hafted axe there, yet Oddr was quicker, leaping in and yanking it free from the loop, now with sword in his right fiat, axe in his left. Thorvald looked about him desperately, fear twisting in his guts, looked to the men he had cowed to his service but none, not a one would move against the demon before them and the laughter spilling endlessly from between the flapping cheeks.

“No…no…please…gods…”

His words were drowned out in the laughter, whatever his last groveling was became silenced as the slow stalking form of Oddr lunged, swinging, sword and axe rending, cleaving meat and bone. He drove Thorvald to his knees, still hacking, still laughing until at the last there was nothing more at his feet than a quivering, smoking heap of offal, nothing that could ever have been mistaken for having once been a man. The onlookers trembled, staring transfixed as the terrible figure before them swayed, smoke rising from blade and limb in the chilly air. Slowly, far too slowly for the comfort of the watchers, the laughter died away. Oddr staggered, sword and axe slipping from blood greased fingers, still forcibly chuckling as he pitched forward and knew no more.

*****

The voyage home was barely remembered, a blur of images, the rising and falling of the ship, rough, bearded faces over him, the feel of spray stinging his fevered flesh. Between moments of waking, Oddr’s mind was filled with images of dark, grinning men and ships of dead nails. He was a long time in the healing, and many thought he never would, so great and so many were his wounds. At last though, his flesh knitted, and he found his strength again. He rose one morning as if one waking from the dead, feeling the most himself that he had since that day upon the shingle. Oddr pulled on his tunic and breeches, even took the time to braid his hair and comb out his beard. This last reminded him cruelly of the deep scars upon his face, healed poorly, the corners of them twisted upward, leaving a permanent, hideous grin. It was this that almost stayed him from going out, yet he knew at some point he must.

He could hear them though, as he walked through his village, the whispers, some not even that, chasing at his heels as he made his way to the mead hall. It was not something he had sought, yet it had found him, and as the repeated phrase followed him into the smokey hall, he knew it would now be his name. As he entered, the conversation stopped, all eyes following him as he made his way towards Skellig behind the low table before the mead barrels.

“Well met, Ulësson, we did not think to see you again, but it is good that you are here.” Skellig grabbed a horn and filled it full, handing to over to Oddr, only flinching a little when his eyes caught the boy’s scars. Leaning upon the table, an old, grizzled man scowled at Skellig then turned towards Oddr, raising his own horn.

“This is not Ulë’s son, Skellig, are you blind?”

Here, the old man struck his horn against Oddr’s, the mead gleaming golden in the torchlight flickering through the hall.

“Raise your cup with me now, Oddr Last-Laugh”

The men in the hall all turned toward him, lifting their horns as one, and as one they shouted “we drink with The Last-Laugh.”

Oddr brought the horn to his lips, drinking to his name, tasting full both the sweet, and the bitter of it, to the death of Ulësson, and the birth of Oddr Last-Laugh.

Mud and Bones

Eben got the ground hard on his side, sliding on the churned mud of the field, breathless from the sudden collision. Instincts honed from years of war had his eyes flick back up, just in time to see the blow that had been aimed at him strike Mel. The grating crunch of steel on steel as the blade entered her belly was felt in his bones, a sickening grating all too familiar and so much more real than it ever had been in such a long time. Two bodies toppled forward just a few feet in front of him, the half-spear in Mel’s left hand coming up at the same time as the killing blow struck her, slipping past the cheek guard of her foe’s helm, up into his skull. The sound of the two still struggling foes hitting the ground echoed like thunder in Eben’s ears, all else seeming to become perfectly silent, the screams and yells and clamor of raging battle suddenly still, as if to highlight this one, single instant of gut-rending pain.
Five feet was never longer. Eben clawed through the mire, heart hammering, wriggling past and through the ever shifting sea of legs as the line pushed past him and forward, pressing the enemy back, but oh, but too late, oh much too late, he was much much too late…the distance seemed to grow even as he pulled himself one handed towards the tangle of limbs and mail, the edges of his vision darkening until all he could see was the two now still bodies.
He at last drew close, sword falling from a numb grip, hands clutching, tearing at the offending corpse crushing down over Mel, yanking, tugging, desperate at the dead weight, his strength seeming gone, straining, strangled, animal inarticulate sounds stumbling from his lips as he rolled the massive frame of the Morcthandi soldier off and tossed it aside. He almost rather he’d left her covered.
Blood made the mail covering her belly glisten, the rent made by the enemy sword having cleaved deep past the muscle, the weight of him falling onto her driving it deeper, her legs bent at broken toy angles. Eben knelt at her head, tugging, pulling her half sitting, her body bending strangely above the blade through her guts.
“Get up Mel, c’mon, up, up now” if she got up it would be ok, if she could stand, if she’d just get up…
“C’mon, I need you to stand Mel, right now, you have to get up!!!” Eben strained, shoulders set, legs slip sliding as he tried to get her to stand with greater and greater desperation…
“You don’t do this to me, you don’t, stop fooling around and get up you bullheaded cunt, now, get up Mel, get up, MOVE DAMN YOU, MEL DON’T YOU DARE!!!” Why couldn’t he lift her, why wouldn’t she listen, why wouldn’t his legs obey and get under him and just pull her up, if she just stood up it would be fine…
“DON’T YOU LEAVE, DON’T YOU DO IT, GET UP NOW, YOU GET UP, YOU CAN’T…MEL, GODSDAMN YOU GET UP!!!!…please…please…” Eben tire at her body with one last effort and heard it, the meat tearing sound and looked down. The sword and passed clean through her and had pinned her to the ground. She wasn’t getting up. It wasn’t going to be alright, not this time, not ever, ever again.
Eben lifted her head, rough leather gauntlets running over her pale face, over the short bristles of her hair, pulling her into his lap. How many? How many now? Too many, too many by far and now…now she’d leave too. Eben had been cut and stabbed, broken, wounded in nearly every way a man could be yet nothing, nothing hurt like this, nothing he had ever done in all his years of war had ever felt sick in his gut like this. He felt the tears come, felt them hot on his cheeks the way they had never come for any of the others, not even Grimnir when he fell. Eben never wept, but oh how he wept now, oblivious to the ongoing carnage all around him, wept with great, racking sobs that came up from the ground and shook him like a leaf as he held Mel’s immobile face in his lap. Leaning over her, he pressed his brow to hers and the falling tears mingled with the blood splattered around her lips.
Her eyes popped open suddenly, her body jerking in his grip, breath rattling horribly as she gasped and coughed, bootheels scraping in the mud, feeble as the last life within her still fought. Eben felt more than saw her arm come up, hand clutching at the back of his neck, holding on with feverish strength he wouldn’t have believed possible.
“Hold still, stay still Mel, hold on, I’ll…I’ll…I…” but what? What would he do? Her blood was mingling with all the rest in the mud, her belly full of steel, every movement tearing her insides further with wet sucking noises…what could he do? Like all the others she was going to be mud and bones, like everyone he had ever held dear, just mud and bones, even he, he was just mud and bones that hadn’t stopped pretending to be alive.
“Hold on, I’ll fix it, just don’t move, hold still and don’t move, I’ll fix it I promise…”
“P-p-p-promise…” the words were faint but still her’s, still the low, angry growl, the grey eyes staring wildly up into his. “You…you can’t…can’t fix shite…but you promise!!!” There was urgency, her eyes were staring but not at him, not really. “You go…”
“No!!! I’m staying with you, I’m not…”
“YOU GO…d-d-do what you, what you promised, do what you p-p-promise…do what…what you…you said…I remember…go and…do…promise…”
Mel’s grip broke, arm sliding limp, whatever lingering strength was left ebbing with each beat of her heart. Her words trailed into babbling, leaving Eben again alone in a tiny island of pain and agony within the storm of men doing their very best to slaughter one another.
“What promise?!? What gods damned bloody promise?!?” Eben knelt there with Mel’s head in his lap, stunned, empty, the whole world strange and incomprehensible. Around him blurred bodies surged and struggled, faced swam in and out of focus, features distorted, horrific, masks of bloodlust and death that no longer had any meaning. His gaze moved without direction, casting about for something that made sense, that didn’t hurt like looking into her bloodied face did. His eyes settled upon the hilt of his sword, just sighing his reach, the blade of it trampled into the mud, the mud they all were, that they all ended up. His hand reached out, he could see it but not feel it, the movement of his body alien and separate. His fingers curled around the hilt, the feel of it the last true thing. Faintly, echoing along the corridors of his mind, Eben heard a voice, nearly forgotten, a voice that wasn’t weary, or hurt, that hadn’t tasted so much loss and death and violence.
“Do you know what I do with it?”
There were grey eyes, big, wide open and shining, that weren’t hard yet, that were living and not cold fish marble yet.
“Do you know…”
But what really had he known then, before he’d even ever killed? Before he knew that they’d all of them be just mud and bones?
“You’re safe now, I promise” Eben nearly laughed, he did, even as the ache in his lungs froze, as the cold welled up in him. What kind of damn fool promise was that? How could mud and bones keep anything safe?
“Do you know what I do with it?” Slowly Eben rose to his feet, or at least something that had been Eben, before they…before she…before it all went away. The mud and bones rolled out of his lap as he stood, both hands now clenched so tight around the hilt the blade seemed to vibrate as they shook.
“Do you know…I promise…do you…safe…safe now…do you know…do you…do you know what I do with it?”
His lips drew back from his teeth, his stride steady, even, the bodies coming into focus as he swung, felt the bite of steel, heat and salt splashing across his cheeks. He was never the hero, he was just a corpse that made other corpses. He swung over and again, pressing into the thick of it, throwing himself at the wall of death grimace and blood below, his own features twisted in a manic snarl.
“Do you know what I do with it?”

“I kill monsters.” The words were quiet, no bravado, no conviction, cast out in bitter dispair as Eben flung himself full force into the only purpose his miserable carcass had ever been good for. Quietly, a small voice in his head, the voice of a boy that was now so dead and gone whispered sadly…

“…but there are too many…”

Foundlings

The inside of Eben’s skull was full of dull fire, even the subtle sway of his horse making him wince. It wasn’t as if he’d never had drink before, he’d spent a more than a few nights out with the lads ever since the Old Bear had deemed him old enough to leave camp for town whenever leave was granted. Gods thrice damned though he had never felt this bad. He could not comprehend how none of the others weren’t all wincing, holding back retching, or begging for the sweet release of death. Granted, they were all much older, even Coll, the next youngest in the company was seven years his senior, and further granted he had perhaps indulged more than most when they’d camped. It had been his coming of age though, among these hard men, he was at last more like them then not, if not equal then nearly so and he had been proud. So he had drank, and sang, and drank some more till the big company fires had burned low and the stars had danced in the heat haze reveling in their acceptance, in the fact that he was more than just a pup, a tagalong the Old Bear had taken in on a whim when he was but a child. Even when he’d been roused by a none too gentle boot in the side, head splitting and the inside of his mouth tasting of fermented death, even being chased by a few loud guffaws when he ran down to the nearby stream and vomited till his side ached, he had felt the sense of ready camaraderie in the hard clap on his shoulder, a belonging and purpose in the words “up and at’em lad, ‘swork to b’done”.
Work there was, the guards posted for dawn watch had spied a thick, black line of smoke in the far distance, a plume of soot and greasy billows rising off over the rolling green backs of the hills. Dawn had been clear and a cloud like that could be seen for some distance in this open country so there could be no telling how far it might be. After a quick conference Old Bear had left Semion with the bulk of the company, taking fifty men along with him to investigate, which had left Sem looking rather sour, but then again he always did. They were under the employ of the Grand Dutchy though, and this was what they had been contracted for, keeping watch along the borders in places the Dukes own men were stretched too thin. So here was Eben now, just to the left of Grimnir, company captain, his banner tight in his fist, the new day growing as they rode towards uncertain tidings.
“Coll, must you insist on that caterwauling?!?” On the other side of the Old Bear, Coll flashed Eben his lopsided grin, not faltering in the bawdy he was singing to pass the time. Eben could see the broad shoulders of the captain shaking in mirth just as Coll got round to the chorus again, a few of the lads around joining in. They all seemed to find Eben’s discomfort quite amusing.
“Feeling a bit delicate, kinderling?” Grimnir’s basso rumble felt like a blow to the chest, followed by a broad, meaty arm clapping across his shoulders, nearly unseating him. “It will pass, breath deep, it is a fine morning”. Despite it all, Eben had to grin just a little looking over at that great, bearded face, the crooked tooth smile, the sharp twinkle in the frost blue eyes. Grimnir was a hard man, as hard as they made them but for the last six years he had been as close to a father as Eben had ever known, ever since his own had been eaten by the cold sea of his home when he was barely able to stand. Eben couldn’t say the Old Bear treated him any different than the other men, but even in that there was a kind of love, and it lifted Eben’s spirits a bit. He even joined in a bit with the song, sitting his horse just a little straighter as they pressed on.
It was father than they had first though, chasing the rising smoke, hours and leagues passing. What had started as a dense black line soon grew lighter, thinner, diminishing as they rode, soon becoming no more than heat haze against the horizon. After a few more hours even that had vanished and they became unsure of the direction they had to go, that is until the first dark shapes began to pinwheel high above in the clear blue sky, the carrion birds gathering in ones and twos, then more, circling, a growing cloud of rustling feathers and harsh croaking. All thought of song left them all, as if of one mind they each nudged their mounts to greater speed, although every last one of them felt each of those wheeling black shapes like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Whatever they were to find it was almost certain at this point that they were too late.
The company drew reign at the charred and broken remains of a paddock, an outlier of what remained of the village. Eben’s nostrils were thick with the scent of burning, of wood and tar and flesh. The cattle that had been held by the fencing were ranged around, most stuck through with arrows, several crusted over with char, their bellies swollen and burst from the heat as they’d run about on fire. The bulk of one such still smoked nearby where they had halted, all the more morbid for just how tantalizing the smell of cooked beef was. Eben felt another retch rising and choked it back. With wordless gesture the Old Bear sent riders to flank, moving out with barely a jingle of harness to either side while the main group pressed on with caution, moving slowly, hands on hilts and hafts, alert as they made their way into the fresh abattoir. The signs of slaughter abounded, streaks of rust red on the trampled grass, here and there the sign of a limb angled awkwardly, the harbinger of the body to which it had belonged coming into view as they passed. Even for Eben this kind of thing was becoming a far too familiar sight. At first there were just a few buildings, here and there, farmhouses and barns and sheds, but as they company pressed forward they grew up in clumps, the shattered wreckage of shops and homes still smoldering. The bodies were strewn about as they lay, broken, torn, in every fashion man could conceive of to rend life from flesh. Where they had been rising not long before Eben felt his spirits grow chill, his eyes confronted with tableau after tableau of death. Around him the men muttered, cursing, spitting out the sickly sweet taste of burnt flesh.
“Hsst!!!” Off to the left Guthlaf had stopped, rising up in his stirrups as he signaled silence, his lean hatchet face alert, nostrils flared, calloused hands half drawing the bow that had lain across his saddle. They all stopped, waiting, silent save for the thunder of each mans’ heart in his own ears. Was that motion? Just there, in the lee of a wall? Was that the sound of footsteps rutching gravel or just the wind in the grass? Eben felt his fist gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly the wire wrapping if it bit through the leather of his gauntlet. Tension wound its spring tight about his chest, his eyes darting, the men to either side of him nudging their mouths, spreading out, ready, waiting, every one of them a coil of menace.
“There!!” The shout rang out from the right, all eyes moving to a small blur of brown and red, horses wheeling sharp as they all plunged towards the motion. Within moments they had it surrounded in a half circle of horse and flesh and steel, pinned against the remains of a stout wall. What they had caught though gave each of them pause. In the midst of them, turning wildly to and fro was a tall slip of a girl, rags flapping about her limbs, clinging to her body as she darted her snarling glance about her, a spear with splintered haft clutched tight in white knuckled fingers, the chipped blade of it clotted with gore. As was she, head to toe. Whatever color her skin and garments had once been, now they were almost uniformly crimson. The only variation in palette were her eyes, the whites showing wide, sharp and grey as she tried to keep all her assailants in view. They couldn’t look away, not one of them, not a one of these veteran men could tear their gaze away from the fierce, pitiful figure before them, desperate, terrified, seeking escape, the only sound she could make inarticulate noises of animal fear.
“She’s been driven mad” the horror in the words cut deeper for their softness “all her people cut down, hiding, fighting, one long night of slaughter, just broke her clean”.
“Mad or not, we must see what we can do for her”. As Grimnir spoke she wheeled, brandishing her broken weapon, his low rumble seeming to provoke fresh blossoms of panic. “Coll, Eben, see if you can get near her, you others back away slow, but don’t let her bolt”.
The men backed off a bit, still keeping their ring tight, as Eben slid from his saddle, handing off the reigns. To his right he saw Coll do the same, the both of them circling wide, arms out and open, palms up. The girl turned first to one then the other, jabbing her spear at them, growling low, a wild thing at bay.
“There now, easy, easy girl” Coll spoke low, soothing, the same tones he’d use to calm a spooked mare, his eyes in the girl cool and steady. “We mean you no harm, easy now, easy”. Her eyes tried to follow them both, but Coll was edging closer, her attention turning to him, despite his words the sound of his voice making her flinch like she’d been struck. Eben very, very slowly edged round her, hoping Coll could hold her attention just long enough. It was a game of inches, each time one of them moved, she’d twirl, lashing out with that sharp point, keeping them at bay, but they gained ground on her slowly. Eben could see her eyes rolling madly, could hear the ragged whistle of her breath in her teeth. Just as her gaze seemed fixed on him, Coll darted forward, making to grab her round the middle. She was the faster, whipping about like a snake, thrusting her spear hard towards Coll’s face. He lunged forward, ducking, batting at her hands, the spear just barely going high as he lowered his head in the nick of time, just to find her knee with his cheek, her leg coming up quick and hard, snapping his head back and sending him reeling back. That was enough for Eben though, he darted in, arms wrapping around hers, pinning them to her sides. She was rail thin, kicking and writhing as he tried to hold her, keep her from freeing up her arm enough to use her blade. She pitched forward, planting her feet, making Eben bend with her. It was right at that moment he fully realized his error in judgement. Thin she might be, but given this village, she was a farm girl. Muscles spent carrying full milk pails, hours spent churning, all the long labors gave her a wicked strength and she pushed her planted feet back and up just as she threw her head back. Fireworks exploded in front of Eben’s eyes as her skull slammed into his nose, his eyes watering, blood streaming down his face, her weight pushing them both over and as he fell on his back with her atop him the wind was knocked from his lungs. Quick as anything, in the instant his arms loosened their hold even just a little, she writhed, all fists and elbows and knees, slamming into his sides, his face, his belly.
“Lian’s bright and bloody wounds, give to girl!!!” Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was just the wild madness of the moment, Eben never was quite sure why, but he cursed in his mother’s tongue, the words bellowed out as a particularly wicked elbow took him in the ribs. Whatever had made him do it though, it was like a switch turning off. Looking up through the tangle of matted hair he could see the girl’s eyes wide, staring, filling with tears and all the fight seemed to finally leak out of her. Her fists clutched at the mail about his neck and she shook like a leaf, just staring at him, as if out of the wild and the dark she’d heard a voice she knew, sounds that cut through the terror and desperation and back into the her that was before.
“That’s right, easy now”. Coll had moved over as the two of them had struggled, was reaching down to put a hand on her shoulder and that broke the spell. She growled and turned, her bunched fist sinking into his gut, dropping him straight onto his rear in the dirt, a loud “oof!!!” escaping his lips as the wind was knocked from him.
“Ai,ai, easy, slow, it’s ok, I promise, we won’t hurt you, calm now” Eben kept his voice slow, the words halting a bit as he hadn’t spoken Kells in years. “You’re safe now, it’s ok”. She turned back to him, almost lunging, he was even tensed for the blow, but she just buried her face in his neck and sobbed, long, wracking sobs, every inch of her trembling. Very awkwardly, Eben held her, patting her back, looking around at the others. His head rang and his nose was throbbing, blood still dripping down his chin. Coll was getting back to his feet and others were moving closer, having dismounted as they watched the struggle. Even though she wasn’t looking Eben felt the girl tense and he waived them back. In between the sobs, he could make out words, just a few and they all sent his blood running cold. She had been so alone and so afraid and she had run, and when she couldn’t get away she had stabbed and cut and killed. Over and over again he could make out “blood, so much blood”.
Moving awkwardly, Eben began to stand, helping her up as best he could even though she would not loose her grip. He kept murmuring soothing nothings, half remembered things his mother would croon to him at night. The others began to remount, the Old Bear barking orders to keep combing the ruins of the village, his gaze falling over Eben.
“You have her calm lad?”
“Tha mi a’sma…I think so” Eben had to check himself, starting to answer in Kells before switching back to Galhir so that Grimnir could understand.
“Think she can ride with you?”
“How about it mooncalf, think you can get on my horse?” It was strange how easy the words came back. She glanced up at the great, lumbering bulk of Grimnir on his horse then back to Eben, nodding but tightening her grip about his neck.
“It’s ok, I think he can be kind of scary too” now that she wasn’t a ball of fists and feet, he thought she might only be two or three years younger than he, but for all that still small, still diminished by her fear. “You’re going to have to let go a bit if we’re going to get mounted” ever so gently Eben pried her hands free, but she refused to let go of his wrist. “It’s ok, let me get you up, I’m not going anywhere”.
After much fuss and cajoling, he finally got her in the saddle and mounted behind her, his arms on either side, taking the reigns and moving his horse to follow the others as they made their way through the wreckage, all of them now silent, as they moved on from the carcass of the village.

******

After they had reached camp again, it had taken quite a bit of cajoling to get her to let go of Eben long enough to have Wayland set his nose in place, the big, bluff healer’s ham like hands deftly putting it back in nearly the right shape with a loud, awful crunch. She watched from close by, nervous, but even she couldn’t help but be somewhat calmed by the company’s gentle giant of a sawbones.
“You dun all this damage lil’un” Wayland gave her a gummy smile and a wink right as Eben hollered. “Ol’bear’d do well te take you on too, fierce mite you be”. She didn’t make any sign that she understood, or even heard him, just watched as he went about his work.
It was full night by the time Eben and the girl left Wayland’s wagon. She still held his wrist in an iron grip as they made their way through the camp, through the men bedding down for the night and those set to watch. They had all seemed to wordlessly decide that she was his charge, which rankled somewhat. They stopped briefly by his horse to grab his bedroll and kit, the big grey mare whickering softly as Eben ran a hand along the big bow of her neck. The girl reached out her free hand, stroking the horse too, almost shyly. It was the first gesture she’d made to any living thing other than Eben that wasn’t pure violence thus far. Eben gave her a little smile, but the moment was fleeting, as some of the men wandered by she drew back her hand and in closer to him, her breath a sudden, sharp in drawn gasp. Taking her hand gently, he lead her to his usual place near the Old Bear’s tent, laying out his blankets, trying to get her settled. She still wouldn’t let go of his damn hand. He sat beside her, the firelight playing over them both, feeling awkward. After a while he thought she slumbered and he made to move, but he caught the sharp glitter of her eye and her hand tightened around his wrist again.
“You should get some sleep, you must need it”
She shook her head violently, as if she could just deny herself the need of rest.
“Go on, close your eyes, I’ll be here the whole time, I promise”
“That’s…that’s when the monsters come” he wasn’t sure she’d spoken at first, her voice was soft, barely a whisper, as if the making of words alone could still draw down those that had hunted her through the night before. Very, very slowly Eben reached for his sword, grabbing the scabbard where it had been leaning against his pack. He showed it to her, drawing it slowly, laying it across his lap. Her eyes ran along the length of the blade, eyes that had probably seen far to many just like it.
“Do you know what this is for?” She just nodded. “Well, do you know what I use it for?” She looked puzzled for a bit, shook her head no. “I use it to kill monsters”. Eben said it and meant it, despite not having killed his first man yet, despite just having become a man himself, he said it so that she’d believe, said it so that he’d maybe believe it just as much too. She seemed to relax a bit, just a bit, the lines of her body easing just a little more. “My name is Eben, can I know yours?”
She looked up at him, eyes grey like doves wings, but harder, so much harder now than they ever had been, he knew that somehow. She spoke, hesitated, the word mumbled the first time, then once again she said clearly…
“Mel, my name is Mel”.

What Happened Further

Far above the grumbling of the traffic, the rising sun rose fat and butter yellow, pouring thick, golden syrup light past the broken stump grey teeth of the skyline. The sky was a deep blue, fading to paler and paler shades towards the line of the horizon, layers of gauzy mist boiling around the edges of sight. If one were to cast their eyes over the rooftops, in amongst the old cisterns squatting upon rickety legs, the forests of old antenna and satellite dishes whispering one to another, their eyes might alight upon a figure standing precariously upon the very edge of one of the buildings. Then again, one might not.

He looked a slash of night sliced neat and clean through the growing daylight, the tails of his coat ruffling only slightly in the feeble fingers of the breeze that even up so high wheezed and struggled to tug upon them. The Imposter squinted into the rising sun, eyes watching the milling crowds below, people and cars and busses traversing paths to and fro as if on rails or writing out in serpentine lines strange runes of daily ritual. This was not really his time, at least so he felt, there was no real restriction put upon him yet he always felt more acclimated to the between times, dawn, twilight, those moments that were not quite one thing or the other. His realm was the cracks between things.

He cast a glance down to his right hand, long fingers parted, the daylight streaming through them, creating an illusion of separate ribbons. They scissored closed suddenly, leaving the stranded beams hanging limp between, the color of fresh clover honey. As he gathered up his new prize the still, heavy air beside him resounded to the beating of wings, a familiar shape feathering the corner of his eye in ragged shadow.

“All is well I trust?” The Imposter turned, looking down at the crow settling his wings along his sleek back, ruffling them repeatedly till they rested to their owner’s satisfaction. “I must say, I thought you cut a fine figure, grey looks very good on you.” At this the crow tilted an ink drop eye, turned, ran his sharp beak down one glistening black feather until each strand was in place.

“Thank you sire” the beak moved and the words ran out of it smooth as silk. While some might know crows could talk, they might well expect it to be a rasping, coughing voice, hardly the deep, rolling Spanish accent that issued forth. It was fortunate then that foiling expectations just happened to be one of the small joys of the speaker. “Things do seem quiet for the time being, The Brethren have been bringing me report and not all have come in, but everything thus far has been in order.”

The Imposter spun, folding down cross-legged upon the ledge, running the strands of daylight through his fingers, parting them over and again until they became thinner, filigree that shimmered and glinted over the dark hollows of his palms. “What of the girl then?” His tone remainder casual, yet Skergaal knew his lord well and could sense the curiosity begging to be satisfied.

“I have had her watched for some time now, as you asked my lord. There appears to be nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal, mortal girl, perhaps twenty-six years of age, although I can’t swear to that. My people do try to be thorough, but I didn’t think it necessary to authorize breaking and entering to get more precise details.” The crow shuffled back and forth, a soldier making report, strutting a bit along the narrow stonework. “I don’t think she is anything to be concerned with, perhaps just a touch more perceptive than most, or perhaps just able to see by happenstance. It has happened before.”

The Imposter closed his eyes, letting his mind see clearly. There was not one thing he had seen that he could not remember clearly and in the soft shadows behind his lids a pair of eyes appeared, he could see the curve of them, the striations in the irises, all the subtle shades of blue rippling through, lines and coronas of color in vivid detail. “You keep saying thus my friend, yet I think there is more.” While it was a general rule that he could not be seen by mortals when he did not will it to be so, even those that could, lunatics, young children that life and passage of time had not yet beaten wonder out of, even…magicians, all felt different. No, this was something else, she had seen him clear and as himself, seen right into the bones of him and that was not right, was worrisome. “It May amount to nothing, as you say yet I feel there is somewhat to be watchful of, it is an anomaly, and I think should not be overlooked.”

Feathers ruffled softly “I think it unwise to concern yourself too much over the affairs of the mortals lord” Skergaal shifted his feet, both out of apprehension as well as the growing heat of the brick beneath them. “Even if this girl was possessed of any scrap or crumb of true power, what of it? Even the most mighty of them have proven at most minor inconveniences, and this one seems hardly that.”

“Yet you seem to be withholding your full counsel, why might that be I wonder?” The Imposter’s eyes flicked open, golden brown, piercing, deep as wells. In his lap his fingers still played with the threads, weaving, plating, nimble and dexterous. “Could it perhaps be that you fear my judgement could be faulty in the matter? Or perhaps you felt her gaze upon you today and have concerns of your own?” This last came with a Cheshire grin, thin lips turning up in amusement as the alert eyes caught the nervous shuffling.

“Do you spy on me now my lord?” Skergaal tilted his bullet head, one eye cocked to meet The Imposter’s formidable gaze, almost, but not quite yet as sharp. “I would hope that my loyalty was not so in question as to lead to such measures.”

“And I would hope you wouldn’t deflect the question with another, a rather obvious device, my most cunning of feather dusters” while The Imposter had no doubt that the affront was entirely feigned he added the gentle needling to put Skergaal more at his ease. “Come now, tell it true, what did you make of her?”

Skergaal fluttered his wings, turning his back upon Nevermore, head held up at a ‘well I never’ angle, then turning to look back. “As I said, she seems simple enough, perhaps a bit more put together than some of their young. A bit of a study in contradictions at times, although I must say that could go for the lot of them…and yet” here Skergaal trailed off, a pensive expression swirling in the depths of his eyes “…and yet, there was a moment, a brief sliver of time where I felt her gaze tugging at the edges of my seeming, little mice fingers trying to unknot the weaving of it. I can’t say for certain, but given time, she might have seen through.” The words seemed to come more and more reluctantly as if the sharp edged beak were trying to snap them to ribbons before they could find utterance.

“I see” The Imposter returned his eyes to his handiwork, now holding a delicate net, perhaps of veil of woven sunlight, little jewels of it forming the knots between the diamond panes. It sparked and winked, an utter impossibility of golden amber held betwixt his fingertips, giving the dark bronze of his skin an unearthly luster. With a suddenness he stood, unfolding and striding over the rooftop in one motion, slipping the wondrous trinket into one of his proverbially deep pockets.

“Master, what vexes you, why the alarm?” Skergaal burst into ungainly flight, the suddenness of Nevermore’s departure having him hop fluttering into the air, wings splashing in the thick air to keep up.

“No vexation, at least no great one.” The Imposter’s long legs took him swiftly onward, boots scrunching over the gravel upon the rooftop. “Your words have given me more to think on, yet at present there is not much to be done about the matter now.” As he moved, The Border gathered, bright new day faded to muted shades, replaced by twilight blues and purples, strange stars now pricking out of the sky. The building beneath his feet shifted, rose up taller of a sudden, became a steep peak as the church spire that had been just between this building and the next a hundred years ago became a slope his feet climbed effortlessly. “We have lingered long enough in The Real for now and if there are no pressing matters there, I am sure there will be in The Borderlands. Time waits for no one, the insufferable bastard.”

“Very well my lord” Skergaal found the match to The Imposter’s pace, wings beating more sedately as he followed along through the growing familiar strangeness all about them. Gothic brickwork became something more Art Deco, replaced then with peeling paint and rust grimed grillwork as The Imposter descended a fire escape that hadn’t existed for decades. Deeper and deeper the two wound their way into The Borderlands, both lost in silent thought, finding comfort in the weirdness as the bright world closed up behind them.

I Dreamt I Was A Hero

I used to dream that I was alive
That there was steel in my hand
When blood would sing
The breath of my brothers a cloud above our heads
Life bright and hot amidst
Red, bright death
Singing hymns to harps and ringing blades
The taste of fear upon the lips
Pounding wings of crows
Beating in time with hearts and limbs
I used to dream I was a hero
Clad all in blood and gold
All my murders were justified.

Our Father of Sorrows

I am going to keep this opening short and sweet. On the advice of my father, one of my most avid readers, I am from now on going to stop including these little preambles as it was pointed out they may predispose readers to one particular interpretation of my work when they really should be free entirely from any such influence. So, without further ado, hoping to please the soul of wit with my brevity, here is my latest piece. Enjoy all, cheers.

His face walked out
Of a photo from The Depression
Pinched, drawn, patina of dust bowl grit
Crumpled fist of desperation
Sunken wells of hollow eyes
With luminous fishes swimming
Mobius figurines in the depths.

Salvation Army lunch counter suit
Hangs like resignation
Across workman’s shoulders
Willie Loman low class portrait
Of tired, sad, defeated diginity
Standing in queue for the bus
Like it was a bread line.

No one actually sees him
They’re not supposed to
This poor, shabby phantom man
It’s not necessary for his purpose
Even if you were to glimpse him
He would shuffle uncomfortably
Fumble with the brim of his hat
Pretend to follow ragged pinwheeling of pigeons
Until your wandered off in defeat
Looking for something brighter.

If your glance was able to hold
Silently able to keep your eyes
On this collection of coat hangers and rosary beads
You might snatch the subtle shoulder touch
He presses upon the woman in front of him
Wrung out like a gray dishrag
Her face suddenly unclenching a bit
As he tucks away
Her fear gasping make the rent children hungry heartache
Work bone weary boss greedy hand fumbling
Into his trouser pockets
Caught in folds of well worn linen handkerchief.

That is what he does
This old, old, old beyond capacity for the word “old”
To bear the weight of man.
A gatherer of pain, taking his share
Wages of salt and bitter and loss
So that we have even a hope of standing up
Under the lead crush of this wretched world,
His is the heavy thumb on the scales
Keeping the tilt just this side of doom.

A shuffling at the edges
Anonymous occupier of barstools
Steals that last one too far shot of whiskey
As he speaks those mysterious drunken stranger words
That no one remembers save to acknowledge
That he took away the longing
For a bullet’s kiss goodbye
For one more day.

See him kneeling
On knees worn through by pew rails
In front of the sad eye girl
Taking her face in hands
Of tobacco and astringent aftershave sting
Looking into her
The fish sparkle rise open “O” mouthed
Swallowing all the awkward, the ugly, the hateful, the fear
The wanting, pulling all the morsels down
Into still waters
Pulling out from his waistcoat
The smile she had dropped
At the feet of some stupid boy
Who had discarded it so easily
Mistaking it for a bubblegum wrapper.

He does his best
To soothe, to comfort
But is fingers lately are gathering rust along the joints
Under the fingernails
His cuffs are a bit more frayed
Cheeks sunken under steel wire five day stubble
Cracked and looking like old pavements
Slowly drowning under the oily molasses stickiness
A poverty of riches he is unequipped to handle
The seams of him
Dripping the aborted children of rape,
Dangling mothers from nooses made by their sons
The sins of all the fathers left in the wake
Of his poor soles
All ashes and tears.

Me, I fear for the day
When those shoulders collapse
Like a bridge down into cold, cold water
Putting himself away
In the trunk under his bed
The inevitable resting place
Of pocket watches and broken Swiss Army knives and sad tattered medals
St. Christopher’s and bent prayer cards
All of a soldier’s things
Leaving us to our perpetual misery
Unable to meet our greedy demand
That we so readily supply
In an almost perverse eagerness
Heaping upon ourselves cinder block
Pilgrim’s bent back burdens
One day leaving us all on our pitiful own
To support the cathedrals we built
In worship of our grief.

I am not a religious man
Not by a long stretch
My faith couldn’t bring up
Even two coins for the ferryman
Yet still, because I know how much
We all need him
I light a candle at night
One bright point in a big hunger nothing
Grumble roar howling at bay just beyond
That feeble warm circle
I pray
Our Father of Sorrows
Please put on your coat
For one more day
Amen.

Hands

This poem has been a long time in the making.  It has taken shape slowly in my mind and I have written it at least half a dozen times without being satisfied that it captured exactly what I wanted, which in this case was so very important as this poem tries to say something about someone real, which I very rarely have set out to do.  I am still not sure if it really says all that it has to, but it is the closest I have felt yet to having a complete shape for the words I wanted to say.  It is about a man, a man that sadly I knew only slightly despite having grown up in his presence every weekend for as long as I could remember.  He was a hard man to know, although to this day I regret not taking the effort, but I didn’t know until far too late that he would not be there forever.  As a child, he seemed permanent, a fixture of the world, not so much a person as a part of the landscape of my world.  I don’t think I know of anyone that gave me the same sense of enduring, who could be more permanently fixed to the world of things.  Anyway, enough of this, I shall let the poem speak for itself, and me, and maybe in some way him as well.

 

A pair of hands,

Thick fingered, sure

Defining the shape of things

Drawing disparate parts together

Giving them form and purpose.

 

 

These hands, they could do anything

Build a home, provide in abundance,

Design wondrous machines,

Discover the shapes hidden in wood,

Make motors run and fix broken Tonka trucks.

 

 

I remember the man

For me forever old, slightly rumpled, young only in pictures

Looking out with firm glance in black and white uniform,

A mysterious figure, remote, full of history

Voice a low gravel gruff

Explaining the world one short sentence at the time, irrefutable

Between vast silences as hands put the world together.

 

 

I knew the hands so well

Shook them every Sunday

While he chuckled and I never got the joke,

Shook them for the last time, sitting beside a vast white bed

Looking at him so much more small, fragile in the center of it

Not the towering figure that had lynch pinned my childhood, but so very mortal

Except for the hands, still the same

Powerful, grip strong, as if they had taken on the nature of all that they had wrought.

 

 

There is so much I will never know

What stood behind the eyes rimmed with a subtle mirth,

Witness to eight decades on this earth,

Who he really was beneath the old sweatshirts and glue spotted trousers,

Forever in the dusty solemnity of his workshop

Cloistered in the scent of sawdust and machine oil,

A figure of awe, respect and even childish fear.

 

 

One image will remain

A pair of hands, so very real because they could make real

Confident, capable of any task their master could put them to

Slowly and surely filling the nothing with something

To me, nothing could ever be outside the grasp

Of my grandfather’s hands.

 

 

For Harry Brewes, my grandfather who in silence taught me purpose

Today Is A Good Day

I am not sure what exactly this is, and I am not sure what I am trying to say by it, but it incorporates a vision I have long had of a battle in winter by a river with the blood smoking as it came out from the cold in the air.  I don’t tend to agree with the whole fatalistic approach of the old Norse, but I have always liked the idea of the last stand for something one believes in and whether you think they are right or wrong in what the did and how they did it, I leave that up to you my readers.  Enjoy. 

 

twenty men stood along the dark river’s edge near dawn, looking out across the fording place at the line of trees made into a dark smudge of green and brown by the chill mist.  The water ran black and cold over the shallows, ripples and froth glimmering briefly as it swirled over the rounded rocks and gravel, the gentle chatter of the water the only sound to break the perfect stillness.  The breath of the men created its own mist, coming out in hot puffs of vapor to freeze stiff into their beards.  Some stood, some paced, some checked their weapons or tightened their harness but all was done in silence.  As the light grew more full two stood apart, walking together right to the water’s edge.  One knelt, cupping his hands and dipping them into the icy stream, splashing the water onto his face, the sting and burn of it chasing away the sleep that had been growing on him.  His companion stood still and tall, eyes straining to the far shore and grim woods beyond for any sign of the foe they awaited.

“Gods blast the waiting.  If I must die, I’d rather it be done quick and I find myself warm and drinking mead in Valhalla than freezing off my arse here waiting for the spear that will send me there”  The man who had been crouching stood as he cursed, water still streaming from the blond braids of his beard.  He spat with force into the river, hard blue eyes never leaving the far shore as if they could suddenly conjure his foes there.

“All in good time Haarald, we will all find ourselves in Odin’s hall in his good time.  My only hope is that my blood this day will buy our thane time to raise the others. ”  The other’s voice was milder but carried the weight of age with it.  The man he called Haarald was perhaps in his twenty-fifth winter, where as the other had perhaps seen forty but despite his advanced years there was still iron in him.

“Well we shall never know if he does or doesn’t that is the only truth.  We await only our deaths here and all know it, all knew it at the choosing.  I think there is something to knowing the name and hour of my death, most men do not and I can at least be thankful I will not die abed mewling like a babe” both men chuckled grimly at this, the laughter breaking the stillness but not forced as many men’s would be in hours like these.  “Herger, it will be a good day to die”

“As good as any other…but hark, I think I hear the wings of ours.  Bring up the men, we shall have our friends with us soon enough.”  The crack of snapping branches echoed out into the dawn air as Herger spoke, a token heralding the coming of those whom they awaited.  A light shot up like cold fire in his eyes and he felt his blood quicken.  “Hurry now, it will not be long”  There was a panting eagerness in his voice, he who had admonished patience a moment before now hungering to leave waiting behind and let his sword sing.  Haarald turned back to the others waiting there, calling out names and orders, the men forming two lines of ten along the shore, one behind the other.  Voices rose now, the scene becoming almost boisterous as jibes and jests were thrown back and forth, a feeling almost of release.

“How many you think you’ll send to Hel Snorri?”

“As many as care to stand in front of me while I’m still able to swing!!! Ha!!!  But probably a damn sight more than you, you old goat”

“Odin’s one good eye, it’s about damn time…I can’t feel my cursed toes waiting for these lazy women to come kiss my axe”

“Aye, this “Christ” they are prattling on about seems to prefer womanish men, just look at those fools he sends in dresses.  It is right for the Thane to give them a ride on Odin’s horse and good riddance or we might all become soft as those about to kill us”

The dawn that had been so still was now filled with mirth as these hard, grim men prepared themselves, the few who had bows drawing them, planting arrows beside them at their feet while others drew axes and swords, ready round shields, spat, cursed, all of them watching the far shore with anticipation.

There was a vast rustling then, the heavy green needled branches parting as from the wood marched about two hundred men, all as grim and hard as those at the river, covered in mail, spears bright, the thunder of their step rumbling before them like a herald.  At the front of their line strode one not of their people, a pale, thin man wearing no weapon or mail, not even a torque but rather a black robe.  Instead of a spear he carried a long pole atop which was a cross of gold yet he wielded it as if it were Gungnir itself.  The men waiting across the river laughed despite the numbers against them at the sight of their foes being led by one such as he.

“Look, they have brought one of their women with them! Now why did we not think of that brothers?  It would have made the cold waiting through the night much warmer!”  The twenty men cast their despite in the teeth of those who marched toward them so very serious and not a few turned resentful eyes to the strange leader they found themselves following at the behest of their Thane.  These were after all their own countrymen they faced and only for the reason that they chose to remain heathens and would not submit to the right and proper lord God and Jesus Christ which for some of the men in the larger host seemed a rather foolish reason to fight.

At last the two forces stood facing each other, the only thing separating them was the black line of the river.  Twenty stood against two hundred and this only an advance force of the larger coming behind.  The men following Herger and Haarald were here not to win, they knew that.  They were here to die buying their Thane time to raise his army, call his Jarls to him so that he may defend their people, their homes and wives and children from the swords of the Christians.  Each man here knew the hour of his death now and were ready.

The priest leading the enemy strode forward with his standard, right to the waters edge and spoke with a great, booming voice as if he were a true man and not a weakling, womanish southerner not worth the time it would take to split his skull.  “You who stand before this righteous army of the Lord God, lay down your arms and join him now.  There need not be blood shed this day, join with Christ now and you shall all be spared, for if you do not, you will all surely be killed.  Why throw your lives away when you can clearly see the might of the Lord bef…AAAAAAARRRGGGHURGLE”

The arrow knocked him onto his ass, sitting him down as it tore through his pelvis just above his groin, the point exiting below his left buttock and nailing him to the ground.  “That shut him up well Olaaf, an impressive shot despite the fact that he is one who wouldn’t miss what you took!!!”  The roar of the defenders laughter filled the air, sneering, full of contempt.  The priest sat there and bawled, screaming and sobbing, calling for his mother of all things, the snow about him turning to slush from a mix of his blood and piss.  Those behind him looked almost ashamed.

“Enough of this!!!  You have all come here where you have no right, bringing feud on behalf of weaklings such as this puking bitch grovelling in his own filth.  Not one of you is a man that can follow anything like this!!!  If it must be done, come, get it done now, show us you still have some steel in your cocks or turn your arses back home to hide under your mother’s skirts.  I am Herger, son of Haalaf and I say I am the best of all you dogs.  Prove me wrong if you dare, my sword is hungry and will gladly take as many of you to Hel with me as I can let it!!!”  The men behind Herger roared, swords and axes banging shields, all of them howling like wolves before sheep.  They all knew they would die this day so there was no fear for them.

The enemy began to march forward, the cold water swirling around their boots as they began to ford the river.  Arrows arched and took a few as they crossed, hard iron points biting into flesh as the first screams began, but it was only a few before they made it across and battle was met.  The twenty held their ground well, they were all veterans and knew the craft of slaughter well.  The numbers of the enemy would be what won the day here but they would pay so dearly.  The air began to steam, red blood smoked on the blades of swords and axes and turned the snow to bloody slush and mud.  One by one the defenders fell, one born under by his foes, another run through his guts by a long spear, another dying strangling his slayer with his own bowels cut loose from his belly by a low axe swing.  The reek of blood, sweat and shit hung in air that had been pure just scant minutes before.  At the last, it was Herger who stood, shield riven, sword broken halfway to the hilts, panting, bloodied in a ring of his foes.  They stood, poised for a moment like dogs held at bay by a wolf or a bear.  Herger looked out at them, his eyes blue icy chips of fire, a mad grin on his face as he spat blood.

“You will remember us, all the rest of your days, and know that we were the better men”  His last words rang in the air as he threw his body into the wall of men, sword rising and falling until they tore the life from him.  At the last, he was on his knees, eyes skyward.  In the end, they may have killed fifty, perhaps a bit more and they would never know if they had bought their folk enough time, but in the hearts of those they had faced, whether they could admit it to themselves or not, these men had won.

Yay, it’s poetry time

So, since my last post a few hours ago, I have started feeling creative and I want to write so, I am going to extemporize a poem right here and now and see what happens.

Give me a horizon,

A horse and a six gun

Frontier cow towns and bad guys who wear black hats

Where my hand can be the law

And the only thing separating the good, the bad, and the ugly

Is a tin star pinned to a duster.

Give me grey seas,

A high prow’d longship

Square sail bellied to the wind snapping and straining

Salt spray freezing to ice on beards and shield rims

Laughing in the teeth of the gale

As my brothers and I look for new worlds, or the road to Valhalla.

Give me a plume,

A broad brimmed hat and high boots

That stride cobbled streets with a lusty thump

A sword at my hip and a wit to match it’s edge

Wine, women and song to fill my heart with fire

To be bold, matching word to deed

With every breath both a warrior and a poet.

Give to me the whole world

A place to live out loud and deliberately

To sing songs and make legends

Where words mean something more

Than ideals for the pondering

Give me castles and maidens and wicked step mothers

And I shall give you a life writ large upon the stars

In a bold hand so that none shall forget to mark it.

I really don’t know what exactly that was, but those words were living inside my and they are out now.  It wasn’t exactly what I thought I was going to write, but then again, very little is.  That’s all for now, I hope as always that you out there will enjoy, or hate it, as long as it makes you feel something.  Cheers.

…Superman…

Just a short post today, I just finished watching “The Iron Giant” with my daughters tonight and once again, when that one moment comes as the giant is flying up to stop the nuclear bomb and sacrifice himself and he takes on the heroic pose and simply says “Superman” I started crying like a baby.  I admit it, it gets me every single time, no matter how many times I see it.  I think there is just such heart in that character, in his friendship with Hogarth and his desire to be more than what he was made to be and for even one moment choose to be the best that he can.  So, for those of you out there that read this blog and have already seen this film, go watch it again and for those of you who have not yet seen it, go rent it, netflix it, just find some way to see it, you will not regret it.  That’s all for now, goodnight.