Chapter 6. Surest way to Njamo

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Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.
Written by Gordis, Elfhild and Angmar.
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It was the dark pre-dawn hour, when a low, tortured moan roused Kvigr from an uneasy sleep. Sitting up, he noticed Uffi on the other side of the campfire. The man groaned and moaned pitifully in his sleep. Kvigr approached Uffi and tried to give him some water. The wounded man was unconscious, but drank greedily. Kvigr covered Uffi against the night cold with his own cloak, but there was little else he could do, so he sat nearby looking at the fire.

His thoughts took an unusually dark turn. He was thinking of Uffi, and the time when they served together at Rammas Formen. Uffi was a rough, unruly man, but an experienced soldier. Now he was dying.

Kvigr shriveled. Where would Uffi go, when dead? Would his soul live in eternal bliss beyond the Circles of the World, on the White Mountain, feasting with the Gods and the bright Avalai? Would the Mighty Manvur, the Father of Gods, and Yavaya the Fertile, the Goddess of Life, welcome him? Would Tulkar the Strong admit him at the table where brave Men drink and feast with beautiful Avalai maidens for all eternity?

Or would his soul be cast down to Hell, the place of eternal darkness and cold, where naked and shriveled souls wander, lost forever, until the God of the Underworld, the Dark Njamo, the one with wolf’s head and burning eyes, devours them?

Kvigr did not know the answer. He silently vowed to make an offering to Tulkar for protection of Uffi’s sinful soul. Manvur was too high for such simple gifts as Kvigr was able to offer. All the soldiers and most other men prayed to Tulkar, or to Orri the Hunter, while women traditionally brought gifts to Yavaya, whose wooden statues could be found in every village. Yavaya’s fat breasts and hips were always covered with flowers, strings of beads and bright ribbons.

Thinking of Yavaya, Kvigr suddenly became aware of a woman’s figure near the biggest campfire in front of Broggha’s longhouse. Surprised, he approached, remaining in shadows outside the ring of light, and watched. The woman was busy preparing an early breakfast. She filled a kettle with water from a barrel and put it on a makeshift hearth to boil. Kvigr noticed that she was quite tall and had tousled dark hair. “A Tark wench?” he thought.

Then the woman turned and Kvigr almost cried out. It was the beautiful Lady Aewen herself, the haughty daughter of the Count of Pennmorva! Accompanied by a suite of guards and ladies in waiting, she used to ride sometimes through his poor village, earning admiring and reverent glances from the peasants, awestruck by her rich clothes and kingly demeanor.

Now her dress was a wreck, her hair unbound and dirty. Kvigr noticed a dark bruise on her chin, and the swollen lower lip. His heart filled with pity, he crawled nearer and softly called to her, “My Lady Aewen…”

The woman turned sharply, trying to make out his form in the darkness. Then, after a brief glance at the still dark and silent longhouse, she left the circle of light and approached.

Kviggr continued, trying to sound reassuring “My lady, I am Kvigr, son of Ulfr, the blacksmith, from your father’s village of Penn. I don’t think you remember me, but, please, tell me what has happened? Are my folk still alive?”

It was as though the shame clutched Aewen’s body and she longed to sink into the earth, to hide under a rock somewhere. This young man, one of the hillmen marauders, knew of her when she was once the daughter of a Count, for he was of her village! Oh, the disgrace into which she had fallen, once a noblewoman, now the mistress of a barbarian!

Her voice low, Aewen began to speak. “Your mother was still alive last I knew, but your father, while hunting, was fallen on by orcs and slain. Then sometime later, the village was attacked by orcs, with many of the men slain, the young women carried off, the old women and most of the children left to survive as best they could. Then a few days later, Broggha came and proclaimed to the survivors that he would put the village under his protection if those remaining elders and leaders would swear fealty to him and pay him the required tributes.

“Then that night he came to my father’s keep and saw me. He demanded that my father turn me over as a thrall or he would kill everyone in the keep. My father argued and the two struggled, but one blow from Broggha’s mighty fist left him unconscious upon the floor, near death. Father later died the next day when his heart stopped; brought on, we thought, by his old age and the injury he had sustained. One of his chieftains was put in charge of our property and the rest of my family was thrown out of the keep to live as best they could. My ladies-in-waiting were given over to his men. I had no sisters and my brothers were little more than children. I do not know where they are now.”

Hearing of the grim fate of his folk and of the death of his old father, Kvigr hung his head, trying to hold back stinging tears.

Aewen looked about nervously. “Now I must attend to the cooking, for someone is always watching me.”

Aewen turned to leave, but Kvigr stopped her. He put his hand on her shoulder and stood on tiptoe whispering hotly in her ear.

“I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we’ve had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father has always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour – I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder” – he indicated a huge oak-tree within the perimeter of the camp, its base hidden by thick undergrowth.

Aewen shook her head sadly. “I can get to the tree, I think, but they will never let us out of the camp. There are sentries everywhere…”

“I will give you men’s clothes and a cloak. They will not know you,” Kvigr said with more confidence than he actually felt. “They won’t be suspicious in daylight.”

***

After the conversation with the Northern nobleman, Griss felt elated as he walked back to the lean-to that he shared with Heggr. Going to his cache of weapons in the makeshift dwelling, Griss selected a dagger. Heggr woke up and grumbled sleepily before he rolled over on his side and went back to sleep. Shaking him roughly by the shoulder, Griss growled harshly, “We have a little mission to attend to today, so arm yourself well.”

“What is it, Griss? Does the Jarl have something he wants us to do?”

“No,” Griss smiled, “someone much more powerful than the Jarl has a task for me, and you are going to help me.”

Yawning and shaking his head, Heggr sat up on his fur bed. “All right, what are we supposed to do?” he grumbled.

Griss drew his finger across his own throat from left to right.

“Oh,” Heggr managed a nasty smile, even though he was half asleep. “Who are we supposed to kill?”

“Kvigr.”

“Ohh, Kvigr – that arrogant pup that Algeirr keeps around.” Heggr rubbed his hand through his long, unkept beard. “That youth will not be any problem, and the way my teeth are hurting this morning, I need something to take my mind off them. A killing would do nicely to distract me. How are we going to do it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We’re going to follow him, and when he is far out in the forest, away from anyone, we will slit his throat and dump his body into the Morva. No one will ever know anything, and if he is ever found, his death can always be blamed on the orcs. Sleep a while longer, Heggr. I’m going back out to keep an eye on him.”

“Whatever you say, Griss,” Heggr concurred and then settled back in his furs.

Griss left the low, slant-roof lean-to and walked out into the gathering daylight. “There that little rat is, talking to Aewen. Broggha is not going to like this when I tell him, and I don’t think he will be a bit displeased when we get rid of the little cur.”

Griss walked to a tree and leaned his back up against it, lounging nonchalantly as he cleaned his fingernails with the point of his knife. The North men were leaving that morning; their servants had already disassembled the black tent and packed it on the baggage wagon. Griss noticed that the Jarl was talking to the nobleman and smiling broadly.

The nobleman slowly turned his head in Griss’ direction and nodded. Griss suddenly felt charged with more confidence than he ever knew in his life. He felt that he was ready to tackle a whole army. He basked in that feeling as the riders mounted their horses and then watched, awe-struck, as they rode away.

“I can do anything,” Griss thought. “Anything!”

***

After saying his farewells to the departing Angmarians, Broggha turned back to the longhouse, when, not far from the fire, he suddenly spotted Aewen talking with a man. The Jarl’s grin turned into an expression of livid anger.

“Get away from her and keep away!” the Jarl snarled. “Or I’ll break your neck with my bare hands!”

Kvigr was startled. He jumped back and disappeared in the thick bushes. Aewen flinched when she heard the words and looked to the ground.

Curling his forefinger to her, Broggha ordered gruffly, “Go into the long house, wench! Looks like you need to learn a few more lessons!”

“Yes, Jarl,” she replied with resignation as she followed him to the building.

From his hiding place, Kvigr watched with helpless anger how Broggha led the poor lady Aewen away. He bit his lip stubbornly… “I will help her, or die trying,” he thought angrily.

In an hour, he and Griss should go join Algeirr. He thought of borrowing Meldun’s clothes, to make Aewen pass for one of his comrades, leaving the camp with them. The sentries would hardly check all the company, if Griss were with them. But would Griss agree to help? Kvigr doubted it.

***

Though her tortured body ached, Aewen kept it painfully immobile as she lay beside the Jarl. The brute was asleep at last, the intensity of his loud snoring almost making the bed rumble. She barely dared to breathe, for the sound might bring him to fearful wakefulness, which would rouse his temper once again and rekindle the savage urgings of his brutal heart. When Broggha had dragged her back into the house, he had slapped her face repeatedly, adding more bruises to her already battered flesh. Taking his great, hairy-knuckled hands, he clasped her about the shoulders and shook her, making her head flop up and down, which brought breath-stealing pains stabbing betwixt her shoulders. And then he had – well, what he did every night. This time, though, he was especially rough, for this was punishment for her talking to Kvigr. Oh, the man was cruel, heartless!
Agonizing moments passed, with the only sounds her quiet breathing and the Jarl’s snoring. Her mind ruminated upon the words of Kvigr.

“I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we’ve had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father had always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour – I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder.”

Could it be done? Could she really escape? What about Maleneth? It would be a miracle if Aewen could successfully flee with Kvigr; to bring Maleneth along as well would make it almost impossible. But perhaps if Aewen managed to escape, Maleneth would take heart and find a way to take flight from the hill-men. If one could do it, then so could another…

Slowly, as not to wake the slumbering Jarl, Aewen slid from the bed. After quietly wetting a rag, she washed herself and then dressed. Sneaking over to one of the narrow windows of the longhouse, she peered out into the early morning darkness. The sun had not yet risen, but she was soon to do so, and the sky was just starting to lighten in the east. Aewen felt emboldened when she saw no one about.
Very quietly, she opened the door and just as quietly shut it behind her.
Slipping through the still morning as silent as a cat, Aewen made her way to the oak tree and darted behind the undergrowth which grew about it so as to shield herself from the view of any in the camp.

***

Uncertain what to do, Kvigr returned to the fire to see that Uffi was not breathing anymore. He lay white and still, his mouth wide open, and the slow autumn flies were crawling over his face. Kvigr sank to the ground thinking furiously. Now someone had to carry the body out of the camp to bury it. No one would protest, if he volunteered to do the job. And then, once out of sight behind this oak, he would hide the body in the bushes, and tie Aewen face-down on the nag’s back instead. Kvigr grinned. This plan should work.

Having made his decision, Kvigr shook the sleeping Meldun and sent him to fetch Hrani, the shaman. Soon a small group of bleary-eyed, sleepy men assembled around the body. Hearing that Uffi had no weapons to bury with him, Hrani went to his shed and brought a rusty old knife which he placed in Uffi’s right hand.

“The wretch will need something on his way to Njamo,” the old shaman grumbled.

The others looked at him uneasily, the whites of their eyes showing, and their hands making an old protective sign, to ward off evil spirits. It was really bad luck to die like that, in sickness, not in battle, like a man should.

In a cracked, old voice, the shaman intoned an incantation to Tulkar for protection of Uffi’s soul. Then he put some grains into his left hand: no one was going to spare food to bury with the wretched newcomer, much less a horse or a woman. Kvigr added a copper coin that he placed in Uffi’s mouth.

“Now, who is going to bury him, lads?” Hrani asked.

“I will,” Kvigr replied over a lump in his throat. He hoped the others had not noticed his nervousness.

As he hoped, nobody objected. Meldun halfheartedly proposed to help him, but Kvigr declined.

“I will do it myself. Just fetch me a spade somewhere,” he said. “I will tie him onto the nag and carry him away, and then I will dig a grave.” One of the men led Meldun to a shed where tools were kept. Soon they returned with a spade.

“Where do you bury them?” Kvigr asked and looked around the stirring camp, his heart beating furiously. But his luck held.

“Over there, behind that hillock,” replied Hrani, spitting, and pointed roughly in the same direction where the old oak stood. “But make sure you get away from the camp at least for a quarter of a mile. We want no ghosts here. I will tell the sentries to let you through the outposts.”

Kviggr’s heart leaped. Soon, aided by Hrani, he got Uffi’s body draped face-down over the horse’s back, arms and legs dangling. He put Uffi’s cloak on top of him and fixed all with a rope. Kvigr made sure to tie the rope quite loosely, to be able to untie it with one pull.

The group around the fire had all dissipated but for Hrani, who stood indifferently nearby, chewing something. As soon as Kvigr was ready, the shaman started walking in front of the nag, showing him the way.

In a minute or two, they were behind the oak, hidden from view by the thick undergrowth surrounding the tree. Seeing that Hrani’s back was turned to him, Kvigr pulled the end of the rope and gave Uffi’s shoulder a push. The body slid from horseback and collapsed into the thick heather. Hearing the commotion, Hrani turned and cursed Kvigr.

“Don’t you know how to tie a knot, you stupid suckling? Now fix the mess yourself, and I will go ahead and warn the sentries. Just tell them your name, and they will let you pass.”

Hrani’s squat figure disappeared behind the trees. Kvigr proceeded to carry Uffi to the base of the oak: lying there, the body was entirely hidden by bushes even from attentive eyes. Kvigr retrieved the rusty knife from Uffi’s right hand and put it in his pocket. Then he lifted the old cloak that covered the body and called softly.

“Lady Aewen, are you here?”

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Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.
Written by Angmar, Elfhild and Gordis.
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From his vantage point against the tall tree, Griss looked over the camp. Uffi had died sometime during the night. The man had been a simpleton to let himself be wounded so easily. Now that little weasel Kvigr was making a stir about it, even going through the old ritual required for burial. “At least he has volunteered to plant Uffi,” Griss thought with a feeling of satisfaction. “We don’t want the corpse lying around, stinking up the camp. At least the little pup is good for something.”

Let the dog have his little ceremony! Griss wouldn’t say anything. He finished cleaning his nails with his knife and sheathed the blade as he watched Kvigr and the shaman disappear into the forest with the horse carrying the body of Uffi. They had been gone some minutes when the thought suddenly struck Griss:

“Maybe after he buries the body, Kvigr will just keep going.” The thought was certainly sobering. He must alert Heggr; the two of them should follow Kvigr, and after he had dug the grave, they could kill him.

“Perfect,” Griss thought. “He has dug his own grave!”

He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled, the signal for Heggr to join him. No response! The fool was still sleeping! Griss sprinted to the lean-to that the two shared.

“You dim-witted sluggard! Didn’t you hear my whistle?” Griss muttered as he shook Heggr awake.

“What?” Heggr mumbled sleepily.

“Get up! The prey is escaping!”

As the two men came out of the lean-to, they heard the Jarl bellow, “Where has the wench Aewen gone?”

***

Aewen shrank deeper into the woods as she heard the two men approach. From her hiding place behind the bole of a large tree, she watched as a large form fell into the underbrush and listened in to the subsequent words exchanged by Kvigr and the shaman. She sighed in relief when the old man walked away, but she did not move until she heard Kvigr’s voice.

“Lady Aewen, are you here?”

“Yes, I am here,” Aewen murmured as she emerged from the woods.

Kvigr smiled warmly, pausing momentarily to allow his eyes to take in the lady’s beauty. “I am glad you could get away.” He lowered his voice, looking around suspiciously. “Did anyone see you coming?”

“No,” she shook her head. “When I left, Broggha was snoring deeply; he does not even know that I am gone.” Her cheeks flamed with a furious blush, but the shadows under the trees hid her color from Kvigr’s view. Still, she turned her head away, as though looking off in the distance.

“Good,” Kvigr nodded.

Aewen looked back at Kvigr. “So what is the plan?” she asked quickly, changing the subject.

“I volunteered to take Uffi’s body a goodly distance from camp and bury him behind the hill yonder.” He pointed in that direction. “The shaman has gone ahead to advise the guards of my coming. Quick, allow me to assist you in climbing upon the horse’s back. Then, when you are settled, I will tie you to the horse and throw the cloak over you. The sentries will think that it is Uffi who I am taking out of the camp. When we have ridden away to a safe distance, I will untie you and you can ride behind me. Then I will urge the horse into a gallop and we will make our escape.”

“You are going to tie me to the horse?” she asked uncertainly, her eyebrows raising. Perhaps she had made a mistake in trusting this man…. perhaps he did not wish to save her at all, and only wanted her for himself!

Kvigr guessed what she was thinking, and he winced slightly. But what reason did she have to trust him? Had he not kept company with outlaws? “Do not be afraid! You can trust me! Hurry, because soon the sun will be rising!”

Aewen hesitated a moment, but only a moment, for she heard the sounds of Broggha’s earth-shaking bellows. Her body suddenly leaped into life – her heart pounding, breath coming quickly, hands trembling, palms clammy. The fear of Kvigr was far less right now than the fear of Broggha, and so, with the young man’s help, she scrambled upon the back of the horse, unflinching as he lightly tied her down.

Then Kvigr was in the saddle, and urged the beast into a quick walk…

***

The Jarl’s great, bellowing voice could be heard over much of the camp. “Where is that strumpet, Aewen?!”

All who heard him could tell that the Jarl was as enraged as a bull when someone gets too near his herd. Griss looked towards the longhouse and gulped; Heggr turned a stomach-sick pale shade of ash. If the woman wasn’t found, things would not be pleasant around the camp for a long time.

When the men reported that every shed, lean-to, cellar and storage bin had been searched with no sign of the woman, the Jarl turned cold. He was worse when he did not say much. “Then you know he is in a killing mood,” Griss thought uncomfortably. There was no point in giving excuses or apologies for their failure. The Jarl was implacable when he was angry.

“Search the area around the camp. If you can’t find her there, spread out and comb the countryside,” the Jarl said calmly and coolly.

Griss was put in charge of a group of ten men sent out to fan around the camp in ever-widening circles. Griss picked Heggr to accompany them. Heggr was almost worthless at tracking; a bear could leave an obvious trail and Heggr might not notice it. When it came to ransacking huts and cottages, though, Heggr was amazing. He could find every last turnip, parsnip, apple, ham, slab of bacon, keg of ale and mead, no matter how cleverly they had been hidden. Although Heggr would do them little good, Griss still liked to have the man with him. They had been together a long time, all the way back to the days of petty thievery and livestock stealing.

Everything close to the camp was searched, every place but… The cemetery!

“Interesting,” Griss thought. He had seen the woman talking to Kvigr shortly before the Jarl had called her to the longhouse. And Kvigr later took Uffi’s body to be buried in the cemetery! Maybe the two of them…!

“Men! To the cemetery! Maybe we will find the woman there, loved up with that dog Kvigr!”

“Should we kill him on sight?” Heggr asked hopefully.

“No, the Jarl will want to deal with them himself. Take him alive!”

***

Kvigr urged his horse into a fast walk, Aewen’s body dangling across the saddle in front of him. As nervous as he was, he couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering on the soft curves of her body, outlined by the cloak. He never had an opportunity to be with a woman, only listened, elated and ashamed, to the soldiers ribald talk. Aewen was far more beautiful than anyone he had seen before. He felt a deep longing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and trailed a hesitant, suddenly clammy hand along her spine and rump. Aewen lay as if dead.

Wistful thoughts ran through Kvigr’s mind. What if, when he saves her, she would come to love him? Of course, Aewen was far above him on the social scale, but now, ruined and befouled, perhaps she will deign to notice his love and devotion?

Lulled by his daydreams, Kvigr was startled when two men rushed out of the thick bushes, swords at the ready. One seized the nag’s reins and asked. “What is your name and business, pup?”

“I am Kvigr, and that is Uffi. He died this night,” Kvigr replied, indicating Aewen’s body in front of him. He was surprised how cool his voice sounded. “Hrani sent me to bury him, lest he stinks all over the camp.”

One of the sentries nodded. “Hrani was here and warned us. You can go on, pup, but Sterki will go with you. He will show you the place and make sure you are up to no mischief.”

Kvigr started to protest, his heart suddenly cold, but the leader had already vanished into the trees. Sterki, a dangerous-looking man with an angry livid scar, grinned at him mirthlessly. The scar across his face looked like a second toothless mouth, a sight that made Kvigr shiver.

“Come, laddie,” beckoned the man and led the way over the hill, his brown hand firmly clutching the nag’s harness. They went through a pine grove on a small hillock and descended down a steep slope into a ravine. The ground was soft there, and Kvigr noticed a number of small mounds, marked by stones, all around him.

“Get down and pick your place, laddie – the ground is cheap here,” Sterki grinned again. When Kvigr complied, Sterki tied the horse’s reins to a pine, sat on the ground, his back to a large boulder, and started filling his pipe.

Kvigr knew he had to kill this man, it was the only way out. But Kvigr was an archer, and he doubted he could best Sterki with only a rusty knife he had. But there was also the spade…

Kvigr gripped the spade and approached the horse. Aewen was hanging there utterly still, like a dead body. Kvigr feigned to struggle with a knot that held the body in place, tightening it further instead. Then, he pleaded in a thin, hesitant voice, “Give me a hand here, please, Mister Sterki! I can’t undo Hrani’s knot.”

Grinning even wider, Sterki made some unflattering comments about Kvigr’s mental and physical abilities, as well as about the questionable virtue of his mother. Kvigr’s jaw tightened. Now he felt no qualms about killing the man.

Sterki didn’t waste his time untying the knot, but proceeded to cut the rope with a long, gleaming knife. When his back was turned, Kvigr brought the spade down on his head with all the force he could muster. Sterki fell down soundlessly, spilling his blood onto the green moss.

“Get up into the saddle, let us gallop away!” Kvigr cried to Aewen, snatching away the concealing cloak.

At this moment an arrow whizzed past his head. Several men were closing on him with drawn swords. They were surrounded. Aewen screamed. With his last sane thought, Kvigr pressed Uffi’s knife into Aewen’s hand.

“Take it; you may need it,” he whispered. The knife disappeared beneath Aewen’s clothes.

With a plea for forgiveness in her eyes, she stepped away from Kvigr, turned to the woods behind them and sped away.

“After her!” Griss cried, and two of the men separated from the party, chasing off in the direction which the girl had taken.

Kvigr’s eyes gleamed with desperation as he assumed a defensive pose, attempting to fend off his attackers with the spade. The first to reach him was Griss, who, sword drawn, circled around Kvigr. Swinging at him with his spade, Kvigr came close to landing several blows, but Griss quickly darted out of his reach. The rest of the men soon caught up with him and were about to rush at Kvigr when Griss put his hand down, a signal not to attack.

“Come on, pup,” Griss taunted, “let’s see what the spade is good for besides digging your grave!”

The other men laughed as Kvigr swung once again but Griss kept just beyond his swings. The young man was quick, but was not an experienced swordsman like Griss. Griss was in no rush and knew that the constant wielding of the heavy spade would eventually tire his foe. Griss was obviously enjoying himself as he evaded Kvigr’s strikes, toying with him, darting in here and now to deliver a minor cut to an arm, a cheek.

A panting Kvigr raised the spade once again. Griss ducked under the swinging spade and slashed at Kvigr’s forearm, drawing more blood. The weapon fell out of the wounded man’s hands with a crash.

“I should kill you!” Griss raised his sword and bore down upon the wounded man, slashing minor blows on first one arm, then the other. The blood was flowing freely from Kvigr’s face, arms and chest as he groaned in pain. Kvigr teetered, grimacing, and Griss motioned for the other men to move forward. Soon Kvigr was thrown to the ground, his hands bound behind his back, a noosed rope around his neck.

From a safe vantage point against a tree, Heggr gibed, “You really messed up good, Griss! I don’t think he can bury Uffi and Sterki now!”

“Not necessary,” Griss smiled wickedly as he wiped the blood off his sword with a dirty rag and then sheathed the blade. Bending down and picking up the spade, he threw it to Heggr. “Here, you can dig one for all three of them!”

Heggr groaned as he wrinkled his nose in a distasteful expression and then shrugged.

“Heggr, we’ll join you at the camp. You can take the horse back and get Uffi where we found him in the bushes. Dig the hole deep! We don’t want any scavengers digging up the carrion. Downwind from the cemetery, those carcasses would stink us out!”

Turning his attention back to the prisoner, Griss nodded to one of the men. “You bind up his arm. We don’t want him bleeding to death before we get back to camp. The Jarl probably has something real good in mind for him already. What do you think it will be, boy?” Griss turned his smirking face to Kvigr, but the young man was silent.

After Kvigr’s worst wound was attended to, Griss and his remaining seven men began to march back to camp. Jarl Broggha was waiting for them in the large open area that he used when he called the men for assembly. Ignoring the bound Kvigr, he leveled his steely gaze on Griss.

“Where is the woman? Did any harm come to her?”

“Jarl,” Griss inclined his head in a respectful bow, “no, the woman was not injured. She tried to escape and I sent two men after her. I expect they will be here shortly.”

“I expect they will, too,” the Jarl said menacingly, “or your head will soon be gracing a pike outside the door of my longhouse!”

“Aye, Jarl,” Griss looked to the leader, “there will be no failure.”

The Jarl nodded. “Now take this dog and put him in one of the sheds under heavy guard.”

“Will you kill him soon, Jarl?” Griss asked, the eagerness showing in his voice.

“No,” Broggha said slowly, “we are going to have a trial for him. His old friend Algeirr might want to stand up for him.”

Griss shuddered. He knew exactly what the Jarl meant. Anyone who would dare say a good word about a man who had offended the Jarl would suffer the other man’s own fate… maybe worse.

“When the woman is found…” the Jarl was smiling now, the kind of no-smile that didn’t reach the eyes that all of Broggha’s men had come to fear. “Bind her to the whipping post, over there. I am going to give her a flogging that she won’t soon forget, and let it be a lesson to both her and Maleneth!”

The Jarl glanced towards the doorway of the longhouse, where Maleneth had been watching and listening.

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On the road near Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347.
Written by Elfhild, Angmar and Gordis
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As soon as the dim predawn light filtered through the trees, Algeirr started his search for weapons hidden the previous evening by the accursed Tarks. He was in a foul mood, yesterday’s disaster becoming more stinging with every hour that passed. And this tasty little morsel, this pretty wench… why hadn’t they rolled her over right away, instead of quarreling like some silly pups? Stupid Griss… Blasted Tarks…

By ten o’clock Algeirr managed to find one knife and two swords. He hadn’t found his own, though, and it maddened him. It was bad luck to lose your sword, no matter how, so the loss made him uneasy. But one sword was as good as another, Algeirr reasoned with himself, as all of them belonged to the Arthedain army and were made of sharp, gleaming tark steel.

Finally Algeirr decided it was time to go to the camp and introduce himself to Broggha. At least now he was well-armed, and had two horses, so it was not necessary to tell the Jarl about the unfortunate incident of yesterday.

Algeirr packed all the scattered belongings of his own and the other men’s on a spare horse, and mounted the other one. He cast the last glance at Gunni’s grave. Yesterday, Algeirr piled some stones on top of the body, building a small cairn. Gunni was killed in a fight, as a man should, so his soul must be well on its way to the White Mountain. The man was a brute and a fool, but now he was safe.

On his way, Algeirr mused idly about Uffi’s fate. The wound looked bad, but a tark healer would have saved him. Only Algeirr doubted that one was available in Broggha’s camp. The absence of Griss was equally disconcerting; the man promised to join him in the morning, but hadn’t.

Soon he recognized the landmark Griss told him about – a huge fir-tree, leaning over the road. Algeirr noticed a wide track, branching from the main road and leading North. Resolutely, he turned the horses and rode towards Broggha’s camp.

***

Aewen ran through the woods, darting around trees and leaping over fallen logs and brambles, her long legs making good distance. Her eyes darted from side to side, desperately surveying the horizon of her view. Surely there must be some place to hide from her pursuers! She heard them behind her, crashing through the underbrush, their rough voices shouting, their breath coming hard and heavy.

Though she ran and ran, still she was not quick enough, for when her legs began to weary, they quickly gained upon her. When one of the men came up beside her, seizing her, she kicked and struggled, but soon his fellow came to his assistance, and quickly had her arms bound behind her back. Laughing and taunting her with threats, the two men led her back towards the way the others had gone.

It was the middle of the morning when the three arrived at Broggha’s camp. Aewen swallowed hard when she saw that familiar sight. She tried to bolster up her courage, but the thoughts of Broggha’s wrath made her quake in her shoes. They passed the leering sentinels and went further down the path towards the longhouse. A goodly number of men were gathered about in the assembly area, and towering above them all stood the massive hulking form of the Jarl. Aewen’s whole body quivered in dread.

Broggha looked in her direction, and his angry face flushed a livid red. In his hand was a medium-length, one-strand whip.

“Take her to the whipping post!” he bellowed.

Soon the terrified Aewen found herself being dragged in the direction of the pole, upon which she had seen many men punished for disobedience. Sometimes the beatings were light ones; at other times, the weals were deep and bloody; and occasionally, a man was flogged to death. Almost idly, she wondered which hers would be. Never before had he punished her in public! Always before, he satisfied his malice in the longhouse, away from the gaze of onlookers.

Trembling with rage, the Jarl was soon upon her, quickly untying her hands. Before she could realize what was happening, he had flung off her cloak, hoisted her skirts up and lifted her dress aloft. Taking the rope which had previously bound her hands behind her back, Broggha yanked her arms up and tied her wrists together, winding the rope about the iron ring which was used to hold prisoners securely as they were being punished. Her face pressed up against the wooden pole; her feet danced helplessly about its base. She turned her head to the side and saw Malaneth among the crowd which had gathered to watch. The woman’s face was pale and she looked on in horror.

“Please, no!” Aewen wailed.

“You will get what you deserve, wench!” Broggha snarled as he brought the whip down upon her back. A scream tore itself out of Aewen’s mouth.

Again and again, the lashes rained down upon her back as she screamed and wailed and begged for mercy, the tears streaming down her face, her rapid breathing threatening to choke her. The cool autumn air chilled the blood on the scratches caused where the whip-marks crisscrossed across her back, but her skin was so on fire and the strikes of the whip came so fast that she scarcely differentiated between the sensations of hot and cold.

At last the grueling ordeal was over, and Aewen limply slumped against the pole, her chest heaving with her panting breaths and soft sobs.

Pulling her head back by her hair, Broggha forced her to gaze up into his face.

“You will never try a trick like that again, wench!”

Cut from her bindings, Aewen slumped to the ground, gasping and panting.

“Get up, wench!” Broggha toed her arm with the tip of his boot. “Cover yourself and go back in the house! This little chastisement does not excuse you from preparing my supper tonight!”

The woman struggled to her feet, grasping her garments to her bosom. As the men jeered and called to her, she began stumbling away to the longhouse.

Malaneth looked fearfully to the Jarl. “May I be allowed to help her?” Broggha nodded his permission. Soon Malaneth’s hands were upon the woman’s shoulders, helping to support her.

Broggha crossed the assembly field as his men followed him. Taking his seat on his fur-lined “throne” – a giant log carved out in the shape of a chair – he looked over the gathered men. Excited over just seeing a whipping, they were certain that there would be more entertaining things to follow.

“Men, bring the felon before me so that he may receive justice!”

The men laughed at that. Broggha’s sense of justice was always certain to appeal to their baser tastes. The men pressed closer towards Broggha’s throne. Soon the well-trussed Kvigr stood before the Jarl. His garments stiff with gore, his wounded arm bound with a blood-soaked bandage, the young man’s face was pale, his eyes bright, perhaps a sign of an impending fever.

“You are brought before me charged with the crimes of murdering an innocent man with malice aforethought and the kidnapping of one of my thralls. What do you have to say in your behalf?” The sound of the Jarl’s fingers tapping on the arm of his log throne sounded like drums in Kvigr’s brain.

“I have nothing to say,” Kvigr said, little defiance in his voice, for it was true – he had slain Sterki. “But I did not plan it ahead of time,” was all he could think of to say in his own defense.

“Griss, come forward. You were in charge of the rescue party.” A low murmur of laughter rose up from the crowd of men. “Tell us what you saw.”

Grinning slightly, Griss stepped forward and bowed. “Poor Sterki was lying there as dead as a butchered hog, his brains smashed in.” Griss forced his face into a solemn look and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his left sleeve and brought it to his eyes. “Truly a sad sight.” Griss dabbed an unseen tear from his eyes as he tried to conjure up a sob but failed. The men howled in laughter as Griss turned back to them and grinned broadly. “As I said, there the deceased was, an oozing puddle of brains around his head. Aewen was there, embracing her little rooster right near the body of poor Sterki.” That wasn’t true, but it sounded good and added to the drama. “He is as guilty as a dog caught in the act of sucking eggs!”

“Griss, this court is grateful for your truthful testimony. You may take your place back amongst the men.” The Jarl did not even try to hide his chuckle. “Obviously Kvigr has committed two crimes – one, a base murder; the other the abduction of a woman for unwholesome deeds.” The men’s laughter rose in a crescendo, some of the men slapping their legs as tears came to their faces.

Griss backed away into the crowd, an expression of proud amusement on his face. The man beside him whispered, “You should have been a play actor!”

“It is nothing, I tell you. Just natural talent,” Griss grinned, to which the laughing man slapped him on the back.

“Before this court pronounces judgment,” the Jarl intoned in a mock serious voice, “the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak.” The Jarl looked around the throng but no one stood up.

Griss caught sight of Algeirr in the crowd. Smirking, he spoke up. “This is Algeirr, a good friend of the felon Kvigr.”

“Algeirr, come forward,” Broggha’s voice boomed.

***

When Algeirr reached the camp, the sentries were obviously expecting him. They let Algeirr in without questions and took him directly to the Jarl. Algeirr was impressed by the man’s sheer bulk, but even more by his piercing blue eyes beneath the bristling red brows. The Jarl seemed pleased to meet him, but some dangerous flicker in his eyes when he looked at Algeirr and the predatory grin, plastered on his lips, warned Algeirr of the impending danger.

The mercenary found himself tensing, as before a battle, and stood not far from the Jarl, surveying the scene with wary eyes. A large crowd was gathered in the clearing, cheering and hooting as a naked woman was being flogged by the Jarl himself. In the crowd, Algeirr noticed the ashen-pale Meldun, but couldn’t see any of his other men. Meldun caught his eyes and drew his hand across his throat in warning. Algeirr swallowed, but his wooden face showed nothing of the panic rising in his heart.

Soon, Algeirr’s puzzlement was over. The man who was brought before Broggha’s throne for trial was no other than the pale, but defiant Kvigr, his hands bound behind his back and a bleeding wound on his arm.

“What have you done, stupid, stupid pup?” thought Algeirr dismally.

The charges were deadly: murdering of one of Broggha’s men and kidnapping of one of Broggha’s own women. Algeirr felt cold dread creeping along his spine when he heard Griss’s testimony. One look at the Jarl’s face told him that whatever Kvigr’s reasons might have been, there would be no mercy.

At this moment, the Jarl intoned, mocking a standard Tark trial. “Before this court pronounces judgment, the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak.” Then the Jarl’s fierce blue eyes caught Algeirr’s, and he beckoned.

“Algeirr, come forward,” his voice boomed.

The mercenary, his long face unreadable, stepped out of the throng and stood before the Jarl looking unflinchingly into his blue eyes.

“What have you to say?” the Jarl asked, his voice surprisingly smooth.

“This Kvigr here has always been a stupid pup, weak and silly. I was not even going to bring him to you, my Jarl, but let him go home to his dirty village to milk cows. He was never of any use. Do what you want with him, I can’t care less.”

Algeirr heard Kvigr gasp in disbelief behind his back, but he didn’t turn to look. The mercenary knew, that, over the years, Kvigr has grown attached to him, as he would to a second father. Algeirr had a soft spot for the bright lad and liked his liveliness and invariably cheerful mood. But that was over now, over and done with. Kvigr was as good as dead, and Algeirr had no wish to follow him to Njamo.

Jarl Broggha nodded solemnly to the witness Algierr and then stood up.

“Are there any other witnesses who are unknown to this court, who might have any words to say, either as evidence or as a witness to this man’s innocence?”

The Jarl waited, looking around the assembly, and the faces that he saw resembled grinning wolves which had surrounded a victim.

“There being none, it is time for this court to pass judgment upon the accused.”

The crowd grew deafly silent and the men’s lust for blood was obvious on their faces. Griss licked his lips in anticipation, while Heggr, in his enthusiasm, forgot for a few moments the pain in his teeth.

“Because of the gravity of the crimes – sedition and rebellion, the murder of an honorable warrior, and the abduction of a member of my household – the punishment must be in keeping with the seriousness of the offenses.” All knew the harshness of Broggha’s judgments. Now, though, in these days before he assumed his position on King Tarnendur’s council, he determined that he would establish an even fiercer reputation and make any man who sought to oppose him think twice before he did. The tension was palpable as the men waited to hear the nature of the punishment. They sensed that this execution would be something quite out of the ordinary and very memorable.

“Upon the morning of October 8 of this year, the prisoner is to be taken to the place of execution, where he will be first hanged by the neck; then while still alive, he is to be emasculated and his entrails extracted, the parts being delivered over to the fire where they will be consumed before his eyes. Then he is to be quartered and beheaded, his head being delivered to his village of birth, and the sections sent to the villages closest to the northern, southern, eastern and western borders of Rhudaur.”

The crowd roared its approval.

Inside the longhouse, Aewen screamed.