That night he had dreamed of his kin again. Such dreams often tormented his sleep, infecting his mind and forcing him to wake sweating, teary eyed and with heavy heart. Guilt ran through his veins, thicker than blood, clogging his channels and eating his insides like a ravenous wolf; starving in the winter and with no other choice but to eat whatever rotten carcass it can lay paws on. In this recent portent he had seen himself at his lord’s side, embracing him, clasping his arm as his equal. Then he had stood, proud and tall, a splendid occasion, as his lord presented him with a sword; a gift, repayment for his service.
He looked at the sword and saw her beauty and magnificence. The scabbard in which the blade slept was wooden, with a polished red leather finish. Along its length were studded precious gems, true ornaments for a noble weapon. The pommel and hilt were silver, engraved with niello. The smooth black lines in the walnut shaped pommel showed a raven, encircled by swirls. The blade was like the work of Weyland; its edges enough to bite any ring mail, any corselet of battle would be opened up, would fold in like a snail’s shell beneath the boot. Along the surface the flames of the forge were evident, pattern welded, the licks of the blaze gave her supernatural beauty.
He cast his gaze now across reality, the grey, grim landscape of ice and crystal, to where that sword rested. Within easy reach should he need it, the Earth walker felt a stab from his hated companion as he looked at the last gift his lord had given. He’d extinguished dozens of lives with that blade, sent many a foe to the halls of the slain, yet only one was needed to soothe his aches, to quench the unbearable thirst, the hateful lust he felt in his bones. By the oaths he swore at the mead bench, before his companions and the Gods, he needed to kill the serpent-tongued traitor.
But where were those friends now? What had become of them? Of the mead bench, and the joys he had known there? The wine hall they had so enjoyed? The glory of his lord, the mailed warrior, had all faded, all crumbled beneath the helm of night’s shadow; fallen to a serpent tongued bastard.
When he closed his eyes he still saw the embers floating, felt the smoke choking, heard the wood creaking, the flames crackling, men screaming, steel clashing. He had cut his way to safety, just; he couldn’t have been the only one. He needed to find the survivors, his most difficult task. He had to raise troops, but he was no lord, and many of his comrades had fallen under the walls of the serpent. He had no land or wealth to excite men and tempt them to join him; all he had was the promise of death, and vengeance for a dead man. No stranger would accept his offer, nor would he want strangers; his comrades had not all been wiped out, he was sure.
He’d left messages with his sword brothers’ kin. It was dangerous, for he knew his hunters would be watching. His messages were brief, cryptic; referring to the grove where they had worshipped the old Gods. Only the members of the old guard would understand; the new whelps had not lived through the Christians’ purges.
The Earth walker never made his camp too far from the grove. He needed to check it regularly, and luckily for him his enemies knew nothing of it; caution was still required, but it allowed him to spend his days in hope and guilt; plotting his next moves; what to do when he had a good body of warriors.
Snow crunched somewhere nearby. It was too heavy a footfall to be an animal. Only man could break the silence so. He tensed, listening, straining his ears; he could hear his blood pump as his heart pounded. Some twigs snapped, a branch was pushed aside and flung back, crystallised branches swished through the air on their springy arm. The noises were growing closer, he knew he could not get away in time; they had found him. A whisper in the silence. Hand on hilt, the Earth walker eased it out of the scabbard, watching the gorgeous blade rasp. Like the silver moon the blade shone. They might take him, but they would not find the banner he had hidden. He was resolved to that. It gave him courage.
Ready to pounce, the noises grew and came; footsteps, crunch, crunch, whispers, hiss hissing on the wind. He steeled himself, and touched his amulet, hanging from his neck under his frost covered tunic. Two men appeared, ragged, cold, wet, as of yet unaware of him. He could do this, only two, he had killed more at once in his youth… but he was not in his youth now. Enough! Said he to his mind. He was a bear among men, and these two were nothing. He would triumph.
I know those faces, thought he. What a sight they were, old friends; untamed hair, filthy clothes, dirt lined weather beaten scarred faces; just like him.
‘Peace friend’ said Cӕdmon, a man who had stood at his shoulder in many a skirmish, holding his arms aloft to show he meant no harm.
‘We got your message.’ Said his partner, ᴁlfric, another dear companion from the past.
The Earth walker stood to greet them, and as one they laughed, clasping arms once more. Too long had he dwelt alone, at war in his mind. Too long had guilt and vengeance and sorrow and anger consumed him.
His friends! His Friends, here! If they had survived then so had others. And no doubt they had a story or two to tell. Such a joyous moment! Here it was beginning, they were beginning to come and soon they would be strong enough to challenge the enemy.
A celebration.
They needed to celebrate!
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