Chooser of the
Slain
By Jason Zavoda
Copyright Jason
Zavoda March 2014
Introduction
Ragnorvald crawled to an old stump at
the edge of the clearing and rested his back high against the cold bark. The wound
in his stomach kept him from even trying to sit. When he tried to stand he
passed out, he didn't know for how long, and the blood and pain seemed worse.
He should have died already like the rest of his men; like everyone else.
Looking across the clearing he could see nothing moving but crows picking at
the bodies through the blanket of snow that covered them.
Snow, when had the snow started
falling? It had been a cold day and the sky was grey as it always was this time
of year, but he'd seen no snow this side of the year's last day; Bad luck to be
out in the first snowfall. Ragnorvald laughed and coughed till he spat out a
mouthful of blood congealed to the size and texture of an egg-yolk. He took a
handful of clean snow and melted it in his mouth, spat that out in a pink spray
then took another fistful and rubbed it in his face to clear his eyes.
At the edge of the field of his vision
he saw movement. First it seemed to be a flock of crows come to settle upon the
ground, before their feast, all bunched together. Then the blackness of the
wings became grey and somehow more solid and he saw the dark cloak of a
traveler and a broad-brimmed hat white with snow. It was a greybeard trudging
up the southern road. A tall man, slightly bent, with a staff in one hand and a
pack on his shoulder, but Ragnorvald noted the breadth of those shoulders and
the strong arm holding the staff and a belted sword at the traveler's belt. A
skald perhaps, this one did not have the look of a merchant with a pack full of
spice and steel needles for trade.
As the man approached, Ragnorvald
shifted, though the pain brought the crows circling in across his vision, their
wings blacking out the edges of his sight till he almost fainted, but not
quite. He freed his own axe and laid the naked blade across his lap. He laughed
again thinking that an ancient skald or a child could end him now, as weak as
he was, but a surge of anger at the thought of such a fate nearly brought him
to his feet. Pain and common sense prevailed. Ragnorvald waited for the old man
to approach and would fight him lying down if needs must.
"A tale is here," said the
old man as he approached, "written in blood."
"A crow's dinner," answered
Ragnorvald.
"You are the only man to tell
it," the greybeard looked at the few dozen snow-covered, crow-pecked
forms. "Good looting here."
"Take what you will, skald," Ragnorvald
snapped. "It is of no use to me."
"Tell me your tale first, warrior,
and then I will take what I like."
Ragnorvald laughed again and winced
with pain. The thought of the old skald picking through the slaughterhouse of
the battlefield amused him. "You will get your finger's bloody, old
man."
"Tell me your tale," he
insisted.
"Ha, it will make no name for me
to be told by skalds. You would be better looking for some gold among the
dead," Ragnorvald gestured to the clearing.
"Tell me your tale."
At first Ragnorvald was annoyed at the
insistence of the old skald, but then he thought that there would be little
profit for the old word-thief in his story. Who would want to hear about an outlaw
and bandit like himself. He was no hero of the sagas.
"Get me some water first, old man,"
Ragnorvald demanded, "then I will tell you my tale."
"I have known thirst myself,
warrior," the greybeard said and reached within his robe. "You have
need of a drop to loosen your tongue." He held a small leather bottle in
his hand and passed it to Ragnorvald.
The bottle was surprisingly heavy and
when Ragnorvald opened it the smell was heady and sweet. "Mead," he
said, surprised, but when he tasted the liquid it burned like fire and cleared
the cobwebs from his eyes. The day seemed lighter as if the sun had fought its
way through the thick grey clouds and there was a richness in everything around
him that he had not noticed before.
The greybeard plucked the bottle from
Ragnorvald's hand with surprising quickness, recapped and hid it once more
within his cloak.
"That is powerful drink you have
there, skald," Ragnorvald told him, "I have never tasted its like."
"It is a rare brew, warrior. I
hope it does you well."
"You will have my tale,
skald," Ragnorvald smacked his lips and ran his tongue across his teeth to
gather in the last memory of a taste. "It was only a day ago that I picked
a dozen of my men and crossed the hills into the Jarl's lands. They were the
most troublesome of my band and they needed a little blood, rape and loot to
settle them for the bad weather I knew was coming..."
Ragnorvald
began his story and let his mind wander to the day before. He could feel the
cold darkness of the night and sense the men around him as they approached the
fenced village. The skald and the clearing faded and he was there, the
leather-wrapped about the handle of his axe stiff beneath his hand, the
breathing of his men beside him. He was himself again, whole and strong, and
his death-wounded self was less than a dream as he told his tale.
***
Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda
(If you are enjoying this story please consider purchasing it on kindle
Or sending a gift to jasonzavoda@aol.com through paypal
Comments here or on Amazon Kindle would be greatly appreciated)
Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda
Okay, this is where you tell me that this one wasn't influenced by Howard's "The Frost giant's Daughter." LOL
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