Chooser of the Slain - Part 8 - End

Chapter 7

"The tale is told. Sleep now."

"Father..." Ragnorvald whispered as his eyes drifted shut.

The old cloaked man stood from where he crouched. He took his hand from where he rested it on the sleeping man's head and looked toward the Harvest Mother's temple-farm.

The older priestess approached but behind her no marks appeared in the snow. Her face was her face but sharper, light, almost with a glow of its own that stood out in the darkening day. The snow stopped falling around them. She dipped her head as she approached and he raised his right hand with his palm toward her in acknowledgement.

She looked down at Ragnorvald whose chest slowly rose and fell. "He lives," she said both surprised and pleased then her eyebrow rose as she looked at the old man.

"He does," the man said in answer.

"Then he is mine," she said firmly. "It is his wyrd and his wer."

"I shall pay his debt," he raised his cloak and from it a young man appeared. Hord stumbled out seeming to step from a far distance, a dark tunnel, seen as doll-like small, but instantly growing to his full size. He looked about him as if he were in a dream.

"It is not enough," her voice had a tinge of anger, but not directed at the man, never at him. "This one has always been mine. He would have been found."

"And planted in the earth then, as I found him," said the old man," No, he crossed into my realm and he is young but still worthy enough for my hall. Shall I take him back?"

"No!" she said hastily. "But this one..." she pointed to Ragnorvald, "This has done... and would have done..."

"And yet he did not," the man laughed, "I would not have begrudged him a little fire, but your hall stands, your statue is untouched even your priestesses unviolated."

"My women..." her voice rose in anger.

"Ah, I do have another gift for you," he raised his cloak again and six thrall-maids came running toward the woman. They sank to their knees, surrounding her with tears and held to the hem of her long skirt.

"My daughters," she said and stroked a head, put her hand to a cheek, then looked at the old man, still angry, but with tears in her own eyes.

"This man is mine," he said. "I claim him, but when you turn on him with an angry heart think of these I have returned to you. Long ago we warred, my children and yours, and long ago we made our peace. I have no care for those who seek your realm. They are none of mine, but this man's fate I have touched. He lives by my hand though he is dead and ready for my hall. I have stood by the Weavers and my blood is on their skeins, his wyrd has changed and his wer has been paid."

The Harvest Mother was filled with the fury of a spring storm, the brutal cold of coming winter, but she brushed her children's hair with her hands and turned to the Raven King. "His wer is paid," she said and was gone as were her daughters and her son.

Across the field the Crow-Maidens lifted their wings and the souls of the dead came free, though a scattered few were left behind. Ragnorvald stirred as a chill of silver threads brushed the earth and climbed to reach the branches of the Tree of Life.

"Ah, warrior, now wanderer," the old man looked down on Ragnorvald. I give a gift to you as well. No man should be without a brother for his back." From his cloak came Gisli who had never died. "I have taken gifts of my own this day, my son," he said to Ragnorvald who heard the words only in a dream, "and gathered many to my hall thanks to you."

The Raven King let his cloak fall from his shoulders and beneath he wore a golden coat of mail, a sword, yes, and an axe at his side. The stick he used for walking became a spear whose blade glistened with blood that would never dry or fade. He settled the cloak atop Gisli and Ragnorvald then swept it aside to reveal empty trodden snow stained red from warrior's blood. Once more he settled the cloak on his shoulders, his hat on his head, his stick was just a limb of ash, rune carved, but unadorned. His feet crunched through the snow as he followed the south road into the forest and the darkness of the day gave way to night.

END

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Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda

Chooser of the Slain - Part 7

Chapter 6

They took the building apart with wood-axes, and picks, and bars of iron. The dead from the night's battle had been buried near the walls of the smithy, but now thralls and outlaws were stamping atop the loose earth while they pulled the building apart. They used a section of wall to bear Sven's corpse and laid him over the pit of coals. The bodies of the men he'd slain were dragged from their graves and placed beside him to either side. Sven's arms were across their shoulders. Ragnorvald had the bodies of the dogs placed at Sven's feet then he carried in Eirik and draped the younger man atop the dogs.

The young priestess had left the tending of her older and still unconscious superior to that of a thrall while she walked silently about the preparations for Sven's pyre. There was mostly silence, only Ragnorvald's voice saying what he wanted done. She peeped for a moment when the bodies of her men were taken from the ground but her voice was stopped by one look from Gisli who was as angry as any of the other outlaws and no longer concerned about what curse the Harvest Mother might lay upon them.

Ragnorvald placed the axe in Sven's right hand. Bales of hay had been taken from the barn and placed near the pit of coal and wooden planks that had been the smithy were layered about the bodies. A tent of thicker wooden beams was built above them. No words were said as none were needed. Sven would be at the Raven King's table or frozen at the base of the Life Tree with all other unchosen warriors. This body they honored, but Sven was gone.

Each outlaw lit a torch and stuck it into the piled hay. The flames spread quickly and soon the planks were burning. The tent of wooden beams held a leaping and joyous fire within. Ragnorvald smiled. This was as much honor as any man could wish.

"He wanted to serve the Harvest Mother!" the young priestess shouted. "He wanted the earth! Not the fire!"

"You are lucky that I did not use your temple for his pyre," Ragnorvald answered her. "Thank these men," he waved an arm at the assembled outlaws, "that I did not add you and all your people to serve him in the Raven King's hall. I would see this place a blackened ring of earth if not for these men."

For a moment fear overwhelmed the young woman and she backed away with her eyes glistening with panic and tears. The moment passed and she yelled back at Ragnorvald. "You are cursed. You are evil. All of you!"

They let her leave them and walk back toward the temple hall. Slowly the crowd of thralls began to move as if to follow her. Ragnorvald grabbed one by the back of his shirt, an old wizened thrall, and stopped him. "Ho!" he shouted loud enough to stop them all. "You are going nowhere but to load our wagons. Gisli, take this bunch and get them to work. Skarpi, you've no doubt tried them all but pick out the best half-dozen thrall-maids to take with us,"

Gisli laughed and with slaps and pushes moved the sullen thralls toward the barn, while Skarpi rubbed his hands and began pulling aside the women he had in mind. Behind them the pyre burned and smoke rose into the sky like a pillar holding up the blackening clouds.

***

"The day grows worse," Hord said to his brother.

"This day started bad enough," Soti replied. He walked between his younger brother and the Jarl's man Gold-Button. The three led their horses while a score of warriors followed on foot behind them. "But I see the sky."

"I see it too," Thorstein replied. He was called Gold-Button by the Jarl's followers from clan chiefs to freeholders because of the fine clothes he wore, but he was still a fighter of wide respect.

In the sky the storm was coming but a dark finger of smoke poked up at the clouds curving and stretching toward them on the wind.

"It is calling us," said Hord coming to a stop and letting his horse walk to him. "Time to mount."

"Past time," Thorstein agreed, "but what has happened has happened. No use running the men when we may need them with the breath to fight."

"If we walk we may not get there in time for a fight," Soti objected.

"How far off is the temple?" asked Thorstein.

Hord pointed to the finger of smoke, "About that far off I'd say."

"An hour or more at a faster pace than this," Soti answered.

"Then we should move at a faster pace than this," said Thorstein, "but not at a run, not yet."

***

The gates were torn down and pushed to the side. Ragnorvald wished to despoil the hall, at least burn the walls, barn, small buildings, but the anger of his men dissipated even as the pyre for Sven reached its height. The last timbers were thrown on the flames, the tent of beams now collapsed on the roasting bodies. Finally the gates were added as the last of the loot was stored on the wagons.

The oxen were slow but they could pull a heavy load. The women were split between the two wagons, Eystein sat beside Glum in the first while Ring sat near the back with his strung bow and his arrows at the ready. Aelfdan did the same in the second wagon while Skarpi sat beside Thorkel near the front.

"I will not be missing this place," said Gisli as he walked beside Ragnorvald.

"Sven was a loss it is true," Ragnorvald looked back at the hall with disgust. The wagon's were making their way through the gate and the outlaws marched behind, some keeping a hand on the high sides of the beds or hanging from a leather strap so that they were carried along without the bother of walking.  "Now what is the bitch-priestess up to?"

From the hall the old priestess walked unsteadily by the younger one's side. She held a staff to help her along and the girl held a familiar copper box.

"Nothing good," said Gisli.

Behind the two women came the thralls till they emptied the hall. Gisli touched the head of his axe and prepared to draw it into his hand, but the thralls stopped in a group outside the doors of the temple-hall, only the two women came forward. When they were a score of feet from Ragnorvald they stopped and the older of the pair reached into the copper chest and pulled out the skull by its long red braid. She pointed at Ragnorvald with her free hand and began to chant.

"Thou hast hither"

"For the last time"

"With death-fated feet"

"Trodden the ground"

"Before the sun sets"

"The Mother's curse"

"Will justly reward thee"

"For thy evil doings!"

And with a scream she swung the skull on its braid and let it sail toward Ragnorvald. It hit him in the chest and fell to the ground at the entrance to the temple-farm with its vacant eyes looking at him and its blackened withered flesh resting on the coils of its red-braided hair.

***

The smoke from Sven's pyre was dying down. Perhaps the thralls were quenching it with well-water Ragnorvald thought but he had stayed long enough for Sven to be little more than bones and ash. They could plant that if they desired.

On the southern track the forest was nearest to the temple-farm. The hills to the east were a more direct route to the cave dwellings that the outlaws had converted into their lair, but they could take the wagons for miles yet to shave away some of the distance they would need to carry the loot. Even with the help of six strong thrall-maid backs it would be work.

Though there had been precious little coin within the temple-farm they had furs and clothes, boots, small luxuries and a handful of weapons. The bows that the priestesses had wielded were especially fine, though their arrows were mostly headed with bone or flint, little use against an armored man. Ring was most pleased to replace his hunter's tool with a weapon, though just as short, designed for the killing of men.

Ragnorvald regretted the death of Sven. Better if he had died killing the enemies or the victims of their band of outlaws, but Ragnorvald knew that his challenge would have come sometime this winter when they were trapped in their frozen caves waiting for spring. Weeding themselves of Eirik was to the good, but Eystein would be a loss, he was fated for death from the wound, and Skarpi's arm was in the Weavers' hands. How they wove his fate could not be guessed. The wound in his side could fester or even the arm caught by the gate, or it might never regain strength. Ragnorvald had seen all such things happen. His own wound was sewn and padded with strips of cloth. It was a warm reminder of Sven's challenge.

He walked beside Gisli behind the last wagon. The oxen were even slower than he'd imagined. Pampered, lazy beasts, they'd no doubt walk themselves back to the temple-farm when they abandoned the wagons. No way to walk them over the hillsides where the outlaws would need to go. They would drag most of the heavier sacks of grain and the scrap metal from the smithy and hide it for later retrieval when he could bring more of the men down to carry it. These would all be welcome supplies when winter made travel nigh impossible and game scarce. The real storms would come and they would hibernate like bears inside their caves.

The passageways went down and fresh water pooled in the lower depths fed by some stream that ran cold from the nearby mountains. They had no need to work the rock. Someone had once lived in the complex of passages and caverns. Stairs were carved leading to the stream, wood, just rough boles that had turned hard as stone, braced openings and held against ceilings. Crude drawings filled one cave and a deep chamber was half choked with bones. No one could tell how far down it actually went. But no one had lived within the caves in many lifetimes.

"Ho!" Aelfdan shouted and stood up in the back of the second wagon. "Ragnorvald! Look!" he pointed in the direction of the receding temple.

More than just Ragnorvald turned to look behind them. Men dropped from the sides' of the wagons and the oxen were slowed if not halted from their steady pace.

From the west three riders could be seen, tiny and distant, with a small dark shape moving behind them.

"You have good eyes," Ragnorvald said to Aelfdan. He pulled himself up the back of the wagon bringing one leg over the tail then standing beside the archer.

The riders slowly grew in size; the dark shape behind them splitting apart into many men; Too many.

"I see spears and shields," said Aelfdan, "and the riders look to be in mail."

"Cursed good eyes," said Gisli who was below them.

The wagon halted, rocking Aelfdan and Ragnorvald slightly, and men began to form around its tail.

"We will never outrun them with these wagons," said Gisli.

"We could leave the wagons and cut into the woods, then into the hills," said Thorkel who had dropped down from the driver's bench and joined the others.

"Is that what we could do?" Gisli replied then laughed, "You think you could outrun those men, Thorkel?"

"I am in no mood to run," said Ragnorvald, which settled any other thoughts.

Eystein limped around the wagon-side and smiled a grey smile full of pain up at Ragnorvald. "I am in no mood to run either."

"I see the Raven King has decided to honor your fate there, Eystein."

"At least one of us will get his desire today, Ragnorvald."

A panicked look came over Thorkel, but then glancing at the rising forested hill to the east and the caves which might have hidden him, grim resignation buried any hopes he might have had.

"The Fox God's tricks," Agnar said in his deep and even voice.

"Or the Mother's curse?" asked Asbjorn.

"We will wait for them here," said Ragnorvald. "Turn the wagons and let the oxen go. Aelfdan, you and Ring can use the wagons for an archer's roost. The rest of us can keep them at our back."

They had spears and shields from the fallen at the hall and those who wished had taken them. Gisli preferred his axe though he also set a pair he'd looted near to hand and ready to be thrown. Ragnorvald held a spear in his right hand and an axe in his left. They hadn't been geared for battle with spear and helm and shield but instead they had travelled light and armed and armored for a raid. The line of spearmen that were slowly nearing looked all too ready for a fight.

***

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Or sending a gift to jasonzavoda@aol.com through paypal

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Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda

Chooser of the Slain - Part 6

Chapter 5

The doors to the barn were unlocked. Up above, Aelfdan was perched and alert, scanning the horizon front then back to see if anyone approached. Inside the barn were the stalls, mostly empty, two wagons and five oxen restless to be released.

Sven stood near the first wagon and near to him were Eirik and Asbjorn. Two of the three priestesses stood with them, no longer bound and talking in earnest conversation with the men. The third, as well as the young who'd been brought to the barn, were nowhere to be seen. The older of the pair of priestesses, she who had received the rough side of Ragnorvald's boot, stopped talking suddenly and pointed toward the open doors. Her voice rose, but Ragnorvald could still not make out what she said. Eirik turned with fury in his eyes, while Asbjorn merely shrugged. Sven's look was grim and it was he who stalked forward with Eirik near behind him.

"Do you lead here now?" Ragnorvald asked as Sven approached.

"I lead here," Sven replied.

"Axe's then," Ragnorvald said. "You are a fool Sven. Where did this come from?"

"You easterner. You pay no respect to the Harvest Mother, to the other Gods," Sven rubbed at his head. "You've cursed us."

"Outside then," replied Ragnorvald. "You surprise me. This I never saw. I knew you'd come for the challenge one day, but this, no I did not see this."

They walked outside and turned toward the open space between the hall and the barn. The others followed then came Asbjorn and the two priestesses.

"Room enough for the circle and the square," said Sven.

The customs of the northerners seemed never ending to Ragnorvald. Some he adapted to, most he ignored, but the laws for fighting and challenge seemed senseless to him. In the eastern clans a man challenged, and the fight began. Weapons were always at hand when a man went out of doors and even among family a warrior was held wise to hold himself ready for combat to come to him especially when he felt most safe and far from danger.

Which was never, Ragnorvald thought to himself remembering his own time as a child among his clan. The growing southern empire pushed at the tribes along all its borders and war between those from the south and east as well as the Empire's slavers changed what had been a hard life to one of desperation. His clan would not give ground, but chose instead to fight and die to a man and then the end came to every woman and child as well, fighting or letting their own blood flow rather than let the slaver's take them.

He would fight again in this challenge as he had done many times since taking the leadership of the outlaws and honor the strange customs of his northern cousins.

From above, Ring and Aelfdan turned to watch as Asbjorn paced out a square and cut the marks in the turf between the buildings. Then he drew a circle within the square so that it touched each side. At the corners were placed weapons. Both had chosen the axe and four were laid in the corners. Eirik held Sven's axe and stood to one side of the square. Gisli, looking on, and leading a crowd of outlaws and thralls came up to Ragnorvald.

"Trouble unexpected," he said, "A challenge from Sven, hey."

"Hold this axe, will you," Ragnorvald took his own axe from his belt and handed to Gisli who raised an eyebrow, laughed and took the axe in his hand.

Most of the population of the temple-farm filed out from the hall as word spread of the challenge. All the outlaws were present and the priestesses except for the third and the children she watched.

Sven stripped himself down to the waist and stood just outside the square's edge nearest to the barn.

"This is your time-wasting," Ragnorvald called to him, "Say the words."

With a sneer Eirik started to speak, but Sven turned with a smooth and lightning quick flash of his hand and gripped him on the shoulder with steel-like fingers that brought him up short.

"I bring challenge," Sven called to the assembled crowd and slowly turned his head to take in everyone, thrall, priestess and outlaw who stood along the sides of the square drawn in the dirt. He turned back and caught Ragnorvald's eye.

"I accept," Ragnorvald answered and chuckled, "I choose axes."

He stepped over the line on the ground and into the circle. Gisli handed him his axe. Two more were laid at the corners diagonally opposite in the space where the circle did not touch. A man could only grab the weapon set in his corners and could not leave the circle for any reason. To do so was punished by death and the sentence carried out by those closest to whoever broke the code of dueling honored among the north. The possibility that both men would step beyond the line was very real and death would be given to both.

"Axes," Sven replied and took his from Eirik while two others were laid in his corners.

Each axe belonged to one or the other of the outlaws. Each was unique in its way. Most meant for a single hand and balanced for throwing. Asbjorn's had a longer grip and a curving blade like half-a-moon of steel. It was not northern work. He laid it in Sven's corner. The blade Eirik carried was a simple one-handed war axe that could be thrown, though he was unskilled at such a use. It would look small in Sven's ham-like fist. Sven himself carried an axe that many men would use with two hands. It had been crafted for him and its heavy blade was balanced by a clawed spike on the reverse.

The axe in Ragnorvald's hand was surprisingly light. He normally wore a pair, each had been crafted with throwing in mind and he would often throw off his first blade immediately then draw his other while he closed with his enemy. Sven knew this well and was wary of such a tactic.

Gisli placed his axe in one of Ragnorvald's corners. It was a plain axe till one looked at it closer. The handle was slightly curved and the grip wrapped with leather over a short length of chain that formed small grooves where fingers could find purchase. The blade was odd, a trifle smaller than a normal axe blade and double bitted. The steel was unadorned but it had a sheen like oil on water with lines that curved with the arc of the blade.  Gisli placed it with care and then stood back. Skarpi left the other axe for Ragnorvald, a simple axe of the north with decent steel and a skald-placed line of runes circled around the grip.

Beside Sven the older priestess placed her hand upon his back and whispered in his ear before the big man stepped into the circle. He did not smile but the grim and despondent look left his features and with a cleared conscious and easy heart he raised his axe in salute to Ragnorvald signaling that the fight had begun.

***

Along the western road horsemen appeared on a curving rise. First the glint of their spears then iron helms and horse's heads huffing and snorting deep lungfulls of air. They trotted forward and slowed. More spears appeared, and helms, then men walking briskly up the slope and around the curve. They stayed to the road for the most part, but they walked in a loose throng, sometimes bunched as they talked or sang bits of song, until a score of them appeared. Their shields were slung across their backs, axes and swords at their side. Metal showed as dull grey-black or brownish-red rust on some who'd sewn rings to their leather vests or thick jerkins. Some had small plates against their shoulder or near their throats to hopefully stop the edge of a killing thrust or cut that would open their veins for a quick death. Their spears glinted sharp in the morning light. The hilts of both dagger and sword, though few bore them, were well cared for but worn with use.

The three riders were better armed. Their coats were of mail, round links which came to high collars and fell half-way to their knees. One wore armor plates for shin and thigh, and a strange helm hung from his saddle. A very long straight sword was at his side and a round shield at his other. The second had a metal cap of steel that sat on his hood of chain. There was a short straight blade on his saddle and an axe with a leather loop at its grip hung to his left. The last man was very large. His long reddish hair ran free down his back, but his pate was bald. He too had the long sword, but three small throwing axes were at his other side. His face was half-hidden by a wild red-brown beard and his deep-set eyes were shaded by red brows growing long above them.

They had been on the move all through the cold night with only a brief rest for a morning meal. Now they walked slowly and let the horses set their pace. They would be walking them soon before pushing onward for the last length of their journey to the Harvest Mother's temple-farm.

***

Sven turned so his freehand was toward Ragnorvald and his axe ready to sweep down at face and eyes. If he did not connect he would at least make Ragnorvald draw back. His left arm might take the axe if thrown but whatever damage it might do he knew he'd be able to catch him with his own blade while Ragnorvald was still unarmed.

But Ragnorvald did not throw his axe. He sprinted toward Sven as the broader man advanced. His axe dropped and he caught it low with his left hand, swung it up and caught Sven's descending blow haft to haft, the hooked lower edge slipping over the shaft near the head of the blade. As the axe's clacked together Ragnorvald turned and sprang at Sven. With his head lowered he brought the crown of his skull up against Sven's jaw, he left his feet, his shoulder punched into the broad unarmored chest and rebounded.

Sven staggered back spitting out blood and broken teeth. He was linked weapon to weapon, right hand to left, with Ragnorvald, his own left hand hugging inward to grab at the thatch of black hair that Sven could barely see from out of a cloud of pinpoint sparks that danced within his eyes.

Spun back by the collision with Sven's massive chest Ragnorvald nearly fell but was brought up by his axe held shoulder high tangled with Sven's own.  He pulled at the locked blades and felt immediate resistance as Sven drew back and tightened his grip on his axe's handle. As the big man's fingers found the back of Ragnorvald's head he let his axe fly free and Ragnorvald threw himself at Sven again, but this time with his right hand reaching out, his palm slamming hard into Sven's throat, his own fingers clutching then tightening into flesh and around the windpipe.

The pair tumbled backwards and Ragnorvald's head strained back, Sven's left hand twisted in his hair, trying to drag him off. They landed with a jarring impact. Ragnorvald's fingers on his right-hand clutched desperately, his nails digging furrows in flesh. He squeezed with every ounce of strength in his arm. Behind his eyes the red curtain began to fall. He knew the same must be true for Sven.

A clumsy swing of entwined steel and awkward dangling handle beat at Ragnorvald's side, opening a long cut across his ribs, but his left forearm blocked the second blow.  He shifted forward so he was leaning over Sven's struggling form, his right arm like a pillar, his shoulder pushing down and into the other man's throat. Ragnorvald squeezed his right hand as a man might crush an apple and felt a hollow meaty tube of flesh collapse.

Sven would have screamed or roared but he had no air. He felt a pressure building within his head, a tearing pain and the beginnings of the red blessed rage appearing behind his eyes. The pain disappeared, the world slowed, his struggling became a dance; every move perfection. He knew that he was dead.

Like a bear lifting from beneath a covering of leaves and brambles Sven pushed himself to his feet. His left hand peeled Ragnorvald from him as if he were no more than a rag-filled doll that had been left across his chest. He tossed his chief aside and stood. The paired axes slipped from his hand. He looked across the gathered faces and through them, through buildings, through forest and mountains. He saw the dark clouds approaching and among them came the crows. They filled his eyes and took his soul. Sven's body dropped to his knees and fell and his blood-filled eyes stared with sightless wonder at the coming storm.

***

Ragnorvald landed in a crouch like a cat thrown from a height. His hands caught the turf and he skidded back, almost to the edge of the circle line. His right hand was a blood-soaked fist, frozen like a club. He had to flex and flex for it to open. He watched and did not move as Sven rose then fell and died. His breathing came in great heaves and before the full rage could fall upon him it faded, escaping from him with every breath.

"No!!!" came a scream. It barely registered to Ragnorvald and he had not even turned his head before an axe came hurtling by him. The handle brushed his chest and the blade was moved just enough to save the unlucky thrall who was in its unintended course.

Eirik screamed again, but no one could know what he had meant to say. The youngling jumped into the circle his hand pulling a dagger free from his belt, his mouth opened for a shout when a steel arrowhead erupted from between his teeth as if it had been born on the wind of his own words, steel head, shaft and feathered fletching all. Made to pierce metal plate or ringed shirt Aelfdan's shot pierced bone and flesh and teeth and thudded into the ground an arm's length in front of Eirik's falling body.

With a shake of his shoulders Ragnorvald came to life. He walked over to Eirik's body and nudged it with his toe then bent and pulled the arrow from the ground. His side was washed with blood and he would soon feel pain in hand and hair as well, but the last blessings of the rage had not completely left his body.

He walked slowly over to Sven. The face was bluish black with bitten tongue protruding and the throat was a torn and bloody ruin, but the body was empty, the spirit was gone and only the honored shell of a great warrior remained.

"You will pay for all this!" the older priestess ran up to Ragnorvald and spat the words in his face.

His punch clipped her high near the temple, much in the way that he'd knocked Eirik senseless the night before. He'd put little force in it but still it twisted her head aside and dropped her to the ground unconscious or dead, he did not care.

"We will need a pyre," Ragnorvald said quite loudly, but he was speaking to himself.

***

(If you are enjoying this story please consider purchasing it on kindle

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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

Chooser of the Slain - Part 5

Chapter 4

Light broke over the mountains to the east and lit the temple-farm, but the darkness had ended some time before as black night gave way to gray-blue. It was a cloudless day and cold but the wind was up and moving the trees on the hillside and to the forested path to the south.

Ring sat atop the roof of the hall swathed in furs like a small bear on an empty hill-top bare of trees. He called to Ragnorvald when he saw him leave the hold.

"Hey! Send someone up here to watch while I sleep," he yelled down.

"I need you up there," Ragnorvald yelled back.

"I can sleep up here fine. Just send someone to watch while I do it."

With an eye at the barn Ragnorvald turned back to the door of the hall.

"I'll drag someone out of the furs," he called to Ring.

The entrance to the hall was a bloody mess. Four of the men who'd defended the door were dead and they'd gathered them and their bits and pieces and tossed them in a heap to the side of the entrance. To Ragnorvald's surprise the bodies were now laid out some distance away beside the low building the temple used as a forge and smithy. Three of his men were busy with picks and shovels digging holes in the ground.

He frowned and veered from the hall.

"I see you have moved in here," he said to them as he approached.

"What?" asked Asbjorn pausing in his work and leaning on his shovel. Next to him Eirik wore a piece of cloth tied around his head and from his jaw to his crown. He was knee deep in his hole and didn't bother to look around. Hrafnkel was chopping at the ground with a pick and pulled up his downward swing when he heard Ragnorvald speak.

"You look to be planting potatoes," laughed Ragnorvald.

Eirik suddenly stopped his digging and turned to face Ragnorvald with his shovel wavering in his hand halfway between tool and weapon but acting as neither in the young northman's grasp.

"Eirik," Ragnorvald said quietly but with unhidden menace in his voice, "you going to try planting me?"

For a moment a red sheet fell before Eirik's eyes and his body tensed to spring, but his spirit was weak and the rage did not take hold. The moment passed. The shovel fell from Eirik's hand and he turned his head away.

"Maybe it is better that you do stay here," Ragnorvald said with contempt and disappointment.

"I will keep planting potatoes," Asbjorn said and dispelled the dangerous cloud that had formed around them.

Ragnorvald looked at the squat powerful warrior digging in the ground like a farmer or a thrall and laughed. "Hrafnkel," he turned to the third man. "I need someone to take a turn at watch on the hall roof."

"I do not like," Hrafnkel began and paused for words. "...the temple. The Harvest Mother..."

"You can dig... you can stay awake and watch," Ragnorvald said evenly.

"I can watch," Asbjorn said.

"Do you challenge?" Ragnorvald asked him casually.

Asbjorn locked eyes with the chief he'd sworn to obey and felt that this was not his day to die.

Hrafnkel threw down his pick and, not glancing at Ragnorvald, headed for the side of the hall where they had left the ladder.

***

Inside the hall the thralls, except for a half-dozen of the women culled aside by the outlaws, milled about the base of the Harvest Mother's statue. A pile of goods had been dragged to the front of the temple-hall near the doors. Several fine wooden chests, tools, several barrels, piles of furs, whatever weapons could be found and foodstuffs that had been kept near the small cooking fire toward the back of the hall. The center firepit, wide enough to roast an oxen, was blazing merrily with a week's worth of logs and items such as Ring's torn and bloodsoaked clothes. They added to the thick smoke and burned amid the timbers.

"Well I'm glad to see you've been busy," Ragnorvald boomed out as he looked about him.

"Nothing keeps us from loot," Skarpi called back. He had planted himself near enough to the blazing fire to roast, and Ragnorvald laughed when he saw the spear behind him with a hunk of meat charring on the end set leaning against a bench and dangling just outside the flames.

Gisli wandered up with a small chest in his hands. He had clothed himself in his old stained garments and wore his armor. All were clean and looking none the worse for their roll in the sheep pen.

"Found this back there," he said and nodded toward the back of the hall with the looming statue of the Harvest Mother. "Even the thralls didn't know what it was."

"That sounds promising," said Ragnorvald.

"I brought it up here because it is stirring up the thralls."

"Afraid of those," Skarpi teased his friend.

"I'd rather not slaughter them," Gisli said seriously, "and not here." He set the small chest on the ground by his feet. It was old and coated in a moldy looking green with a lock half as big as a fist. "I'm not worried about the Harvest Mother and her priests or her temple," he held up his hand, "my people have never been farmers, both the men and women always sought a place in the Raven King's hall, but this is a holy place, and I'd rather not have even the Goddess of farmers and pregnant women angered with me."

"Save me from pregnant women," Skarpi mocked.

Ragnorvald rolled his eyes, but he knew better than to disregard the worries of his men. Well, the worries of Gisli and Skarpi who were two of his better men.

"Let us see what we have here," he said to Gisli.

Skarpi moved himself over but didn't stand. Gisli squatted by the small chest and pulled a short broad knife from his belt. It was a stabbing blade which would split bone and leave a wide wound though not a deep one. Its broad handle was as long as the blade so a man could get a strong grip and tear it loose if it became wedged. Ragnorvald watched as Gisli scrapped the blade between the lock and the edge of the chest. The dagger left a sharp copper scar where it parted the verdigris of years. When he had the hilt up to the side of the lock he turned, twisted and pulled, his face went red and he put his knee on the top. With a snap the old metal parted and the lock shot free, barely missing Ragnorvald who had backed away from the arc of the freed dagger as Gisli tore it loose.

The top of the chest sprang back. Inside the box was a swirl of copperish rope coiled into a long braid. Ragnorvald bent down and brushed at the tangle, then lifted the box in one hand and poured the contents out into the other; A round and leathery object fell out amid a shower of copper braids.

Skarpi laughed and Gisli gave a curse. Ragnorvald tilted the box back and rolled the withered skull inside, but the braids dangled from it like a coiled serpent.

"Not even any gold teeth," Ragnorvald sighed. "I thought they buried their dead?"

"This is something of the priestesses," said Gisli more than a little dismayed to see the skull, "some secret that they have."

"Put it back then," Ragnorvald said with disappointment. "Or toss it in the fire. Or hang the cursed thing from the ceiling so Ring and Aelfdan can shoot at something," his voice rose and then he chuckled. "Close it up and put it back. I was hoping for a chest of gold, but I knew it was too light."

"Little gold or coin we've found here," Skarpi complained. "They seem to like fur, cloth or bones. Not even much metal except for some blades."

"They don't like metal," spoke a voice through the fire.

Eystein came limping around the outer edge of the great center fire. "We won't be finding gold here," he told them in a strained and hollow voice. A small trail of blood followed him as he approached and he fiddled with the cloth tied around his thigh. He looked pale, though the light from the fire danced orange and red across everything, but still a drawn and grey face stared at them.

Ragnorvald held back a grimace. Eystein had the face of death on him. His time did not look far off.

"Hah," Eystein snorted than swayed a bit on his feet.

Skarpi caught his leg and Eystein stiffened then dropped himself to the floor. "You'll be in the fire!"

"It doesn't matter," Eystein rubbed at his leg, "I've bled too much. I'll never make it back to the cave. To the ice with this place, some bitch cuts me down with a bow..."

"We will carry you back if we need to," Ragnorvald assured him, but to himself he silently agreed.

"If I could have made it to those spearmen..."

"Hold yourself together," Ragnorvald reached down and gripped Eystein's shoulder. "You charged into the fight. This is a battle wound, be it from a bow or spear. Those women were no thralls. The way you treat these priestesses they sit above a jarl."

"I didn't care," Eystein muttered, "I said to myself I didn't care. The Crow-Maiden's would never carry me. I would never go to the Raven King's hall. Now it is my hope. My time is near."

"Your time will be when it will be," Ragnorvald told him. "You know you cannot hide from your fate. If this is your death it came with honor, but while you still breathe fight, fight for that last breath."

"Morning is here..." said Gisli without looking up. He worked to stuff the braids of the skull back into the metal chest but clanged it close with a long tail of it hanging down.

"Yes, it is time for us to be leaving," Ragnorvald agreed. "Everyone up!" he yelled and his voice echoed through the temple-hall.

***

The doors to the hall were pulled wide. Ragnorvald led his men out with a gaggle of thralls carrying their former possessions and those of the temple. The morning was changing from cold, clear and bright to a gray which promised snow. Clouds half-filled the sky and they sailed like the sea-kings own dragon-prowed ships over the waves. Darker tidings were on the move, a storm was coming, Ragnorvald could taste it in the air.

"We need those wagons," Gisli looked toward the barn.

"Where has Sven gotten?" Ragnorvald replied but really asked the question to the air.

"What is all the noise?" the air asked back.

Ring sat on the roof-peak above the entrance to the hall.

"Time to go," Ragnorvald told him. "Stay up there, but send Hrafnkel down to help get the wagons and the oxen. We're leaving."

"About time," Ring called back and then yelled for Hrafnkel to get his ass over to the barn.

"You get things sorted out here, Gisli," Ragnorvald nodded toward the throng of men and thralls. "Keep watch on Eystein. He can ride in a wagon. We take him or his body with us."

"Right," Gisli replied, "Skarpi should stick around too. He took a good beating last night."

Ragnorvald nodded then called to the others, "Agnar, Glum, Thorkel, up to the barn. We have those wagons to prepare."

The temple-hall, barn, forge, sheep pen, and small buildings were held in a big circle of logs that formed a short wall, taller than a man but no defense against a real foe or even a dozen raiders such as Ragnorvald and his men, and the barn was only a score of yards distance away.

"Where is Sven?" Ragnorvald muttered aloud. The men beside him gave the exclamation a sidelong glance but offered no reply.

***

(If you are enjoying this story please consider purchasing it on kindle

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Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda

Chooser of the Slain - Part 4

Chapter 3

"I am the Harvest Mother's priestess, and you will pay for this sacrilege," the woman spat at Ragnorvald and all the men near him.

Eirik, Agnar and Skarpi had joined them. Eirik had stuck his fat head through the door to the hall and nearly had it cut off by some old thrall with a fire-axe. Clumsy and stupid most of the time, Eirik was quick to react during a fight. He'd moved quick enough for her to sink the blade into the door instead of him and immediately clouted her in the head with back of his own axe, dropping her like a sack of potatoes.

The freehold was one large room with a fire-pit in the middle and a wide capped hole in the roof to let the smoke out (and the cap, like a round table with legs set around the hole, kept much of the rain out as well).

The roof-pillars were all carved and the walls, which would normally be decked with old shields, weapons, banners and runes left by the skalds, was covered in cleaned and tanned lengths of hide with paintings of the Harvest Mother, her crops, sheltering the young, healing the sick, planting the dead who followed her (instead a respectable pyre to help send the spirit of the dead off to the Raven King's hall as any warrior would want).

At the back of the hall a large crowd was gathered around an ancient carving of a sitting woman, hugely pregnant with gigantic breasts and hair coiled around her that piled on the floor and hid her feet. A child suckled at her teat and she held what was probably meant to be a sheaf of wheat. Eirik backed slowly out of the hall.

***

Gisli was covered in shit. It wasn't the first time. He'd grown up with sheep and a cow in the single room of his family's hut at night. He rubbed the head of a sheep that was just waking. The entire flock was beginning to mill about in a nervous circle, but all the screaming, barking and shouting had died down.

He jumped over the small fence that penned in the sheep and made his way to the front of the freeholding's hall with an axe in one hand and a large knife in the other. He could throw either and most times cripple or kill the one he aimed at. Everything seemed quite but the middle of a raid was no time to get careless.

Someone had lit a torch, then another at the entrance to the hall. He could see Sven backing away from something and rubbing his hands across his face. Ragnorvald was yelling. Agnar was there and Asbjorn was holding something up to Eystein who suddenly doubled over and spewed last night's supper on his boots.

Eirik appeared backing out of the door to the hall. He turned and began screaming at Ragnorvald. Gisli paused to watch what was becoming an entertaining pantomime. He shifted his view to his right as Thorkel and Hrafnkel came trundling toward the hall. A figure was moving to the far right. For a moment he didn't recognize him. Ring looked like he'd had someone dump a bucket of blood over his head.

Where, Gisli wondered, were Aelfdan and Glum?

***

"Aelfdan," came a whisper from below him, "It's gone quiet."

"Shut-up," Aelfdan hissed back.

"It's gone quiet and where is everyone!" Glum said in a louder voice.

"I told you, shut-up," Aelfdan said again, his own voice even louder than Glum's."

"To the ice with you!" Glum yelled and ducked down so that Aelfdan tumbled from his shoulders.

Aelfdan felt his perch give way and rolled, cradling his longbow as he did. He jumped to his feet and reached for an arrow. Glum' s back was a wide easy target as the man marched around the curve of the wall heading for the gate. Aelfdan had his arrow fitted and aimed with his arm drawing back, but it wavered and slowly he let the tension of the bowstring pull his arm back without releasing the deadly shaft. With a shrug of his shoulders Aelfdan marched after Glum but kept a distance between them till his temper cooled.

They would have words, but later.

***

"This is a temple-farm," Eirik exclaimed as he turned to face Ragnorvald. He pointed a finger at the two women still lying on the ground. "Those are priestesses!" his voice rose and broke. "What have you done?" he had more than a look of mortal fear on his face as he shouted at Ragnorvald.

"You northmen," Ragnorvald shook his own head.

"You cursed eastlander, " Sven's voice was flat with shock.

"This is a wealthy farm, as I told you," Ragnorvald replied to his underling, "The men rode and marched out of here a day ago; A ripe piece of fruit."

"You've cursed us!" Eirik shouted.

"Do you think the Raven King or the Thunderer would care?" Ragnorvald asked them. "About a bunch of farmers?"

"She is a priestess!" Eirik was looking at the dead and wounded scattered about the doors to the hall. "Is that one dead?" he pointed to the bowwoman Sven had knocked out with the end of his appropriated spear.

Ragnorvald nudged the woman's body with the tip of his boot. She stirred and moaned, but didn't wake.

Eirik gave a scream and rushed at him. The rage had mostly drained away from Ragnorvald leaving a throbbing pain in his head and a numb tingling through most of his body. He was still quick enough to thump Eirik across his temple with a blow strong enough that it twisted the man's head halfway round and left him on his back gulping in shallow breaths.

"There now," laughed Ragnorvald, "you can keep her company."

"You bastard," Sven mutterd.

The big man was still red as a beat and breathing like an angry bull. Ragnorvald eyed him with much more caution than he would ever have given the clumsy pup he'd just knocked out.

"Sven, how many farmers have we killed? How many holds have we raided?" Ragnorvald yelled back at the man. "Don't get squeamish on me now. So this is a temple-farm. We fought them fair and they lost. You can plant them if you like. Plant some warrior seed in the thralls. Your Harvest Mother likes babies doesn't she?"

"She will curse your seed, your manhood!" growled the older priestess. The younger one just glared at Ragnorvald, but sent looks toward her unconscious sister-priestess but still too wary to go to her.

"Priestess... in the eastland we have no priests or priestesses..." Ragnorvald spread his arms and pointed vaguely toward the east as he spoke.

"She is a priestess here, eastlander," Sven growled.

Ragnorvald turned his head. He took in the looks of his men. All were northerners and all had a nervous mien, except for Ring whose white eyes almost glowed behind the mask of drying blood he wore.

"Hey Ring," Ragnorvald called to him, "What say you? Looks like you've sacrificed enough to appease any Goddess tonight."

Ring laughed, "That I have. The Fox's children nearly had me. I've paid for whatever I take here!" he caught sight of the priestess. "But not her. Not them. The Harvest Mother has marked them and they aren't for me."

"Nor for me," said the quiet Asbjorn. "I will honor the Harvest Mother's priestess but the Fox tells me that I may take what else I like."

Many of the outlaws followed the Fox, the Raven King's bastard child. He helped thieves and tricksters, fools, madmen, and murderers. There was no Hall for those who followed him. No glorious life of battle beyond this one, but one could be reborn, sometimes as an animal, sometimes as a man with the spirit of an animal inside of him. But each new life lead to madness till one day you joined the legion of dark spirits that the Fox had at his command.

"I don't know what that will get you," Ragnorvald shook his head, "but these three we will lock in the barn with the children. I am sure there are enough thrall maidens and slaves in the hall to keep us warm today."

"You will not...!" the priestess began to shout but Ragnorvald thumped her stomach with the flat of his boot spilling the air from her lungs. The younger priestess gasped and Ragnorvald eyed her with regret. He followed the Raven King as his own people had taught him. He never broke his word whatever the cost to himself. But this craven abasement toward a Goddess that was honored by sacrifices of cakes and grain made him wonder about the strength and nerve of those who followed him. Even the older priestess had a noble bearing and an iron spirit which promised much if he took her for a slave or bargained a thralldom out of her.

"We have no slaves!" the younger priestess shouted at him before Ragnorvald could turn his back on her. "And the thralls have come here to honor the Harvest Mother. They pay her with their service."

"A thrall is a thrall," Ragnorvald regretted even more the wrestling it would have taken to have this maid now that he saw the spark of her own fire. "The Raven King wants men, and women, who do not bow their heads or turn their backs in battle. What happens to those who deny him is none of his concern. You raised that bow for your Goddess, you should have raised it for the Raven King if you wanted to die a warrior's death. Bah!" he laughed at her. "Wasted breath. Sven, Asbjorn, hey Thorkel, you three take them to the barn and tie them to a post. These three will gnaw through any ropes, so keep their hands away from their teeth. And keep them separate from each other. I don't know what witchery they and their Goddess can concoct, but make sure to gag them."

***

"That was quite a show," Gisli spoke loudly to the others as he made his way to the entrance of the hold.

"You smell like shit," Eystein told him as he approached.

Gisli shrugged his head.

"Ha!" Ragnorvald laughed at the mired man. "Where have you been?"

"Fighting some sheep," he said matter-of-factly.

"Screwing some sheep it looks like," laughed Ring.

"There better be more than sheep here," said Gisli looking toward the three women being led and carried toward the barn.

"Inside," said Ragnorvald, "I have no doubt."

"Hey, where's Skarpi?" Gisli eyed the gathering of the raiders.

"Over here," Skarpi was leaning up against the wall of the hold beyond the torchlight.

"What happened to you?" asked Gisli as he made his way to the torch-lit doors.

"Those little priestesses aren't shy with the bow," he told Gisli. Skarpi had his armor off and his shirt padded under his left arm. "I'm getting cold out here. Let us find some thrall maids, and maybe a cloak I can steal."

"Yes, let's find something to steal, and maybe a water barrel where I can wash some of this sheep off me." Gisli reached down and with a slow pull helped Skarpi to his feet.

***

"I'm staying here," said Sven, "Outside the barn."

"Don't you trust yourself in there with them," Ragnorvald said in a mocking tone.

Sven glared for a moment but then answered in an even voice, "I don't trust the Fox God's men to keep their word. He is the father of lies."

"Fine. I'm putting Aelfdan and Ring on the rooftops," Ragnorvald told him. "Since you don't trust the Fox's boys I'll have Aelfdan on the barn. He worships that bow of his. Ring, once he has washed off some of that blood will be up on the hall roof."

"That is a temple," Sven reminded him.

"Temples," Ragnorvald shook his head then slapped Sven on the chest, "your heart is the only temple that the Raven King cares about."

"So you say," Sven said seriously, "There are more Gods than the Raven King."

"He is the one that matters," Ragnorvald said over his shoulder as he left the big man standing stiffly in the cold night air against the door to the barn.

Ragnorvald had seen what he needed when they opened the doors. Oxen, milk cows, two wagons they could use to haul away what they looted from the hold. Temple-farm, he corrected himself.

***

Inside the hall the shouts and screams had died down. The old and the children had been weeded out. They took the children to the barn to spend the rest of the night and probably most of the next day with the priestesses for company. Sven had removed their gags, and they'd cursed him as soon as their mouths were free, but even he wouldn't free them from their bonds.

"There are three or four toothsome thralls in the lot," Ring told Ragnorvald when he entered the hall. He had washed most of the blood from himself and wore a shirt too big but warm and clean. His leather shirt was gouged and heavily stained and would probably remain so till Ring could replace it.

"You've tried them all I take it," smiled Ragnorvald.

"One, one and a half," Ring laughed back. "Those dogs wore me out more than the thrall maids. I did take the best of those Harvest Mother's women's bows and they had whistling fire arrows aplenty."

"Good," said Ragnorvald. "Take them to the roof. Bury yourself under some furs but keep an eye out."

"Still some time before dawn," Ring grimaced. "I'm not going to see much further than the yard in this light."

"Do what you can. Use your ears, but even a little warning is better than having everyone caught with their pants down." Ragnorvald told him and clapped Ring on the shoulder.

He nodded and shouted for Hrafnkel to pull up his pants and bring him some furs before departing for the ladder they'd taken from the barn and then the perch on top of the temple-hall, bow and quiver over his shoulder.

Ragnorvald made his way further into the hall past several grunting fur piles. Gisli was stripped naked, watching as an old thrall woman scrubbed at his clothing and another worked over his armor. Skarpi was nearby leaning against a wall with a leather tankard beside him. He was doing his own work with knife and huge steel needle to fix the cut strap of his own armor. Two thralls tended a fire where the smell of roasting mutton made Ragnorvald's mouth water as he approached.

"They're cooking Gisli's sheep-girl," Skarpi smiled grayly but his crushed arm and chest wound made his work both slow and painful.

Gisli made a rude gesture at the wounded man then padded over to the fire and grabbed a knife. He cut a hunk of meat from where it snapped and burned and carefully bit at it then spit out his mouthful and snatched a bowl from the top of a wide barrel.

"You are going to burn more than your mouth if you aren't careful around that fire," Ragnorvald warned him.

 Gisli took another bite of the hot mutton and a quick gulp of whatever was in the bowl before trying to talk with his mouth full. Ragnorvald left him happily wolfing down his fatty, blackened meal and made his way to the back of the hall.

The statue of the Harvest Mother eyed him with wooden disdain. Ragnorvald felt nothing. He could take his axe and chop the old wood to kindling and he'd feel nothing. Sven was fearless, a wildman in battle, but one look at this tree-stump and he's knees weakened. Ragnorvald would never understand.

His people lived far to the east but were still kin with these northerners, even their language was almost the same, but this burden of priests and temples, and the many Gods they worshipped made his head hurt. There was the Raven King, the Allfather, and his children. This Harvest Mother was something dragged in from some other people that the northerners fought and traded with, some land of song-smiths and wizards who lived along the black ice where the sun barely shone. Maybe if he'd ever taken to the sea he would call out to the Thunderer to guide his path and keep the ocean calm, but he was no sea-king and the Raven King was enough God for him; Ragnorvald needed no other.

Well, his people were gone. Plenty of eastlanders left but his tribe had ventured south and come against the people of the Empire. The fighting had taken them all and the slavers come to raid the tents of the young and the women had found that they had a tiger by the tail. Only Ragnorvald had survived.

Behind him Eystein came limping up. The wound to his leg had been bound, but it still bled slowly.

"Come to pay respect to the Harvest Mother," Eystein asked him, but it wasn't a question.

Ragnorvald snorted.

"I was brought up too close to the Southrons. The old tales weren't real for me though we left our offerings at harvest like the others and hung the gifts for the Allfather on the year's last day," said Eystein, but still he looked up at the carven statue with respect and perhaps a little fear.

***

Copyright March 2014 By Jason Zavoda

(If you are enjoying this story please consider purchasing it on kindle

http://www.amazon.com/Chooser-Slain-Jason-Zavoda-ebook/dp/B00J1BQI78/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1433206506&sr=1-2&keywords=choosers+of+the+slain

Or sending a gift to jasonzavoda@aol.com through paypal

Comments here or on Amazon Kindle would be greatly appreciated)