The Shield of Hannar (Runehammer Novels Book 2) Page 2

  So it was that what was once a vast, silent expanse became a troubled border.

  This war began as so many do, with an empty wine skin and a dare.

  In the southern reaches of the Greenway stood a Fort called Friendship. Here stood the Iron Army, conscripts and militia mostly loyal to Akram and the high seat at Ramthas. These men and dwarves held no hate for the elves of Kath or even the odd toga-wearing Aphosians, and simply held the fort to stave off brigands, beasts, and bandits.

  But the treaty that gave this spike-walled wooden bunker its name was ages old, and long harried by skirmishes, raiders, and unsanctioned attacks from the South. Thus, another division was eventually added to its ranks, and it held watch on the Greenway with keen eyes.

  Here was posted Hunnin of Ell, Hannar’s father. Watchman and second row pike was his charge, and not lightly did he mind his duty as a soldier. He had the old blood in him, and the shield-tan to prove it. His reddish beard was braided in thick knots with brass clasps, and his bunched-up eyebrows left all but dwarves to guess at his mood.

  Hunnin had just finished his duties. He checked the signal fires one last time, then descended from atop the walls into the courtyard to sharpen blades, and cuff the occasional recruit as they nodded off. It was early dawn, and his relief was arriving. Forearms were clutched before eyes met, and it was Mars, an older guardsman of the fort known to shave badly and sneeze in battle.

  “Fine morning, Hunn, you rat,” Mars greeted him, “fend off the elves and golems yourself last night?”

  “Aye,” he smiled. They changed places, and Hunnin descended again to the barracks without word. The fort was quiet, but the daily regimen of training, cleanup and drills was starting to stir.

  At his bunk, he shared two great mugs with Wrimm and Scratch. They offered the Gar up as soon as he entered, for to hear a dwarf sleep on an empty stomach is a terrible thing. He drank, and they had a few rounds of dice.

  The Gar of Fort Friendship they brewed themselves. It was a dark, roasted stout with a bonnet of creamy foam and a hint of jerked venison. It’s said that to besiege dwarves is nearly impossible, because they can live on Gar alone for months at a time.

  The foam he wiped from his moustache, bade his comrades a good eve, and climbed into bed. There he made ready boots and greaves both at his bedside, into which he could jump at the sound of the Great Horn. On wooden hooks he hung his hammer, shield, and helmet. Two wooden planks formed a cross at the head of his bunk, and were adorned with cuirass, a pair of spiked pauldrons, and arming coat. Guard duty only required hauberk and vest, but it was not uncommon for a dwarven soldier to bear more than two hundred pounds of arms and armor when ready for battle.

  To Udin and Thoor he made his prayers, and grumbled about a sore hip. For Hannar and Anna back home he rubbed a rune stone, and finally lay down in the modest woolen blankets. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of contentment envelope him. His conscience was clear, his duty fulfilled, his fort secure.

  That was the last time he ever felt that sensation. Truly, he never could have known of the doom approaching on misty wings from the southern forest.

  It began as a simple fog. The rain was heavy that morning, starting and stopping every few moments while the sun rose. The guards were wet, but resolute. For dwarves are braced by cold and damp, and find glee in the bite of winter’s tooth. So, they kept their watch over spiked log tops.

  Typically, the guard carried pike and shield, but Mars was somewhat of an oddity among them. Great sword only did he carry, slung over one shoulder and fully two feet longer than he was tall. The weapon was enormous, with a blade as broad as his hand and a hilt-guard carved in twisting antlers.

  This great blade he named Ruin, for so it was to his foes. He planted the pommel at one boot, stiffened his back, and scanned the forest beyond the outer gate. The fog was thick indeed, like a low-floating cloud it coiled ‘round tree trunks and rolled under itself as it approached on a light breeze. Eventually even the tops of the trees simply disappeared in its plume.

  “Spring has conjured a real frost-fog here boys,” Mars muttered under his visor. “Grey soup for breakfast.”

  Closer it rolled, and the rain abated briefly while mottled sun rays danced onto the clearing ahead. Mars squinted, and his hairs stood on end as he realized it wasn’t fog at all, but smoke. He leaned forward, planted Ruin’s squared tip in the rough wood planks beneath his feet, and listened, holding his breath. Movement. Sounds of movement in the smoke.

  He scuffled three strides to his left, pulling the great blade free as he did, and leaned into a spiked wooden loophole where a longbow and quiver were mounted. He leaned Ruin on the spikes, nocked an arrow, and took aim into the smoke. Another guard noticed his action, and froze with surprise.

  “Mars, what in blazes-“

  But the arrow was loosed before he could finish the question. The smoke cloud was bigger than a barn and extended back into the woods beyond the limits of even Hunnin’s keen eyesight. The arrow vanished into it, but impacted something with an audible thwack.

  At that moment, the elven raiders erupted from their cloud like a tidal wave of steel and death.

  Now elvenkind is generally perceived by most as a majestic, life-loving folk, valuing nature and beauty and immortality as guardians of good. And, for the most part, this is true. But when they make war, it is a terrifying thing indeed, for they embrace their killing fury whole heartedly, and their natural grace and talent for war make them fierce fighters.

  So, they burst forth from the smoke cloud in a howl of fury. Headlong they pressed through the first gate, little more than an archway of great logs, and smashed against the fort like a storm. The gate almost gave way on their first assault; more than fifty of them all in one heave, bashing bat-shaped shields and curved kopesh swords in unison.

  “To the walls!” Mars bellowed in a dwarven thunder. “The elf bastards are upon us!” He rapidly unleashed four more shafts into the attacking throng, piercing gorget and visor-slot alike with uncanny skill. For each arrow loosed, an elf perished. His kin in kind joined the fray, and soon dwarven shafts began skewering the hoard with terrible effect.

  Mars dropped the bow and darted to the gate-watch, bringing up Ruin above him like a war banner. To this shining silver blade the guard rallied, and like beetles they bunched and gathered behind the gate.

  “Brace!” Mars yelled at them, and they did. Locking elbows and digging booted toes in their shields formed a bulwark of steel, and they pressed inward. Mars noticed Hunnin in formation, tunic, trousers, and boots only, and gritting his teeth.

  The elves tried again, leaping and hacking at the gate like grasshoppers gone mad. The treaty was ended, the skirmishing over. This was an attack intended to wipe the fort off the map.

  5

  The dress would not fit.

  All the whale bones in the Black Ocean couldn’t squeeze her into the damned thing, no matter how hard the chamber maid tugged and cursed. She tied the bodice anyway, with mere nubs of string remaining, and sewed buttons to the back with string frogs to loosen the shoulders.

  It was hideous. A frilly, ruffled, green-striped monstrosity intended to arouse men and keep women from breathing. Gods forbid a woman should be relieved of light-headedness for even a moment, lest she topple all the warring world of Lords and Kings in one sentence.

  The mirror, with one odd ripple in it that elongated her left leg, yawned at her. She could not muster a smile, and the doom of appearing in court as some kind of sex-trophy dawned on her in waves of anger.

  “Would Miss like a sip of chilled Gar to ease her nerves? Court can be a trial at times,” the maid murmured, keeping her gaze downward.

  “I’m no lady or duchess, Wenn,” the mirror-gazer replied. “We will speak plainly together. Let’s both have a mug, for pity’s sake.” They sat. One sipped, one gulped.

  Her name was still Elisa back then, before her grim nickname took its place. For that day was a doom long in the making
: A wedding meant to tie the men of Englemoor and the hill tribes of the Nurin foothills. And of all who would benefit, Elisa’s Uncle, Siris, stood chief among them. She was being pawned like a donkey at market.

  In truth, Elisa never intended to go through with it. Hers were the hill folk, and her blood mighty. With a hundred spears outside her chambers she had passed the days, unable to fathom a means of escape. And so, she found herself here, stuffed like a supper pig ready for slaughter.

  She quaffed another mug, and her choler settled.

  A sharp knock at the door and the farce was unfolding. Two hundred leather-capped subjects had gathered in Englemoor square. There was an air of cautious celebration, but the taverns were brimming and the sewers more so. On the raised stage stood Uncle Siris, a bearded colossus of a man. He had married into her family from the Grey Road clans years ago. The groom-to-be also there stood, sweating and looking peckish as a starved goose. Elisa had forgotten his name. With them stood a division of armored pikemen, and, most notably, a headsman at the ready. The latter was hooded, and leaned on his grim, ten-foot chopper with dark menace. Lutes and laughter bubbled on the stone pave.

  “Gentlefolk and ladies of Englemoor!” a crisp, bright tenor voice cut the din. “Draw your attention to the stage, and prepare to witness peace in the forging!” Folk gathered, and shuffled forward. The only space they left was near the headsman, who reeked of dried blood.

  “Ah yes, yes,” the crier continued. He was a spry, tiny fellow in green and yellow pantaloons with waist tassets and a three-buckled rapier frog. He popped and lunged as he spoke, and knew his craft well. “Greetings all, and morrow good met!” From thin air, he produced a goblet, guzzled its red contents in one spectacular pour, flipped it, spun it, and the silver cup landed impossibly back in its waist loop. The crowd cheered, and one drunk fell over.

  “Be on with it, clown!” Siris bellowed. He sat in a great wooden chair with lion hand rests, but was visibly uneasy. The man was unimpressive, despite the relative grandeur of the throne, and greed dripped from his mustache.

  “Indeed, Siris of Nurin’s folk! On with the wedding!” the bard spun to the far side of the stage, wowing the crowd again. “Let all here witness the rightful joining of Elisa Fenn’s daughter, and Barille of Westerfund, duke of that fine land and heir to Fort Spear! By these bonds we make peace with the folk of the Nurin hills, and bind an alliance against the weird and the wicked! Who here say otherwise?”

  There was an odd quiet, as at all weddings and such moments. At last one voice cracked the pause. Folk flinched.

  “Blast this slavery to the hells!” boomed Elisa, her voice deep and rusty like a bear waking from sleep too soon. Her handlers yanked her back by her shoulders, and finding her far stronger than they expected, one bound her hands with leather thongs and jerked her into line. At this smiled Siris, and the groom looked terrified.

  The mockery continued until the two of them stood before all. Elisa’s rage was boiling, and poor Barille wanted no part of her wrath. At last the kiss was announced, and when Elisa turned away from that slimy pale lord, Siris jumped from his stool like a tiger. One of her shoulders he pushed back, and with his other, gauntlet-clad hand he cuffed her. The steel rings opened her lip, and filled her mouth with blood. His intent was to quell her rebellious spirit, but instead he ignited that savage fire that made her people fierce, and she had enough of peace.

  Instead of returning the cowardly slap, she faced the crowd, and spat blood. Her hands she raised, and tore the leather ties at her wrists like paper. With one inhale she flexed her back like a panther, and her dress split in two. The bodice cracked like a chicken’s neck, and she ripped the frilly bell from her waist all in one furious rage. Bare she stood before them all, save a beige linen strap across her chest which impossibly contained her bosom, and a waist-string with two loin cloths for modesty.

  A gasp went through the mob. She was built like a siege machine. Her massive shoulders and biceps shocked the men and made the women proud, her thighs were like ivory tree trunks, and she cracked her knuckles like a pit fighter ready to die. Around each fist she twirled shreds of white cotton from the dress. She was tall, and grim, and made the groom seem like a matchstick.

  The spearmen strode forward, but before they could surround or restrain, she was upon them like a cornered animal.

  On the ball of her left foot, now bare, she spun and ducked. A spear tip gouged her shoulder like hot wax, but the fury was on her, and she felt nothing. Instead she caught the oak haft with her right hand, planted her right foot like a sprinter, then clinched down in discus pose. The haft cracked, and the armor-clad man was flung bodily from the stage. The crowd gasped with shock.

  Siris, a hillman himself, was barely surprised. This very outcome was the reason for the presence of the headsman. For to defy a righteous union was a death sentence for a woman in those times, and the dowry would be paid, regardless, as damages. He grinned, and nodded to his hooded henchman.

  More spears, sweeping and jabbing at her. She sprung forward, and rammed two scale-clad guards with a thud. The both pitched backward, and had not even hit the ground before she had skewered another with his own weapon. Only two more men-at-arms remained. One bolted, wetting his breeches, and the other made a feeble thrust from his shield’s safety. Elisa evaded the spear point, gladly absorbing a small cut to the ribs, and ripped the shield from his hand, breaking his arm. He bent over and squealed like a child stuck in a well.

  Strapping the cowering guard’s shield to her arm, Elisa turned to the crowd and scanned for threats, her eyes black with battle. Only one foe remained as her Uncle watched, slowly backing away: The Headsman.

  He was clad in ring mail skirt, thigh boots, and was shirtless save a leather frog that crossed his mighty chest. He was not muscular, but a corpulent giant. A head higher than Elisa stood that tattooed killer, and bent his hooded head to target her throat. At his side the grim thing stood blade-down. The axe was black-bladed, ragged, and massive. The iron haft alone must have weighed eight stone, and it stood ten feet from point to pommel.

  With a grunt, he twirled the mighty weapon to bear, and aloft it went. Elisa leaned back into her left foot, bracing, for there was no avoiding this. Her only concern now was finishing this quickly. The full city guard would be here in moments. She had to dispatch this titanic fiend, and be off to savage freedom and law defied.

  The blade came whooshing down with a rushing of mass. The crowd was dispersing now, terrified. Elisa did not absorb the blow, but angled her steel buckler to simply divert the force. Even so, the thing was huge, and split her shield like bread. Her arm she withdrew in the nick of time, and the axe met the stage with a crack. The shield was pinned there with it, almost hewn in two.

  “Stand still, girl!” the Headsman bellowed in gurgling baritone. She did not comply, but pushed into the weighted foot. Her thighs strained like a war horse, and with one hooked elbow she caught the axe haft as the Headsman struggled to free it. Planks splintered and flew, but as the shards of hickory drifted around her, she caught her own wrist, and twisted with terrible strength.

  The Headsman was no easy wrestling partner though. He leaned back against her wrenching, both arms popping and bulging with sweat and strain. Their eyes met and time stopped. It was like a wooly mammoth and a sabre tooth in ancient primordial battle: both unstoppable, both refusing to back down.

  In battles such as these, when history depicts a great draw for all to witness true prowess, one factor decides the victor: Righteousness. The foe who has nothing to lose, nothing to fear, and the truth as her armor will always prevail when all else is even. So it was this day.

  She met his glance, managed a tiny smile, and she was beautiful. Her high cheekbones glistened with blood, and her lovely blonde locks whipped in arcs and waves. Her might was her beauty, and with that she was well endowed. The gods had made her strong, and the time to hide it had passed.

  She realized she had the upper hand, compre
ssed her stomach, and the axe came free. The force of it gave the headsman the slightest stumble to his heels, and it was all she needed. In one horrible extension, Elisa spun the weapon above her head. On her toes she ascended, and like a marble statue of the glory of youth and power she brought all her noble blood to this second. The axe descended, and a hooded head rolled across the wooden stage to the horror of all.

  Siris took another step backward, now afraid of her. The axe in both hands she leaned back and flexed her chest with the hot rush of victory. Those who saw it will never forget that look, those eyes.

  But the glory of this grim day was not hers to relish, for the guard revealed itself at the court’s far corner. On one shoulder, she slung the hellish blade, and bound away into the hamlet streets beyond. Rounding a corner, she dragged that great weapon into the dim, overflowing sewers and vanished.

  She was bleeding terribly, and in need of a plan. One wrong move, and she would be tortured to death as an example to all.

  Even there, in her dank, fuming hiding hole among the filth, the blood and the rats did not bother her. She was a free woman, and by her own hands. Her kin had brought her up well, and her father would be proud if he were alive. Her mother she never knew, but closed her eyes and visualized a face anyway.

  “I am Elisa no more,” she whispered in the black, wiping the blood from the great broad blade, “Let them call me the Headsman.”

  6

  The gate was shattered, the wall crawling with kopesh-swinging elves, and that awful smoke cloud curled and encroached like a giant grey squid. Long, deep boot gouges tracked the inner gate where the dwarves had been pushed. The battle now raged on in the center courtyard of the fort. Small fires broke out here and there, and those stout defenders fought for their lives like wolves cornered in a canyon.

  Two dozen of their number lay slain at the elves’ boots. Mars and Hunnin, Wrimm and Scratch still stood shoulder to shoulder, hacking and bracing and shoving. Hunnin was covered in blood, as he had no armor fitted. Half his great beard was torn out, now clutched in the pale dead hand of some elven murderer.