Читать книгу The Northlander - John E. Elias - Страница 4

The stranger strolled down the dirt road, followed by a horse slightly behind and to his left. Their steps lifted small clouds of dust that trailed behind them.

The man was average height and slender; some would call him thin. His skin stretched tightly over his face, accenting his high cheekbones, sharp nose, and thin lips. His eyes, a unique dark gray color that was almost black, were the most prominent feature of his face. Though his eyes were focused lazily ahead, they gave the impression that they missed little.

His hair was also dark gray, but that seemed to be its natural color, not from age. It was short and wiry, the cut rough as though he was unconcerned with appearance.

He wore clothes of dark brown hide, and the material rippled and moved with his stride, like cloth instead of leather. His shirt appeared more like a short jacket covering the top of his trousers with a cowl hanging down the back.

His brisk pace exposed the hilt of a short sword hanging at his waist and except for the two long swords that hung on his back his appearance, while unique, would not have drawn more than casual attention. The swords were much longer than most and incredibly thin. The hilts sat above his shoulders on each side of his muscled neck, and the blades hung almost to his ankles. Because of their length, it looked like they might tangle with his legs and trip him at any step, but they swung in rhythm with his stride, as though from long and careful practice. The swords were enclosed in sheaths made from the same material as his clothes.

The horse was dun colored, his body compact with powerful legs, neck and back. A large roll of what looked like an animal hide was thrown across its back and fastened neatly under its belly. A bag was tied to either side of the horse, and attached to one of the bags was a bow as long as an average man was tall, and wraps containing many long lethal-looking arrows. Like the man, the horse appeared unconcerned with his surroundings. Both walked steadily, their pace purposeful, as though they had a specific destination in mind.

Steep mountains lay in the distance in all four directions. Between the mountains, the land rolled with gentle hills, meadows, slow-moving streams, and a river. While most of the land was open, forests and groves of trees were scattered throughout. The countryside was peaceful; birds sang, small animals strayed in and around buildings, and people went about their tasks intent upon their work.

Homesteads with cabins and barns dotted the landscape, and the farmland was divided into small fields by rock walls. It was spring planting time. Men, women, and children worked the fields. The men plowed furrows in the earth, using horses, oxen and, in some cases, donkeys. The plows ranged all the way from sturdy metal to wood. Women and children sowed the seed, while older children followed, employing a variety of implements-—from flat boards with handles to limbs with branches—to cover the seeds. If any of the farmers noticed the pair on the road, they did so covertly.

The river ran lazily through the land bordering the road. It was relatively wide, shallow, and slow-moving, but at a few points it narrowed and speeded up, running noisily over rapids.

Farm work was underway on both sides of the river. When the river was quiet, sounds carried clearly over the water, and the man could hear families talking as they went about their work.

Across the river, a young boy working with an older man threw down his hoe angrily. His voice carried clearly across the water as though he were beside the road.

“Why do we have to work so hard when they take everything?” he shouted. “We go to bed hungry at night while they feast on what we grow and on the animals we raise.”

The older man spoke softly, but his voice still carried. “Be careful, my son. We do not know who is listening.”

“I do not care, Father. We just buried Londa. If there had been enough to eat, she would still be alive. And mother just stays in the cabin and cries. I wish we could leave this place.”

“Please, my son, your mother cannot travel. And where would we go? Our families have lived here as long as any of us can remember. I have no idea where to take us.”

“Anywhere would be better than here,” the boy said bitterly.

The father’s sigh could be heard clearly across the water. “Please, my son, we must get this field planted and let me think about it.”

The traveler murmured softly to the horse, “Jago, it may be that this will be an interesting place.”

A small village appeared ahead of them. It was laid out haphazardly as though it had simply grown over the years rather than being the result of a plan. The buildings were constructed from rough-hewn lumber of varying sizes, and the roofs were thatch. There were few windows and the doors were small. From the coloration and aging of the wood, the cabins were obviously of different ages; few were new. The others varied so greatly in age that they seemed to be from separate eras.

A short distance apart from the village, on a small hill, stood a tiny church, very different from the other buildings. While the buildings in the village were in good repair and showed the effects of care, the church was neglected. Weeds and shrubs grew high around it. Windows were broken, and the door hung off its hinges. Part of it had been damaged by fire.

Six children played a game with smooth, round stones in the road. To the traveler, it seemed that the purpose of the game was for one player to cast a large stone a short distance ahead, and for the rest of the players to attempt to hit it with smaller stones they tossed. The four boys and two girls were engrossed in their play, squealing gleefully when a small stone struck the large one.

Suddenly, an argument broke out and one of the boys grabbed the stone of the smallest girl and tossed it away from the playing area. The stone skipped down the road, striking the traveler’s boot. The children grew silent except for the small girl, who cried softly.

The man stopped, reached down, and picked up the stone. The stone and the children at play cracked through the normal tight control of his emotions and brought back a painful memory.

As a small boy, he had watched other children playing. They took turns tossing little, round vertebrae from a marlot, a large rodent, toward a line they had drawn on a rock. The purpose of the game was to see whose cast came closest to the line. When each player had made a cast , the game began anew. Björn the boy watched.

“Come, Björn, that is not for you,” a tall man said to the boy. The man turned and walked up the path. When the boy did not follow, he spoke again. “Come, Björn,” he repeated. The boy reluctantly followed.

One of the players teased the boy. In a falsetto voice, he mimicked, “Come, Björn. Come, Björn.” The memory was still alive for the traveler.

“Mister, can I have my stone?” the small girl asked. When he did not respond, she repeated, “Mister, can I have my stone?”

The traveler started as his mind was yanked back to the present. Squatting, he held out the stone to the child, who took it with a small “Thank you.” As they resumed their game, the traveler stayed in a crouch, watching them for several long moments. The long-forgotten memory brought with it strange feelings, feelings he found disturbing. He stood, shook himself like a dog shaking water from its coat, and continued down the road into the village.

Except for the children playing in their strange fashion, the only people to be seen in the village were two elderly women sitting on a log in front of a small cabin built into the side of a hill. One of the women smoked a long pipe while she stripped husks from a basket of corn, and the other worked on a small piece of material in her lap. From the look of it, she was creating a small garment. Neither woman spoke, each working diligently at her task, one smoking with small streams of smoke coming from both her mouth and the bowl of the pipe while the other sewed. With downcast eyes, they furtively watched the stranger.

The traveler and his horse stopped in front of a building different from the rest. While built in the same casual style with the same rough-hewn wood, and obviously ancient; it had two stories rather than one, and was wider than the other buildings. It looked like some sort of community building, and it squatted as though it had been built and then dropped into place rather than being built where it stood. Its heavy door hung open, as if the last person in had forgotten to close it.

The man gave a small movement of his left hand to the horse. The horse stopped and stood still, and the man moved through the large door and stepped quickly to the left against the wall.

The room was huge. To the traveler’s left was a store with items displayed ranging from clothing to farm equipment to produce. Ahead and to his right, a massive bar ran to the right wall, and rough tables and matching chairs were scattered aimlessly on the dirt floor in front of it. Seven men sat at a round table in front of the bar, several drinking from large mugs. They stared at the stranger expectantly.

A giant of a man with his back to the bar rose slowly and deliberately to his feet, as if the movement pained him. His heavily muscled arms hung loosely at his sides. His large head and its blunt features matched his body. A shaggy thatch of black hair hung to his shoulders, but it was not quite enough to hide the fact that he had no ears, which appeared to have been severed from his head. There were numerous scars on his face, hands, and arms. Even though he was an extremely big-boned man, he was almost emaciated.

“Can we help you, stranger?” he said.

“You sent for me.”

“You are the Northlander?”

“Yes, I am Björn.”

“I am Thane. Can I get you something?”

“No,” Björn said tersely. “Tell me what you want.”

“Do you want to sit?”

“No.”

Thane dropped back into his chair painfully. The other men stared at the stranger, and one of them blurted, “You do not look like much.”

Thane raised a threatening fist in front of the man, and he cringed and was silent.

“We have long been a happy people,” Thane said. “Because the mountains cut us off from the outside world, we are not involved in the wars or intrigues of that world. Occasionally, travelers and peddlers stop here, and they keep us aware of what is going on beyond the mountains. That is the way our people have lived as long as anyone can remember peacefully with each other and with few troubles.

“This is good land,” he continued. “While there are sometimes poor crop years, we have always lived well. We have never bothered anyone else and because of where we are, few have ever bothered us.

“There is a castle near here that has long been abandoned. According to legend, it was the home of a great king, but it was so long ago none of us remember. Some years ago, a cult of cruel people moved there. We know not from where they came, but they worship gods that are foreign to us. These gods are evil, as are the intruders; they took control of our village and the countryside. Some of us fought back, but it was hopeless.” Thane’s voice became angry. “We are not soldiers and we have no real weapons. The newcomers are armed warriors. They forced some of our people to make repairs on the castle, while from others they took furniture and other goods. Most of the grain and animals we raise they take for their food. They have taken some of our children, who have not returned.

“They have also taken many of our women over the years. Many have returned, but some have not. Those who return tell stories of being raped and beaten. We live in terror of these monsters, and we now live in poverty. Over the years, we have been able to save a little that we hid from them, and when we heard about you, we sent you money we had saved and asked you to come.”

One of the drinking men said belligerently, “I do not see what one man can do. There are at least two hundred of them in the castle.”

Björn ignored him. “Do they have leaders?”

“There are a few among them, perhaps ten or twelve, whom they call priests. These are the ones who give orders and are the most cruel of all.”

“Tell me where they are.”

“The castle is in the mountains at the edge of a valley shaped like a bowl. Let me show you.” Thane began to draw with his finger in the dust on the table. “Here is our village and here is the castle. You can reach it in half a day. Would you like to rest and eat before you go?”

“No.” Without another word, the Northlander slipped sideways through the doorway and backed into the road to the horse. Without looking back, man and beast walked down the road, out of the village in the direction of the castle.

The seven men emerged from the tavern and watched them walk away. The villager who had spoken first repeated, “I still do not think he looks like much. We have wasted our money.”

Thane looked at him and sardonically asked, “You can go after him and tell him that again. He will surely still be patient with you. Of course, those long swords and the knife are just for show.”

The first man blushed and slunk back into the tavern.

Another man spoke slowly. “You know we have no more to pay him. You have heard the stories about him. When he returns he will kill us all.”

Thane responded, almost as though he was talking to himself. “It is unlikely that he will return, but if he does, at least the rest of our people will be free. Do not worry about yourselves; I will tell the Northlander this plan was all my doing.”

The other men drifted away—some into the tavern, others to their homes. Thane, left alone with his thoughts, watched the man and horse until they disappeared in the distance.

Thane could still visualize Netta as well as when she were alive. She was not a pretty woman, tall and angular, with a strong face with prominent features, but when combined with her lively personality, Thane found her beautiful. He had always been amazed that she had picked him out to love, and he was always proud that everyone knew she was his woman. He loved to just watch her; no matter what she was doing, it always gave him a thrill.

He had loved her since they were children. They had often played together with the other children and then later with the youth their age. He had always been bashful around her.

When other young men began to court her, he was jealous, but he could not bring himself to tell her how he felt. He watched her covertly, fantasizing often about them being together. When she rejected all of the suitors, what little resolve he had disappeared. If she will not pick one of them, she surely will not pick me, he thought. He knew he was big, clumsy, and not at all good-looking, and his older brother had inherited the family land so Thane had limited prospects.

He still remembered the day as clearly as though it were yesterday, even though it was many years ago. Working in the tavern and general store, he was loading bags of seed grain for a customer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her walking down the road toward him. Placing a bag in the wagon, he turned to find her standing in front of him, hands on her hips and a stern look on her face. Thane feared no man, but he was terrified of this woman, and his huge body trembled.

Netta looked at him for several minutes, then said, “Everyone says you are the bravest man in the village. Are you?”

All he could do was look at the ground because he didn’t know what to say.

She continued, “If you are so brave, why are you so afraid to court me?”

“Are you making fun of me?” he blurted because he could think of nothing else to say.

He vividly remembered what she said next. “I have grown tired of waiting for you, Thane. I will expect you this evening after dinner. We will walk by the river, and we will be married next month.”

He stared dumbly at her. He tried to answer, but could only stutter. She smiled, and he felt that his heart would leap from his body, and when she said, “I have always loved you, you know,” he thought his whole body would melt into the ground.

But he managed to present himself for dinner, and they strolled by the river that evening and the evenings that followed. True to her word, they were married the following month, and they had a great life together. It took awhile, but at last he was able to talk to her. The only disappointment in their lives was that they could not have children.

Then came the awful day when the warrior intruders kidnapped her as they did other females from the village. They took her when Thane was away helping a farmer rebuild a barn that was destroyed by a storm. Two young boys came running from the village, gasping that men from the castle had taken Netta and three other women. By the time Thane returned, two of the women had already stumbled back to the village, but not Netta.

Thane used his great strength to break a massive limb from a tree before he made the trek to the castle, where he was met by armed members of the cult. While they had swords and knew how to use them, and even though he had only the club and had never fought in his life, he killed several and injured a number of others. But they were too many and too skillful, even for his great courage and even greater rage. Cruelly, they did not kill him, but left him crippled, lying in the dirt in front of the castle. He managed to crawl to a small stream where he drank, then immersed himself in the water to clean the blood from his body. He told himself that his strength would return and he would be able to attack the castle and rescue Netta, he forced himself not to think of what they must be doing to her.

The next day he was able to stand with the aid of his club they had arrogantly let him keep. As he hobbled toward the castle, he saw Netta emerge. She was completely bare, her body bloody and bruised. Stumbling to her, he took her arm. She didn’t look at him; she only stared straight ahead with glassy eyes that saw nothing.

Reaching into himself, he drew strength he didn’t know he had and held her cold body, but she did not respond. Leading her back to their home, he washed her, dressed her, then sat her in a chair at the table. He tried to give her food and water, but she simply sat at the table with a vacant look in her eyes.

All that day, that night, and the next day, she sat like that, neither moving nor speaking. She didn’t seem to hear him when he spoke to her. The following day, when he returned with water from the community well, he found her on the floor in blood that had spewed from the gash in her throat. She had killed herself with a kitchen knife.

He had never before cried, but he dropped to the floor, held her body tenderly, and sobbed. A woman from the village found them later that day. She called others, and they took Thane and Netta to the well to wash them clean of blood. Two of the women went to their cabin and brought clothes for them. All Thane could do was stand numbly as they dressed him. Then they took Netta’s body, the women supporting him as the men placed her in a coffin and carried her to the cemetery. They placed a small wooden marker on the grave and cut her name in it.

For days he sat lifelessly in the tavern, eating and drinking little, because he couldn’t bring himself to return to their home. The day he did return, he torched their cabin and watched it burn to the ground. Then he returned to his duties at the tavern, going through the motions of running the tavern and general store, but his thoughts were almost constantly on Netta.

Now Thane continued to stare in the direction taken by the Northlander and his horse. For perhaps the first time in his life he prayed, “Lord, I have never asked you for anything, and perhaps this is not the right thing to ask for, but if you can see your way to it, please help the Northlander. Please help him destroy those evil men and keep them from hurting others as they hurt my Netta.” He spoke again to himself. “I hope the Northlander is all that we have heard him to be.”

He turned and walked slowly and painfully into the tavern.

The valley lay in the midst of sharp mountain peaks. The castle had been built into the steep cliffs at one end so that it appeared to be part of the mountain. Most of the castle had fallen into ruin, and the stones that had made up the upper rooms and spires had either tumbled into the rooms below or toppled into the valley.

There were only two approaches to the castle that Björn could see. One was a natural winding, but wide road through passes in the mountains to the north; the other was a steep, narrow road that had been hacked into the mountains on the opposite side of the valley. As the road climbed the mountain, the edge dropped off abruptly into the valley. Stones, rocks, and debris from the mountain lay on the valley floor next to the cliff.

Björn and Jago stood unmoving on the narrow road. They had spent several days circling the valley, learning the land, and watching the fortress. They had come to know the land but had learned little of the castle or its inhabitants. Dark-robed figures moved about the castle grounds, evidently going about chores. Beyond that there had been little activity.

Björn and his companion, Jago had been standing there since the sun had risen above the mountain peaks, illuminating the valley floor and the semi-ruined structure. The sun was directly overhead when three robed figures with deep hoods hiding their faces left the castle and walked across the valley to the bottom of the road. Wide sashes encircled their waists, and short, heavy swords hung from the sashes.

“What do you want?” one of them shouted from the valley floor. Björn did not answer. The man repeated his question and still Björn did not respond. Neither he nor the horse moved.

The three figures climbed the road and when they stood in front of the pair, the man in the center repeated his question. “What do you want?”

After a tense silence, the Northlander answered. “If all of you leave now, taking only the clothes you wear, we will let you live.”

The robed men started, and the man on the right blurted, “Where is your army?”

“We are the army,” Björn replied.

The men stared at him, then the one in the center signaled the other two with his head and they drew their swords. Showing they were well trained, they lunged at him in unison, but before any of them could land a blow, Björn caught the wrist of the center man, preventing his weapon from doing damage. Still holding the man’s arm firmly, Björn whirled and planted a violent kick in the stomach of the man nearest the edge of the road, sending him flying to the rocks below. Lifting the man into the air and using his body like a club, he struck the third man with such force that he was knocked from the road to join his partner on the rocks.

Björn returned the man to his feet, but still held him fast.

“I will let you live for now,” he said. “Return to the castle and give your priests my message. Leave the castle with only the clothes on your backs before the sun sets and you will live. If not, you will all die here.”

Björn released the man with a shove that sent him staggering down the road. Recovering his balance, the man turned and ran across the valley to the castle.

A short time later, a dozen men in the same dark cloaks marched out of the castle and stood under the trees on a small plateau next to the castle, watching the man and horse. Björn was still for a few moments, then he stepped to the horse and removed the long bow and two arrows. Notching an arrow in the bow, he took aim and let the arrow fly. One man fell, kicked for a few moments, and then lay still. The others looked at him for a few seconds, and then turned to flee into the castle. Another man was felled by an arrow before they reached shelter. Then all was silent.

Björn and Jago stood as before, watching the castle. Later that afternoon, thirty dark-robed men emerged from the castle. They trotted three abreast down the steep slope from the castle, across the valley, and up the road toward Björn. They marched silently, swords raised. Without breaking stride, they approached at a trot in perfect unison. Up the road they came to within thirty yards of Björn and the horse. Only then did Björn move.

He drew his two swords and grunted a rough short sound. “Jago.” The horse flew past him and charged the armed men. Leaping into the air, Jago executed a perfect capriole, striking with his hind hooves. Two men fell instantly from the blows, and then another toppled under strikes from its front hooves before the horse hit the ground. The horse charged into the center of the men, his feet again leaving the ground and striking two men with his front hooves. Twisting in mid-air, he struck two others with his rear hooves. The sound of bones shattering almost drowned out the screams of terror.

The tightly grouped men broke into total disarray. Struggling to escape the horse, the men violently jostled each other, and some on the outside were knocked off the road to fall screaming to the rocks below, ending their screams abruptly.

Björn charged into the disorganized mass. His swords flashed, and heads flew from bodies while torsos were impaled. Jago continued his savage assault, and the robed men attempting to flee were trapped in the chaos. A few attempted to fight back, but they were helplessly off balance. The attack was over in moments. Bodies were strewn on the road and others were broken on the rocks in the valley. Screams, groans, pleas for help, and struggling movements came from those still alive.

The two victors ignored their victims, passing through the gore to the bottom of the road. There they resumed their silent vigil.

The sun passed behind the mountains, and darkness fell quickly. There was no moon and, as night took control of the valley, it grew dark, so dark a person might reach out to touch the blackness.

The two figures moved silently across the valley to the outer walls of the castle and listened, sensing sounds and movements within the castle. Björn touched Jago’s neck, and the horse trotted away toward the entrance of the castle, moving unnoticed and stood motionless near the massive front door.

Björn headed stealthily in the opposite direction to the ruined section of the rambling structure. Picking his way carefully through the destroyed walls, he moved like an invisible spirit. Coming to a corridor still open, he entered cautiously. Once inside, he carefully leaned his bow and arrows against the wall and, drawing one sword, he moved warily into the castle.

The interior of the fortress was darker even than the complete darkness outside, but Björn, eyes trained to maneuver in any environment, moved as if he were in broad daylight. The corridor was long and straight, but it was filled and in some places almost blocked by fallen stones, but the Northlander made his way with little difficulty.

The corridor led into the portion of the castle that had suffered least from the years and weather. This part was apparently occupied by the intruders. The passageway ended at a thick door that effectively blocked further progress. Björn studied it, then felt gingerly over the entire surface with his hands.

Finally, he grasped one section of the door that was broken by the weight of a stone that had shifted above it, and gave it a gradual pull. At first it did not move, so Björn braced one foot against the door frame and pulled again. The door groaned loudly and the broken section began to move. Exerting even more pressure, Björn opened the cracked section of the door until the cleared space was large enough for him to pass through.

Twisting his body, he slipped into another passageway. A flickering light appeared in the distance, but Björn continued his forward progress exactly as he had in the darkness.

After advancing a distance, he heard voices and paused to peer around a corner. Three guards a short span away from him were arguing. They appeared spooked, and Björn guessed that they had heard his attack on the door. One wanted to investigate, another claimed it was only the sound of a rock falling, and the third could not decide what they should do. Björn crept noiselessly toward them.

The discussion eventually abated and the decision became one of doing nothing. The guards remained at their posts with occasional short conversation. While it appeared they took their guarding seriously, they were not on high alert.

Björn waited. He was very good at waiting.

The guards grew quiet, and Björn heard snoring. One of the guards kicked the snoring one, and a second short argument ensued. Then it was quiet again.

Björn continued to wait in silence. The snoring resumed and this time was not interrupted. Björn moved warily down the corridor, a shadow. When he reached the sleeping guards, there was a short struggle and the sound of throats gasping for air. Then Björn moved on, and the bloody scenario was repeated throughout the night. Björn detected men before they were aware of him and then quietly and efficiently dispatched them.

He found a room where many men slept, concluding it was some type of dormitory. Passing it by, he twice more came upon rooms filled with sleeping men, and again crept silently past them.

Discovering a small room dimly lit by a flickering torch, he found three females huddled on the floor. When the two women and a young girl saw him, they clutched each other in terror and drew as far from him as possible. Both women were without clothing and the girl was clothed only in wisps of fabric.

Björn crouched just inside the door and spoke to them softly, reassuring them until they were calm. He moved slowly to them and held out his hand. After a time, one woman took his hand. Motioning to the others, he led them from the room, guiding them down the halls to the place where he had entered the castle. Standing outside in the darkness with only light coming from the stars overhead, he pointed the way for them to take to reach their village. As they moved away, the girl turned to look at him, then turned and walked toward the village with the others. Björn watched until the captives disappeared in the darkness.

“Those are the last females they will take,” he muttered to himself. “This world will be a much better place when these monsters are gone from it.” He re-entered the castle and continued his careful exploration.

It was early morning when he reached the upper chambers of the inhabited section of the castle. The rooms were lit by sunlight filtering through large windows, in sharp contrast to the lower floors that received no external light and remained in the same darkness both night and day, lighted only by torches placed in wall brackets or carried by patrol squads.

Reaching an area that was richly furnished compared to the Spartan layouts of the rooms he had seen below, he heard voices. He drew into the shadows and waited. The voices came from a chamber beyond where Björn had penetrated. He crept through the outer room to a door at the opposite end. The voices came from within. They were muffled, but Björn determined that there were three men talking. He returned his swords to their scabbards and crouched in front of the door.

Slowly, with efficient movements, he moved the latch, which was locked. Under his slow and precise pressure, the latch opened soundlessly. Applying pressure to the door to open it, he stepped back, drew his swords and kicked the door in. It flew open to reveal three black-robed men, hoods thrown back as they lounged on luxurious chairs in front of a roaring fire. They were tall gaunt men with narrow pinched faces.

As Björn launched himself into the room, they rushed to their feet, scrambling for weapons arranged on a table behind them. Before they could arm themselves, Björn drove a sword through the chest of one and beheaded the second with his other sword. But the third man moved with extraordinary quickness, scooping up a sword as he turned to meet Björn’s attack. He wielded the sword expertly and held Björn at bay long enough to shout an alarm, but he was at a severe disadvantage against the two swirling swords.

Focused tightly on his task despite the potential attack the shout might bring, Björn speared the man’s midsection with one sword, and with the other sheared his head from his shoulders. Then he fled across the room and down the hall, running into a spacious room he had explored earlier. Like a rabbit in its warren, he had established three escape routes. He sped down one of them. He was confident the room would still be unoccupied, but whether it was or not did not matter; this was his preferred escape route.

He slipped quickly behind a large tapestry hiding a large window. He had opened the window when he first checked the room, and now stepped through it, placing his feet carefully on a narrow ledge running along the castle wall outside. He edged along until he reached a sharp corner. Here the ledge ended, but the corner was actually a deep V and the ledge resumed on the other side. Björn eased into the V, bracing himself against the sides with his feet and arms.

Pandemonium broke loose in the castle. Sleeping men were abruptly awakened, and Björn heard them as they spread out searching. Cries of alarm and terror sounded as the searchers discovered bodies. By the time the search sounded more organized, the sun had risen over the far mountains.

Björn was still braced against the walls in the V. An ordinary man’s muscles would have long ago become cramped from the strain, forcing him to give up the effort, but Björn was unaffected.

He heard rooms and corridors being searched and windows and doors being flung open. The searchers became more quiet. Björn assumed they were frustrated from the hours they had spent trying to find him. He heard the leaders barking commands, ordering the men not to overlook any possible hiding place.

The window from which Björn had exited was opened. It remained open for a short time, and he could hear a man breathing heavily. Then the window closed.

Hanging on his precarious perch, Björn reflected on what he had seen in his clandestine survey of the castle. A few men, most probably the priests, lived in luxury. The rest lived in regimented sparse quarters. There had been one large room with no furniture other than a flat rectangular stone slab set on short stone columns. Four chains were anchored to each side of the slab, and a dark red, and in some areas black, substance that Björn recognized as dried blood covered the slab, the column, and the floor around the slab.

Behind the slab, an enormous tapestry covered the entire wall. Painted on the tapestry was a huge face, long and narrow with prominent eyes, nose, mouth, and protruding teeth. In all his travels, Björn had never seen anything so repulsive and hideous. He guessed the tapestry to be ancient because of many creases and cracks in a few places where it appeared to have been rolled up like a rug. He presumed this was the cult’s place of worship, with live sacrifices taking place on the altar, and he could make a good guess as to what type of living creatures were sacrificed there.

Björn estimated that he had killed a few more than forty men in his furtive sortie through the castle. According to the estimate of the man in the village, there were at least two hundred men in the sect. This left considerably more to do.

The search extended to the grounds outside. From his perch, Björn saw small groups of men walking the open spaces, checking the woods carefully, poking spears and sometimes swords into thickets. They found nothing but small animals and birds. He thought it significant that they hunted in groups, none searching individually or even in groups of less than five.

He wondered where Jago was, but he was unconcerned, as Jago would be found when he wanted to be.

Björn thought there was little chance he would be seen. The hunters didn’t look up, and even if they had, he was hidden in shadow, in his dark clothing blending into the castle wall.

The sun grew high in the heavens, and the search dwindled. The men searching the grounds returned to the castle, which grew quiet.

The Northlander contemplated his strategy, specifically his next move. From his years as a mercenary, he knew fear was his major ally. He also was aware that fear was greatest in the dark of night. While the interior of the castle was as dark at night as it was in the day, the night hours would be best for his work.

First he had to find a place to hide for the remainder of the day. While he could remain on the ledge, he didn’t want his muscles to lock up, making him less effective than he knew he would need to be. He could slip back to the window and into the room and remain there, or move into the hall to try to locate a better hiding place. He decided to move into the room and stay behind the heavy drapes, which would shield him completely from anyone entering the room.

His mind made up, Björn moved along the ledge until he reached the window. As he expected, it was locked, but he had prepared for this when he chose this course as a potential retreat. He had snapped off the catch holding the window closed. Now he opened it quietly and, entering the room, closed the window behind him. Then he made himself as comfortable as possible behind the drapes.

Night came early to the valley as the sun dropped behind the high peaks. The blackness of the castle was interrupted by torches set in the walls. Björn slipped out of the room, noting a brightly burning torch stuck in a holder in the wall immediately to the right of the door. He moved away from the light and continuing his silent movements, returned to the lower floors. Sensing the presence of a small group of men ahead of him, he crept over the rough uneven floor.

As he turned a corner, he saw seven men on guard crowded under a flickering torch. They stood in a circle with their backs inward, on guard against an enemy coming from any direction. Their swords faced the floor, but the men’s posture showed they were ready to swing the weapons into action. They were talking, sounding confused about the nature of their enemy. As he listened, Björn determined that they were experienced warriors who had never been bested in all their years of conquest, even by larger groups of armed men. And this was only one man.

Questions buzzed around the small circle. How could this one man be a serious threat? What manner of being was he? Many of their companions had been slain easily. How could one man do this? Why was he doing it?

Björn edged toward them. He moved in fractions of inches, freezing frequently, then moving forward. Like a ghost, he approached unseen.

Time passed. The men on guard gradually relaxed as their muscles grew tired.

Suddenly a whirlwind with two flashing sabers exploded from the darkness into the soldiers. Two fell silently, their heads simultaneously cleaved from their bodies. Before the rest could react, two more died, one by a sword driven through his heart, the point of the sword emerging through his back. The other had his body split from between his neck and shoulder all the way to his groin. Of the remaining three, one stood stunned by surprise and fear, one raised his sword to the ready position and waited, and the third lunged at Björn, slashing with his sword.

Björn’s sword impaled the neck of the attacking man and then, moving in a blur, he drove the sword in his right hand across another man’s body at the waist, almost splitting him in two. At the same time, the sword in his left hand drove into the midriff of the last man. The unequal battle was over in seconds. The robed men had not had time to cry a warning; the only sounds had been two short screams and the gurgles of dying men. Björn moved on silently.

Throughout the night, a wraith appeared unseen and unheard out of the darkness. In his wake, Björn left more dead men.

The remaining men drew into larger groups for security and tried to calm their fear by sharing it. A group of twenty-eight men stood in a circle in one of the dormitory rooms lit by many torches. Two large doors on each of the walls were closed.

A door exploded inward and Björn was in their midst, swords slashing. Then he was gone through the door he had entered so unexpectedly, leaving five bodies on the floor. Three men bravely pursued him into the corridor. The sounds of a brief scuffle came, then silence.

The remaining twenty men fled through a door in the wall opposite where Björn had entered. Fleeing in disarray down that corridor, they entered the next dormitory. There they huddled with the men from that room. With no apparent leadership, men gradually passed through the corridors to stairwells and gathered in the upper rooms and halls.

Their leaders found them there. At first they ordered the soldiers to find this silent enemy. When that did not work, they argued with the warriors, and finally began shrieking at them to return to the lower areas and find the intruder. Despite those efforts, the men were resolute and refused to leave the lighted upper area.

Even bunched together, the soldiers’ fear grew. Their fear of the deadly specter eventually overruled their fear of the priests. As dawn came, they opened the high entrance doors and began to move into the daylight. In groups, they walked apprehensively away from the castle, constantly looking over their shoulders. From an upstairs window, Björn watched their departure. The men left with only their swords in their hands. They divided into a number of groups and marched up the broad road. Of the more than two hundred men originally in the cult, less than one hundred fifty were alive. After a short time the priests, laden with all they could carry, followed.

Björn placed an arrow in his bow, drew the string and missile back, and released. A priest fell. A second arrow pierced another. The remaining seven priests stood paralyzed, looking at the bodies on the ground. Then they dropped their treasures and fled for their lives.

Jago burst from a grove of trees and charged into the priests. His initial charge broke the bodies of two priests. Leaping into a capriole, he lashed out with his back hooves and struck others down. He chased those who attempted to flee and trampled them. Then he returned to the original battle place and dispatched the survivors. Within moments, all nine clerics were dead. The horse turned and looked up at Björn, who still stood in the window with a small satisfied smile on his lips.

Björn turned back into the room and into the hall. Exiting the castle, he strode to where the priests lay. Looking at the carnage for several long moments, he stooped and picked up a small pouch dropped by one of them. Opening it, he examined the contents, then placed it in one of his pockets. He moved through the remaining bodies and retrieved his arrows. Carefully cleaning the bolts, he inserted them into his quiver. Signaling Jago with a head gesture, he moved at a fast trot up the road in the direction taken by the men.

Numerous times during the day, they overtook stragglers. Without remorse, they dispatched them. When the road divided, Björn and Jago turned in the direction of the village, leaving the remainder of the men to their destiny.

Thane was alone in the tavern when Björn returned. Looking at Björn without expression, Thane said, “The women returned. Thank you for rescuing them.” Still expressionless, he continued, “I assume the evil ones are gone.”

“They will not trouble you again,” responded Björn.

Thane rose from his seat. “We asked you to come because of what a traveler told us about you. From what you have done, at least most of what he said must be true. But he warned us that you insisted on your pay and that, if you were not paid, those who had employed you would pay even more dearly. Well, we have nothing more to pay you. I cheated you, and I am ready to pay the price.”

Björn smiled cynically. “I thought that was all you had. With those men robbing you blind, I knew there could not be much left.”

He pulled out the pouch he had removed from the body of the priest. “This is more than you promised me; we can consider ourselves even. There is much more left, and I would advise you to get the villagers together and collect it. Who knows, perhaps you will reclaim even more than they took from you.”

“We can never reclaim as much as they took from us.”

Björn looked at him for a long moment. “I am sorry. That was stupid of me. Nothing, not even death, can ever make up for the evil men like that do. But perhaps it will be some solace to you to know that most of them died in fear.”

“That was still too easy for them,” Thane said. “But I am complaining when I should be thanking you. I thank you, Northlander. If you will wait, the others will come and add their thanks.”

“That will not be necessary.”

After looking at Thane intently for a time, Björn bounced the pouch in his hand. “This is more than we agreed upon. I still owe you. If you ever have need of me again, and I hope you do not, please send for me. I will come.”

“Thank you. I hope we never need you, but you will always be welcome here.”

The cynical smile returned to Björn’s lips. “I know you mean that honestly. But I have learned the hard way that after I have completed my task, those I have worked for are glad to see me go and hope never to see me again.”

Raising his hand in salute, he turned and left the tavern. He and Jago left the way they had come, dust rising from their footsteps and following them down the road.