THE BARBARIAN & THE KING

T

he ring in the curved steel as it cleared the scabbard spoke to the quality of the blade, the glare from the morning sunlight striking its edge spoke to its sharpness. The steam of his breath spoke of the coldness of the air. The speed of his movement spoke of the hone of his reflexes. The stare in his cold grey eyes spoke of his determination. The stance in his lean but powerful form spoke of his skill as a warrior.

Six knights, all in plate and mail, mounted on barding wrapped war horses pointed long sharp spears at the feral looking warrior. Yet though they outweighed him in numbers, equipment and position, he stood there in such a way that they felt they should be the ones in fear for their lives.

The vagabond’s camp was nothing more than an old lamb’s wool swag with a saddle for a pillow between two low but hot fires. To one side his mount, a pony of the steppes, smaller than the great war mounts, but just as strong and fast, stood watching intently, as if keen to see what ill fate might befall the knights.

Finally, the captain of the knights lifted his spear and spoke in the mercenary tongue. “I am Sir Gordon Oth Guinsard. You sleep on the King’s Road outside of the city of Araben. What is your business traveller?”

The cold eyes shifted with predatory assessment to the man who addressed him. Finally, he slackened his posture ever so slightly.

The warrior spoke in the formal tongue of Araben, “I am Wulfric of the Steppes. I come to treat with King Valinden and bring important messages from the Thanes of the North.”

Guinsard too spoke in the formal tongue. “Greetings Emissary Wulfric. We shall escort you to the castle if you would allow us.”

Wulfric watched the men, he could see more than contempt in some of their eyes, but their commander was formal and civil. Finally, he relaxed his posture to a casual stand, in the same movement he deftly swooped his sword back into its sheath. He then nodded and set about breaking camp.

As the barbarian gathered his dirty rags, Swarion, second only to Guinsard leaned in to his commander and whispered, not too quietly. “You would have us bring this filthy dog before the king. Surely we should arrest such an armed man besetting upon out civilised city.”

Guinsard saw the panther like muscles in the emissary tighten as he slowed briefly in his work. The Captain spoke clearly. “You’re welcome to try and arrest him Swarion, but before you do, tell me. To which member of your family should we send your head?”

Swarion was astonished. “You would back this vagabond wrapped in skins and leather cuirass against my mail, my sword and my heart?”

“Swarion, your sword may be sharp, but your wits are dull, and your heart may be strong, but your head as thick as your mail. Look at the refined power of that roan steed. The quality of decoration in that leather cuirass you so quickly dismiss, and did you see the layered patterning in that perfectly balanced sword. This warrior has been gifted the finest his people have to offer. Not things that are ever given lightly and impossible to take by force. I would give great account to this man’s skill. I might even say we should be grateful that he let us live after waking him so rudely.” Wulfric hid his smile as he saddled his horse. Swarion stood staring at what he considered rubbish and was even more confused.

Within a few minutes Wulfric was upon his packed horse and he set off towards the city. Guinsard fell in beside him, the rest following. Swarion’s mood was not improved by losing his riding position and being put back a rank.

The city of Araben was a huge gathering of all the races. The largest metropolis in Hamon. Massive stone walls encircled the buildings at various layers as the whole city cascaded down a steep hill from the original castle. Even from a mile out Wulfric could smell the putridity of the overpopulated place. With a salute from Guinsard there was no stopping at the massive gated barbican. Wulfric marvelled at the dual tower structure, far bigger than even the largest hut of the High Thane, and this was merely a gate.

The ride in had taken long enough that the sun sat high shining down into the cobbled streets. Emerging from the barbican Wulfric was assaulted by the noise and smells of the seemingly unstoppable tumult of city life. The way people moved around and the noise they created was, to him, like a battle nobody knew they fought or would ever win. Bao, the roan steppe pony, folded his ears back and snorted in disgust. Wulfric wished he could do the same, but Guinsard had been respectful, so he would be too.

Swarion called out. “Amazing what a bit of civilisation can do, is it not, barbarian?”

“Civilisation, yes. You must point out when we see some.”

Guinsard chuckled and nodded to the emissary. The rebuked knight fumed at another public ridicule.

Wulfric was impressed. He could not imagine all the effort to make such a massive place of stone and timber. So many people working together, or at least in the same space. His tribe numbered barely two hundred, and was the biggest of the less than fifty northern tribes. There were more people here than all the tribes combined ten times over.

Eventually the escort arrived at the massive light grey stoned castle. Pennants blew in the breeze and the sun gleamed of the smooth stone. The moat, deep and wide was home to a green carpet of lilies, though legends among the tribesmen said it also contained huge reptiles that dined on the condemned. The walls to the castle were double layered, with high defences marked by arrow slits and crenulations. The inner courtyard was another bustle of movement. The disciplined nature of the knights and those that served them was far more quiet and efficient than out in the city. Young boys came up to take the horses, a tall blonde one nearly lost his hand as he put it to the bridle of Bao, snatching it back from his chomping teeth.

“Easy Bao,” spoke Wulfric. “He means you no harm.” Wulfric reached into his pack and pulled out three small crab apples. “Here boy. Give him one of these from a flat palm, and show him the others as you lead him to stable. One then, and the last once you have brushed him down and he has had his oats. No nose bag, or that will be eaten too.” The boy looked at Guinsard, who nodded at the boy making the visitor’s statements an order. Bao ate his first apple and followed the boy off to the stables.

Guinsard motioned inside the castle, “Come, I will take you to refresh before seeing the King.”

“I cannot tarry. I must see your King now.”

“Wulfric, you must forgive us our propriety. I will make your urgency known, in the meantime wash if you want and have the breakfast our rude awakening no doubt prevented.”

Wulfric grunted and followed the knight to a guest room. Inside the room was dominated by a massive carved four poster bed, larger than some village huts. Around the edge a small table and chair and a chest. Soon a page brought the promised water and a bowl, another a chunk of bread and cheeses with a jug of ale.

After washing, eating and drinking, Wulfric turned to pacing the room or staring out of the window. Wulfric tapped the glass in examination. Beyond the whole eastern part of the city was laid out before him. He felt a pang of fear. Not fear of it. Fear for it.

As Wulfric wiped a tear from his eye, Swarion burst into the room. Gone was his plate and mail, he now wore the uniform of the castle, blue and grey marked with a gryphon rampant. His mood had not improved. “You are summoned.”

Tired of the man’s prejudice, Wulfric could not help but quip. “In civilised kingdoms, like mine, a man knocks and begs entry to someone’s chamber.” Without further acknowledgement of the soldier he walked out.

Guinsard was too dressed in uniform. He stood before a massive set of double doors, made of solid bronze. It would take more than mere men to rend them from their frame. “Ready Emissary?”

“Yes Captain.”

Swarion was off to the side, he coughed for attention and pointed to the sword still at the warrior’s side. Guinsard started.

“Oh, Wulfric. I must ask that you relinquish your sword prior to standing before the King.”

“You still carry yours. Why should I go unarmed? As you noted before, this sword is a mark of my station, as this badge on your sash denotes yours.”

Guinsard nodded and thought. “Well, rather than breach your traditions or ours, may I offer you this. I shall bare your sword, and swear on my oath, that if you need to defend yourself I will give it to you before engaging with you. “

It was Wulfric’s turn to ponder. “Agreed.” He handed his weapon to the knight.

The great bronze doors thunked and then slowly drew open. Beyond was a great hall, at the far end on a high mounted dais, a large throne, of red velvet and gold, was flanked by two smaller replicas. In the centre sat a middle aged man with a short salt and pepper beard clothed in silk garments and adorned with large white furs. His crown simple but bejewelled. To his left, a young woman, beautiful with dark red hair and fine porcelain skin, wrapped in fine off white shining silks from head to toe. To his right a rotund and red faced man baring a gold staff capped with the holy symbol of the sun. His robes marked him a high ranking church official. Down each side of the hall was a rank of armoured knights, ten to a side, all armed with sword and pike.

Once they eventually crossed the throne room and stood at the foot of the stairs Swarion spoke. “My liege King Valinden, I present Wulfric, Emissary of the Thane’s of the Northmen.” And he bowed.

Valinden looked at the ruffian before him. Stared at the man who did not bow. There was an awkward silence as he waited for the honorific that did not come. Finally seeing Guinsard’s discomfort he spoke. “Rise Sir Knight.” As the knight stood Valinden then noticed the curved sword in his hands. “Is that a gift Sir Knight?”

“Er, No my Sire. This weapon is a badge of office for Lord Wulfric. This is his rank Sir. Thus he is entitled to have it, but as by your decree, no stranger may come armed before you.”

Wulfric grew angry. He was not here to be ignored. “Enough of this wasteful pomp! King Valinden. I must speak with you!”

Valinden lashed back with even greater anger. “You will learn your place, barbarian! No emissary comes before us, refuse to bow to our station and then demand anything of our court. Who do you suppose that you are?”

Swarion, seeing his opportunity stepped in and spoke. “A mercenary vagabond Sire. A heathen who has been coddled by Guinsard since finding him in the dirt this morning.”

Wulfric’s blood boiled. “Shut your filthy mouth you slimy whore. Guinsard’s ass has more honour than your heart.” He moved to get closer to the King. He needed to deliver his message. Guinsard appeared before him and gently placed a hand on his chest. A warning look on his face.

Swarion turned red faced. “You grotty vagabond!” he spat between clenched teeth. “You see Sire, he has no honour, no culture and his barbarism knows no limits. Thrice he as insulted me, and now thrice has insulted you. I request the pleasure of sending his head back to his people as a warning to never darken our door again.”

“Do not challenge me, slimy assed punk.”

“Enough!” bellowed Valinden. “Emissary, you wear your title poorly. You will leave us now. Do not return. You may keep your head, but this is your last chance. Go!”

“Valinden, listen, you need to hear my words.”

“Do not address us in such familiar terms! You have burned your opportunities.”

Wulfric tried again to plead with the stubborn man on his gilt throne, he took another step closer. Again Guinsard restrained with a warning. But Swarion was quick and had his sword at the northerner’s throat.

The king leaned forward, sitting above the crowd. “Sir Valinkin, I grant your request. Take him from here and remove his head.”

Swarion smiled.

Guinsard was crestfallen. He stepped back and proffered the sword. “Wulfric. You have been challenged, here is your sword. Do you accept the challenge to single combat?” again the knight gave a warning glance to all the other knights in the room.

“What are you doing Sir Guinsard?” demanded the King.

“I promised this man he would not be denied his sword should he need to defend himself. I am oathbound to give it to him.”

“I agree.” Interrupted Wulfric.

“Very well. Barbarian, arm yourself, die with some semblance of honour.”

Wulfric sneered at the pompous fool on his soft cushions. Pulled the masterwork curved sword from its sheath and turned to face Swarion. “Withdraw your challenge Swarion. Save yourself and let me say what I must, then leave in peace.”

“Come on you night soil merchant.”

Wulfric swung his sword twice around his body with practiced ease, stretched and fell into a crouched fighting stance. He lowered his gaze, fire burned in his white eyes as the stared past his furrowed brow. A panther’s coiled thews moved beneath his sun browned skin. His grip on the scimitar was firm yet supple.

Swarion smiled at what he thought to be an act. He too swung his sword and mocked his opponent. With casual flair he took his longsword by two hands and began to circle the barbarian.

As the knight move round, the warrior didn’t. He listened to the brush of boot on the flags of the room. Carefully, like the predator stalking the prey, he used all his senses to know what is going on. But most of all, Wulfric waited for the cowardice and hubris of the knight. He listened as Swarion’s foot falls changed ever so slightly once he was at Wulfric’s back. Wulfric heard the step taken towards him. He heard the intake of breath from the king’s man. Like a viper he spun to his left and struck.

Spinning around he came at Swarion who was half way through an overhead strike. Over committed the knight could not avoid the powerful cross parry from the warrior. His hands rung as the blades reverberated from the impact. Swarion’s blade was pushed left, he used his training and skill to draw the blade back to the right, to take off the head of Wulfric. Where the knight was trained, the warrior was practiced. He was ready for the trained response, but he was stronger and his blade was lighter, thusly faster. Wulfric’s scimitar struck upwards and parried the blade again, forcing it up high. Bringing the curved blade around in a circle, it cut like a razor across the centre of the blue gray uniform. Swarion seemed to forget to move the shock was so great. Wulfric swung back again, opening his foe’s throat and with a gush of crimson that stained the flags.

The princess shrieked in horror. The priest prayed for a blessing. Wulfric cleaned his blade on the fallen man’s tunic and passed it back to Guinsard.

“Is honour satisfied King of Araben?”

“Yes warrior. Who are you again?”

Wulfric pulled at the tabs of his cuirass. He dropped it to the floor. He then pulled open his shirt showing the tattoo of a wolf’s head surrounded by a sun. The ink covering his heart. “I am Wulfric, son of Othgard. I am Thane of the Wolf Clan, and High Thane of the Northern Tribes. I have come here in peace and been met with hostility. I have been told by my equals to bow before them and shunned before I could answer. I tell you this. From the north east come the hordes of the dark beast men. Half the Northern Tribes, including the Wolf Tribe have been wiped out. Your borders are under threat. But rather than listen to me, you spend a good warrior on simple pride.

“I came to offer treaty and assist you in your wars. But you have proven unworthy, so the Northern Tribes will retreat to the high Steppes and leave you to your fate. Goodbye.”

“We will hear your treaty, Thane of the North.” But Wulfric was already leaving the room. Ignoring the pompous man in his pretty furs.

Guinsard bowed to his king, and retreated, baring the High Thane’s sword as an explanation.

The court was left in silence, a bleeding corpse at the centre of the room.