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Legends Never Die: Blood Feud (ch. 11)
🕑 Added 2022-09-28 15:01:41 +0000 UTCWe lost about eighty men. Which seemed like so few in comparison to the battle there had been. There were another hundred that had been wounded, some of which were expected to die of their wounds. But, the battle was being celebrated as a great victory. The garrison at Sigiburg had surrendered when King Sigfred sent a thousand warriors as a show of force, meaning that in a handful of days, we had taken both forts.
King Widukind already set off to spread news of the victory to the Saxon nobles, expecting a large number of them to cast off their Frankish chains.
The little I knew about war told me that things were going well. Incredibly well. The army was in high spirits -- the standoffish air between the factions of the army eased significantly now they had fought side by side, bled and killed with each other. There were celebrations and sacrifices…
Yet, it felt like I had the entirety of the sky crushing down upon me as I looked at the funeral pyres. There were several that were dotted across the field of battle a day after our victory. Father stood before me, a torch in his hand as the priests prayed to the gods to welcome his hall for all those that perished in the battle.
Kirk was laid upon the pyre, his axe and shield in his hands. His face was bloodless, his eyes closed in death. He had his own pyre, a symbol of honor for my family. I couldn't see it from where I stood, but I knew the wound that had killed him. A slash across the throat.
"He was right next to me," Havi whispered as we said our farewells to another older brother. "We were side by side… trying to get to the Franks… then he was just not there anymore. I didn't realize until later, when I started to look for him, but…" Havi trailed off in a quiet voice, shedding no tears but there was a powerful sadness in his voice.
I heard the story already. I inspected the wound. There was only one conclusion I could come to. "Our brother was murdered," I spoke, earning a small nod of Havi's head.
The attack had come from behind. Havi was adamant that it couldn't have been the Franks that killed him because he admitted to never actually seeing a Frank on the battlefield. The wall of bodies had been too thick for him to reach the front of the battle.
Someone had slit my brother's throat from behind. The slash was too long and deep to be anything other than a deliberate and malicious act of murder.
"We have to avenge his death," Havi said, earning a nod from me. Vengeance was a sacred task -- if someone murdered a member of your kin, you were honorbound to kill them in return. Whoever they might be. Whoever had murdered our brother might have been repaying a previous death my family had inflicted on theirs. My father had more than a few blood feuds with other clans -- some he started, others he inherited. But, even if they were repaying a death, the death of Kirk demanded an answer.
We would kill whoever murdered our brother. No matter who he was. No matter where he was. No matter why he did it. They would die… and they would die screaming.
"We all have our fated day," Father spoke, his voice sad as he stepped forward when the priests finished their prayers. "I had hoped mine would come before I saw another of my children fall. But, take heart -- Kirk is feasting with the gods in Valhalla now. He is with his ancestors, trading their stories."
Havi offered a feeble smile, "Kirk will be happy to see Ulf again," he said, speaking of our dog that had died of old age years ago. All trusted dogs were welcomed in Valhalla. They were more welcomed than men -- because dogs were always faithful and dependable.
"He's happier than we are," I finished, agreeing with them, watching as Father took the torch to the pyre, the kindling quickly catching a flame that began to spread and grow. I watched as the body of my brother was consumed with flames, the clearing filled with the stench of burnt hair and smoke, but no one said anything about it. We all stood in silence, watching the flames consume Kirk -- I couldn't speak for the others, but I recalled memories of him.
We hadn't been very close. Not until the past six months on the farmstead. Kirk was like Haldur -- not so much older than me he saw me as a baby brother, but old enough that he thought he was too old to play with me growing up. The number of times he had earned a smack from Mother whenever he was forced to play with me probably outnumbered the size of our army.
But he had been my brother. I loved him. Fate was cruel to take him away from our family. Especially by some nithing that murdered him. Yet, I could do nothing to change it. I simply had to accept that Kirk was in Valhalla, feasting and being merry with the gods, happier than he ever had been in life. We would have to do wonderous deeds in life to impress him when we saw each other again… as well as pay his murder in full with blood.
There were many in the clearing, but there was only the sound of cackling flames. The fire leapt higher, sending up black oily smoke to the night sky. As time went on, the fire died down, as the pyre began to collapse on itself when the blackened logs weakened. It took an hour, but in that time, all that was left were blackened bones and ash. The bones were collected by my father, which would be brought home to the grave on our property for burial.
Father was the first to walk away, and Havi walked with him. I offered Kirk's pyre one final look before I turned around and walked back to the camp. At my family's area, I saw Otto. The cross he carried was secured in my trunk, and he almost appeared naked without it. Instead, he had taken some sticks and twine from his clothing to fashion another, if less impressive, cross. He looked up at me, pausing his prayer.
"I… am sorry for your loss," Otto told me as I dragged a hand over my face, taking a seat on my bedroll. "I did not know your brother, but I… I prayed for him. He did not know the light of God, but that was through no fault of his own. I hope our heavenly father will welcome him into heaven."
I laid down, turning my back to him as I swallowed a retort. "I'll thank you for the prayers in the spirit that they are given, but my brother is in Valhalla. With all of my ancestors and kin. Not your heaven." I snapped at him without meaning to, my voice growing harsh. I could hear Otto wilt behind me, but I said nothing.
Instead, I closed my eyes to sleep and hoped I would not dream. Not when the gods themselves had given me a quest.
Avenge your brother.
…
The army decided to march, to seize the opening that we had made. King Widukind seemed to be finding support based on what I overheard -- no one mentioned solid numbers, but it was enough that Jarl Horrik and King Sigfred decided to advance into Frankish territory unsupported by the Saxons, who would simply rejoin us at a later date. The food stores from the two fortresses were plundered for the army, allowing us to not worry about food for a time.
However, while it was decided that we would march into Frankish territory, the two leaders of the army had very different ideas. King Sigfred slammed a hand on the table inside his tent, “We will go to the city of the Franks. King Widukind spoke about Frankfort a great deal at my court -- he claimed it was the greatest prize of the Frank kingdom. A Christian church on every street and the city is full of wealth!”
Jarl Horrik snarled, slamming his hands on the table hard enough that a tankard was knocked over. “We should march to the great river! The border cities will expect our attack and be prepared. What they won’t be prepared for is a deep strike at the heart of the kingdom beyond the great river.”
“Do you fear the Franks, you coward? Have you no stomach for a fight?!” King Sigfred snapped, spit flying from his lips as he stood up. Jarl Horrik turned a deep shade of red, shaking at the insult. Any sign of civility between them was lost as they butted heads for the better part of an hour. “Your plan leaves us behind a large river with no ships days away from reinforcements, fool!”
“Yours will end with men dead for no more reason than foolish vanity! We are here to win a war, not just to raid!” He snapped, smacking the contents of the table off with enough force I was nearly struck with a tankard of ale. I shifted where I stood at the opening of the tent, glancing around at the other men watching the confrontation. Despite the flaring tempers, everyone was at ease for the most part.
Thorfinn glowered at King Sigfred, while King Sigfred’s guard scowled at Thorfinn. There were others, but they looked unconcerned about weapons being drawn.
“Which is why we should attack Frankfort! It is a great city filled with many men! It is a staging point for Charlgmane and a place where he can marshal his armies. If we move inland, it will be a dagger in our side,” King Sigfred snarled, grabbing the table itself and flinging it to the side. Now people started to appear concerned.
I had no clue what we should do. Jarl Horrik’s plan sounded dangerous but rewarding. King Sigfred’s sounded like it would cost the most men, but it would be a far greater prize and help us in the war. But, I just didn’t know enough. How big of a city was Frankfort? Where was it? Why was it so important? Between the two battles we had, we lost over a hundred fighting men. If Frankfort was another fortress, perhaps a greater one than the two we took already, then how many men would it take?
Could we even take it?
I didn’t know. And it was clear just how little I knew.
“If we cannot make a decision, then we must consult the gods,” Jarl Horrik said, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. It seemed like it was taking everything that he had not to reach over and strangle King Sigfred. The King’s nostrils flared as he jerked his head in a nod, consenting to the idea. “My seer shall ask the gods what shall be done.”
However, to that, King Sigfred sneered, “My seers shall ask.” He bit out and Jarl Horrik trembled with anger.
“You dare of accusing me of lying? About the gods intentions?!” Jarl Horrik shouted, turning such a dark shade of red that he was almost purple.
I looked between them, slowly growing tenser as it looked increasingly likely that the argument would escalate to blows any second now. King Sigfred worked his jaw for a moment, as if biting back his initial retort.
“We shall both ask them. If they come back with different answers, then it is clear one of us is a dishonest, honorless, godless piece of filth,” King Sigfred snarled, turning around with a flap of his cloak before he marched out of the command tent. Jarl Horrik snarled, kicking the table that was tossed to the side and reducing one of its legs to splinters. His chest heaved as King Sigfred’s followers left the tent.
“His insults can’t be allowed to stand, father! They’re worthy of a Holmgang,” Thorfinn said, rounding on his father, only to be roughly shoved on his ass. Jarl Horrik towered over his son, rage in his eyes, and for a moment, I thought he might take his anger out on his son.
Instead, he took in a deep breath and let out a frustrated sigh, “I know, you empty-headed fool. I know. Why, do you think, do I suffer his insults? Hm?” Jarl Horrik demanded, making Thorfinn’s mouth open, but no answer came. I felt like I shouldn’t be here, witnessing this. This wasn’t something that should be seen by anyone other than family. Thorfinn was being humiliated and based on his reddening cheeks, he knew it. “Because HE HAS MORE MEN! Think before you speak, boy. Gods, to believe a whelp like you is my son.” He spat before storming off, saying nothing more.
There was a heavy silence in the tent as all of us tried to look anywhere but at Thorfinn, who rose to his feet. Despite my efforts, I ended up meeting his gaze for a moment, the older man was either on the verge of tears or murderous rage. “OUT!” He screamed at me, then grabbed a thrall that had been attending Jarl Horrik and shoved her out of the tent. “Everyone, OUT!”
I quickly obeyed the order, stepping out of the tent and marching on. I looked at the faces of the people that discreetly watched the tent, and I wondered if any of them had murdered my brother. Father was looking around, seeing if anyone that our family had a blood feud with had attended the army, but so far it didn’t seem like it.
While the men were getting along much better, the leadership of the joint army was at each other’s throats. I made my way back to my family tent, Otto praying to himself. Upon entering, he quickly finished the prayer.
I was making great speed when it came to speaking Frankish. Latin, less so, but I suspected that was because Otto himself didn’t know the language very well. I already knew two tongues, and it seemed that learning a third wouldn’t take half as long as it took to learn Germanic. We moved beyond just words, speaking sentences and teaching descriptors. My mastery of the language increased over the march and coming days, bringing me from speaking the tongue poorly to nearly fluent.
The gods gave their verdict. And both leader’s seers were in agreement -- we would head to the city of Frankfort.
Jarl Horrik swallowed his fury. Barely. And King Sigfred couldn’t conceal his glee.
“I am sorry to hear of the death of your brother, Siegfried,” King Sigfred told me one day as we marched. We sent out scouts ahead -- both to find the city of Frankfort and to make sure that we didn’t run into an army. They found several villages, which were plundered, and they gave us a bearing.
“Murder,” I corrected, unable to find myself in a good mood since his death. I understood that I couldn’t have saved him. It was Kirk’s fate to die that day. It wouldn’t have mattered if I was next to him or not. Fate could and would not be denied. Not by me, not by the gods. Still, it didn’t make it any easier. I had done nothing but watched the battle while my brother had been murdered. That just didn’t sit well with me.
King Sigfred shifted at my tone, giving me a glance as we marched forward. “Murdered, then. You will have my aid in finding his murderer -- I will hear of nothing less. An honorless creature walks among us. It must be slain.”
I nodded my thanks, but I didn’t know where to start with looking for the murderer. “They will likely go after my family again. I hope they target me, next,” I told him -- I had been purposely leaving myself vulnerable since the days of the march. Sleeping with the tent open, or on my own. Bathing at every lake and river we came upon. Anything to tempt the murderer to strike. “I’m going to blood eagle them. Them and their conspirators,” I muttered darkly to myself.
King Sifgred nodded, expecting nothing less. “If it is an old feud then they could be taking the opportunity to prevent your family’s ascension. If not, then it’s likely a jealous clan.” He spoke, his tone serious. I tensed at his words, clenching my jaw. “It is not your fault, Wolf-Kissed. It is the nature of men. They covet what they do not have. When they see someone rise, they seek to tear him down.”
And my brother had been a casualty to that… jealousy? Envy?
When I got my hands on Kirk’s murderer…
“My King! We have caught sight of the city!” A scout informed, urging King Sigfred to gallop forward. I was quick to follow behind him, curious to see where we would be attacking. The terrain shifted almost by the day -- sometimes we marched over long rolling hills, then through marshy areas because of all the small rivers, then through dense forest. And sometimes a combination of all the above.
We rode to the top of a hill, and off in the distance, I saw the city of Frankfort. The first thing that I noticed, even at a distance, was that it was an even greater city than Alabu. It had a stone wall around it, but from the elevation, I saw the roofs of houses, seeing that a great many of them were made out of stone as well, and the city was so large that two or three of Alabu could fit neatly within the walls. It was seated on a hill, though a lower one in comparison to the ones around it or nearby.
However, I was also quick to notice something else. Outside of the walls were tents. A good number of them -- I couldn’t see how many, exactly, there could be because of the angle, but the fact that they were there at all told me that we had stumbled on something else entirely.
“The walls are not high,” King Sigfred noted, the eagerness that had been in his voice no longer there. “Winter just ended, and a city that size will have many mouths to feed.” He sounded like he was trying to think the issue through, convincing himself that coming here was the correct course of action.
We found Frankfort, and from the looks of it, the Frankish army. It might still be marshaling, or it could be the entirety of their force. I had no way of telling. But, if I were them, I would take that army and take it inside the city. I had seen how much of a difference walls could make in a battle.
“They will take the field,” King Sigfred stated, sounding confident. With that, he turned around and headed back to the army, leaving me to look at the city.
…
“We need to know their number,” Jarl Horrik said, a deep frown on his face. “If their numbers are few, then they will enter the city and defend its walls. If they are many, then we should pull back -- the time was not lost. We know where their army is. However, if our numbers are comparable, then they will feel confident to take the field. They don’t have the supplies for a siege -- but, that being said, a siege is the last thing that we want.”
King Sigfred nodded at that, “It will announce our position to Charlemagne and give him the time he needs to muster his troops. The advantage we gained will be lost.” He said, all their previous animosity forgotten as they focused on the common enemy that they had. “But, to know what they will do, we need their number.”
“Regardless, I believe we should try to bait them out. Present a smaller force to convince them to fight, and when they leave the safety of their walls, we hit them with the full force of our might. We will need to pick our battleground -- use the river to our advantage and find a place to hide as many warriors that we need.” Jarl Horrik spoke, stroking his beard in thought.
Thorfinn spoke up, "We have Saxons and Franks. Let's send them as spies," he said with visible hesitation, fearing his father's wrath. Jarl Horrik shook his head.
"No, we can't trust any of them to not turn on us. We don't know if they know that we're here, yet." He said, and I was finding that war was a lot of guessing and what ifs. The goal almost seemed to give your enemy more what ifs than they gave you, then hit them with what you had.
King Sigfred turned to me, "Wolf-Kissed, how serviceable is your Frankish?" He asked me, making the once again full command tent look towards me, expectantly.
"I'm not fluent, but I can hold a conversation easily enough," I answered, making Jarl Horrik's brow furrow.
"It's been a few days since you started, hasn't it?" He asked, sounding confused, as if couldn't tell if I was exaggerating or being honest.
"I float lazily through the air, yet I am busy. I love colorful flowers, yet I dwell inside when it snows. What am I?" King Sigfred asked me, and to my surprise, he was speaking Frankish. It didn't sound particularly fluent, not like Otto. Almost as if he had practiced the riddle.
I hated riddles. But, compared to the ones Morrigan was fond of, it was a simple one. "A bee?" I answered in Frankish, and King Sigfred nodded.
"He knows the language well. If he didn't get it, he was either lying, or a fool," he said, revealing that I had passed his test. Jarl Horrik looked impressed and Thorfinn looked away, hiding his expression from me. "Wolf-Kissed, you shall go to the enemy camp and learn their number. If possible, what they know about us and their destination. Report back as swiftly as you are able -- our position here is vulnerable."
I looked at Jarl Horrik, who looked like he was fighting to not glower at King Sigfred for giving me an order, before he looked at me and nodded. "Go," he ordered simply and I did exactly that.
My hair would mark me out, but the scar of my neck would draw too much attention. I was given a disguise -- Frankish clothing, a scarf to cover my neck, as well as a Frankish shield and spear -- weapons that a levy would be expected to bring with them. Before the day had ended, I was marching towards the city of Frankfort, approaching from a different angle than the army was encamped, which was moving up north, using the river as a guide.
I thought I would be nervous. Or scared. I was approaching an enemy army alone, with no backup. But, I was calm. Confident. If things went poorly, then I would just run away. There was no cowardice or dishonor in running when you were faced with an army on your own. Fate would not allow me to die. I was certain of it. If I had the favor of the gods -- who gave me a mission to avenge my brother's murder -- then there could be no doubt that I was fated to get that revenge. Meaning that I would not die in this task. My success was uncertain, but I would live.
As I approached, I began counting. First, I started counting tents. There were a lot, I found when I walked along the river, seeing a great number of them outside of the city. I also saw that the fortifications didn't envelope the city. They just had a strong wall that I noticed was crumbling and old, then they had a wood palisade to fill the gaps in the wall.
There was a clear entrance for the levies to enter from and I spotted a group heading towards the entrance. They looked to me as I made to join them, "Where are the rest of you?" A man asked me in Frankish, making my lips thin.
"They're gone," I answered shortly, both to keep the speaking to a minimum, and to kill any questions. The man whitened, assuming the worst. He and the other dozen men that joined him. I had asked Otto about the Frankish armies and he told me what he knew -- all villages that received the call to arms were expected to send a minimum amount of soldiers towards a designated location. In this case, Frankfort.
"Godless heathens," the man muttered, making the sign of the cross that I saw Otto do after every prayer. With that, I joined their group. We marched to the entrance where there were a group of men all wearing scale mail, carrying spears and shields. There was also a man sitting at a table -- a feather in hand as he scribbled something on a piece of parchment.
"Village and number?" The man asked, and I wished that I could read Frankish. It would be incredibly useful right now. All I would need to do is grab that paper and run, then I wouldn't need to stay and count men and tents.
"A dozen, and Hidenrod," the man I spoke to answered, taking off his hat and bowing respectively. The man writing nodded and let the men in. I, however, was stopped. The man writing glanced up at me, his eye quickly noting my hair color.
"One, Fulda," I lied, giving the name of a false village.
His eyes narrowed at that, "That is a Saxon village. One that is in revolt," He noted, his voice stern. It was? I hadn't known that. I went with a Saxon village because I hoped it would explain more distinctly not fluent Frankish. Then I could switch to Germanic, which I did speak fluently.
I shook my head, "I didn't know that, my lord. I just heard that this is where I should be if I want to fight Danes and traitors." I told him, making his lips purse. I tried to hide it, but I began to tense, not sure what I was doing wrong.
"What are the ten commandments?" The man asked me suddenly as the soldiers began to shift. I looked at them, then at him, before listing them out. In order. Otto's insistence on teaching me about the Glory of God might have just saved my mission. When I did so, he nodded, “Say grace,” he ordered, and I did so again, only this time I had to use a few Germanic words because I worried I might mangle the Frankish translation. I don’t think his God would hear my prayers. You had to mean them from the depths of your heart for the gods to hear them, at least that’s what Mother says.
Upon saying Amen, the harsh look faded from his eyes. "Good. It is a good thing to see that some of your kind have managed to find the light of God. Enter. We'll put you in a tent that's missing someone."
Thanking the man, and entered the Frankish camp, I officially became a spy. The first thing I noticed was that it was organized chaos. There were clumps of tents together, a space, then more tents to make road-like gaps. Almost as if it was a village or town. Given that I hadn't been given a direction to go, I began to explore the camp, noting the men.
It looked very similar to our own camp, I noticed, but the Franks were more organized. As I explored, I learned that each tent was for a dozen men, though some had more and others had less. There were camp followers, those that did tasks for the soldiers so they could focus on fighting -- such as blacksmiths, carpenters, cooks, and so on.
Fast Counter made it easy to remember the total sum as I continued to stack more and more and more sums on top of it. I wandered the camp for the better part of two hours, doing nothing but counting tents. The number was getting higher and higher and higher to the point that my stomach was beginning to clench.
There were over three hundred tents, by my count as I made my way towards the city itself. Each with about twelve men was… a lot. A whole lot. It was an army that wasn't just equal to our own, but bigger. It was around then that I stumbled across the stables near the entrance of the city -- there were horses. So many horses. Some of them made our own look like ponies in comparison with their size and bearing.
Then it sunk in that I couldn't do the same method of counting of those that were inside the city of Frankfort. How many were within? Another few hundred? Another few thousand? It was big enough to house that number. They just had to come out.
I was so lost in the scope of the Frankish army that I was nearly trampled, my only warning being the baying of a horse. I looked over, ready to dodge out of the way, only to see that it wasn't needed. The person on the horse quickly brought the massive black stallion under control, looking down at me with faint annoyance.
He was an older man, though younger than my Father or Jarl Horrik. He had a long flowing beard that matched his mane of brown hair, his blue eyes staring down at me. He was dressed in fine clothing that was the nicest thing of clothing I had ever seen -- it was bejeweled and finely stitched. I knew exactly who I was looking at even before I looked up to see the band of gold that was his crown upon his head.
It seems the gods led us to the Frankish King himself, Charlemagne.
"You there, boy," he spoke to me, sounding regal. "Who are you?"
Oh. This wasn't good.
Comments
Leif Pipersky
Quick stab and run? Army escapes in the chaos?
Douglas Karr
He's just a poor boy, from a poor family, spare him his life, from this monstrosity
