Kavlar,
The Sword-Swinging Scion of the Savage Waren,
returns in...
The
Jaws of Fenris
Episode
One: Darrowby Wine
By John Outram
About the author
"AH,
DARROWBY AT LAST," chuckled Donal the wool merchant. "My boys have been
looking forward to some good corn-wine."
"I can't say Pilton and I have quite got used to the
taste
of your corn-wine, Donal," replied Gidian. "We Rangemen prefer
barley-beer,
although a true drop of the grape does us no harm. What of you, Kavlar?
Have you accustomed yourself to your neighbours' ways?"
The Waren youth urged the last pack pony to the top
of
the hill and sent it trotting downslope with a sharp smack on the rump.
Then he looked down at the village, screwed up his eyes and sniffed the
air.
"It's quiet here," he said.
"Then we'll have to liven it up a bit!" said Donal
cheerfully.
"They're a queer folk, this far inland, but they know the laws of
hospitality.
Corn-wine, fresh bread – and I smell bacon – sweet, smoked bacon."
"You could smell bacon from across the Narwhal
Strait,"
laughed Conar, the youngest of his men.
"If I was this hungry I'd swim there for it, too!"
replied
the merchant.
"What about you, Kavlar?" asked Gidian.
Kavlar said nothing. Donal and his four servants –
all
Kelds – watched the lad dismount with practised ease, gathering the
reins
of his master's packhorses and leading them to the stableyard of the
Darrowby
Inn.
"He is one of the Havmar Waren, yes," said Gidian
quietly,
"and one of the finest horsemen I have ever seen. We took him on at
Bjornby,
and I don't regret it. He is strong, honest, hard-working, and – let us
be honest – cheap."
Donal shook his head knowingly: "Ah, the Waren are
not
canny in money matters. But honest? I tell you, there are few Keldish
folk
would trust their goods and their horses to a Waren."
"I trust him," said Gidian.
From the road they watched Gidian's young
pack-handler
lifting the heavy saddlebags with effortless grace, soothing the horses
with soft whistles and gentle words as he tightened the girth straps.
Like
all Waren, he had pale skin and blond hair. His smooth, boyish face
suggested
a tender youth barely out of childhood, but he was tall and
broad-shouldered
with muscles like whipcord. He was dressed in simple buckskins and
rabbit
fur, but a fine sword hung on his belt at his right side, a better
blade
than any pack-handler's wage could buy.
"Yes, a good looking sword," said Gidian, following
Donal's
gaze. "He told me he had it from his father. Somehow I doubt that, but
it matters not. As long as he keeps it I have a swordsman hired for the
price of a porter. I never saw him draw it, mind, but I don't doubt he
can use it."
"He's a big lad. Not as big as you, though."
Gidian smiled. He was a hand's breadth short of
seven
feet, and had never met a man as big as himself.
"Back at Hjalfar three young lads, not much older
than
him, got it into their hot heads to start a knife fight with him," he
told
Donal. "They'll carry those scars as long as they live. He's a tough
young
buck and quick with his hands."
"Oh, the Waren know one end of a weapon from
another,
it's true," replied Donal. "All last year the roads from Dunfast to
Barntammin
were plagued by a band of Monadar Waren renegades, raiders of the worst
sort. They would sweep down on a travelling party and kill everyone –
merchants,
guards, women and children too – and leave the bodies for the ravens.
What
they couldn't carry away they scattered over the highway. They burned
villages
and hayricks for no other reason than wicked delight. One of them we
called
the White Leopard, for he wore the pelt of a mountain panther on his
back
and tore men apart with no more than his bare hands like a beast. Mercy
and manners mean no more to a hill-bred barbarian than a tinderbox does
to a fish, and these Monadar clansmen were the worst, worse than
wolf-hides
even. But then Lord Torquall and fifty of his best men found them in
their
camp sleeping, and made a reckoning with them in the Keldish fashion.
If
a dozen of those Waren wolves ever saw their mountain homes again I
should
be surprised. Now, your lad may seem like a good lad and a good worker,
but that's no more than a wolf-whelp that looks almost like a pup that
would grow into a fair enough hound. He's near grown now, and it shan't
be long before you see that he's all wolf."
Gidian chuckled but rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"I've heard talk of these wolf-hides before," he
said.
"Is that another name for renegade Waren? Because they wear furs?"
"Wolf-hides?" replied Donal. "They're a legend. One
that
people around here would rather forget. Not Waren, but not Keldish
either.
Some say they came across the ocean from the East, like our folk, and
some
that they were always here, but whatever they were they were evil folk.
There are always rumours that a few of them lingered on, in the hills
and
the forests. Stories to scare children, I say."
Donal's men sauntered back from the stable,
whistling
gaily. The Waren boy followed. Gidian suspected he had taken more care
with his work than the Keldish grooms.
"Are we ready, Kavlar?" he asked.
The boy nodded his head. He whistled, and a huge,
shaggy
hound bounded up and fell into place beside him. It was a strange, ugly
beast with a long, shaggy black coat like a wolf's but a deep, powerful
chest like a mastiff's and massive jaws to match. Gidian shivered each
time he looked at the creature. He had never seen a dog so large or so
menacing.
"Wolves like that," he said to Donal with a smile,
"would
make me truly afraid."
The doorway of Darrowby Inn beckoned. The air
carried
a promise of drink and provender, of warm hearths and soft beds as they
made their way to the tap-room. Once within, the welcome was less warm.
A sour faced innkeeper greeted them with a curt nod, and a shy young
woman
in a white smock showed them to a table without a word. Three local men
in woollen cloaks looked up with dark frowns and turned back to their
hushed
conversation. Two travelling men barely glanced up from their cups.
Otherwise,
the inn was empty.
"What is your fee, good man, for a hot meal, a stoup
of
wine and a friendly smile?" asked Donal cheerily.
"Tuppence for supper, with bacon," replied the
innkeeper
listlessly. "Tuppence the quart for ordinary wine, a groat for best."
"Don't ask again about the friendly smile," warned
Gidian
under his breath. " We can't afford it. We'll need two rooms,
innkeeper,
and food and best wine for eight."
"You have room for us, then?" asked Pilton,
surveying
the empty tables and benches as the moody landlord went back among his
pots and barrels. The local men eyed him warily as he selected a large
table neither too close to nor too far from the fireplace. The two
travellers
seemed to sink further into their cups.
As they filed into the room the innkeeper's eyes
narrowed,
and he pointed a skinny finger at the last of them, the tall blond
youth.
"That's a Waren," he said. "I don't hold with Waren."
Kavlar said nothing, but the look he gave the
innkeeper
would have been provocation enough for any warrior. The three local men
turned in their seats and appraised the newcomers.
"A gang of Waren have been raiding the towns south
of
here," said the tallest of them, a burly fellow who could have been the
blacksmith for the size of his chest and arms. "You wouldn't know aught
of that, Waren."
"He's the White Leopard himself," scoffed Donal
impatiently.
"So see that you feed him right, and don't try to cheat him."
The innkeeper scowled more than ever.
"I'll serve him," he grudged, " but I'll not have
that
in my inn."
"Kavlar," sighed Gidian, "take the dog outside."
"If Gulo goes, I go," said Kavlar.
The dog began to growl and bared his great fangs.
The
long black fur on his shoulders rose up, making him seem even bigger
than
before. He stood more than a yard at the shoulder and weighed two
hundred
and fifty pounds if he weighed an ounce. The innkeeper's eyes went wide
with terror and the three local men rose to their feet.
"I'll not leave him outside," said Kavlar.
"Then you'll sleep in the hayloft, boy, and do
without
supper," warned Gidian. "Come on, lad, the dog will be safe enough in
the
stable. Tie him securely, and see that he is settled, then come back
in.
When we have finished our supper he shall have the ham-bone."
Kavlar stared at the innkeeper: "Make it a good
meaty
one, or his howling shall haunt your night."
"Just keep him out of my inn," warned the host.
Kavlar stalked out with a choice curse muttered in
his
own tongue. Gulo followed enthusiastically.
The serving girl brought bread and a large jug of
corn-wine.
Pilton tested a cupful and made a face, reminding himself that he could
have been subjected to a brew that was two pence worse. Gidian drank
with
a little more relish, not wishing to offend his host, and Donal seemed
favourably impressed. As the bacon broiled, the grooms laughed and
joked
among themselves and then started on their supper with enthusiasm.
"You were talking about the wolf-hides," Gidian said
quietly.
Donal shrugged his shoulders: "Some say maybe they
were
worse than the Waren, the fiercest raiders that ever plagued our
people."
"And why wolf-hides? Because they wore fur?"
"Oh, come! In a northern winter - which is most of
the
year in some parts -everyone who can wears furs, and the wolf has a
good
warm pelt!" chortled Donal, stroking his own collar of rich, grey fur.
"Under the fur and skins, though, we remain men. No, the wolf-hides
were
devils in human form. Not unlike the Waren today."
"Believe me, in my own land your Keldish berserks
are
as feared and hated as the Waren are here, as they come raiding across
the Narwhal Strait. Yet in the months that I have been here, I have
found
that Kelds and Rangemen are little different, in their own country.
They
farm the land, they tend cattle, they buy and sell goods, they eat and
drink, and raise children. "
Donal thought about this for a moment.
"You have a point there," he conceded. "In our
country,
a man goes about his business as in yours, looks after his own and
leaves
another man be. But it helps him to have a little of the bear in him,
for
strength and courage. Bears are gentle beasts for the most part,
keeping
to the forest and minding their own business. Unless a bear is hungry
or
sick he rarely troubles men. But bears love their young – woe betide
anything
that comes between a she-bear and her little ones! We of the north are
a little like that: easy of heart, but fierce enough when roused or
angered.
"Now a rich honeypot like one of your coastal towns
brings
out the worst in a bear. Put temptation in a Northman's way and he'll
find
it hard to resist! And our young men are like rowdy young bears coming
after honey. I think there is a little of the berserker in us all."
"That word berserker comes from the old Helming word
for
a bearskin shirt?" asked Gidian, who was something of a scholar.
"That's right, and like a shirt we can put on our
bear
nature and take it off again. Wolf-hides are another matter. The wolf
nature
sticks to them like another skin. And wolves are not gentle beasts.
They
hunt and kill for pleasure. They tear at their own kin when hungry.
They
are thieves and murderers, without remorse or mercy. Your Waren is like
that – a wolf-hide."
"You think so?" asked Gidian. "But you said they
were
not Waren."
"No, they were not," replied Donal. "They were a
secret
cult who came here from across the sea, just as we Kelds did once. What
I meant was that all Waren are wolves at heart. But there are men among
all peoples who become the same. Some demon takes possession of their
soul,
and they become wolves. We drive them off, like wolves, into
wilderness,
but they remain a danger. The wolf-hides were said to have burned the
town
of Bjaerhaven and put every man, woman and child to the sword.
Villagers
along this coast still pray to Odin for protection from the wolf-hides,
but Odin pays little heed. The stories say he has a softness for
wolves.
So we must have our bear-shirts handy and be strong, for that is what
these
wolves understand and fear."
"I have rarely heard of wolves being
such a danger to men," said Gidian.
"Wolves are bigger and fiercer in these parts,"
warned
Donal.
Kavlar's dog was blissfully unaware of any argument
over
where he should sleep. It was of no importance to him. Indeed the
stable,
with its soft straw and familiar animal smells, probably suited him
better
than an inn-room. Kavlar also felt more at ease among horses than
closed
up in a room of stone or timber, though he hated to admit as much. If
the
others were afforded the luxury of a room and a bed then it was right
he
should have the same, but he was still unused to houses and towns. He
preferred
to sleep with Gulo at hand, too, both for companionship and for safety.
He was a light sleeper himself, but he knew the dog missed nothing, and
friendly as he was among friends he would rend any man or beast that
threatened
his sleeping master.
It pained Kavlar to tie him, since Gulo was unused
to
such treatment. He spent a long time petting and fussing the dog to put
him at ease, and even after that Gulo whimpered and whined when his
master
made to leave. It was all Kavlar could do to tear himself away, but
soon
enough Gulo was sniffing his way around the straw and horses, his
troubles
forgotten.
On his way back to the tap-room he passed the ostler
and
a band of curious villagers looking through the windows of the inn. He
snorted disdainfully as he passed them. It irked him that these Keldish
folk would not look him in the eye. Among the Waren even strangers met
each other's gaze boldly, testing one another's strength of will.
"Ah, Kavlar!" Donal greeted him, his words already
slurring
with the corn-wine in them. "You are nearly too late! Conar has eaten
everything!"
"Not everything," said Gidian. "I had the innkeeper
set
a plate aside for you."
"Aye, and wine too," said Donal. "It has proved too
much
for your man Pilton. Still, all the more for us."
Kavlar sat down by the valet, Pilton, who had fallen
asleep.
He grunted as a plate and cup were set before him by the serving maid.
The taste of wine still made him think of rotten fruit, but the bacon
was
hot and the bread was fresh. He set to with a good appetite, and supped
enough wine to wash down his mouthfuls. The innkeeper watched him like
a hawk.
"I wouldn't bring my dog in his filthy inn,"
muttered
Kavlar. "Maybe telling him that would set his mind at rest."
"Yes, and remember the ham-bone!" added Conar. "We
don't
want him keeping us awake all night with his howling!"
With that he slumped forward onto his folded arms.
"I think you boys would sleep through all the hounds
of
hell howling at your windows," frowned Gidian. "Can't you northern boys
handle strong drink?"
"They've had a hard day," slurred Donal, looking up
through
bleary eyes. "All the same..."
Kavlar darted a glance at the pair of travellers
sitting
at the far table. They had long since slumped over their cups like
drunkards.
Gidian, too, was resting his head in his hands. The local men, wide
awake,
were watching them with undisguised interest now. Kavlar thrust the cup
away from him and stared back. Donal suppressed a yawn and began to
sink
down in his chair.
"I don't like this," said Kavlar. "Not a bit."
He filled his cup to the brim and walked with it to
where
the innkeeper and the maid stood. As Kavlar approached, the innkeeper
looked
up from the pewter tankard he was polishing, glanced over to the local
men. Over his shoulder, Kavlar saw them rise to their feet. They cast
off
their woollen cloaks to reveal wolf-skin tunics and long, sharp daggers
beneath.
"By Louhi's icy hallows," he snarled, "I should have
smelt
this for a den of wolves from the start."
Without a word, they began to close on him... ***
***
