Oathbreaker

‘There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.’

Those words would spend many years haunting me. There are times in the world where destiny announces itself with a mighty roar of challenge and others with the softest of whispers. My doom was written in the throwaway words of a vagrant, on the eve of my manhood.

I’d seen him in the village once or twice. He stood most often on the corner of the bowyer’s street. Brown-ragged and hooded, he stood, never sat, for hours on end, leaning on a stave of ash, his cowl hiding his eyes. Vagrants and beggars were tolerated in Grulte but never liked. Since this one never seemed to want for anything, he stood unmolested. Perhaps for more than one reason.

The villagers gave him a wide berth, but the children never did. They sat at his feet begging for stories, in whose dispensation he never seemed miserly. He held the boys spellbound with tales of ancient heroes like Dlalonway Morespear, slayer of the two headed wolf, Morthang. Then at entreaties from the girls he would tell of the fair maidens and heroins, like Alvania, queen of the Bluewood, and her cunning ensorcellment of the rash Prince, Menwyn the Tall. The boys would feign boredom when these stories were told, but the greybeard’s moustaches would twitch when they forgot to hide their rapt attention.

“Tain’t right,” Milva the fishmonger said, gutting a perch in front of me, “vagabond’s what he is. Those brown rags he wears. You’d think him the cultist of a dung-god.”

I clucked and nodded with the appropriate disinterest. Milva was one of those people who would begrudge you nothing in the world, but could not stop talking, usually about other people and their business.

“In any case. How are you feeling about tonight, Varomir? You look forward to it?”

I nodded, smiling lightly but saying nothing. I looked south past bowyer’s street. At the foot of the village which led down the coast road to the low cliffs, there stood three shrines and one temple. It was my fifteenth summer and as was custom, I and three other youths would celebrate the solstice with the rite of manhood, affirming us as fyrdmen in the eyes of the village and in the eyes of God.

The shrines and temple were arrayed according to the compass and the temple was situated to the south. It was dedicated to Brugda, the Red Wolf, patron god of hunters, archers and healers. We, the people of Grulte, with a fyrd of bowmen, believed ourselves beloved of him. It was expected, as men of the fyrd that we take right of manhood by His auspices. It was our way of showing faith. A faith that was soon to be sorely tested.

Having wrapped the fish and offered thanks and goodbyes to Milva, I set off down the coast road, and was just passing as the stranger was finishing his tale.

”... And thus did she reign, long and just. Her vow to give him only daughters was an oath never broken. But Menwyn never regretted his marriage, and his love for his children was never wanting. For though the kingship passed from his line, his beautiful daughters found peace and happiness beneath the endless boughs of the Bluewood, where ‘tis said only men beloved of the line of Alvania are able to tread without fear.”

“Where is the Bluewood, Old Grym?” Asked one of the boys, who couldn’t have been more than five summers old. I raised an eyebrow that the boy should know his name, when no adult I knew did.

“Far away in the east, young Bragge. You would have to travel nine and thirty days to glimpse the border.”

“Have you been there?” This from a precocious girl of perhaps six.

“I have.”

“And does Alvania love you?”

Grym smiled at this.

“Run along now. Old Grym is weary of his story-telling and he hears the rumbling of young bellies seeking their supper." The children aww-ed and begged, but the old man was resolute. I made to go with the children, having caught myself standing, spell-bound.

“Tarry a moment, young Varomir.” I stopped and stared at the vagrant.

“How come you to know my name?”

“I know a good deal more than that, young fyrdman. I knew your father.” I felt my eyes narrow at this.

“And do you know that he is dead?” I asked.

Grym laughed at this. “In my long years of knowing him, I have heard news of his death no less than six times.”

“They brought me his ring.”

Grym seemed to sober and gave me a long look out of the corner of his eye, “And you keep it?”

I didn’t answer. It was bound by a leather thong around my neck. I resisted the urge to touch it. Mother had exhorted me to throw it away, but some part of me had decided it was worth keeping.

“Wise,” said Grym as though aware of my thought, “not lightly are the gifts of the Nightsmane laid aside. Your father would be grateful. Though, if the tidings be true, he would be... amused at this evening’s proceedings. He at least was certainly no friend of Brugda.”

I was beginning to lose my patience. The day was drawing on, but the heavy grey clouds prevented the sun from showing it.

“He was a friend to no one.” I said, too petulantly.

“He is a friend to me,” said the vagrant, smirking at my tone.

“I doubt it not. Another vagrant story-teller. Made of words and moved by wind. Who are you, who calls my father, Undomnir, friend?”

The greybeard was not deterred by my discourtesy. When he answered it was with a cheery smile. “I have as many names as the winds. Though in these parts they call me Old Grym.”

I was not amused. “That is what they call death.” And so it was. Of the four gods to whom we offered thanks and kept holy in name, there were others, less beloved but no less feared. Death was one of them and Grym was one of His names. It was not a name which passed the lips of men with gladness.

“Perhaps that is why I am not beloved of you people.” said the vagrant with a white-toothed smile that glinted eerily in the evening light.

“Except the children, it seems.” I said, a curious unease sneaking its way down my back.

“Of course,” Grym smiled, “children have no fear of death.”

I turned away, out of patience.

“Tarry yet, young crow. I have a message.”

I turned back. ‘Old crow,’ was what the villagers had named my father when he was out of earshot. I had presumed they said similar of me when my back was turned. I knew Drigult the younger used it. He had ever envied my skill with the longbow. I gritted my teeth and asked, “What is your message?”

“Ware the bow of black, unstrung and the sword which is sheathed. Be not the man idle in the field. Keep ready the knife and stone, the claw and tooth, for there weren’t always dragons in the valley.”

I simply stared in frank bemusement. The words were complete nonsense, the fyrdmen of Grulte carried yew bows, varnished and painted red. Few apart from the Ealdorman and his sons carried swords, for they alone could afford them. As for dragons, they had not even been rumoured in the land for nigh on three centuries. As far as I knew no one alive had ever seen one. That Grym was a madman was beyond doubt. And yet there was something in the words which portended dread. I felt a knot of unaccountable fear curl in my stomach. What compelled me to the question I do not know, but my next words were, “Whence comes this message?”

“Undomnir Nightsmane, your father.” Grym did not smile as he answered.

I stared. “When?”

“Three days ago.”

I said nothing further. I turned and walked down the coast road. Old Grym watched me go.

-X-

Mother was incandescent when I related the story to her.

“He lies.” she was reduced to spitting the words now, so often had she repeated them for the last hour. I had removed my tunic and was fingering my father’s ring. It was a well-made thing carved from ebony and the seal was set in silver. The device it bore was a crow with a broken crown in its beak. Old Grym had spoken true. Though Grulte took Brugda for its patron deity, my father had long since been a Devotee of Helge, Crow-mother and keeper of secrets. She and her aspects were kept holy in the Northlands, whence Undomnir had hailed.

“Tarry not with that trinket, boy. You must be got into your robe. It took me long enough to make it.”

Silently I put the shift on. Mother busied herself with the fish I had bought, cursing and muttering to herself in a such a hissing stream I thought for a moment she had poured hot water on the hearth-fire. I regarded her sidelong. She was a mousey, brown-haired woman of middle years. Her face was pinched not so much with age but fatigue. There were lines on her face that other women didn’t bear. It occurred to me that she had been beautiful once. She caught me staring and threw a pinch of scales at me.

“It’s no wonder Salvia thinks you a gormless mute. You stare agape with nary the look of thoughtfulness on you. You’ve none of that bastard’s cunning in your features.”

‘That bastard’ was my father, I knew. As I recalled, there was little of him in my looks. While we were both tall among men, he was lean whilst I was broad. He was dark and fine of hair whilst I favoured full auburn locks after my mother’s family. ‘You have his eyes, boy. You look at me with the same eyes.’ It was what my mother said at times when she was wistful or taken by melancholy.

“Why are you so certain Grym lies?” I asked her.

She turned on me, her wrath rekindled, “First, he is a vagabond and a vagrant, and they lie as a matter of course, it comes to them as natural as breath. I know of what I speak.” And I did not doubt it. ‘Vagrant’ was yet another thing they called my father who, while he had dwelt in Grulte, had more titles among the villagers than friends. And none were kind. Whence the coin he always seemed to have came from was a matter of some speculation, for he was generous with neither it nor its providence. What goodwill he had in the village came from my mother’s family and her standing, as cousin to the Ealderman’s wife.

Mother went on, “Secondly, he spends his time spinning fairy tales to turn the minds of children, which, it is clear, he has done to you. And thirdly, if he is not lying...” she trailed off a moment and some of the fire in her seemed to abate.

“And thirdly,” she continued, “if he is not lying, then your father is not dead. And if he is not dead, then I will have mourned him in vain and will have to do so again, one day.”

I saw a curious look turn over her face then. There was something tender in it. Fond, almost. It was new to me. I hadn’t seen my father in almost six years, and they had been years of bitterness to my mother. It had been one year since the news came of his death and the first thing my mother had said to the messenger who’d brought his ring was a curt, “Good.” That she had not slept that night for weeping was a secret. I had never betrayed that I had heard her.

“You don’t hate him then?” I asked, smiling. She gave me wry look.

“The man is impossible to love from afar. And impossible to hate when he is near. It’s a curious talent. Which you seem to have inherited in the reverse.”

I grinned and she dipped her hand in the water bucket and flicked her fingers at my face.

“Come, you must eat now. This ceremony will take you deep into the night and ere long you will regret not having eaten.”

-X-

At its height, the fire rose higher even than the thatched top of the temple itself. It was a massive timber building with two floors within, where were housed the Brugdain priest and his wolf-daughters. There were four of them, one for each youth who would this night become a man. We stood in our white shifts, our feet bare, our faces pale and resolute, boys for the last time.

The Brugdain priest stood before the temple and raised his hands wide as though to encompass the fire. He was clad in wolf fur, his bare arms and face painted in red and white. His bald head was tattooed in the runic secrets of wolf-kind. He held a staff of birch onto which was thrust a wolf-skull, the stave’s head curling about and crowning it. The wolf-daughters, his acolytes, stood behind him in a line. They were younger than us, though they had been given to the wolf’s house much younger. These were to be wolf-wives. Exalted among we who would call ourselves Brugdain.

After a chanted prayer in the Tongue of the Gods, the priest thrust his staff at each of us in turn. Myself, Drigult, Arnjulf and Gamlen.

“This night,” he intoned in a high voice cracked with age, “shalt ye be children no more. From this night shall ye share in the powers of men. By this shall ye share the doom of men. And know ye, what be thy doom?”

“We do!” We said it in unison.

“Ye lie!” Intoned the priest, with great feeling, “And it shall be thy last lie of no consequence. For now you are men, and thou shalt live by thy word and thine oaths shalt have weight. Thy troth! Thy wrath! By these things shall ye move the world and by these things shalt the world move you! Swear now, by the blood of the Wolf that thou knowest this doom!”

“We swear!”

“Swear now, by the blood of the wolf that thou accept this doom.”

“We swear!”

“Swear now, what private oath thou wouldst make to seal the pact. And thou shalt not speak this pact to a living soul to whom you are not bound.”

“We swear!”

The priest raised both arms skywards and howled. The congregated fyrdmen, all Brugdain, howled with him. When they quieted, the priest signalled to the wolf-daughters, who raised the wooden bowls they carried to the sky and they howled. The women of Grulte who stood beside the fyrdmen howled in response.

When all was quiet again, there was a long moment of silence when the only sound was the echoing of the villagers’ howls across the sea.

The priest spoke again, “And thus by these three oaths, shall ye be men of Brugda. Kneel and accept his blessing.”

We knelt. We faced the fire and raised our hands, palms up. One by one a wolf-daughter approached us. They were clad as we were, though their faces were painted white. Each had a black line painted across either eye and wore gold at their throats. Their hands were painted in red and we saw why, for within the wooden bowls was a liquid of deep red. Blood. The wolf's seal.

My wolf-daughter stepped forward. She was a slight girl, short and plump but not uncomely. Something within me saw the bud of her beauty, yet un-flowered as she was two summers younger than I. She looked at me gravely, concentrating. Taking the bowl in one hand she dipped the other within. With her right hand she anointed my head, that my thoughts be guided. With her right hand she anointed my hands, that they be quick and sure. With her right hand she anointed my breast, that my heart be true. But before she could place Brugda’s final blessing upon my stomach, that my courage would never fail, the bowl slipped from her slick left hand. It fell, spilling its contents but I caught it before it hit the ground. I proffered it back to her and she snatched it quickly, her eyes flying past my head, though she didn’t move hers, lest she draw attention to the mistake.

I smiled at her to reassure her. My hands, after all, had been quick. Her spells had not failed. She merely looked from my face in fear to her bowl. There was almost no paint left. She gathered what she could with her right hand and placed her full palm against my belly. But what mark it left on the shift was faint. I frowned slightly. She looked at me again and her eyes were still frightened. But there was nothing for it. She returned with her sisters to their places behind the priest.

“Rise then,” he said, his voice having lost its hard edge, replaced with a new respect. He was no longer addressing children, “Men of Grulte. Men of Brugda. Brugdain!”

We stood and as one village we howled into the sky and the fire blazed with our new glory. And then the fire blazed yet brighter, there was a roaring, cracking sound and what had been a bonfire became a heaven-bound pillar of flame. We stared in horror. Even the Wolf-priest was at a loss, for this was no magic of his devising. As suddenly as it had erupted, it diminished, as a hearth-fire might when its central log collapses.

As we looked, we saw a figure emerge from the fire, stepping through the flames as one might emerge from the fronds of a forest thicket. He wore a long black cloak, and his hair was as a cascade of ink spilling from his crown, shading eyes which glinted like jet and stood dark against skin as white as bone.

All was still then. For a time no one moved and no one spoke, whether from shock or fear. It was the priest who first moved. He stalked around the fireplace and said, “You trespass here, Helgein.”

And Undomnir Nightsmane spoke back. In a whisper which carried to every ear before the temple he said, “Nay, brother. For though a devoted wolf-priest, you keep holy Her name too.”

And it was so. Those of us who cared to notice saw, resting on the thatched roof of the temple of Brugda, a flock of crows which had not been there before.

“Why are you come?” Said the priest.

Undomnir turned his head, first one way and then another. He craned it wide, taking in the assembled village. His eye passed over me and I saw it glimmer when he spied his ring.

“I came with warning,” he said, after a long silence, “annihilation comes for the people of Grulte. By this time tomorrow, nothing of this village will stand. Its men will be dead, its women and children enslaved and neither Brugda, nor Helge will save you.”

“And what is this calamity’s name?” This from Ealderman Britjulf. A portly man, dressed fine and girt with a sword, “Whence comes this news?”

Undomnir looked him square in the face and his eyes were not friendly. “The crows have whispered to me, bringing news from the high north. They speak of black wings on the sea and fierce and hungry maws filled with iron teeth and bright eyes.”

“Name them.” This from the Wolf-priest.

“Drakenvolk.”

Dragon men. The whisper went round the congregation with fear. Neither priest nor Ealderman looked convinced.

“The people of the Dragon have not been seen in nigh on a century, Undomnir. The last of their kind were seen off by Rutger Greymaine and his white knights.” Said the Ealdorman. It was a proud story, a history taught to every child in the southern kingdoms.

“He speaks true! They fled past their mountains and into the sea long ago!”

Undomnir Nightsmane looked with narrowed eyes and curled lips on the village which would not listen, “I have delivered my warning. My purpose here is done. You will do with it, I suspect, what you always have, which is nothing. It is all one to me.”

“You leave already?” I blurted out, casting my eyes around looking for my mother.

“I do.” said my father.

“Then why tarry at all to give us this news? You had your messenger come to me, though I see he himself is now gone. Why did you return at all?” The words tumbled from me, a boy's words, not proud but fearful, though I had just been made a man. My father did not answer straight away. He stood apart from me, but now he looked at me and the disgust I had expected in his face was not there. I could not read his expression at all. He looked from me to a ways behind me. Following his eye, I found my mother who, unaccountably, shared his expression.

“This village has no great love for me,” he said at length, “nor I it. However, it has housed me and nourished me. I have known kindness, of a sort, here. As a courtesy, I thought to save you. If I could.”

It was all he said. As dramatic as his entrance had been, he now simply walked away from the fire into darkness. At his going, the crows resting on the temple roof took wing as one, and we turned at the sound of their flight. When we turned back to look after Undomnir, he was already gone. I looked into the crowd and sought for my mother, but she too had left.

And the very next morning, as promised, the dragons came.