The Jarl's Son, Chapter 16-1
Foe-Breaker, Part 1
Before we begin, if you’ve been enjoying my work and would like to further support my fiction, essays, and book reviews, the following are the best ways to do so:
Purchase my book, In the Giant’s Shadow. You can find it on Amazon in hardcover ($19.49), paperback ($11.99), and digital ($3.99) formats. This is the method I most recommend as it gets you something tangible in return for your financial support.
You can subscribe to Tales of Calamity and Triumph for either $5 per month or $50 per year. Doing so automatically unlocks digital versions of any and all of my current and future published fiction.
Restacking and sharing work of mine which resonates with you is the easiest (and arguably most effective) way to help.
As always, please don’t feel pressured to do any of these things. Your readership is more than enough for me. Thank you kindly for giving my words your time.
Looking to start from the beginning? Read Chapter 1-1 here.
His screams were piercing, harrowing, and short lived.
When Varro sprang from the cover of the dense juniper thicket into the grassy glade, he landed in the wide open eastern half. Paws pounding the soil as he struck earth, his lupine muscles coiled tight, and he broke into a bounding run toward his nearest foe. That foe was the Bertosian archer, who stared in wide-eyed horror as the elk-sized greatwolf took his first leaping stride, then his second. Only upon the third stride, when Varro at last opened his snarling maw, did the paralyzing effect of his terror give way to good sense. Turning on his heels, the olive skinned brigand threw his bow aside and ran.
Far too late. Before his own third stride, the murderous dastard was set upon from behind. Varro’s full weight collided into him, pinning the screaming man to the ground with his forepaws while his strong jaws clamped around the back of his neck and violently wrenched. The brigand’s screams died with him, lasting but a moment as Varro snapped his neck. The greatwolf’s snarls persisted, however, and he continued to wrench this way and that.
The grass and Varro’s muzzle alike were stained with spurting blood, the final arterial sprays from a still twitching heart. A wet pop followed thereafter, then two dull thumps in the otherwise silent glade; the Bertosian’s head, bouncing in the grass after the wolf chucked it aside.
Marten watched all of this from the cover of his corpse-shield. Like the kidnappers, he too was stunned by the greatwolf’s sudden arrival. Unlike his adversaries, he would not delay in continuing the fight.
Tossing the corpse aside, Marten grabbed the round shield from the body of the horse-whipper and raised it. A good thing, too; he felt the impact of another arrow against it a second later. It would be the last one, for as he laid his eyes on the blonde spearman, who was still stunned with shock and fear at the sight of Varro, the ash-skinned bandit leader gave the order for his remaining archer to shoot down the greatwolf.
“Shelyn, protect your courageous son,” Marten whispered, a quick prayer for the Mother of Man and Beasts to keep Varro safe as he sheathed his dirk, then sprang to his feet and charged the spearman with sword and shield in hand.
Realizing his error, the spearman grit his teeth and leveled his weapon. “Shadow’s take you! Death for what you did to my brother!” he spat as he braced for Marten’s charge.
As before, the man’s inexperience in a proper fight was evident. He tensed as Marten approached. Grip tightening on his spear, he started to pull back for a thrust in hopes of a quick kill or crippling blow. This proved an error, and it was born of the brigand’s inability to recognize that Marten’s charge wasn’t that of the reckless berserker, but a calculated and controlled maneuver. He chose his pace with practiced care, moving swiftly enough to effectively close the gap between them, while keeping his speed measured to properly react should the brigand choose to attack.
Had the brigand maintained a defensive posture, kept the point of his spear between Marten and himself, he may have kept Marten at bay long enough for the remaining archer to force an opening. Alas, he chose to thrust, and Marten caught his attack on the shield’s steel boss. The spearhead clashed against it, steel on steel, and slid aside.
Marten followed its motion, shoving the weapon up and away with the shield. Then he stepped in close and stabbed. The blonde man grunted, looked down, and grabbed at the bloody broadsword with both hands. His palms and fingers were cut as Marten’s blade ripped free, not because he pulled it back, but because the brigand pitched sideways when Marten struck him in the side of the head with the shield’s rim.
Though he recalled every detail, from the start of his charge to the crack of the dastard’s skull against the rim of his shield, Marten knew their bloody exchange lasted mere heartbeats. The second blonde’s body fell upon the earth, further wetting the grasses with bright red lifeblood, and the slow draw of Marten’s breath seemed to quicken into a pant as his perception of time normalized. Staring down at the freshly slain man, he spat upon his corpse, then took in the rest of the scene as he faced the remaining kidnappers.
Varro paced out from behind the rocks. Head low and growling, he slowly circled the ash-skinned leader. Though he was turned away, Marten could tell he held the second archer in his jaws. He could see the man’s limbs dangling as Varro moved, and the greatwolf’s tan and gray fur was matted with blood. Some was from the men he killed, some his own, trickling from wounds left by a trio of arrows jutting from his body.
Upon seeing this, Marten’s first instinct was to find the kidnapped woman. He’d lost track of her in the melee, and he hoped she’d found a place to hide among the rocks. However, there was something in the demeanor of the ash-skinned cur that unsettled him. Varro, great and imposing beast that he was, had pushed his men to panic and shock. Rightly so. Be he kind or cruel, good or wicked, no man who was sane would directly face an angry greatwolf without a hint of fear.
Yet the leader of that murderous band did more than eye Varro fearlessly. Though his expression was stolid, Marten saw in his eyes a savage fire. He was not simply unafraid. That man wanted this fight.
Unease turned to dread, felt in the tightening of his stomach. Varro was a powerful beast, among the deadliest in all of Stenise. Large as a bull elk, the greatwolf outsized the leader of the bandits by nearly two and one-half times, and he was no small man. Choosing to directly face a creature of such size and ferocity alone? Such was the province of the mad, the foolish, or things far more terrible.
Marten’s worries were not allayed by the fact the man stood unarmed. Dressed in nothing more than fur-lined boots, plain woolen trousers, and a black linen tunic, he faced Varro without so much as a hatchet on his belt. The greatwolf continued his circling. Finally dropping the dead archer, he gnashed his teeth and snarled at the scarred, ashen man, who clenched his fists in reply.
Marten, too, readied to fight, securing his grip on his sword and stolen round shield. He stood some ten paces back from where Varro circled. A significant distance, but one he could close quickly. If all went well, Varro would reveal his strange, nagging worry to be unfounded. He could search for the young woman, clothe her, and bring her safely to Tårnkryss. If not, then he’d be in for the fight of his life.
Hackles raised and still snarling, Varro lowered his position. The muscles in his haunches were tight. Soon he would strike, and Marten would follow him in. He could feel the tightness in his own legs. His coiled muscles were warm against the cool dampness in the air, thighs and calves primed to vault him toward his foe.
That foe then made his first significant move since his men died. Lips curled into a toothy sneer, the scars upon his face twisted his visage from unsightly to demonic. Pounding his chest with both fists, he grunted, then pounded again and roared his battlecry. Coarse and guttural, the sound seemed almost inhuman, echoing off the rocky escarpment that surrounded the glade.
On the cur’s roar, Varro sprang; and on Varro’s springing, Marten charged. The greatwolf’s paws tore into the soft soil beneath the glade’s damp grass, tearing up divots as he ran. Marten took care to avoid these markers of his path so as not to trip. However, where Varro’s trajectory was set on the ash-skinned man, Marten made right as soon as he passed the boulders that marked the western half of the brigand’s camp. Though his gut twisted, he’d chosen to seek out the young woman, trusting in Varro’s strength and animal ferocity to keep him alive.
She lay huddled not far from where he’d last seen her. Hiding between the rock she’d been thrown against and the one nearest to it, she lay in the fetal position with her knees tucked against her chest and her head and neck covered by her hands. Marten reached out to her, tried to speak with her, calm her, but she could do no more than whimper and tremble.
Seeing her up close, Marten felt the heat in his blood rise again. Before he’d only seen the cut and still-forming bruise on her face. Now he saw all the places she’d been battered. Her legs, in particular her thighs and buttocks, seemed to receive the worst of it. Large welts and black bruises both showed there, indicative of her being caned with something. There were also bruises on her stomach and ribs, all of them surely left by that ash-skinned whoreson.
Disgust rose like bile in Marten’s throat. This poor girl had barely seen her twentieth year, if even that. She didn’t deserve to have such evil done upon her, just as those who visited that evil didn’t deserve to live.
Worry gave way to battlethirst. Dread, to righteous fury. For the second in that glade, Marten’s vision turned to red. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he charged the ashen cur with all that he had. This was not the deliberate advance of a well trained warrior closing the gap between himself and his foe, as it had been with the blonde spearman earlier, for Marten had thrown all caution to the wind. In this moment, his was the spirit of the berserker.
His foe was occupied. Varro had set upon him, pressing his significant weight down upon the shaven-headed brigand as he tried to close his mighty jaws around the dastard’s skull! Yet this very moment proved Marten’s earlier suspicions correct, for despite all reason, the brigand would not go down. He held Varro’s jaws open with both hands, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulging as he fought against the greatwolf’s strength.
Varro in turn tried to gain leverage. Swiping down with his forepaws, he sought to pin the man by his shoulders. Alas, the cur kept his arms close, offering no space for Varro to find that purchase. Bright red scratches lined his arms and chest, his tunic having been torn away by the greatwolf’s claws, but he showed no signs of relenting.
Five paces away. Marten brought his shield forward, prepared to use it as a ram to bowl the ashen cur over. Their eyes met, icy blue locking with sickly yellow.
Four paces. The cur smiled, a hideous sight between his twisted teeth and myriad facial scars. That smile then became a grimace, and his yellow eyes blazed.
Two paces, and the cur roared. Planting his feet, the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms tensed. Then he twisted right, and pitched Varro onto his side! The greatwolf landed hard on the grassy soil. Then the ash-skinned man faced Marten, meeting his charge with arms open wide!
They collided. The shield slammed into the brigand’s chest and gut. Marten could feel him slide against the muddy grass, but it only took him a moment to regain footing. Acting fast, Marten started to thrust with his sword, but it was already too late. Tower that he was, the thickly corded arms of the ashen man closed around Marten’s chest from above. Hoisted up, Marten was turned upside down as the dastard raised him overhead, then slammed him back-first into the ground.
Marten’s vision blurred, and his ears started to ring. Dull pain throbbed up through his back, shoulders, neck, and head. Had they been closer to the camp and the surrounding rocks, he had no doubt that blow would’ve killed or crippled him. It was only due to the rain-soaked softness of the grassy soil that he hadn’t fared worse.
Rolling to his front, Marten looked up in time to see the ash-skinned cur pitch Varro over his shoulder. The greatwolf yelped as he landed on his right side and one of the arrows near his collar pushed deeper into him. Gritting his teeth, Marten started to rise, but was forced to quickly raise his shield as the brigand barreled toward him. A boot smashed against the shield, striking with enough force to crack two of its planks and knock Marten onto his back again.
“Fool man of Ostock blood, I know who you are!” Looming over Marten, the ash-skinned man laughed and brought his boot down on the shield again. Gods, but his weight was immense! “You think yourself strong enough to fell me? Ha! I am Halvar the Foe-Breaker, blessed by the Bear, and in the Bear’s name I will see your hated blood spilt this day!”
Marten’s teeth clenched and ground. He had both forearms pressed against the back of his shield, but it was all he could do to keep the weight of Halvar’s pressing foot from crushing him into paste! Fortunately, he didn’t have to fight this battle alone.
Varro had risen again. With a snarling bark, he bound toward Halvar, who had turned back to face him. Taking advantage, Marten shoved against his shield with all his might. Alas, Halvar scowled and stomped him back down, knocking the breath from Marten’s chest. Then he turned, grabbed Varro by the jaws again, and flung the greatwolf over his shoulders.
“A beast every bit the fool as his master,” Halvar sneered. “I will bring the Bear his head and pelt, and he will favor me.”
Cracking his knuckles, the ash-skinned cur stepped off Marten, then made his way toward Varro. Marten rolled back onto his front. Coughing, he spat up blood. His chest and back hurt, but the pain meant little against the sound of Varro’s whimpering. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back to his feet as he watched Halvar violently beat and kick his lupine companion.
Drawing his dirk, he gripped its point tight between thumb and forefinger, and hurled it. Spinning end over end, the long blade embedded itself deep in Halvar’s right shoulder. The dastard took the hit with no more than a grunt, and as he turned, Marten retrieved his sword and stood ready to face him.
“You want my blood, Foe-Breaker?” Marten cried, leveling his long sword at his towering foe. “Then come claim it, hobgoblin!”
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
Purchase it in hardback, paperback, or digital on Amazon now:
Wow. Someone who can put Varro down. I wonder what Gauir would say about it?