The Jarl's Son, Chapter 16-2
Foe-Breaker, Part 2
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.
Bellowing out his fury with a bone-shaking roar, the Foe-Breaker ripped the dirk from his shoulder and pitched it back at Marten as he charged. The sharp blade spun through the air, cutting a shallow arc toward Marten’s chest. Deftly, he deflected the spinning dagger with the boss of his splintered shield, breaking the smaller blade’s tip. He then dodged and swung right, narrowly avoiding his enemy’s crushing blow as the end of his broadsword bit into the kidnapper's flank.
The ash-skinned goliath, that savage beast in the shape of a man, growled upon being cut. Wheeling on Marten, he swung his meaty fists in a chaotic flurry. It wasn’t unlike men brawling in Halvfjord’s mead hall after a few too many drinks, save that none of the drunken louts back home possessed the unholy strength to grapple with a greatwolf and win. One good hit from Halvar might be enough to break his bones, or worse.
Maintaining a defensive stance, Marten did his best to keep distance between himself and the Foe-Breaker. His enemy was fast for his size. Combined with his long reach, that left little in the way of openings for Marten to take advantage of. Whenever he could, he slashed or thrust to keep the Foe-Breaker at bay, lining his forearms and sides with fresh cuts, but achieving little else. Even that first gash, which bled profusely, did nothing to slow that beastly man down.
By contrast, Marten could already feel himself tiring. That slam on his back rattled his skull and left him dizzy, while the stomps he caught against his shield and chest made breathing painful. He was slowing, he could feel it in the growing weight of his limbs. He needed to make an opening, else his enemy would catch him. If that happened, then he would die, of that he had no illusions.
He decided then that he must take a risk and force a way into the Foe-Breaker’s guard. Strong as the man was, even he couldn’t survive being eviscerated or run through. Taking a quick step forward, he raised his shield and braced to catch the Foe-Breaker’s next meaty blow. When it connected, Marten would thrust up into his chest, aiming for the heart.
Alas, though his blade sunk into the soft flesh of his enemy’s belly, Marten’s blow would not find its mark. Surprising Marten once more with the swiftness of his reactions, Halvar the Foe-Breaker pulled the meaty blow that would otherwise have smashed against the raised shield. While the strike doubtless would’ve shattered the already splintering wood, Marten’s braced stance would also have allowed him to absorb much of the hit and land his killing blow. Thus, the Foe-Breaker did not strike the stolen round shield, but grabbed and wrenched it aside, throwing off Marten’s aim.
For his part, Marten tried to correct this by thrusting the sword deeper to run his enemy through. Halvar didn’t allow him the chance. His left elbow cracked atop the crown of Marten’s head. Dazzled by the blunt strike, his once stable stance faltered. Spots filled his vision, his ears rang, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Had he bitten his tongue, or broken some of his teeth? He couldn’t yet tell, addled as he was.
“Fool Ostock man,” Halvar hissed, and the next thing Marten knew, the air was being squeezed from his throat. “The Bear will praise me when I bring him your head, but before I do, I shall revel as I bathe in your blood!”
Suddenly, Marten was hoisted up again, and the Foe-Breaker grabbed his left leg. The addling effects of his head-strike left him then, replaced by a pulsing pain all along his back. Teeth clenched, he dropped his shield and clawed frantically at the hand that grasped his throat, but to no avail. Then the pain grew. No longer pulsing, it now seared through his spine and shoulders. That searing then spread to his chest, then his gut, and everything else inside of him. Gods curse this vile fiend, he was going to rip Marten in twain!
Desperate to free himself, Marten repeatedly drove his right knee into the side of the Foe-Breaker’s head. Though the hits were solid, reddening and then bloodying his enemy’s cheek and teeth, it wasn’t enough to halt the slow ripping of his body. It couldn’t even suppress the cur’s wretched grin. This was it, then. He would die here, torn into chunks of meat and bone, his body desecrated. He would fail that poor girl. He would fail Varro. He would fail Gaiur, his father, and young Erik most of all.
Yet that was no reason to stop fighting. Gritting his teeth against that horrible pain, he continued to hammer the Foe-Breaker’s head with his knee. The whoreson laughed at this and tightened his grip, but Marten wouldn’t relent! Screaming out with the potent fury and desperation of a cornered man, he struck again and again, until the Foe-Breaker’s expression suddenly changed!
There was no time to be taken aback, for no sooner had that look of surprise crossed the reaver’s face than Marten was dropped to the ground. Gasping, wheezing, he choked up globs of spit and blood, then turned to watch his enemy through pain blurred eyes. Squeezing them tight, he blinked away the bleariness and observed.
Varro was on his feet again, and he had Halvar on his back! Roaring with animal fury, both man and wolf grappled in the blood soaked grasses. Varro’s teeth were nearly clenched around the Foe-Breaker’s throat, stopped only by the unnaturally strong grasp of the ash-skinned man’s meaty hands. In return, Halvar drove his own knee up into Varro’s ribs, but the impacts were slight. The greatwolf was simply too tall for him to land a clean blow.
Forcing himself back to his feet, Marten once more took his weapons in hand. With his sword in his right and his dirk in his left, he slowly approached the wrestling pair with unsteady steps. Though clearly still strong, Varro’s wounds bled profusely, matting his fur alongside the mud that now caked his flank. The arrows jutting from his side were broken, and streaks of red filled his saliva. Halvar would pay for those injuries. Less even than his own near death, Marten would not abide the abuses inflicted upon his lover’s dearest companion.
Ever the enigma, Varro seemed to sense Marten’s intent. Even as he tried to rip into the Foe-Breaker’s throat, his golden brown eyes flicked upward to meet Marten’s gaze. As they did, the ferocity with which he tried to slay their enemy abated. Naturally, Halvar took advantage of this and tried to throw the greatwolf off of himself, but Varro sprang back before he could.
“Stupid creature,” the Foe-Breaker spat, wiping blood and spit from his lips as he rose unsteadily. Now Marten could see why he’d fallen, Varro had torn into one of his calves while he was trying to tear Marten in two.
In their brief time together, Marten had learned three important things about the man called Halvar the Foe-Breaker. Firstly, that he was a kidnapper, raper, and killer, and thus not worthy of life. Secondly, that he was of the Red Bear’s ilk, and may have insight into where Gaiur was taken. Thirdly, and most important of all in that moment, he had learned that when the Foe-Breaker’s bloodlust set him towards prey, he became single-minded in his efforts to kill his chosen victim.
So it was that as he rose, that savage urge blinded him to the enemy at his back. Such was his undoing, for before he’d so much as risen off one knee, Marten drove his broadsword through Halvar’s back and out his gut. Howling in agonized shock, the murderous reaver moved to grab him again. Halvar’s hands would only just reach the height of his own head before Marten plunged his broken-tipped dirk deep into his collar and into his heart. The Foe-Breaker was broken, and as he fell to the earth, Marten let go a mighty cry of victory.
But his battle was not yet done, even as his foes lay dead before him. There was still the girl to see to. She would need to be calmed, clothed, and taken to safety in Tårnkryss. There they could rest, have their wounds treated, and Marten could once again attempt to reach Renald in Gaiur’s gruesome dream.
Varro needed treatment as well, something which couldn’t be done at the trade post. Gaiur’s reputation garnering her the ear of the Jarl, followed then by her success in saving Erik, allowed her greater leeway with her companion in Halvfjord. Despite that, there were still many back home who feared him, and rightly so. Loyal though he proved to be, Varro was a dangerous creature, and Marten doubted that even his positions as the eldest Ostock son and captain of Halvjord’s guard would be enough to stay the spears and bows of the men in the post.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to rely on those men. Among the many skills Marten was taught to make him fit for his position, one of the first was field medicine. He was no læknir, rich in knowledge of herbalism and medicine in the way Hlín was, but he knew enough to treat the greatwolf’s wounds. The first order of business would be keeping Varro calm, a simple enough task if Marten could find him something decent to gnaw on. One of the corpses would likely work fine for that purpose, but Marten was reluctant to do so. Foul as the men they killed were, they’d still been men. The idea of feeding one of their corpses to Varro somehow felt like a desecration to him. Deserved, perhaps, but unsettling for him.
He opted to check the tents instead, starting with the Foe-Breaker’s, which was the largest. A smorgasbord of goods and treasures had been gathered there. Jewels. Gold. Clothing, both fine and common in make. Heaps of hacksilver were kept in a large chest at the foot of his fur covered bed, most of it bagged up in sacks of leather or jute. Racks of weapons, mostly axes and spears of middling quality, lined the rear of the tent with the bed on the left, and a long table and bench on the right. At first glance, the table held nothing of interest. Just some woodworked utensils, a couple empty bowls and plates, and a nearly empty horn of flat ale. However, he did notice something behind the ale horn as he passed by; a circular bronze medallion carved with runes.
Alas, Marten found no foodstuffs upon that table, nor anywhere else in the Foe-Breaker’s tent. It took him searching through two more before he found anything he could give to Varro, a situation that had him worried he might be forced to use one of the corpses after all. The third tent, which was actually the smallest among them, turned out to be where the brigands stored their victuals, mostly in the form of dry barley, tubers, and wild onions.
Hanging in the center of the tent, though, was just the sort of prize Marten was after–a smoked pork shank. Cutting it down, he slung it over his shoulder, gave it to Varro, and quickly set to work on removing the trio of arrows that struck him. Beginning with the one in his flank, as it was the most shallow wound, Marten carefully used his dirk to help pull the arrow out. The shaft had broken outside the wound, its feathered end missing, but the rest of it remained whole and easy to remove.
The two in Varro’s shoulder were harder. Not only had one of them come close to the bone, but the shaft had broken inside the wound during their battle with the Foe-Breaker. That required Marten to dig for it. Much to his continued amazement, though, Varro remained relaxed through the entire ordeal. No, relaxed was too soft a term for it. He was downright placid, chewing away at the smoked shank without so much as a whimper.
Before long, the three arrows were out, and Marten covered the wounds with mud patches. With that done, he sent Varro off again. Once more, he found the greatwolf obeyed him without issue. Quite why the beast showed such apparent loyalty after so short a time together remained a mystery to him, but Marten wasn’t going to look askance at such a gift now.
Returning to the juniper thicket, he retrieved his mare and started loading her saddle with some of the brigands’ stolen supplies. Barley to feed his mount, hacksilver to pay for additional supplies at the outpost, and some clothes to give to the girl. However, as he started to leave the Foe-Breaker’s tent, his eye fell upon the bronze pendant yet again. Taking it, he returned to his mare and rummaged through her saddlebag for the object his father had given him before resuming his search. An object, still wrapped in a square of jute cloth, which the Jarl told his son once belonged to his mother.
An object which Marten unveiled.
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:
Great description of the fight. It seems the reader is also inside it...