Dirk

Named man

Dirk leapt from end to end, breaking branches, hands and legs flailing mad, pine needles biting his face, snow sludge propelling him forward, when he landed. Boots slipping, heart banging in his chest and the river at last in shaggin’ sight.

Too bloody far though.

Tyeus curse them.

A Northman bellowed, voice coming much closer. He got up, knees hurting, breathing scratchy and eyes blurry. Pushed himself forward, ice covering his red beard, boots sinking in the snow, one stride at a time.

Faster, ye shaggin’ fool! Dirk urged himself as he left the mass of woods behind. The man could hear the Northmen coming down the heights from Maza, anger had their blood boilin’ right proper, and they howled like beasts. It was a right stupid notion, from the fuckin’ get go, he thought cutting towards Lud River’s pregnant waters.

Aart was at fault. Clear as day. It was all his doing, he thought.

Never trust a plan that begins wit what if.

Dirk grunted, jaw clenched and his lips split, bleeding.

Tap-tap-tap.

What the gory crap?

He snapped his head back, hearing light boots running on icy muck, saw the woman coming at him with a spear, twice her height. Dirk made to go faster, stepped on a piece of rotten wood buried in the firm sludge, right boot slipping on it and almost went down. Turned his head, caught the fierce smirk on the woman’s face, closing the distance, eyes mad and hands grasping the shaft of the spear hard enough, to make the knuckles turn white. Pointed straight for his torso.

Can mail and a bit of leather, stop a spear? It seemed unlikely.

Fuck, Dirk cursed, right hand going for his axe, the sturdy weapon strapped on his back. Mind undecided, preferring him to use his shield, or just make a run for it. But he’d lost his shield during the initial scrap and the woman was faster than him. Two more Northmen lurched out the trees, in the second he had to decide.

If ye are going to die, better to stare, what kills ye... in the bloody eyes.

He couldn’t remember, who’d said that.

Not that it mattered.

In the end, much as the rest of his day, the decision was made for him.

“I shan’t have it,” Floris Vanzon, Lord of Sea and Warden of the North, had said. The first title given, according to the rumors, for managing the worst chunk of land in the whole kingdom.

As with all things the latter, had as much truth woven in it, as lies. The large man had black skin, turned grey where his wrinkles cut it deep, mostly around his mouth and pale green eyes.

His throne barely holding his weight, belly expanding from his neck down huge, alike a whale’s. Krakenhall’s Warden’s tower, hadn’t a single room large enough to be used by a council, but since Lord Vanzon didn’t keep one, decisions were taken inside the throne room, dominated by the large fireplace.

“Can’t we ask the King to reconsider?” His firstborn Aart Vanzon asked him. Tall, with piercing green eyes, white hair flowing down his back, Aart looked more Issirian, than anyone else in the room.

“Bah, he’s made up his mind,” Floris said, with a grimace. “Navy is already in place and Midlanor has its men marching.”

“What does he need the crews? How are we supposed to maintain, half the fuckin’ fleet?” That was Dier, his second son, standing next to Captain Baker Morris, of the Black Skulls company.

“The King believes, since our half of the fleet is moored for the winter, it’s not useful to him. He intends to use the crews, to support the main fleet operations.” Dirk repeated, what they had told him. He had it in writing as well, but no one really bothered reading stuff up North. It was why he had to make the journey in the first place. Worn himself out to the bone, almost two months on the road, back and forth.

“Madness,” Floris snarled, fist hitting the armrest in furry. “First he refuses to give help, because of the games, then turns around and decides on having war with the bloody Khan! That young fool, has lost his mind!”

“Dissuading force, he called it milord,” Dirk added, not wanting to leave anything important out. Again, there were written orders in the scrolls he brought with him. He sighed, resting on the balls of his feet, while the Lord and his sons talked it out amongst themselves. Almost dozed off for a minute.

“…five hundred swords almost,” Aart was saying, when Dirk came around, “Everyone on horseback, if needed, although that would make it too big a force to hide.”

Hide? He wondered, having missed the first part of his argument.

“Captain Morris?” Lord Vanzon asked the mercenary he employed almost exclusively.

“More than a hundred men, all ready and eager milord,” The middle aged fighter said. A Lorian from Lesia originally, he’d lived all his life among the Issirs of the North, slowly building up his warband –mercenary company according to him- and eventually becoming Lord Vanzon’s right hand man.

Floris smacked his lips, nodding for a Northern slave girl to bring him a fresh bottle of wine.

“Sending these many men around Lud River, in order to reach them…” He pushed himself up, surprisingly lissome given his bulk, paused for the pretty girl to refill a silver goblet he held and walked towards a wall, holding a map of his domain. “If we do send them to Ludriver Castle, they’ll have to cross three bridges, or get lucky and spot a natural crossing in its lesser branches. Fat chance for that. The river, is already completely unpassable.”

“We can’t support such a large number of men, on the other side of Lud River,” Baker Morris pointed. “They would get cut off, with winter upon us. Get wiped out.”

“Still, with most of them out in force to hunt…” Lord Floris, just couldn’t let go.

“Antoon has stripped us of almost three thousand idle hands father,” Dier said, himself fixated on the missing crews, already marching towards Sallowhall. “I just don’t see us having the numbers to get at the O’ Dargans this season, or even the summer.”

“Jarl David, probably knows it,” Lord Floris said, eyeing the slave girl with suspicion. “Is why, he didn’t call off the hunt. He’ll bring supplies in, leather for armour, use the time to arm himself proper, or even call the warbands up. Even put us on the back foot, if that idiot Antoon fuck’s it up, or gets us into a real war. Tyeus curse him!”

That’s it then. Dirk thought. Might as well, think about a good inn to rest, eat and have a good ole shaggin’. His eyes resting on the blushing girl. Lots of meat on ‘em thighs, he thought, a leer on his lips.

“The timber is cut already, left in place till the end of winter,” Aart said out the blue and Dirk, a creature of instinct, people called ‘Devious Dirk’ for good reason, perked up. “What if we make a crossing ourselves?”

Lord Floris narrowed his eyes.

“What do you mean, son?”

“Roll them in, down the slope as we do. But not towards the road, the other side. Into the river, but we keep ‘em from floating down. It can be done, if we tie ‘em together. All at once, to make a barrier,” Dirk blinked once stunned, the suggestion ludicrous and extremely dangerous.

“It will never hold,” His father pointed, trying to put some sense into him. “Lud ain’t Retford or even Unalen, not on its main branch. There’s too much water coming down, it will wash everything out of its path.”

“If it holds for an hour, my men will cross using ropes,” Aart insisted.

Then what? Dirk asked silently. What will ye do after that?

“Cross Lud River,” Lord Florin said. “Use the bridges to return?”

“Aye. By the time they figure out, what happened, we will be at Montfoot Bridge.”

“How do you cross its leg?”

“It can be done, it’s six meters from bank to bank. We’ll have ropes,” Aart explained, obviously having done his homework. Dirk gulped down nervously. “Moment we reach the Bridge, we’re in Crull country, Wolvesbane Castle is right there.”

“I don’t trust them to help us,” Lord Floris said. He tasted his wine, appearing uncertain.

“The Northmen won’t know that,” Aart added. “It will keep them on their side of the river.”

The Northmen don’t give a crap about any of that, Dirk thought worried. And if we can cross a small river branch, so can they.

“It’s a solid plan, I believe,” Lord Floris decided. “What do you think, Mr. Morris?”

“I think it’s a great plan, milord.” The mercenary droned, opting for the better paying decision.

No it’s shaggin’ not, ye lying sycophant!

No good plan, ever started with what if.

Dirk closed his eyes frustrated.

Dirk got his axe out, nasty sharp blade dented a bit, where he’d hit that guard, turned to face the woman proper. One eye on her, the other on the two fighters charging towards them, yelling at the top of their lungs.

He made a step forward to get into position, not an easy thing to block a spear with a batleaxe and felt his stomach faltering, as that wicked point came at him. At the last moment, he lost it and threw himself to the side, rolled away, tense as a virgin in her wedding night, expecting the spear skewering him at any moment. But it didn’t, the woman missing him. Dirk landed on his feet, made to rise, right boot losing purchase underneath and going down right away, his helm banging on the ground, mud in his face.

Too panicked to draw breath.

The woman cursed his manhood and turned around, Dirk desperately trying to get some distance between them, moving on all fours, a turtle faster than him surely. The spear’s tip passed next to his ear, a hiss and bang… as the wooden shaft connected with his helm. He swung his axe back blindly, a wide arc and it connected on something. She screamed her voice cracking at the end, as Dirk turned, axe in hand, teeth clenched to the point of breaking and swung again.

The woman raised her head, since she’d stooped to put a hand on her bleeding leg, saw the axe coming and ogled her eyes in panic, her face a horror mask. The blade caught her above the eyebrows, sliced through bone and cut the left portion of her skull clean off. It landed two meters from them, the shape of a small plate, bloody grey matter covered in vapors, long blond hair still attached to the other side.

“Ah.” Dirk gasped looking at her still standing, with spear in hand, part of her head missing and staring at him, shock in her eyes.

Darn pretty those eyes, he finished his thought, as the woman collapsed on her face, without a sound. Another Northman, clad in mail and sword in hand, taking her place.

“Is that ye, Devious Dirk?” The man called hate oozing out of him in waves, as he slowed down, sparing a worrying glance to the dead, but still bleeding woman. His friend trying to circle around his back, while the first talked him up.

“Ye got the wrong man,” Dirk said, stepping over the woman, to put her body between him and his opponent.

“Mat the Plank, saw ye put me house to the torch,” The man growled, his face haggard over his thick beard, scrunching his mouth, this way and that. “Killed my baby boy ye did.”

Dirk grimaced, switching hands on his axe, used his right to get his longsword out.

“Twas an accident, was goin’ for yer wife,” He taunted, sucking a deep breath in all greedy, forced smile on his torn lips; not because Dirk was a monster, though he probably was, but because the man was itching to kill him anyway. No way around that. Dirk’s taunt just helped put him a bit more on edge, hoping for a mistake.

The other part of that coin was that, if he was going to get fucked up, better to go quick due to his opponent’s fury. Rule of the trade, number one.

You don’t want to get tortured.

“Ye piece of vile shit!” The Northman cried out, when his insult registered, murder in his eyes and charged him.