DANTE KING
Copyright © 2020 by Dante King All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Want More Stories? About the Author
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
We’d been waiting three days when the riders finally arrived.
One of the scouts whom I’d sent out to guard the perimeter of our camp came in at a run with the news. When he was through the stockade gate, he jogged across to where I was sitting, on a sawn log by the big central fire. In the ruddy light of the blaze, his eyes were wide as he looked up at me and delivered his news.
“Riders, sir,” he gasped. “Twenty of them, coming from the direction of Saxehold.”
“Well done, lad,” I told him, “go to your post now. I’ll see to the rest.”
My axe was leaning against the bench at my side, and I swung it up onto my shoulder as I headed toward the gate, with the rest of my warband behind me. Twenty seasoned warriors, lifted shields and axes, and checked the gleaming buckles and leather straps on their iron armor. These riders were expected; we weren’t anticipating a fight, but it never hurt to be prepared.
Silently, I led my band outside the stockade. Pitchsoaked torches threw red light onto the tall pine trees of the Grimwood. We stood with our backs to our freshlyraised stockade wall and waited. We didn’t have to wait long.
The newcomers rode up quietly, tall figures on nimble little horses appearing one by one out of the darkness. Twenty hooded and cloaked warriors called their steeds to a halt outside the stockade.
One rider came forward and pushed back a heavy hood to reveal a shining fall of golden hair. It was a woman. Her strong, fair-skinned face and bright blue eyes shone out from her dark cloak in the light of the torches. She scanned the waiting warriors and the freshly raised stockade, saying nothing. Then her eyes fell on me, and she smiled.
“Leofwine,” she greeted me.
“Cara Ironside,” I replied. “Welcome to our camp.”
She cast another critical glance over the stockade, then raised an eyebrow. “Quick work,” she said. “Expecting trouble?”
For answer, I gestured to the gate. “Come inside and bring your warriors. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She shrugged, dismounted, and followed me into the camp.
This was not the first time we’d met. Cara Ironside was well-known around my hometown of Saxehold, and she had caught my eye before now. It was no secret that I found her attractive, but we were both warriors in our prime. In Saxehold, romantic relationships were not considered appropriate between active war leaders. That didn’t stop me looking at her, however. When we got to the central fire, our warriors following, she shrugged out of her cloak to reveal figure-hugging leather armor. I ran my eyes up and down the lithe curves of her body with frank admiration. She returned my look and smiled.
“Well, Leo,” she said, and I was pleased to hear that she shortened my name to the more familiar form, “are you going to tell me about it?”
I looked around. Cara’s warriors were all women, some of the best shield-maidens in Saxehold. They all crowded around the central fire, side by side with my warriors.
There was some good-natured jostling and flirting going on, and some men were bringing meat and ale from the stores to prepare a meal. One man was hauling out a harp, and another had got a game of dice going with two of Cara’s shield-maidens.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” I suggested. Cara glanced around at our gathered warriors, smiled at the group playing dice, then nodded her agreement.
We went to my tent, which was set up a little way off from the main fire. I gave orders for food and drink to be brought to us, and we went inside. The tent was made from well-cured hides and carpeted with furs. Heat and red light radiated out from a brazier of burning charcoal which sat in the center of the snug space. Cara looked around approvingly.
“This is comfortable,” she said, “and well-kept. These furs...?” She gestured at the thick bearskin and wolfskin rugs which covered the floor and made up the generous sleeping pallet.
“All my own kills, of course,” I said, letting the pride in my work come through in my words.
“Impressive,” she said, and I could tell that she meant it. She sat down by the brazier, loosening her collar and continuing to look around the tent with her careful, observant eye. Her golden hair glowed like polished bronze in the light of the brazier. I was suddenly very glad that I took care to keep my tent tidy and in good order.
There was wine on a low table at one side of the tent, and I poured some into silver cups for us. She eyed hers appreciatively as she took it from my hand, then smelled the wine and took a sip.
“So, how much do you know already?” I asked as I sat opposite her. She regarded me thoughtfully, took another swallow of wine, then set her cup down beside her.
“I only know what Thane Johan told me, Leofwine. The Festering has taken hold in the Westmarsh, and you are
tasked with finding the source of it. You can only take one companion, and for some reason, that companion has to be me. He told me you and your warband were camping here, in the Grimwood on the edge of Westmarsh, and that I should come and find you straight away. Nothing more. It’s all very mysterious.”
There was a discreet tapping on the outer ridgepole of the tent, and a man entered with a platter of roasted meat and some freshly-cooked bread. When he had left, Cara took out her bone-handled belt knife and casually cut half the meat, slapped it on a slice of bread, and began to eat. She chewed, looked at me meaningfully, then swallowed. “Well, go on,” she said, gesturing at me with her bread. “Tell me everything!”
So I took a breath and told her.
Nine days earlier, I was woken by a voice calling my name. I sat up, only to find that I wasn’t in my chambers in Thane Johan’s castle at Saxehold. Instead, I was standing upon a grassy sward overlooking green hills. It was a hilltop, and there were ruins, old bits of stone sticking up out of the grass in a rough ring, as if a tower had stood here once. The sun was high in a bright blue sky, and it was warm, warmer than I’d ever known Saxehold to be.
Sitting on the remains of a section of wall was an old man dressed in a tattered gray robe, with long gray hair and a scraggly gray beard. He looked like a hermit in his humble clothes, with his bare feet drumming against the stone. On the wall beside him there was a drinking cup and a piece of bread. He looked up as if he had only just seen me, and then jumped off the wall and hurried over. The grass was up to his knees. Despite how vivid the scene was,
I was convinced I must still be dreaming, so I simply stood and waited for him as he approached.
“There you are at last!” he said, sounding harassed. “I’ve been waiting for... well, I don’t quite know how long, but I’ve been waiting.”
“What is this place?” I asked him. “Who are you?”
He stood with his hands on his hips, his long beard wagging from side to side as he shook his head disapprovingly.
“You mean to say you don’t know who I am? You’ve never seen me before? You young folk are all the same, no memory of... what was I saying? Anyway. I am one of the Keepers. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Keepers.”
I was trying not to laugh. He was dressed like the lowest kind of beggar, and yet here he stood glaring up at me, berating me as if he were a high lord and I was a disobedient child. I decided to humour him.
“Ah, the Keepers!” I said, knowingly, though I’d never heard of them before.
With incredible speed, he darted forward and struck me on the arm with much more force than I would have thought possible from such a wizened old fellow.
“Don’t give me your cheek!” he said, wagging a finger at me. “This is no laughing matter. I have a quest for you, a job which you must do. A test, if you will, to measure your... abilities.”
That piqued my interest. “I’m listening,” I said.
His brow furrowed, and he turned to look out over the pleasant view.
“The Festering comes,” he said, and the light faded for a moment, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. “On the western border of your land, the Festering has taken hold of an ancient relic of enormous power.”
“What is this relic?” I asked.
“It is the helmet of Theodoric Ironside, a great warrior of the ancient world. In the old days, powerful warriors
bound their essences to enchanted items, but then the Festering came, and corrupted the joining between the great warriors and their items. The Festering draws on the power of the ancient ones to feed itself and spread its corruption all over the lands. It has bound itself to this relic, and you, Leofwine, must travel to the heart of the Festering and free the Helm of Ironside from its torment. Go to your Thane, and tell him what you have seen here. Tell him he has a role to play; he must choose you one companion, and you must accept his choice.”
Then he reached out and placed his gnarled hand in the center of my chest and pushed me gently backward. The scene faded, and I woke for a moment in the familiar surroundings of my bedroom in the Thane’s castle. A strangedream, I thought, then turned over and went back to sleep.
Cara was finishing her meal as I concluded the tale of my strange experience.
“But you told the Thane?” she asked after a moment’s silence.
I nodded. “When I woke in my bed the next morning, my arm was bruised where The Keeper had struck me, and there was grass stuck to my feet. It was clearly more than just a crazy dream, so I went to Thane Johan immediately and told him the whole story. When I told the Thane, he took it very seriously. He told me this was the legendary Call of the Keepers, and that it was imperative that we should obey. He would choose a companion to go with me, as instructed, then he told me to gather my warband and go immediately to Grimwood on the border between Saxe and Westmarsh and wait there for the companion whom he would choose. That’s the whole story. I had no idea who he
would pick, but I’m glad it was you. The thought of running a mission like this with you is pretty attractive.”
She grinned at me. “You’ll be glad to know I feel the same. I was getting a bit bored with goblin raids from the northern mountains, and someone needs to do something about the Festering. It’s never been this close to Saxe before. Also, I understand why Thane Johan picked me. I’m one of the last descendants of the Clan of Ironside, and Theodoric Ironside is our legendary ancestor. If I can help you rescue his Helm from a curse and cleanse the Festering from Westmarsh at the same time, then I’m all in!”
“Excellent!” I grinned. “We’ll do well together, I’m sure. What skills have you been focusing on recently?”
She placed a hand on her pouch and gave me a cunning look. “A few potions of a new design. As you well know, I’m a battle druid, Leo. Experimenting with potions is a big part of my skill building. Of course, I keep up my bladework and I’ll always love my bow, but the potions have been my main focus recently. What about you?”
“I haven’t changed. It’s been axes for me, always axes,” I said, slapping the huge two-handed, double-headed monster of an axe that lay beside me. She eyed it critically.
“That’s a big weapon. You never fancy something smaller?”
“I’ve been practicing with two smaller ones recently, one in each hand, and I’ve a belt of throwing axes too, but it takes a lot of practice. Unless something crazy happens, I think the two-hander will always be my best weapon.”
Cara nodded thoughtfully. “Tomorrow, we’ll head alone into the Festering, seeking the heart of the corruption. We must be prepared for anything.”
The next morning, I rose from my bed at the first glimmer of gray light. At first glance, I thought the whole camp was asleep, except for the men who had watch duty. Then I saw Cara. She was dressed in a light, flowing dress of pale blue, and her feet were bare. Her long blonde hair
hung loose down her back. Her maidens had pitched their tents along the stockade wall nearest the gate, and Cara’s tent was larger and finer than the rest.
She was going through the movements of a form using a long, unusual-looking straightsword. When she saw me watching her, she stopped and walked over to me. She was naked under her blue dress, and the slight breeze pressed the thin fabric against the curves of her body, clearly outlining her curved hip, lush breasts, and erect nipples. I looked, and she knew I looked, but she did not seem to mind. She tossed her hair back and fixed me with her bright blue eyes.
“That smell,” she said. “Is that the Festering?”
I breathed in deeply through my nose. Under the rich scents of the tall pine trees that surrounded the stockaded camp, I could catch it. A sickly smell, like something dead left in the sun.
“You get used to it after a few days,” I said. “I’d almost stopped noticing it. Yes, that’s the Festering. You can see it in the Westmarsh if you walk to the top of the ridge.”
“I’d like to have a look, I think, before we go down.”
“All right. Now?”
She nodded. “Let me get my leathers on, then we’ll go.”
When Cara emerged from her tent dressed again in her leather armor, we left the stockade and walked together up to the edge of the ridge that looked down on the Westmarsh.
The Westmarsh had always been a beautiful place, a vast and untouched fen that stretched for miles. It was home to countless beasts, birds, insects, and it was said that benevolent spirits occupied the little tufts of woodland that dotted it here and there. Folk seldom ventured out into the marshlands. There were no paths, and there were pockets of deep water hidden by floating carpets of thick mosses. It could be a dangerous place for the unwary, but for the people of Saxe, the vast expanse of Westmarsh had always
been a reassuring presence. North, south, and east, we would always have to watch our borders, but to the west, the vast marshlands ran right up to the cliffs at the edge of the Grimwood and kept an impenetrable guard on the western borderland of Saxe. Until now.
Now, in a broad swathe of decay that cut through the flat landscape, the Festering had turned the lush green of the wetland to a sickly gray. Noxious vapors rose from the waters. On either side, there was still a wide expanse of untouched green, but the influence of the Festering cut like a huge arrowhead across the Westmarsh, the tip of the arrow pointing toward the cliff where we stood.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” she said, and her voice shook a little.
“Does it affect you?” I asked her. “I mean, do you feel it? In your heart.”
She didn’t look at me, but she nodded, slowly.
“I do too,” I assured her. “The influence is less strong with me, but I feel it. When we go down, it may be stronger. If it’s getting too much for you, tell me.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Don’t worry about me, Leo, I’ve got something that will do the trick I think.” She patted her bulging potion belt and smiled. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as we get our bags from the camp and rouse our warriors to see us off. If we leave now, we’ll have plenty of daylight to make use of. The Festering will be bad during the day, but I guess it’ll be even worse at night.”
Back at the camp, all was activity and bustle as the men and women of our honor guard got ready to see us off. It had been agreed that this stockade should be occupied by our warriors either until the Festering withdrew, or we returned with fresh orders. If nothing changed for a year and a day, our warriors were to pick new leaders from among their own ranks, and return to the service of Thane Johan of Saxehold. Neither my men nor Cara’s shieldmaidens were particularly happy to see us go off on this
dangerous quest alone, but they all understood the honor that came with such a quest.
We did not know how long our quest would take, so we packed enough rations to last for two weeks with care. The water in the Festering would be foul, but Cara had a potion which would render even the foulest water drinkable, so we were saved the trouble of having to carry many waterskins. We got our gear together, lifted our weapons, and in a very short time, we were ready to go.
I had my big two-handed axe, my leather and iron armor, and a cloak of brown bearskin. At Cara’s urging, I’d also brought my pair of one-handed axes and my belt of small throwing axes. I’d considered bringing a bow and a quiver of arrows, but decided against it, since that was one of Cara’s particular specialisations. She looked good as we got ready to go. Her straightsword was at her hip, and she carried two long curved knives there as well. Slung around her hips above the swords she had her potion belt; this had a bewildering array of different holders for tubes, vials, pouches, bottles, and the many small tools of her trade. Her cloak was of fine sable, black as night, and her boots were knee high, made of supple leather and also dyed black. Slung across her back she carried a neatly-sized recurve bow and a quiver of arrows.
She met my eyes and grinned.
“Ready?” I asked. She nodded once. “Let’s go.”
The path down the cliffside to the marshes was steep and rocky, with steps and handholds cut here and there to aid descent. We scrambled down onto the flats and stood for a moment, catching our breath and looking out over the Westmarsh.
“The Festering begins over there,” I said, pointing.
Cara shaded her eyes, peering through the haze. “I can’t see much. The sense of it is strong here, though.”
“It is. I feel it strongly, too. We’re likely to meet enemies soon after we enter. The Festering changes and mutates creatures as well as the landscapes they inhabit. Let’s be on our guard.”
We set off into the marshlands. The ground was thick green moss, with tufts of dry grasses here and there. Our feet sank into the spongy moss up to the ankles. After we’d walked a short way from the cliff edge, we glanced back. On the clifftop, we could see through the haze the figures of our warriors, watching our progress as we made our way into the mist.
We came to the edge of the Festering suddenly, after about half an hour’s careful walking. There was no sign of the cliff behind us now, and the mists wreathed around us so thickly that we couldn’t see more than twenty yards in any direction.
Cara, who was ranging a little ahead of me, came upon the edge first. She stopped and let out a hissing breath between her teeth. She was pale and her eyes were wide as she stared at the pallid gray expanse of grass and slimy water.
To me, it seemed like waves of gray-brown energy flowed through the air from the edge of the gray, outward; the spreading influence of the Festering. I felt it, but it did not have any effect on me. Cara was not so lucky.
She leaned over with her hands on her knees, panting like an exhausted runner. I began to approach her, but she waved me away.
“Ugh,” she croaked, “I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”
She straightened up and rummaged at her belt, before coming up with a glass bottle full of some dark blue liquid. With deft, practiced movements she unstoppered the bottle. I saw that the bottle top had a fine glass dropper attached to it. She squeezed the flexible bottle top and drew some liquid into the dropper, then carefully put two drops of the liquid under her tongue.
Immediately, her body was suffused with a soft blue light, which pulsed three times like a heartbeat, then faded. Cara smiled, rolled her shoulders, and breathed out a long sigh of relief. The color was back in her cheeks as she carefully screwed the top of the bottle back on and replaced it in her belt.
“That’s impressive!” I said.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she grinned. “It’s a powerful guard against evil influences, designed to ward off malign magic. Do you need some? It’s very concentrated, so one bottle will do many doses.”
“I don’t need any. The Festering doesn’t influence me the way it does other people.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Come on.”
Together, we stepped into the Festering.
The marshland which lay under the influence of the Festering was not dead. Instead, its way of being alive had changed. The grass and moss was slimy and gray, and the water which came up to fill our footprints was thick and black. Looking closely at the grass, I could see that every stem was covered in what looked like a fine gray dust. When I ran my finger along a blade of grass, the dust transferred to my finger, but the grass stem was not cleaned. Instead, the gray substance reappeared like a fungus growing before my eyes. When I looked at the stuff on my finger, it wriggled as if it were full of tiny worms. I flicked it from my finger in disgust, and it hit the moss with a thick plop.
Cara gazed around her. “Well, this is horrible.” I had to agree.
“I can see where the influence is coming from,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows at me questioningly.
I shrugged. Now was not the time for an explanation of my childhood battles.
“I just can. I’ll tell you about someday, but now is not the time.”
“Can you at least tell me how it works?”
“I can do that,” I replied. “The assault It’s like waves of energy against my senses, all flowing out from a specific point. The Keeper said that the Festering uses the power of the Relic to power itself. The influence must be coming from the corrupted Relic which we’re tasked with finding.”
“The Helm of Ironside,” Cara mused. “Which direction is the influence coming from?”
I pointed into the mist. “That way.”
We hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when I heard a splashing sound off to the right. Cara was only a little way ahead of me, but her shape was already hazy through the thick mist.
“Cara,” I said, “there’s something...”
My axe was off my shoulder and in my hand with the speed of thought as the splashing became louder, crashing toward us. Cara began to turn, reaching for her sword, when a horrific shape loomed up out of the mist.
It was a monstrous spider, as big as a roe deer, with legs as thick as my forearms. A huge, chaotic mound of red and black eyes bulged from the top of its head, shining with a horrible intelligence. Below the eye-mound there was a wide, square jaw with chin and lips like a man’s, though much bigger. The mouth was full of a mess of razor sharp, slavering teeth.
“Arachnon!” Cara shouted, leaping backward and hauling her sword from its sheath.
The thing reared up on its back legs, waving huge clawed forelegs, chattering and screaming at us, and snapping its nightmare jaws. The Arachnon were oversized spiders which were known to dwell in the marshes. I’d fought them on occasion, but they were generally content to be left alone. Never had I seen one that looked like this.
Its high-pitched jabbering suddenly deepened to a guttural roar, and it dropped onto all its legs and charged straight at me. I swung my axe, but the creature leaped to the right with horrible speed and dived at me with one swipe of a great clawed foreleg.
I pulled my axe back in mid-swing and punched the double-bladed head upward, catching the mutated Arachnon’s flailing claw and chopping it off halfway up the leg. Black blood squirted out from the wound, splashing and hissing in the moss. Then Cara was coming at the thing from my left side, ducking in and chopping at the hideous creature’s back legs. She took off one leg at the knee joint and followed up with a huge curved slash at its piled eyes. Her cut went wide, but as the monster leaped back from her blow and tried to turn to face Cara, I stepped forward and brought the head of my axe around in a great curving two-handed swing.
My axe thudded into the monster’s head and buried itself deep in the huge mound of eyes. The Arachnon spasmed horribly, its legs crashing up and down in the black water as the life went out of it, and I wrenched my axe free and jumped away as a wash of thick, stinking yellow fluid gushed from the snapping jaws. Then there was a gurgling sigh, and the monster sank, twitching, partway into the turgid bog.
Cara gripped my arm. “Look, Leo, what’s that?” As we watched, a thin wraith of white mist came up from the corpse of the monster. It solidified into a vaguely humanoid shape, then drifted upward and disappeared into the mist above us.
“It’s the monster’s spirit,” I said. “It must be some effect of the Festering, we can see the spirits of creatures we defeat in battle.”
“Hey, do you feel something?” Cara said suddenly. I looked at her. She was standing very straight, her hand on her chest, a look of pleasure on her face. I did feel it.
Somewhere inside my soul, there was a deeply satisfying feeling, like the clinking of coins into a strongbox.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Feels good though, right?”
She nodded, slowly. “Like I gained something. Strange. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
“Let's get going. The morning is passing, and if that Arachnon is anything to go by, we’re going to have some work to do when we get to the source of the Festering.”
“All right,” she said, “but take a little of this first, and I will too.” She had unhitched a green vial from her belt, and, popping it open, she dipped a finger in and drew out a bit of thick green paste. “Hold your tongue out.”
I shrugged, and stepped forward. I had to bend down a little so she could reach my mouth. As her finger touched my tongue our gazes met and she smiled, her eyes sparkling. I drew the stuff into my mouth. There was a strange taste, bitter and sweet at the same time. I swallowed.
Green light flashed through me, followed by a warm feeling that rushed down my spine.
“Incredible,” I said as the pleasant feeling faded. Cara took a little too and placed it in her mouth.
“It will keep the cold and damp from getting to us. It’s my own recipe.”
“Good job,” I said, and she smiled at the compliment. “Now, come on. The Helm of Ironside is waiting.”
We marched off into the mist, heading in the direction from which I could sense the waves of malevolent energy emanating.
Most of the afternoon passed in a slow, wary trudge across the marshland. Now and again, we heard rustling and movement nearby, and once we heard something howling off in the distance, but we were not attacked again. As the light dimmed toward evening, we came upon something unexpected; a dark range of low hills looming
out of the mist. Two spurs of land stuck out into the marsh on either side of us, enclosing a wide area of marshland in a wet, foggy valley.
I looked into the gloom. “The Festering, it’s emanating from up there. Let’s climb this nearest spur of land. Perhaps if we get a bit of height we’ll be able to see the Helm.”
“It surely won’t just be there on its own?” asked Cara as we began to climb the left-hand spur.
“I doubt it. Power like that is attractive. It’s sure to be guarded by someone... or something.”
It didn’t take long to get to the top of the ridge where the land flattened out into a wide, flat sward with a few scattered boulders. I glanced around and didn’t see anything, then I looked down.
In the valley not far below us, partly obscured by the darkling mist, there was a wooden-walled fort. The walls looked solid on three sides, but on the side nearest us, the camp used the hill we sat on as a perimeter barrier. We could slide down and land right in the camp if we wanted to.
The camp appeared deserted. Wooden sheds and shacks lined the outer walls. Peering through the gloom, I could make out what looked like a stone sarcophagus in the center of the camp. Waves of dark power pulsed from it.
“You see that?” I whispered, pointing at the sarcophagus. “That’s it. That’s where all the power is coming from. We need to get down there.”
“I don’t see any sign of anyone.”
“It might be a trap,” I said.
She looked at me, considering. “It probably is a trap. What do you want to do?”
I took my axe from my back and met her eyes, seeing my own fierce excitement mirrored in her face. “If it’s a trap, I want to spring it.”
I led the way, and Cara followed. She had her bow in hand, a long arrow nocked to the string. The wall of the valley was steep, but not sheer. We slid down fast, in a rattle of stones, landing on our feet at the base of the rough cliff.
Still no sign of any trouble.
Here, so close to the source, I found my iron resistance to the influence of the Festering being tested hard. I caught my breath and glanced at Cara to find her face determined and set. Her potion must be working.
My axe in my left hand, I gestured to her to follow me forward. She fell in, two steps behind me and to my right, her eyes scanning the dark space from side to side.
“Now!” I hissed, and we sprinted through the deserted camp, straight toward the sarcophagus.
It was a huge block of black stone, oblong and as tall as my shoulder. Running around the edge, about the level of my chest, a thin line of shadow, darker than the rest, showed where the lid fitted. I raised the head of my axe and jammed the top of the blade into the crack.
Cara stood ready, her arrow fitted and the bow half drawn. She had taken up her place to my left, turning a slow half circle and scanning the darkness, tension in every line of her supple body. I heaved, levering the stone lid up with the blade of my axe. The lid moved with a deep grinding noise. I bent my knees, huffed in a massive breath, and levered the lid up with every ounce of strength I could muster. As it rose, revealing an even blacker darkness inside, I let the axe slide down and caught the edge of the huge lid with my gauntleted fists.
With a roar of effort, I heaved the gigantic piece of stone up and away. It teetered on the edge of the sarcophagus for a moment, then toppled over. In the thick silence of the fogbound camp, the sound of the lid shattering was like a bolt of lightning.
The tall skeleton of a mighty warrior lay in the base of the sarcophagus. In life, he must have been a huge man. He had been interred wearing his full armor, and though this was now ancient and rusted, a glance told me that it must have been very fine. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his bony hands still gripped the shafts of his twin axes. I smiled at that; an axeman, like me, but one who favoured a pair of one-handed axes, rather than a big two-hander.
“Is that it?” Cara’s voice broke in on my examination of the skeleton.
“It’s got to be.” The skull of the warrior stared up at me from inside a tall iron helmet. It had a long nose guard and broad cheek guards which could hinge over to cover the mouth. The top was rounded, and fixed in place with crossed bands of gold which glimmered in the darkness. My sense of the Festering was almost overwhelming as I focused on the helmet. This had to be it; the cursed helmet of Theodoric Ironside.
I reached out to touch it, and that was when the trap was sprung.
They came silent as the night itself, a great horde rising up out of the blackness at the edges of the camp. One moment all was empty, the next everywhere was filled with a wriggling mass of shambling figures. Countless pairs of red and yellow eyes glowed at us from the shadows of ragged hoods. Scimitars gleamed in their claws. The Festering’s dark magic must have obscured the foul creatures, working like a powerful cloaking spell that kept them hidden until this moment.
One, taller than the rest, ran forward to stand ten yards from us. He stood up to his full height, only a little shorter than Cara, and threw back his hood.
It was a Ratman. Coarse gray fur covered his long, hideous face. His eyes glowed brightly. He had two huge, pointed teeth at the end of his mouth, and a jagged double row of razor spikes running back into his mouth. A double-
handed scimitar as big as my axe was in his hands. His smaller minions flowed up and clustered behind him. He threw back his head and screamed a battlecry, and all of the filthy creatures around him took up the high, ululating call.
Cara let fly her arrow, and in that same moment, as I turned away from the skeleton in the sarcophagus to grab my axe and face the enemy, the tips of my fingers brushed the Helm of Ironside.
Everything stopped.
Cara’s arrow floated in midair, and the huge Ratman’s spittle hung around his mouth. My perception of the scene spun, as if my view was spiralling out from my own body. I could see myself frozen in place, one hand reaching into the coffin, my other raising my axe. I could see my body half-turned toward Cara and the enemy. Her bowstring was caught mid-release, her hand raised up, fingers splayed, like a statue of an archer’s perfect form. Then it was all gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Iknelt, hands on the ground, looking down at smooth flagstones of beautifully figured marble. There was a rich floral scent in the air, like blossoms. I took a breath, when a voice spoke and I raised my head to see a powerful warrior standing a little way from me.
“Stand, Leofwine of Saxe,” he said. “We have only a little time together. Stand.”
I stood and faced him.
He was a big man, powerfully built with a long black beard flowing down over his decorated steel breastplate. Gauntlets of leather and steel covered his massive hands, and a skirt of heavy chainmail dropped down to cover his knees. Heavy riding boots showed under thick shin guards.
Despite his obvious power and strength he looked afraid. Anxiety clouded his bluff, broad face. Above his black beard, he had a strong nose and piercing dark eyes. His head was bald, and his high, intellectual brow was beaded with sweat.
All my senses were taken up with this new scene, and yet my mind was still aware of the moment which I had just left; Cara, frozen in time with an arrow in mid flight, and a horde of wicked ratmen caught in the fearful moment before the charge.
“You have come at the bidding of the Keepers?” said the warrior.
“I have. And you, you are Theodoric Ironside. I recognize the breastplate from the skeleton. Come, Ironside, say what you need to say.”
He glanced around, fearfully. “I have little time in which to say it. My curse has left me for a moment, but soon it will return... But you have come, and that is well. I am Theodoric Ironside. In life, I used an ancient magic to pour my prowess, my strength, and the power of my Glimmer into my Helm. It became a mighty artefact during my life, a vast repository of power. When my body died at last, I felt the power of the Helm become something beyond what it had been during my life. My spirit found rest in the long halls of Saxen warriors who die in honor, but my essence, my strength, my skill, and my battle lust combined in my Helm to create a magical item of immense power. It became an artifact that would grant the Persona of Ironside to one who was worthy. For years uncounted, it had awaited the coming of a warrior who could claim it.”
Here, he glanced around fearfully again. A look of sudden pain crossed his face. “Agh! It comes again! Leofwine of Saxe, you are the warrior who can claim the power of my Helm. You must claim it, and drive the vile taint from the land!”
Suddenly, he raised both hands and clawed at the space around him. The air around him was foggy and vague, and there was no clear definition to anything except his figure and mine, and the intricately carved marble slabs of the floor. And yet as I watched, a black mist gathered around Ironside’s feet. It trickled upward, inexorable as an incoming tide across flat sands. It wrapped around his shoulders, tendrils of darkness flicking out toward his mouth and his eyes.
The sight of this proud and noble warrior fumbling in rising terror at the encroaching mist raised a sudden and
powerful anger in me. Without thought, I flung out one hand before me and ran at him. To my surprise, a sudden bright light shone from my hand. It bathed Ironside in white light, almost painfully bright, and the black mist was pushed away from him. The evil mist gathered together, until it was like a twisted humanoid form that loomed over Ironside.
“Back, daemon!” I roared as I ran past the warrior and crashed into the figure of mist. Wild light flashed and flared from my hands and I grabbed it, feeling greasy, slippery skin in my hands. There was a high-pitched, inhuman scream of pain, and through it a deep snarling voice roared at me. It sounded not like one voice, but a hundred all shouting in unison.
“Soul Binder!” the huge voice roared. For one long moment, I was surrounded by oily black mist, and I felt it pressing on me from all sides. From deep within myself, I felt a raw and ruthless power arise, and it burst from me in a blaze of white light, suffusing every fiber of my being with pure power.
Then it was gone.
“You defeated it! You did what I could not!” It was Ironside. He stood by me, one gauntleted hand on my arm, and his face was no longer pale or afraid.
“It was the Festering!” I said. “The Festering in physical form!”
“It was. When it corrupted my Helm and drew upon my power, it disturbed my rest and brought me back to the realm that sits on the cusp between death and life. But you have broken its grip on me, and my Helm will be yours now! I pass to you my power, my skill in battle, and my mighty soul-bound armor! Go well, now, Leofwine! Cleanse the world of the Festering wherever you find it! Free us, the great warriors of ancient days, from the corrupting influence of the evil Festering, and glory in our power! Farewell.... farewell!”
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camina á más andar, como podía esperarse de su autor y de muy contados españoles podría esperarse le llegaran á igualar. Esta mengua en la crítica de algunos libros y escritores, juntamente con la brevedad sucinta á que el autor quiso ceñir su obra, están pidiendo se escriba otra, si no tan prolija, retórica y rebutida de ajenas historias como la de Amador de los Ríos, obra por otro cabo meritísima, de donde muchos sacaron no poco de lo que dieron por propio, una Historia de la literatura castellana del tamaño de la de Ticknor, poco más ó menos, más moderna y más española, que desenvuelva algún tanto más lo que en la por usted traducida se halla demasiadamente condensado y ajuste más el criterio estético en el todo y en las partes.
Eso lo hubiera podido hacer, á lograr más larga vida, el Maestro; eso lo pudiera hacer usted, si no llevase de calle tantas empresas á la vez, abrumado de las cuales me persuado que no lo llegará usted á hacer nunca; eso lo pudiera hacer Rodríguez Marín, si su cargo y ocupaciones se lo permitieran. Pero ello es que ustedes los que pueden... no pueden, y así tenemos que hacer un poder los que no podemos. Alguna disculpa tiene, pues, mi atrevimiento, y si con él lograse echar no sea más que las zanjas y asentar anchos cimientos, y si no descontentándoles la traza, ustedes los que saben ú otros que después
vinieren quisieran levantar sobre ellos más gallardo y macizo edificio, daríame por bien pagado.
Qué traza y criterio sea el mío héselo de apuntar aquí en dos palabras á los demás que me leyeren, ya que adelante lo han de echar de ver al leer mi libro; usted ya lo tiene leído, puesto que tan cariñosa como desinteresadamente se me ofreció á revisar las pruebas y las revisó, por lo que jamás le quedaré bastantemente agradecido.
Dificultoso es atinar, cuando el público, que desea leer una historia de la literatura, es tan vario, que unos sólo quieren conocer ceñidamente los resultados, autores, obras, juicios del historiador y el cuadro general del desenvolvimiento literario en nuestra patria, y otros buscan la razón de los hechos, mayores pormenores, la bibliografía que les encamine para estudios particulares que pudieran emprender, los fundamentos en que los resultados estriban. Á los primeros puede satisfacer la obra de Fitzmaurice-Kelly ó la que á su imitación publicó el benemérito hispanista Ernest Merimée, ó esta mía, ateniéndose á lo que, mirando á este intento, he hecho imprimir en letra más gruesa. Para los segundos es lo que va en letra más menuda, donde he procurado resumir lo más importante que me ha parecido hallar en tantísimos libros como se han
escrito y cuya bibliografía anoto con particular esmero, valiéndome, sobre todo, de la que usted con tanta puntualidad ha sabido añadir á la traducción de la obra de Fitzmaurice-Kelly. Usted mismo, Menéndez y Pelayo, Foulché-Delbosc, Rodríguez Marín, Fitzmaurice-Kelly, Merimée, Farinelli y otros hispanófilos extranjeros han escrito páginas admirables sobre puntos sueltos y sin las cuales este libro no hubiera podido escribirse. Mayormente la Revue Hispanique, dirigida por Foulché-Delbosc, como usted sabe, el más cumplido de los hispanófilos, es un minero inagotable de hechos y apreciaciones, indispensable para cualquiera que desee ahondar un asunto cualquiera. Las Bibliotecas y Bibliografías de Nicolás Antonio, Gallardo, Salvá, Heredia, Brunet, Juan M. Sánchez, etcétera, etc., son canteras harto conocidas. De todas me he aprovechado, no para enseñarles á ustedes los que saben más que yo, pues ustedes pocas cosas han de aprender en este libro y muchas tendrán que enmendar, y se lo agradezco de antemano, sino para encaminar á los jóvenes que deseen trabajar en algunos puntos particulares.
Cada vez estoy más persuadido, primero, de que al orden cronológico no ha de anteponerse el de géneros ni escuelas, y segundo, de que para comprender el cuadro literario es indispensable
hallar junto á él y en su propio lugar de fecha los demás escritos no literarios, pero que completan el conocimiento de las letras españolas. "Hasta hoy no se ha entendido bien la historia de nuestra literatura, dice M. Pelayo (Cienc. Esp., II, 10), por no haberse estudiado á nuestros teólogos y filósofos". Orden riguroso de años en los cuales se imprimió la primera obra de cada autor, desde que hubo imprenta, ó en los cuales se compusieron, antes de haberla, esto es, del tiempo en que cada uno comenzó á darse públicamente á conocer por sus escritos: tal ha sido mi pauta. Las obras no literarias van en caracteres menores, como lo demás que toca á ilustrar el asunto principal. De tales obras de cultura general he escogido las de mayor momento, sin tratar de agotar la inagotable bibliografía.
Estas dos innovaciones son las que me han movido á emprender este trabajo, ya que ustedes los que pudieran mejor que yo no lo hacen; pero queda otro motivo, y es el principal. No me contenta el criterio de los que hasta hoy han tratado este asunto de la literatura y menos los que han hablado acerca del castellano. En literatura yo pongo muy por cima de cualquier obra erudita la menor obra del pueblo, la comúnmente no escrita, la sancionada en cambio por el consentimiento de la raza española, como aprecio el habla popular, la única natural, mucho
más que cualquier otra modificación que en ella introduzcan los eruditos. La razón es clara para los modernos filólogos: lo que los eruditos añaden al idioma nacional es sencillamente una falsificación del idioma, bien así como las flores de celuloide ó de papel son falsas flores para el botánico. Ahora bien, esto corre igualmente respecto de la literatura. Distinguir bien el elemento popular del erudito en las obras literarias: tal es mi criterio. Cuanto á la historia del castellano, que es otra de mis innovaciones, también me aparto de los romanistas, que son los que acerca de él han tratado, y naturalmente por ser romanistas no han visto en nuestro idioma otra cosa que lengua romana, latín y solo latín. Bien sé que disgustaré ya desde aquí á muchos lectores; pero que contente á la verdad y á los que la buscan es lo que importa. En casi todas mis obras vengo probando que el éuscaro ó vascongado ó ibero ha contribuido enormemente á la formación del castellano. Todavía no se han rebatido mis pruebas; ahí siguen, pues, en pie, grita que te gritarás. Y éste es mi criterio cuanto al idioma.
Creo que son suficientes motivos para haberme puesto, con atrevimiento disculpable, á escribir la historia de la lengua y literatura castellana. El que tenga otros criterios escríbala según ellos, los míos presentan sus derechos como los de otro cualquiera.
Soy tan devoto y aun apasionado de la literatura helénica como quien se pasó su vida leyendo y saboreando sus obras maestras; no soy, con todo eso, ciego por el clasicismo, al modo de los humanistas del Renacimiento, y aun por lo mismo que he gustado el único verdadero clasicismo, que es el helénico, distinguiéndolo bien del postizo y de imitación, salvo raras excepciones, de los romanos y renacentistas. No quisiera ser un Angelo Policiano, quien por locamente ciceroniano no alcanzó jamás á escribir como Cicerón. El clasicismo helénico contenía dos elementos: el uno la naturalidad virginal, nacida de la nacionalidad en asuntos y modo de decir; el otro de idealismo que llevaba el arte helénico á ser un eco de la serena Sofrosine del Olimpo de los dioses. Ni uno ni otro imitaron comúnmente romanos ni renacentistas, contentos con tomarles los asuntos, la mitología, las frases y palabras y poco más, lo que jamás debieron tomar, por ser para los griegos nacional y para los demás extraño y postizo. Imitar el arte griego consiste en cultivar lo nacional y según las cualidades del sentir de cada nación. En España cultivar el realismo es imitar á los griegos cuanto á su idealismo; ahondar en nuestra historia, leyendas y espíritu es imitarles cuanto á su mitología.
Lo nacional es lo único natural y grande en cada pueblo. Tal es la razón de mi criterio, que pudiéramos llamar democrático y que no es mío, sino de la ciencia y de la estética moderna, para la cual vale más un cantar enteramente popular que el mejor poema erudito, si no es popular á la vez. Hoy, tanto en pintura como en literatura, se busca lo primitivo, porque es lo más popular y nacional; se quiere, por lo mismo, gozar de lo fuerte, recio, natural y realista. Ninguna nación europea atesora más obras de esta laya que España. "Cuanto á nacionalidad, ocupa la literatura española el primer puesto", dijo Federico Schlegel en su Historia de la literatura antigua y moderna (t. I, c. 11). "El romancero es, no solamente la verdadera Ilíada de España, conforme al dicho de Víctor Hugo, sino el monumento más variado y duradero y la manifestación literaria más curiosa de su vida pública y privada", dijo E. Merimée en su Précis d'histoire de la Littérature Espagnole (pág. 165).
Ahora bien, el romancero es la obra más popular de nuestra literatura. Todo ello lo sabe usted de sobra y no es pequeño regalo para mí el conocer que éste mi criterio lo sea también suyo, por más que no lo haya sido de la mayoría de nuestros historiadores literarios, chapados á la antigua, demasiadamente eruditos, renacentistas y librescos.
Acepte, pues, mi querido amigo, lo que de sano y bueno hubiere dado mi atrevimiento en este libro, y eche lo malo, que no dejará de hallar bastante en él, á mi poco saber, que para eso se lo he confesado honradamente.
J C .
BIBLIOGRAFÍA GENERAL
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M (Heinrich). Die kastilische und portugiesische Literatur, etc., en Die romanischen Literaturen und Sprachen (Die Kultur der Gegenwart: ihre Entwickelung und ihre Ziele, Teil I, Abteilung XI, I). Berlin-Leipzig, 1909.
P P (Cristóbal). Noticias y documentos relativos á la historia y literatura españolas, t. I, Madrid, 1910 (tomo X de las Memorias de la Real Academia Española).
P (Enrique). El romanticismo en España. París, 1904.
P (Comte Th. de). La cour littéraire de D. Juan II, roi de Castille. París, 1873. 2 vol.
P (Comte Th. de). Les vieux auteurs castillans. ParísMetz, 1861-1862. 2. vol., 2.ª ed. [sin terminar]. París, 1888-1890. 2 vol.
R A , B M . Tercera época. Madrid, desde 1897. 28 vol. (En publicación).
R H . Recueil consacré á l'étude des langues, des littératures et de l'histoire des pays castillans, catalans et portugais, publié par R. Foulché-Delbosc. París-New-York, desde 1894. 28 vol. (En publicación).
R (José Amador de los) Historia crítica de la literatura española Madrid, 1861-1865. 7 vol.
R (Paul). Les mystiques espagnols. París, 1867 [versión española, con prólogo de P. Umbert, Barcelona, 1907, 2 vol.].
S (Bernardo) I primi influssi di Dante, del Petrarca e del Boccaccio nella letteratura spagnuola. Milano, 1902.
S (Adam). Spaniens Anteil an der deutschen Literatur des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Strassburg, 1898.
S G (Juan). Ensayo de una biblioteca española de los mejores escritores del reynado de Carlos III. Madrid, 17851789. 6 vol.
T (George). History of Spanish Literature. Boston, 1849. 3 vol.; 6.ª ed., Boston, 1888. 3 vol. Trad. alemana por Ν. H. Julius, Leipzig, 1852. 2 vol. y suplemento, con notas por F. J. Wolf, Leipzig, 1867. Trad. española por P. de Gayangos y E. de Vedia. Madrid, 1851-1854-1856. 4 vol.
U (John Garret). Spanish Literature in the England of the Tudors. New-York-London, 1899.
W (Ferdinand). Studien zur Geschichte der spanischen und portugiesischen Nationalliteratur. Berlin, 1859.
COLECCIONES DE TEXTOS
Biblioteca de autores españoles, desde la formación del lenguaje hasta nuestros días. Madrid, Rivadeneyra, 1846-1880. 71 vol.
Bibliotheca Hispanica, ed R Foulché-Delbosc Barcelona-Madrid, 1900-1913, 19 vol. (En publicación).
Biblioteca Renacimiento. Obras maestras de la Literatura universal. Madrid, desde 1913. 8 vol. (En publicación).
Bibliotheca Romanica. Biblioteca española. Strasburgo, s. f. 8 vol. (En publicación).
Clásicos castellanos Madrid, 1910-1914 28 vol (En publicación)
Colección de autores españoles. Leipzig, Brockhaus, 1863-1887. 48 vol.
Colección de escritores castellanos. Madrid, 1880-1912. 144 vol. (En publicación).
Colección de libros españoles raros ó curiosos. Madrid, 1871-1896. 24 vol.
Colección de los mejores autores españoles. París, Baudry, 18451872. 60 vol.
Colección de poetas españoles, ed Ramón Fernández [seudónimo de Pedro Estala]. Madrid, 1789-1820. 20 vol.
Libros de antaño. Madrid, 1872-1898. 15 vol.
Nueva Biblioteca de autores españoles, dirigida por M Menéndez y Pelayo. Madrid, Bailly-Baillière. 20 vol. (En publicación).
Sociedad de bibliófilos andaluces (Textos publicados por la). Sevilla, 1868-1907. 44 vol.
Sociedad de bibliófilos españoles (Textos publicados por la). Madrid, 1866-1913. 42 vol.
Sociedad de bibliófilos madrileños (Textos publicados por la). Madrid. 1909-1913. 10 vol. (En publicación).
CRESTOMATÍAS Y ANTOLOGÍAS
B (Eduardo de la). Literatura arcaica. Valparaíso [1898].
B F (Juan Nicolás) Floresta de rimas antiguas castellanas. Hamburg, 1821-1823-1825. 3 vol.
Corte de los Poetas (La). Florilegio de rimas modernas. Madrid, 1906.
F (J. D. M.). A Spanish Anthology. A collection of lyrics from the thirteenth century down to the present time. New-York, 1901.
F (J. D. M.). Old Spanish Readings. Boston, 1911.
G (Egidio). Lingua e letteratura spagnuola delle origini. Milano, 1898.
G (Max). Jüdisch-spanische Crestomathie. Frankfurt a. M., 1896
L (Henry R.). Cancioneiro gallego-castelhano. The Extant Galician Poems of the Gallego-Castilian Lyric School (13401450). New York-London, 1902. (En publicación).
L (Ludwig). Handbuch der spanischen Literatur. Leipzig, 1855-1856. 3 vol.
L S (Juan Josef). Parnaso español: colección de poesías escogidas de los más celebres poetas castellanos. Madrid, 1768-1778. 9 vol.
M P (Marcelino). Antología de poetas líricos castellanos desde la formación del idioma hasta nuestros días. Madrid, 1890-1908. 13 vol. [sin terminar].
N C (Pedro de). Autores dramáticos contemporáneos y joyas del teatro español del siglo [con prefacio de A. Cánovas del Castillo]. Madrid, 1881. 2 vol.
