Page 11 of Surrender

Haldor groaned, holding his head as though with any sudden movement it might topple from his neck and crash to the floor.

“Let’s go, you lazy lout.”

“Lower your voice, man, or I swear I’ll send you straight to Valhalla! The king himself would pardon me for slaughtering the man who dared to disturb my rest this day.”

Kylar’s laugh echoed off the stone walls, eliciting another pitiful groan from Haldor. “Your king would have no sympathy for a Viking who let something as trivial as a hangover get in the way of his duty.”

“This is no hangover. It’s a curse by the gods. They’ve cleaved my head in two. Look close. The axe must still be imbedded in my skull.”

Kylar picked up the bucket of water he’d brought along and casually tossed it over Haldor’s hunched form. The big man roared and surged to his feet.

“Damn it all, where’s my sword? Brother or no brother, I swore I’d run you through the next time you did that.”

“You also swore you’d lay off the honey mead and stick to ale. That mead is like a feisty wench – she may go down easy, but you’ll pay for the pleasure later, one way or another.” His tone grew somber, “My head aches too, brother, but we need to have our wits about us. We said goodbye to our comrades as best we could last night. With no bodies to burn, they’ll never get to Valhalla. It’s time for us to plan our attack. We need to rescue the living and bring home our dead, so we can send them into the next world as Viking warriors. I’ll not have their souls wandering the land, forever cursed.”

Chastened, Haldor reached for his clothes. “You’ll be a good king one day, brother. You’ve always put the needs of your people before your own.”

“I pray luck will be with us as we ride, and that the day of which you speak be far in the future.” Kylar strode out of the room. Haldor followed, fumbling with the belt on his trousers as he tried to keep up.

They headed to the great hall. A dozen warriors still lay where they’d dropped last night, snoring. Kylar winked at Haldor then crashed his sword against his shield. Heads shot up. Curses rang out, followed by pitiful moans.

“Look at these fair maidens, slumbering sweetly while their kingdom goes to ruin!” Haldor strode among them, prodding and kicking, as though he too had not been in a drunken stupor minutes ago. “Get up, you worthless old hags!”

He kept up his rant as the men stumbled to their feet. Soon they were joined by others, who’d taken solace in the arms of their women instead of mugs of strong spirits. When his comrades had all assembled, Kylar called for food to be brought in. They gathered around the longest table in the hall, warmed by roaring fires in the hearths at both ends of the room.

“Eat,” he commanded. “I know your bellies recoil right now at the odor of roast boar, but we need to keep our strength up and be ready for battle.”

Another warrior entered the hall and acknowledged him with a slight bow. “My lord.”

“Heinrich. Welcome. How fares your son?”

“He is mending, my lord. For any of us, the wound would be considered a scratch. His mother coddles him as though he were still a babe. I swear she’d be nursing him at her breast if her milk still flowed.”

Despite his dismissive words, Kylar saw the haggard lines in Heinrich’s face. The man probably hadn’t slept, keeping vigil at the bedside of his badly wounded son. Word had it the boy’s survival was in question.

“The lad fought as bravely as any warrior in this room. When he’s well enough, he’s earned a place at this table for his service to our king.”

Heinrich bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord. You honor him.”

“An honor well deserved. Your son has shown he’s a drengr, more valiant than many a man twice his age. Come. Sit and eat with us. I’ve called for Elwen to join us and give us his report. He is on the way.”

Kylar stood when Elwen entered the room. The others followed suit, a great honor to the dwarf who stood barely above the waist of many of the assembled warriors. The little man looked exhausted.

“Elwen, I thank the gods for your safe return. We eagerly await your report. But first, come and sit by me. Eat. Drink. Gather your strength before you speak.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I’m sure you are sick with worry, so let me give you my news first. Your father, the king – he lives. Balam has him locked in a cell in the caverns below the palace, along with four of our women. Irna, the tavern wench. Signe, the wife of Gunnar.”

A harsh cry rose from one end of the table, followed by vicious curses. Gunnar had feared his mate was dead. But the fate she was likely suffering would be worse

to a proud Viking woman than the loss of her life.

Elwen waited until Gunnar had composed himself then went on. “I do not know who the other two females are. Word is that Balam will hold an auction at the palace in three days’ time. He brought in trainers from Axion Five to prepare them, along with a dozen captives he’s taken from other worlds. All the depraved creatures he can contact through the portals on his planet have been summed to come and bid on a new crop of slaves. Those slimy little Jamrons have already arrived.”

Elwen hung his head, as though reluctant to deliver the last of his news. “The king – the king is to be auctioned off as well. The last of the lot. Bidding has already begun on him and on one of the unknown females as well. Rumor has it she is something special. A virgin from the farthest reaches of the galaxy. He’s put a starting bid on her nearly as high as that on your father.”

A gasp went up from the assembly. A female valued at a price near that of the Gadolinian king? Surely, Elwen had heard wrong.

Kylar wasn’t surprised. Balam loved money, but he loved to bask in victory even more. He’d sell the vanquished king for a single tribid just for the satisfaction of doing so.

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