In Search of Nibelungen - an interlude

HATRED

Wearily Borstennskoldmund shook his aching head. It still throbbed with the after effects of the sideswipe of the Skjaeren's axe. Borstennskoldmund tried to wipe some of the dried blood from his eyes only to realise that he was tightly bound with tarred ropes skilfully knotted. He was tied between two mighty harpoons imbedded into the top of a bald hill overlooking the Rotstrom. The back of his tunic had been cut away and the wind of the approaching Winter whispered coldly up his spine. From the trees below he could hear the deep throated singing of Vesten voices. Usually this sound would have warmed his heart, but now? Well now it too seemed strangely chilling.

Then the sound of someone hawking and in the next instant a wad of half chewed jerkie hit Borstennskoldmund full in the face.

"So the Vendel cur awakes, does he? Good, time enough for us to remind the dog of its Ancestors before the Windcaller sends it to join them."

With that a scarred Vesten warrior, who had evidently been standing sentry, tramped down the hill in the direction of the singing. Borstennskoldmund barely had time to try to call out before the figure was gone. No chance to explain that he was truly Vesten. No chance to say how he too hated the Vendel. No chance to tell of his blood feud with his own half brother Eldgrim, Lord Guilden. No chance.

For a few moments Borstennskoldmund strained with his bonds, but only a Vesten knows another Vesten's strength and hands which have spent years tying knots to brave the might of the North Wind in Winter tend to be cunning and skilled. In desperation Borstennskoldmund gazed into the distance, looking for help. Surely his companions would not abandon him? Franz would certainly not. Nor Eduarde or Dandelion for that matter. And even Pistol and Giancarlo had never left a friend in the clutches of their foemen? Well at least in the latter instance, not to Borstennskoldmund's knowledge. But all that he could see in the afternoon haze was a column of Ancestor forgotten Waisen meandering their way westwards along the banks of the Rotstrom.

"Good afternoon, Master Henrik. I must apologise to you if your present circumstances are not the luxurious ones that you are accustomed to, but I assure you that your discomfort will be shortlived, if rather sharp!"

So spoke a deep strangely belling voice from near behind Borstennskoldmund. The voice broke into a harsh laughter at the end of its less than hilarious quip, in which it was joined by a dozen or so other Vesten voices also raised in bloodthirsty mirth.

"But brothers, I am one of you. I remember the Ancestors and the old ways. I am Borstennskoldmund. I am Vesten, I am Vesten, I am Vesten!!" Borstennskoldmund shouted, his fear giving way to anger at the utter stupidity of these fellows, even if they were brother Vesten.

"No, my little Vendel lap dog, you are not one of us. Your blood is tainted. You have served the Vendel and you serve them still. I have dreamt your story and of how you served Magnus Guilden loyally until his death. Although my dreams have been unclear of your life since you left our Islands, they were filled with images of your greed for gold, your greed for guilders, your greed for wealth and I have seen the blood of a lost friend scattered on your boots, blood shed because of your greed and for no other cause. When I heard of Jorund Guttormson's treachery on the Revensji, my dreams made sense and they led me here. I had intended to challenge you, as one Skjaeren to another, to test the truth of these dreams. But what did I see on my first day in Freiburg? But you parading in Vendel finery, boasting of your Guilden blood and insulting all those near you! Niether I nor the Ancestors need better proofs."

With this, the figure moved into sight. He was a tall scarred Skjaeren with red gold hair flecked with grey. His nose, which may once have been strong and proud, was a smashed misshapen mass in the middle of his face. His eyes were light blue, the colour of the Winter sky reflected on the sheer slope of a glacier, and like a glacier, these eyes showed no remorse, no capacity for mercy.

"Know you this, Vendel bed warmer, I am Thorgrim Bagnose, Son of Wulfar, Son of Hungrim, Son of Kulfstan, Son of Edrik. I am the judgment of your Ancestors upon you. I am vengeance."

Again the harsh belling laughter.

"But I can explain. You are wrong terribly wrong. I am truly Vestenmannavnjar. The names of my Ancestors sing in my heart and the ways of my father's fathers' fathers mark my path ahead."

At last Borstennskoldmund thought, a chance to explain, now they WILL listen. But then a large fist slammed into Borstennskoldmund's defenceless jaw.

"No. You are Vendel. Blood calls to blood, and your blood is Vendel, at least half. You will not have the chance to prove to be another Jorund Guttormson. No, you will not have that chance. As the sun sets, I will carve the blood eagle into your back. And once half your blood is gone, well if you still live, perhaps the Ancestors may have judged you as wholly Vesten and we will see."

Again that maddening laughter, this time joined also by the other Vesten present. But then down in the trees at the base of the hill, a Vesten sentry shouted.

"Odi? It is Odi! Odi lives!"

This drew the men surrounding Borstennskoldmund away for a moment as a battered figure emerged from the copse. The Vesten at the foot of the hill greeted him with friendly buffets and backslaps that would have floored a lesser man. Undeterred he ran up the hill, stopping in front of Thorgrim.

"Windcaller, I escaped the Vendel's friends. Truly they live in the stink of luxury as bad as the Guild Chairs themselves in Kirk."

Thorgrim stepped closer towards the new arrival and gazed deeply into his face.

"Odi, you were not followed?"

"No Windcaller, I was careful and weaved my way here, checking many times to see if I was trailed."

And with that Odi told a tale of his battle with the Vendel's mercenaries in Freiburg, of his brief incarceration at Drachenheim Manor and of his escape.

"Good. Odi, you may stand in the place of honour as the sun sets when we send this Vendel to his Ancestors!"

In desperation, Borstennskoldmund cried out aloud.

"But I am Vestenmannavnjar. I honour the Ancestors of our people. I am one of you!"

This time Thorgrim planted a swift kick between Borstennskoldmund's splayed legs. Through waves of pain Borstennskoldmund could hear the Skjaeren slather into his ear.

"If you are truly Vestenmannavnjar, half caste, well your Ancestors will know you as one of their own. Your Vendel lies and tricks will not work here. We who honour the Ancestors know the truth of these matters and your deceits will blind us not. Not as long as the clear light of Kjolig shows the course that we must steer!"

How could this be? How could one Vesten do this to another? Am I not one of them thought Borstennskoldmund? I may have half Vendel blood, but am I not also half Vestenmannavnjar? And even Vendel, were not their fathers' fathers' fathers Vestenmannavnjar too? Are we not one people? If a Vendel kills Vesten then it is right that he should die, but if a Vendel has done no wrong then.... And so if Vesten kills Vendel.....

Borstennskoldmund's thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of voices calling out. The voices of his friends mingling with those of the angry Vesten who had been surprised by them. Borstennskoldmund had almost achieved the clarity he had sought for so long, the answer to the tale of Dalla and Magnus, and perhaps even to that of Eldgrim and of Henrik-Borstennskoldmund?

But now?