Into Hiding

Again, Intellectual property of, and copyright held by Jared G. Juckiewicz. Warnings of Violence, Alcohol, Language and Sexual References.

This one be set between the Bear's time in the Holy Lands, and his going into hiding in Scotland. It is in fact set between him leaving Rauda's company to strike north, and his arrival there, and as can be seen, the habits he'll be requiring are coming hard... Inconspicuous he ain't...


(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)



As the young woman ran into the tavern, she prayed that there would be someone in the low, grimy building who would help her. Her bare feet squelching in the filthy straw covering the floor, she looked around as her eyes adjusted to the poor light. And she knew despair. Everyone in the tavern had the look of a farmer, or a herdsman, a peasant. None of them would stand up to the son of the local Knight. They were too cowed, too beaten down. As these thoughts ran through her mind, accompanied by prayers to the Christ and his Father, and to his Divine Mother, she glanced round the tavern once more. There, in the corner, a man sat, nursing a tankard of mead. He must have brought it with him, for the local Tavernkeep had naught but horn cups and the odd leather stein. His cloak was of some form of thick fur, and she could swear that the slightest glimmer of steel shone from beneath it. Quickly, she scrambled to his side, her feet sliding in spilt drinks, and other, less mentionable fluids. He was sitting alone, and there was a bubble of empty seats around him, so she didn't have put up with the propositions of the places patrons. As she reached him, she dropped to her knees. "Please, Stranger!" She pleaded. "You Must Help Me!" she claimed. He looked at her, and uttered gruffly "I -must- do nothing. I neither want nor need trouble, and you look to be just that." And with that he went back to his drink. Tears streaming down her face, she tried another tact. "I can pay you." She importuned, and he looked her up and down. His eyes took in the rough, ragged and patched, homespun nature of her clothing, her lack of footwear or pouch or indeed any possessions. She didn't even have a belt, her tunic held to her waist by a plain cord of scrap linen. "With What?" He asked, and she stopped short. She hadn't thought of that. A minute or so later, she looked up at him, and, the words coming out strangled by a lifetime of preaching and forced modesty. "My... Body..." She almost whined. The stranger looked at her. He saw how much such an offer had cost her, would cost her, and his face fell. "Well. You're willing to offer as much as that, you must be in need of help. Siddown". And he grabbed her shoulder and forced onto one of the rough stools, dragging it to his side. His eyes seemed to go even warier, as he bellowed to the serving wench. "Two more Ales, Lady. And Quick!". Reaching behind him, he dragged a pack around his side, drawing forth a small pouch of leather, and then forced the pack back. From the pack he drew forth a handful of jerked meat and one of dried apples and pears and grapes. He handed these to the girl. "Here eat. You need it more than me." When the ales arrived he handed one to her. "Drink too. I'll take nothing, and give naught more." With that, he settled to his own, drawing a curious looking pendant from his neck, and dipping it in his ale. It looked a bit like a cross, but upside down, with the lowest arm almost non-existant. He carefully shielded this with arm, and then started to drink his ale in long draughts.
As he was doing this, the Knights son and his cronies, came in. They glanced around and homed in on the girl. As the young man grabbed her shoulder roughly, the stranger looked up at him, and spoke softly. "The lady and I are having a conversation. Kindly wait till we have finished, before you demand her attention." His courteous tone and phrasing were completely at odds with his appearance, his dress, and his prior behaviour. The Knights son, full of the swagger of his position and youth laughed this off. "My Father holds these lands in Fief. I do as I like." The strangers voice grew colder, and he slid his chair back from the table. "I said leave us be. Just until we finish our conversation." The young woman looked on in horror, as the grip on her shoulder tightened, and the young mans two squires moved round to flank the man. "She comes with me. We have... use... for her." The Knights son said, venom inflecting his words. The stranger bowed his head for a moment, and the Knight spoke again. "But, Peasant. We'll be teaching you a lesson first." This caused the stranger to speak again, his voice like brittle glass. "Aye. That You Will." He said camly, and suddenly bolted to his feet. As he came up, his cloak drifted away from his torso. It revealed the pommel of a broadsword, and the fine coat of maille covering his chest. And the badge on that maille, a Black Cross on a Yellow backing, a symbol of the Lords De Bruis, a noble family of the holy lands. With a bellow of "Outremer" The stranger whipped up the bearded axe he'd had propped against his chair, and slammed its haft into the gut of the man on his left. Rolling it over his wrist, he brought the butt down, hard, on the mans collarbone, and heard it crack. One down. The man on his right drew a short poniard, as the young knights son drew back. Well, the man with the poniard fared badly, the axe coming round in the strangers left hand to catch that wrist between head and haft. Meanwhile, the stranger lifted his helm from its prop on the other side of the chair. Swinging it deftly, it connected with the squires head with a sickening thud. Meantime the axehaft twisted, and there was a definite snap as the wrist it had hooked gave in. As the now terrified girl ducked round, as far into the corner as she could press, the stranger approached the young knight, casting helm and axe aside. He even loosed his sword belt and let it, and his scabbarded blades drop to the floor. Unarmed, he strode up to the young man, who had finally managed to draw his own sword. He swung it clumsily, and the stranger knocked it aside negligently, with enough force to dislodge it from his foes hand. He spoke again, with force, and authority. "I Am Sir Jehan, Called Bear or Bearsark, Knight of Outremer, Once in the service of the Lord and Lady De Bruis. As one who has fought alongst the Knights of the Temple, and in the defense of the Holy Lands and the Kingdom of Outremer, I name you unchivalrous, and a disgrace to the White Christ you claim to revere." By the end of this speech, the young man, without quite knowing how, was on his knees, with the strange knight standing behind him, gripping his neck. Jehan gestured to the girl, "Come forward. I'll not harm you. He'll not harm you. And I'll not take your proffered price either." A laugh. "'Tis One Sin I'm not given to. Perhaps THE one sin I'm not given to." When she had approached, he growled at his captive. "Apologise to the lady." When this was not forthcoming, his foot came down, hard, on the prisoners ankle. "APOLOGISE" This gritted out, sounding like barely restrained fury. "Sorry" Came the petulant reply. CRUNCH. The other ankle. "Sincerely." This more polite. "I apologise, milady, for any slight I may have done you." came the still insincere reply, his look promising dire consequences. "Very Well. Lady, fetch my blades, my helm, my pack, and my horse, and meet me outside in a minute. What? You didn't think I'd leave her here for you to... make use off? You must be stupider than you look." And with that he crouched down beside the noble, and whispered in his ear. "If word ever reaches me of you... inconveniencing... another lady, It'll be your skull I'll have the breaking of." And on that note, he found a pile of refuse not far in front of him, and rammed the knights face into it. He then slit the cords holding the mans money pouch, and tossing it lightly to catch it in his hand, left. By that point, the girl had followed his instructions, and when he left the building, he donned his pack, vaulted onto the horse, and dragged the girl up and into his lap. As he spurred the horse on, out of the little village, he pressed the pouch of coins into her hands. "I'll take you as far as you like, but no farther than Stirling. After that, your on your own."
It had felt good. Almost like old times he thought, but then he banished that thought. He shouldn't have drawn attention like that. He needed to hide, to sink unseen into the unwashed masses. There were those in these parts who remembered the Bear not as a Crusading Knight, but as an Outlaw, and a Murderer, and a Heathen Viking.

Valkyrien Part 1

This be the start of another Saga I intend to write.
It be Copyright to Jared G. Juckiewicz as of this 28th Day of February, 2011.
Hope you enjoy.
Warnings. Graphic Violence. Actually, thats about the only one... oh, wait. Coarse Language...
I'd give recommended ages, but I know a seven year-old who has no problems with watching Rise of the Lycans. On the other hand, I know a few adults who can't stomach the violence...

The sound of the chopper blades, muffled as they are sound loud in my ears. So do the revolutions of the engine at the back of our compartment. It too is as quiet as they can be made, but together they make enough noise to be rather irritating to myself. What the others feel of it, or at least some of them, is no doubt worse. Who am I you ask? Well, I'll no be giving you my true name. Naught but those who've bled by my side have that. And you'll not be getting my birth name either. I was never overly fond of it, And nigh all who know it are dead. Those who know me call me Gorm. As for what I be doing, well, me and me squad are making an insertion. Into a steaming hell. What brings us here? Well, 'tis a long story. We be in the service of Valkyrien Enterprises. Its a PMC, a Private Military Corporation, which also does work as Private Investigators. Basically, something goes missing, theres a chance of violence being involved in its recovery, you call us. Or, you need information or people or occasionally, should the price be right, goods recovered and extricated from territory liable to be hostile. Or, you simply want to wreak death and destruction on a foe. I personally favour that last one, as do most of my companions.
Who are my companions you ask? Well. Lets see. Sitting across from me is a short, thin lass, with long, firey red hair, and yellow eyes. She goes by Vixen. Why? Because she is. As pretty a Kitsune as ever shifted shape. Beside her, the lanky, slavic looking chap, he's called Illus. Wallachian in fact. Claims to be a protege of Tepes, and I believe him. Then, across from him, sitting beside me be our unit sniper. She has much the same build as Vixen, but her hair is blond, rather than red, and her eyes are green. More colour to her skin, too. Don't let the fact that her rifle is bigger than she is fool you, she can pack damn near as much as a Marine. It's the elven blood in her veins. I've yet to meet anyone bar an elf or a celt who can pronounce her given name. We just call her Elf. 'Tis accurate too. And it turns out she's skilled with everything from javelin, sling and slingstaff, through bows and crossbows, though she disdains the latter, right through to the Barret M82A1 she habitually wields. Next to her is our demo expert, a gruff old chappy. He's no taller than Vixen or the Elf, but he's broadly built, with a beard damn near down to his belt. Tis obvious that he's one of the Niebelungen, the Dwarves. And he shares their talent for creation. And for destruction. As far as name goes, well, so far as he's concerned, Vaul or Vulcan will do. Thats right, gruff old chappy, dwarf, you automatically assume he'll have a Scottish name. Instead he plucks one from the Latin. Goes to show, you never can tell by looks. And that brings us nicely to the final member of our jolly crew. Well, barring the pilots, but we don't tend to mix with them much. Naw, our final squadmate is a rarity in Valkyrien. And indeed in the world by this point. Not that the rest of us aren't, these days. He happens to be a sea-dweller. Not of the merfolk. Not even a Selkie. Both of those you can find, if you know where to look.
No, he's an Atlantean. Seems that when the city sank, something to do with Volcanoes apparently, the wizards and priest and the like got together and cast a spell to save the city and its people. only it didn't work quite as intended. Seems the city sank anyway, and the people sank with it. The spell changed them that they could live at the depth they wound up at, quite comfortably. Well, now, some of them are coming back to the surface, and they tend to not like what they see. Some of them return, but Lir here didn't. Instead, he found work with us. I won't tell you how, it's not my tale to tell.
How did I end up here you ask? Full of questions, aren't you. Well. Lets see. Now this should be coming across in a cloying, sickly sweet voice. Once upon a time, A Mommy Viking, and a Daddy Viking loved each other very much. And because they loved each other so very much, they shared a special hug. And nine months later a little viking showed up. Now little viking did all the things little vikings do, and one day he got bit by a wolf. Now nothing much happened until he became a big viking and started doing the things big vikings do. And one day, when some bigger vikings tried to do bad things to him, he changed into a bigger Wolf-viking. Now enter a pedantic, almost lecturing voice. Turns out that wolf had been a Wolf-were. And it had turned me into a Were-Wolf. Well, I got unceremoniously dragged Aviking and discovered I liked battle. I also discovered that I was damnably hard to kill. So when the Vikings went the way of the Picts and the Frisians and the Wends, I wound up fighting for the Normans, and then the Scots, and then the British, and then whoever would have me. Lately its been Valkyrien.
As for how I'm in this chopper, hovering over some south american jungle hell, well, HQ got a call for a 'consultation'. Seems a girl went missing. From an influential family. Well, My squad was up next on the duty roster, so they sent me and Vixen out to talk to the family, run a preliminary investigation and so on. Well, we speak to the family, and learn little bar that they be just as bad as the Norman Nobles, or the Scots Chiefs (At least the lowland ones), and the British Peers. We got nothing useful, and a lot of derision. Especially seeing as they be an old, christian family, and well, I wear Mjollnir on my chest. As does Vixen. In fact, the only one of us who bears a cross is Iluss. The Elf wears interlocking Celticy patterns, and Vaul wears the hammer of his namesake. As for Lir, we had a hard enough time convincing him to wear clothes. Let alone body armour. Apparently, funnily enough, at however many thousands of feet down he lives, modesty is not a major issue.
Anyway, we speak to the family. Nothing. We speak to the police. They show us the crime scene. Nothing. So we turn to our various different methods. Vixen practices Seidr. She manifests it by needlework. So, there in the hotel suite we were basing out of, we have a Kitsune sewing, whilst a Were-wolf carves and casts runes, for I know a touch of Gadstalfir. A Vampire seeks truth in a basin of blood, divining from the divine fluid. The Atlantean tries seeking our quarry in a bubble, his people method of divining, whilst the Elf whispers to a pot plant in the corner, asking what is left of the forest folk for aid. Meanwhilst Vaul does his traditional means of seeking something through magic. He gets blind drunk. Whilst the combination of techniques is strange, it works. Each method forwards a clue, or a hint of the story, and after we sober Vaul up enough to get his, we put them together, and, usually, have a lead.
Well, the lead took us up into the hills to an old abandoned airfield. We were too late, by how far we didn't know. On the other hand, Valkyrien has a few contacts. We were able to get hold of a few aerial photos of the site taken recently. They gave us a view of a chopper. Then, calling in a few more favours, and having our employers do the same, we were able to trace the chopper to a drug cartel. Now what the daughter of a rather prominent, highly religious family is doing with ties to a drug cartel is none of our business. Bringing her back is. Thus the sight of us in the chopper. Vixen and I are lightly clad, and our body armour is strangely designed. See, if anything goes slightly wrong, a large Wolfman and a lithe, swift Fox-woman can be an effective distraction, if not a cause of victory. And if it really goes tits up, well, have you ever tried to track a fox or a wolf? It's not the easiest thing to do. Especially not when your quarry has a few centuries (At least) of experience on either side of the chase. The others wear camouflage and normal body armour, and the Elf has a ghillie blanket, and her beloved, modified .50 Cal. It's recoilless, for even with her Elven blood, the recoil of a normal Barrett would send her flying, she's that light.
As for the rest of us, well, silenced M-14's suit us alright. We all carry (even the Elf) a silenced MP5(SD) SMG, although sidearms are a matter of preference. I personally favour a Magnum .454, although Vaul swears by his custom Desert Eagle .50. Illus and Lir both wield 9mm, Glocks. And the Elf is normally forced to take a Colt .45 automatic, over her strident protests about not needing a sidearm. To top it all off, we all bear a melee weapon. I favour a long-handled hatchet. Vaul, a short-handled hammer. Proper pick-backed warhammer, admittedly. Iluss swears by the rapier in a scabbard that hangs upside down behind his back, just where he can whip it out in seconds. Vixen actually carries a pair of shortswords, langsaex really, and the Elf favours a short, leaf-bladed celtic sword.
The drop is easy enough, the choppers come in low, and we fast rope down. We'll signal them for Evac from a clearing on the far side of the target facility, with a trio of smoke grenades Vaul is carrying. Green signals, come right in, Cold Evac. Yellow, Hot Evac, be bloody quick. Red smoke, now red smoke means that the Daemon Murphy is playing dirty. Aerial Evac is right out, we'll try and slip out overland. It'd be easy enough for Vixen and I, we can hunt and live off the land without wasting ammo. Elf too would have no problem. As for Illus, if we can find locals, he's laughing. It's only Vaul, Lir, and the Lass we be here to rescue who would have issues, and with three of us foraging for six, it'd be doable.
So, here we are, six of us, fading into the forest. Vixen and I have daubed each other with grease-paint in camouflage patterns, my favourite part of any op. Except possibly those occasions when we help each other clean it off. With a few centuries practice, even those who have no natural skill in stealth can learn it, and though Lir has lacked that time, he learned stealth in a school where the slightest move can mean death. Lessons learned undersea were applied to terrestrial know-how, and he took to stealth as swiftly as anyone. So, we slipped up until we could see the facility. Broad fields of growing Coca. Long racks of drying Coca. No cover bar the drainage and irrigation ditches. So, we send Elf round the side to find a sniper post. Meanwhile the rest of us wait for dusk. See, none of us have a problem in the dark, the Vampire being a creature of the night, Vixen and I being able to move nigh as well by hearing alone as by smell, nigh as well by smell as a normal human can by sight in the day, and far better than any human can by sight, day or night. Lir grew up in an Abyssal trench apparently. Light isn't an issue to him. Admittedly, it took him a while to learn how to gauge his surroundings of pressure differentials as he was used to, but hey. And of course Vaul has spent centuries working underground, not all of it with the benefit of lamps.
Anyway, dusk falls, and we begin to work our way in towards the buildings, most of them crude and rough. No concern of ours. Well. Mostly. Lir's job is to cover Vaul whilst he sets up a distraction when we reach the buildings. The rest of us will to go into the... Manor is a good enough term, I suppose. Fortunately it looks to be modern construction and design. All windows and such like. Not like the old, almost fortresses they used to use. Makes entry easy. The breaching charge can go anywhere. Well, we reach the buildings easily, staying in the ditches and avoiding the roving spotlights. Outside those beams, everything is shadowed, and of course, with slight movements and keeping to the ditches, the sentrys see nothing. And then we split up. Lir and Vaul go into the buildings, warehouses and barracks and bunkrooms. Those housing labourers are left alone. Those housing military forces are mined around the edges, and the entries warded with claymores and flashbangs. As for the warehouses, lines of detcord, and packs of thermite will send their contents to oblivion. Having finished laying the cover for our escape, they exfiltrate, waiting on the far side of the facility to cover the rest of us when we come fleeing out. Of course, first we need to get in. We find a door thats unlocked, and wait until no sentrys have a line of sight. Now, Vixen and I have to go in first, on the grounds that Illuss can't do entry. Vampire. Can't enter without invitation. Of course, it doesn't really matter who does the inviting so long as they be over the threshold. As soon as we be in, Elf starts flitting from one sniper post to another. She works her way around to where Vaul and Lir are waiting, and then prepares a final post. Meanwhile, the three of us had been quietly infiltrating, and seeking a scent of our quarry.
We had of course, it being standard procedure when shifters or those with heightened senses of taste or smell, went after a kidnap victim or runaway, got entry to the victims rooms or access to their possessions. It gave us their scent or taste, and make actually locating them easier. Oh, and Iluss ability to sense a heartbeat was amazingly useful. He took point and often a roving sentry would come round a corner only to take a bullet as soon as he had. Or a sentry around a corner would suddenly drop, a bullet in his heart. Illuss had had a lot of practice. The three of us had been doing this together since we wore green jackets on the way from Spain into France. Finally, he stops, and signals us to do the same. Silently, he mouths a brief description of what faces us. And we work out what he is saying. four, guarding a door. another six in the next room. The scent of our rescuee is strong in this corridor, and it seems to go round that corner. So, we make ready. I sling my assault rifle to my back, draw my SMG, holding it one handed and bracing it off its sling, my other hand drawing my hatchet. Illus and Vixen both do similar. And then we spin into the corridor.
A short three round burst drops each of the first three of the guards. The third falls seconds later, a hurled hatchet, hurled knife, and lightning lunge with a rapier all wounding him mortally. and quietly. The falling bodies actually make the most noise. My two companions form up on either side of the door, as I draw back to take a run up. See, a Were-wolf is almost as difficult to kill as a Vampire. and can go through sealed doors without requiring prior invitation. Indeed all I need normally is a run-up, and I have that. So, a run, and a leap, and my mass and muscle and velocity tear the hinges off the door. And as soon as I'm in the door, I'm catching scents. Before my vision is even clear, I'm firing. Two of the guards are down before they even respond. Vixen drops another as he brings up his gun, and Illuss takes down the man behind the desk, but that leaves the last. Following his orders, he shoots at the girl. Following mine, I get in the way. Three rounds bounce off my chest plate, but four, five, and six mangle my right shoulder. You know, the one handling my gun. On the other hand, a swift hop skip, and a few peculiar half-steps, and I'm close enough to put an axe through his skull. A moment after that, I'm licking spraying blood off my lips, and blood and brains and flecks of bone off my axe. And wishing we didn't have a hostage to worry about.
See, its been a long time since any of us had a proper feed. Oh, the Elf, and the Dwarf, and Lir, they be mostly normal, diet wise. But ask any shifter, bar one of the veggie ones, those that shift into things like deer, or goats, or horses, or any vampire what the best meal in the world is, and they'll tell you, fresh, raw, long pork. Why do you think so many of us are military?
Anyway, Vixen is busy cutting the lass loose from her chair, and Illuss is administering mercy, and I'm fighting down an urge to shift, and rend, and tear, and maim, and feed. See, injury tends to trigger such hungers. But in the end, as it always has been, my will is stronger, and A few moments later, we be ready to leave. The trouble is, well, trouble. Someone seems to have found one of our bodies, and alarms are wailing. Illuss turns to the rescuee, and ever the gentleman, bows to her. "Milady," He says in that annoyingly posh, cultured, noble accent he tends to favour. "It is time we were leaving. Would you care to accompany us?" His attempt at courtesy is, of course, overridden by my grabbing the girl, flinging her over my shoulder, and taking off at a run towards the evac site. After a minute, I have a thought, and pass her screaming form over to Illuss. See, this would be much easier if we didn't have to worry about doors. And, well, I can't fire accurately with my right anyway, but I couldn't load with it either. So, I shift. See, my weapons all have custom trigger grips, to accomadate my shifted limbs. And there isn't a bullet softened gyprock wall that can stop a Were-wolf going through it. Illuss just has to ensure Rescuee faces the other way. And as she appears to be in a dead faint, thats easy enough to do. So, we take a shortcut. And any who get in the way get ripped apart. From ahead, we can hear the loud cracks of Elfs beloved Barrett. And there, in front of us is a pane of glass, a field, and then the jungle. So, I trigger a burst. Pretty starbursts appear on the glass. Fuck. It's bullet proof. So, Twisting to the side as I leap, I throw all my weight onto the cracks. Leading with my bad arm, of course.
Well, under that assault, the glass cracks. And then I realise this side of the house is raised some ten feet off the ground. Landing hurts. Like Hel. But, gritting my fangs till my gums bleed (easily done) I drag myself to my feet, as Vixen and Illuss land beside me. Vixen touches down in a crouch, taking the impact on her knees. Illuss on the other hand, drifts down lightly. Bastard Wampyrri... A change in Vixens scent tells me she's shifted too. Sadly, there be no time to admire her, as there, ahead of us, be a line of foes. Elf can't sort them, being busy dealing with the sharp shooters clambering onto the roofs, and Vaul and Lir can't range. On the other hand, they can blow the world to Niflheim and gone. As the smoke and dust settles Vixen and I lose it. Discarding our rifles, we howl, and rush those in front of us. Illuss follows in our wake, forced to avoid the joy of the battle in order to defend his charge.
A few minutes of glorious slaughter later, Vixen and I realise its time to withdraw, possibly hastened to this decision by the bullets that have managed to wreck our guns, the smell of hot lead drifting up from our bullet-marked vests, and of course, the ever increasing volume of fire. Hitting the quick releases on the shoulders of each others vests, we cast them aside, finishing our shifts at the same time. Where once there were two large anthropoid canids (Human looking mutts) now there be a Red Fox and a Timber Wolf, both streaked with ash and soot, fur matted with camouflage paint, diving into a darkened ditch, and streaking like lightning into the woods. Slipping out was fairly easy. The others simply headed straight for the Evac. Meanwhile Vixen and I wreaked hel. The thick undergrowth surrounding the few game trails forced our foes to follow set paths. Vaul set out a few claymores on motion sensors, tagged with Belladonna, Wolfsbane. We could smell those a mile off. Our pursuers couldn't. And where Vaul had no such traps, well we could get close enough to the trail to drag down a man or two, and fill our throats with hot blood before cutting back into the woods. Elf signalled their arrival at the Evac site with a precious round from her rifle, and we scampered to catch up.
The next dawn saw us flying out in the special hind variant Valkyrien favoured. Now, in case our rescue came to, Vixen and I had to stay shifted. All we needed was a complaint against us for immodesty... And of course, our clothes, already tattered come the end of our first shift, kinda went the way of those who'd stood against us when we made the second. So, when she did come to, two of those she had seen come to her rescue were missing, and in their place, a pair of large, filthy wardogs, one fully half again the size of the other, curled up against each other, eyes closed, snoring lightly. We'd had a chance for a feed on the way back, tearing out hamstrings and throats. Sadly, we hadn't had the time to single one off for a proper feed, but hey, maybe next time. Good paycheck coming though. That'll keep Vixen and I in flea powder, steak tartare, venison and the like for some time. Lir will be able to put more towards that pressure tank he's wanting for comfort sake, and Vaul is unlikely to start sobering up for a week. Don't ask me what Illuss or Elf spend their money on...

Bearsarkr's Ride part 2

A almost direct sequel to the first part. There is an alternate version written from Rauda's point of view somewhere, but I cannot remember where. Wouldst the Redjay kindly link in comment when she reads this?
Intellectual property of myself. Jared G. Juckiewicz
Warnings, Violence, Blood, Torture, Shockingly NOT Alcohol, but some innuendo.


(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)




Had anyone been in a position to see into that sheltered glade in sherwood on that day, well. First, odds are they'd have been dead. Of the three people in the glade, the older of the two men was an accomplished woodsman, and if anything the woman present was more than his match. Not that she was paying excessively much attention to her surroundings. Her hair was matted and caked with dirt and sweat and blood, as were the red feathers tied into it. Her face too was caked with mud, almost thick enough to mask the tatoos of blue woad that marked it. In her hand however, she held a broadsword that was almost completely clean. Standing across from her in a makeshift ring was a young man, some half her age. He was as muddied as her, and he too held a broadsword. There was a distinct difference in attitude between the two. Whilst the woman seemed unconcerned, the boy facing her looked worried. All afternoon the two of them had fought, and he had yet to land a more than superficial blow. She on the other hand, had managed to knock him unconcious repeatedly. He thought that they wanted him to stay alive, amongst other things they had had plenty of chances to kill him so far, but every time he woke, he was handed back his blade, and shoved back into the ring.
To be fair, the older man, lounging around in his undertunic and watching, did keep yelling instructions at him, ways to fight better, so perhaps it was some form of training. If so, it was none he'd signed up for, or even wanted. He'd gone into the courier business to avoid combat, relying on fast legs and faster horses to keep him out of trouble. As he squared up for the next match, the old man spoke. 'Redjay, enough. The boy has mettle, and his form's not too bad. He can learn the rest on the road.' The woman lowered her sword and nodded agreement, but the boy did not relax quite yet. The old man spoke again, seeing this. 'You have my word you'll not come to harm by my hand. I suspect milady here will give you the same oath if you ask her to. We couldn't take you with us without knowing your mettle, and it would be black murder to ask you to follow us without knowing how to use your steel. But, enough of that. Dinner. When and What?'
The woman looked at him, with an irritated glint in her eyes. 'If you had thought to do something, rather than lying around watching, we might have had some ready. As it is, it looks to be travelling food.' Over a meal of cold pasties out of the travellers saddlebags, and some jerky and fruit supplied by the lady, they discussed plans. It turned out that the older man had once been a famous outlaw who went by the title of the Bearsark, or simply the Bear. The woman was the outlaw who had baited him away from serving in a city guard, the lady Rauda, who some called the Redjay. It had come as a bit of a surprise to the courier, Robert, when he had learned that he had been working for two of the most famous outlaws in recent history. It had also come as a bit of a shock to realise that this being discovered would likely cost him his head. Unfortuneately he could see no way out of his predicament bar going along with them.
So they discussed why the Redjay had sent for the Bear. It seemed that unrest was spreading through the english lands. Brigandry was on the rise, and the King and his nobles either would not, or perhaps could not, do anything about it. And whilst the Redjay and the Bear were outlaws, and had been, in their day, thiefs and reavers and vikings, they were honourable folk. And bored of their everyday lives. Whilst the Redjay had spent the past few years living wild in sherwood, and the Bear had spent a similar length of time living in a little village in scotland, they both longed for the thrill and joy of their old lives. So, if those who were bound to mantain order in the land would not do so, they would. And this was a goal that Robert was willing to support. As soon as all that was decided, it was all down to details. It was decided, that as the worst of the brigands were along the southern coast, they would head south. There was a village some half days ride that direction where they would stop for provisions, and see about learning the lay of the land. For whilst the Redjay and the Bear were still outlaws, and officialy still had a price on their heads, it had been so long since they had been active in Norman lands that only professional bounty hunters would recognize them.
The only fly in the ointment was that the Redjay did not have a horse. On the other hand, there are any number of estates on the boundaries of sherwood... In the dead of night, whilst the courier was asleep, the two outlaws crept off. Armed only with staves, they came to one of the lesser estates. The staves saw to the guards, and the horses were well-trained. Come the morning, the only proof that they had been there was a fine riding palfrey, fairly undistinguishable, missing, along with some unmarked tack. And each of the guards sported bruises and goose-eggs from well placed staff blows. Come dawn, the trio was riding south. And after almost a half days ride, they could see a dark smudge and distant glow on the horizon.
Robert wasn't sure what it was, but the other two did. They had seen it often enough, had been the cause often enough. They rode closer, until it was clear that the source of the glow was just over the next rise. As the two outlaws dismounted, a sharp order convinced Robert do likewise. The horses were picketed, and the three crept forward. As they reached the top of the rise, they saw the source of the glow. The village they had planned on provisioning at had been fired. The barns were little more than charred frames, and almost all of the houses were simple walls of blackened stone, the thatched roofs and anything inside burned completely away. Bodies could be seen lying in the square and some of the gardens, and women and children, their faces marred with tears and soot, could be seen wandering aimlessly. There were few men visible, and hardly a one of them was between fifteen and fifty. No young and pretty women could be seen at all.
The Redjay glanced at her longtime companion. 'Norsemen?' she whispered, and he whispered back. 'Doubt it. too far inland, too much destruction. And they left the church. Had it been true Norse they'd have fired it too.' He slid the axe none had seen him draw back into his belt and stood up. 'I think we've found our first brigands. Robert, bring the horses.' And on that, they headed into the ruins of the village. As they reached the outskirts, the outlaws began to examine the scene, leaving Robert to deal with the villagers when they were noticed. Whilst the Redjay examined what tracks could be found, the Bear looked at the bodies.
If you know what you be looking at, you can tell what caused a wound, and he had been fighting long enough that he knew what to look for. It was about what he expected. He found several arrow-wounds, the arrows clearly removed by the brigands after the fray. It made sense. Good arrow-heads could be expensive, and good arrows were hard to come by without an experienced fletcher. The rest of the wounds seemed to be mostly from axe or club, again, much as he expected. Unexpected however were the sword wounds. In most places swords were hideously expensive, and only knights and nobles routinely carried them. He and the Redjay only had theirs from his time amongst the guard and the events that ended that career, and their time amongst the Norse, where every man is expected to be well-armed.
As for the Redjay, she had been living by her wits for most of her life. Tracking was as natural for her as breathing, and she swiftly gathered a count. There had been about a score and a half of the brigands on foot, and one on horse. Again, surprisingly, the horse wore warshoes, which had been well-fitted, all things normally beyond the common brigand. It was but from his time in the Varangian guard that the Bear had been able to afford his, and the Redjay hadn't even tried. To make things even better, the bandits had left a clear trail. They had no fear, it seemed, no fear at all.
Meanwhilst, the village headman had approached Robert to ask his business. Forced to improvise, he started with the truth. 'My name is Robert.' After that he began to embellish. gesturing at the Bear, even now examining another corpse, 'My companions are Bernard Weftwork' (An alias Bear had been using to the north.) and then gesturing at the Redjay, currently kneeling and tasting the earth, 'and the lady will go by Red.' Simple and to the point, and he hadn't been expecting his companions to abandon him to the diplomatic tasks. He hadn't known them overly long. Diplomacy and tact, not their strong points. Craziness, a lack of concern for personal safety, and sheer berserk bloodthirsty viciousness, marginally more so. However, getting in stride, he began to elaborate. 'We're bandit hunters. It looks like you've had a problem with some of late.' By this point the surviving villagers had began to crowd round him.
Their agreements and complaints made his head spin, all cried out at once. He had great difficulty making things out of the hubbub. Killed my Man or my Husband, or a relation of some description was common. Took my wife or daughter or sister or niece was also common. Burnt barns and houses was obvious, but that didn't stop it being added to the clamour. Finally it grew too much even for his normally calm demeanour. 'All Right!' he yelled, 'We'll go after them, see what we can do. If we can recover anything, you'll have it.' Hearing this, the Redjay glanced up. 'Except some supplies. We need to make a living somehow.' Bear on the other hand, simply finished his examination of the corpses, and strode over to his horse. Most of his weapons he'd left in his packs, figuring he'd be fine with no more than an Axe and a knife for travelling. Now he belted his sword to his waist as well. 'The bodies are not long dead. they can't have been on the road more than an hour or so.' he said coldly.
He pointed out a few peasants who had died with steel in their hands, some even with blood coating the sickles and pitchforks still gripped in dead hands. 'They have wounded so they should be moving slow.' The Redjay laughed. 'The trail they left, I'll have no problem following. We should catch them by dusk'. This caught Robert by surprise. 'Dusk? We're mounted, and they're not. Surely we'll catch them sooner.' Redjay and the Bear both opened their mouths to reply, but the headman beat them to it. He was an old man, bent and stooped, but it was clear from what he was saying that he hadn't always been a peasant farmer. 'Can't track from horseback, son, not without hounds. You'll go on foot, and you'll go quick and quiet. They won't see you till your upon them.' Even as the old man said this, Bear was rubbing his maille and face with soot and ash and mud to keep it from shining, whilst Red the same thing. As they finished, and gestured at Robert to do the same, Bear drew some leather cords from his saddlebags, and lashed the legs of his hauberk tight to his legs to stop it jingling.
By the time Robert was suitably grimed, Bear was standing where the bandits trail left the circle of ruined buildings, sword, axe, and knife at his belt, and the great two-handed axe held loosely in his right hand. As he waited on his companions, he pawed the earth and shook his head, giving the impression of his name-sake. They set off, moving with the long, swinging stride that eats up the miles, a stride learned when crossing nigh on half a continent by foot. It only took a few miles for Robert to pick it up, and he found when he had that keeping pace became so much easier. His education continued, the two pointing out some of the more subtle signs, the threads caught on bush and twig, moisture pooling in a heelprint, the direction of bent and broken branches, all the things that told how long ago, and how quickly, and in what direction a quarry had gone past. It seemed to him that everything told his companions something, and to be fair, it was mostly true.
From what he was told, they were making good time, although it slowed when they came to a set of hills. 'tis harder to track in rocky ground, and the trail almost died a few times. Each time though, they found a sign. And this was good for their quarry was cunning. The trail was not straight, cutting from side to side, and in places looping back. There were places where the bandits had come across streams and followed them for a ways, walking in the bed to throw off pursuit, but even there, something had always shown them the way. As twilight began to set in, them having found their way into a forest by this point, they began to hear the sounds of a body of men and women. There was the sound of bawdy singing, and as the three of them drew nearer, the sound of sobbing and the crackling of a fire.
There, in a clearing, walled in by woven bramble bushes, they could see their quarry. The Score and a half was an accurate enough estimate, and there was a horse picketed at a trough. Whilst some were clearly wounded, bloodstained rags wrapped around legs or arms, none of the injuries looked to be serious. Half a dozen pretty young woman sat tied to stakes set in the ground, and they were the source of the weeping. The leader of the group was obvious, clad as he was in armour as good as, and slightly more modern than, that of the Bear. There was but one obvious way inside the ring of brambles, although there were a few places where a determined man, lightly loaded, could perhaps leap them, and a few stout limbs hung out over the obstacle. A brief reconnaissance and they had the information they needed to plan their assault.
They fell back for a spell, Stopping at a little brook not more than a mile from the bandit camp. There they ate, and drank, and the Bear cleaned his armour and his face. In the process, they hammered out a plan, and on the way back, Robert and the Redjay vanished into the trees. The Bear on the other hand, approached the gap in the bramble wall in plain sight. None noticed him until after he was standing in the opening, and had he willed it, he could have been amongst them before any could react. However, in his approach he had seen a few things that caused him to adjust his stance. Whilst they had been plotting their assault, several of the bandits had opted to have what they termed fun. As he had strode openly towards their camp, he had seen the condition of the women they had taken from the village, and now his blood was boiling. Clean death in combat was too good for such filth in his mind, and so, he changed the plan.
Gripping his greataxe in a guard position he thrust his head forward and roared, his head turning this way and that as he did, looking for all the world like the beast the Redjay had long ago named him for. Bandits glanced up, and the first of them came to their feet and rushed him. He countered by continuing to roar incoherently, and running straight for them, the Axe swinging back, and then around, the momentum cleaving the first of his foes, and spinning him neatly out of the way of the knife that would have spitted him. Even as he did, the first red-feathered arrows began to whizz out of the trees, with a noise like angry hornets. Knowing he could not take the odds he'd attracted, the Bear began to dance back, exactly as planned, whilst wrapped in the Bears heavy woolen cloak, and wielding a dirk, Robert crawled and cut, and dug his way through the bottom of the brambles, next to where the women were again staked.
The Bears assault had worked as expected, and even though he wasn't bothering to strike at the moment, concentrating entirely on defense, he had the attention of every bandit there bar those few with bows. They were peering up into the green forest canopy, praying they spotted the source of those lethal arrows, before said source found them. Sadly it was not to be, not that mattered particularly much to the archer who broke her drop. A quick downward thrust with her sword and he was down. By this point, Robert had a tunnel through the brambles, and he began to cut bonds, sending the women out through his passage and into the forest.
As soon as the Redjay began attacking from inside the ring, the Bear went back on the offensive. He used his axe like a quaterstaff, the haft cracking skulls and kneecaps and elbows, dropping as many bandits crippled or unconcious as the blade left dead. The Redjay had no such compunctions, and as soon as the last of the women was loose, neither did Robert. They fought side by side, supporting each other, and they were in far better position, seeing as they had managed to lift shields off the dead. The Bear twirled and spun, his blade seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once, but it wasn't possible for it to be enough. He took blow after blow, but most of them were stopped by his armour, and as for those that didn't, well he had been well named. He was never happier than when he had a blade in his hand and enough foes that something had to land on him. He was already bleeding from a score of cuts, nothing major, but already half their foes were down, some half a dozen with red-feathered arrows in them.
The fight, and his need to move with it had shifted him back round inside the circle, and he disengaged and sprinted to stand beside his comrades. They readied for the expected rush, but it never came. Instead, the bandit leader stepped forward, and drew a line in the dirt with his blade. He then discarded all his weapons bar his sword behind the line, and stepped forward. After a moment, the Bear too, drew a line in the earth. Having done this, he loosed his sword belt and dropped it on the ground, and released his axe, letting it fall back. He then unslung his shield from his back and stepped forward. As he did, the Redjay handed her sword to Robert, and picked up the Bears axe, Sympathy. There were few he trusted to wield that Axe, and she was one, perhaps the only one. They watched in silence, Robert and the bandits incredulous, the Redjay smirking slightly. She'd seen him do this before.
The two fighters bowed slightly, no reason not to be civil, even when one wishes ones foe dead, and the Bandit tapped his blade against the Bears shield boss. As soons as he had, the Bear rushed in, sliding the sword along the outside of his shield, and punching the bandit in the side of the head. The bandit staggered, shoving himself off the shield with his free hand to get some space. Having done so, he put both hands on his hilt, and spun the sword two handed at the Bear. It didn't land, for even as he began to swing, the Bear lept at him, throwing all his steel-clad weight behind his heavy oaken kite. The Bandit leader landed on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, and as the Bear pummeled him unconcious with his fist, the Redjay and Robert rushed the rest of the bandits. They head each gutted one when the Bear joined him, the bandit leaders sword clutched in his hand. 'My Sympathy!' he yelled petulantly, but his grin belied his tone.
It was all too much. Faced with three warriors who had already dropped nigh on a score for not more than superficial wounds, they broke and ran. The Bear didn't even try to pursue. He dropped his kite and his sword, and picked up a bandit bow and a quiver. The Redjay picked up her longbow from where it had fallen when she vaulted out the trees, and they both began to loose as swiftly as they could. Robert meanwhile, called to the Women to return, that it was safe, and as they weren't blind, they did. Safer by far to be with those who had hunted the bandits, than in the woods where those bandits were even now going to ground.
Within moments, there was not a bandit in sight that wasn't dead or unconcious, and whilst Robert attempted to tend to the womens injuries, not that there were many, bar bruises, the other two examined the corpses. They were deep in whispered debate when Robert finished his ministrations and approached them. they finished just as he reached them, and he heard Rauda come out with 'Fine. You can do that One. 'Tis true he deserves it. The rest to tell the tale though.' but she looked less than cheery. For once though, the Bear didn't care. He went round the clearing, and the dozen bandits who were simply unconcious he dragged over by the trough. They were bound hand and foot with rope found in the tents alongside the far end of the clearing from the 'gate' and then doused awake with water from the trough.
Robert was provided torches from the bandits supplies, and was sent to begin leading the women back to the village, with as much of the stolen food and drink as could be loaded on the horse. As soon as all the bandits were awake, and some took longer to wake than others, he strode over. He had removed his helm, and his bloodstained face and armour, and his grin gave him a distinctly feral look. His long red hair, and his height marked him as having norse blood, and now he looked nothing less than a bloodthirsty viking raider. He uttered one word. 'Why.' and before he got an answer, he grabbed the bandit leader and dragged him forward. His bonds were cut and he was ordered to remove his armour. He was then shoved to his knees and then onto his belly in the dirt, the Bear speaking the whole time. 'A Man does not kill without need or cause. A Man does not encourage others to do so. A Man knows honour and acts with it. You are no Man.' As he finished these words, Rauda handed him his knife, and she spoke. 'You sure about this Jehan?' She asked him, and his reply was to slit the mans tunic from bottom to top.
He continued to speak as he pulled the tunic wide, bearing the mans back. 'You were in command. The main fault is yours. Thus you shall be punished harshest.' And then the knife slid in, at the base of his neck, not deep enough to sever the spine, just enough to scrape against it. Jehan drew the knife down along the spine, for perhaps a foot and a half down. He then cut along the top and the bottom of the gash, and peeled the two flaps of muscle wide. As the bandit leader screamed in pain, Jehan continued to speak, his voice dry and loud enough to be heard above the screams. 'The Norse practice this punishment. It's called the Blood-Eagling. Wodin was fond of it. It's reserved for traitors and men without honour. Those for whom a swift death is too easy.' Rauda handed him his axe as he lay down the knife, Robert looking decidedly queasy, as were the other bandits. Most of the women were retching by this point, but Jehan didn't care or even notice. Holding Sympathy just below the head, he laced the fingers of his left hand through the exposed ribs, striking just hard enough to crack them but not hard enough to go through. A fews and he had pried up the left hand side, the ribs cracked and spread to the side, looking like the pinions of an Eagle. As he did the same on the other side of the spine, he described the procedure in the same dry clinical tone. As soon as the ribs were out of the way, he pulled out a fleshy sac, the lung, from each side of the spine, and draped it over the back.
As he finished this, he stared at the remaining bandits, who were white with terror. 'Relax', he told them. 'Only he will die like that', he said. 'The rest of you will even survive, to tell this tale.' And then he proceeded to see to his blades and armour, cleaning them and polishing them whilst the once proud bandit leader screamed his way to the grave. As soon as the screaming stopped, he began to untie the bandits one by one. Each one he had give oath to settle down and live a life within the law. And as soon as they all were loose, Rauda told them. 'This is the fate the Redjay and the Bear will dish out on those who prey on the helpless.' Between that, and the terror of their leaders execution, they fled instantly, and the rumours began to spread swiftly. The Redjay and The Bear have returned, and any who cross them will face death by their hands. Most of the goods the villagers had lost were returned, but things were tight enough that little could be spared for their saviours, who departed almost immediately.

The Bearsarkr's Ride

Well, towards the end of their travels in europe, Bear and Rauda went seperate ways. Rauda settled back in Sherwood Forest, whilst Bear moved to Scotland, a little village just south of the Ochils. but try as they might, the peaceful life wasn't for them. And this is the tale of they sorted that...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz
Warnings Violence, reference to Death, Alcohol. You know, the common ones in the Accidental Viking saga...

(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)



Not far outside the second village south of Dunmaetea lived an old man. He had only lived there for a few years, and none knew who he had been before he had arrived. Some said he had been a monk... He kept fish like monks did, he could read and write as monks did, and he never missed a Mass. Still others claimed he had been a sailor... occasionally he would ship out with the fisherman, and none could match him at the oars or with the sail. There were even those who said he had been a warrior or a knight. He always spoke with courtesy, and acted with honour, and was comfortable and more than comfortable with hilt or haft in his hand. The rumours abounded, and some were even close to the truth. Perhaps if they had seen him when the Bards came through, when the tale was told of the Redjay and the Bear, they might have guessed. For a little smile would appear on his face, and he would lean slightly closer to the storysteller.
Whilst he was rarely in the village except for Mass or the occasional peddlers visit, he never missed a Bard, or Minstrel, or Troubadour, or Skald. It was just sheer luck that the courier came into the village at the same as a young minstrel. As the village gathered in the square, the courier took aside the headman for a brief, whispered conversation. Just as the minstrel stepped into the middle of the circle of villagers, the Headman and the Courier walked in to join them. Facing the assembled people, the Headman spoke. 'The Courier here has a request to make of us.' With those words he stepped aside and gestured to the short, curly-haired Courier, who in turn strode forward, and addressed those present. 'I seek the man who calls himself Bernard Weftwork. Do you know where he can be found?' As mutters passed around the circle he paused. When no response was forthcoming, He proffered money, holding up a small sack of coins.
At this the old man responded. 'Still your tongue' he called, carefully sliding a sgian dubh, the short bladed stabbing knife of the scots, out of his right boot, backhanding it and turning his wrist to hide it behind his arm. 'And keep your money.' he continued, slipping a dirk from its scabbard in the lower leg of his trews, and concealing it in his grip as well. 'These people don't know who you be talking about' He said as he rose slowly and uncertainly to his feet. 'And you do?' came the swift rejoinder. As the old man stepped forward, dirk under his cloak and blade of the sgian dubh hidden in his sleeve he responded. 'Mayhaps. Depends whose asking and why.' 'I bear him a message. Thats what couriers do.' Was the curly-haired youths answer. To this, the old man laughed. 'You've found him then... What be the message?' he asked, sliding the dirk into his belt, and extending his left hand.
The courier reached under his own cloak to pull a oilskin tube of his back. About 3 feet long, it was very narrow, and when he recieved it he flipped the sgian dubh round in his wrist and lopped off the top. He tipped the tube upside down and caught the message as it fell out. It was an arrow. A Clothyard shaft, the sort of thing loosed from a longbow, the fletching was died a bright red, and the business end was a heavy steel broadhead. Wrapped around the middle of the shaft was a scrap of parchment, but the old man was paying no attention to it. His eyes had taken on a far away look, and there was even a tear at the corner of his eye. The sgian dubh went into his belt, and he then stroked the arrowhead 'Not seen one of these in years.' he said, his voice cracking. 'Broadhead, Mankiller' his hand left the arrows head and ran through the fletching, before he unwrapped the note. He read it quickly, and when his head lifted, there was no tear in his eye, and the years seemed to fall off him. 'Get your horse, boy.' he ordered the courier. 'We leave the second hour before dawn. Theres a faire at Stirling starting the morrow, and if I be to answer this, I'll be needing horseflesh under me. You can bed down at mine, but I'll no be sleeping the night.'
Twas not more than half an hours trek to the old mans croft, and the villagers had followed him, curious about who the old man actually was. The courier, suspecting he had a long ride come morning, had bedded down in the village, curled up under his cloak on the chapel floor. The old man's croft was small, a single room with a hearth, dirt floor, a bedroll in one corner, and two flat-topped chests in the center, seated on a set of rough-hewn timbers, and clearly used as a table. As soon as he was in the door, he began to strip, caring not for his large audience. As his undertunic came off he slipped a pair of iron keys out of a pocket on the inside. The villagers could see the scars covering his naked back, and the narrow chain hasped around his neck. There was a collective gasp as he dropped his trews, for it was unheard of for a christian man to do so in public. Such a thing was a sin, and a crime, but worse was yet to come. As he walked around the chests and turned to get at the one furthest from the door, the pendant hanging from his chain could be seen. It was a hammer, an emblem of the heathen gods of the Norsemen.
The chest opened, and from it he drew a pair of colourful silken trousers, which he promptly donned. Over these went an undertunic of cotton, and a Gambeson. He then took a mailled hauberk from the chest, and layed it on his bedroll. On top of that was placed a linen arming cap, a maille coif, and a spectacled helm in the old norse style. A surcoat of silk, lined with linen was placed folded next to the armour, but the light of the fire was not enough to tell the colours. Maille Chausses, leg-guards, and a sheet of pale linen followed, the Chausse with the armour and the cloth with the surcoat. Lastly he drew forth a pair of maille-backed gauntlets and dropped them beside the helm. He then closed the chest and dragged it off the timbers, leaving it at the side of the room. From the other chest he drew a set of saddlebags, lashed together with rawhide thongs and strapped like a ruck. They were already packed and looked heavy, in fact, they were the only things in that chest. As soon as the ruck was placed next to his armour, both chest were sitting together, and the timbers were clear.
This was a good thing, as the old man proceeded to heave them out of the way, propping them against the wall of the hut. Under them had been dug a small pit, from which he drew a covered shield, The heavy Kite shield favoured by the Normans, and a selection of weapons. There was a sword, with the Norman style crossguard, but a Trilobed pommel in the norse style. There was a cross-hilted dagger, 18 inches of razored killing steel, the wavy patterns visible on its surface marking it as eastern forged, and highest quality. There were two axes, One a hand axe, a norse Skeggox, and the other a Varangian crescent axe, a huge two handed brute, with both blades filigreed in silver. Lastly was a winged spear, the head of frankish make, and the haft of finest ash. Following them were scabbards and rings and quivers and holders for all them. Once the last of them had been removed, the door closed, and he spent the night sitting in silence, with only the pale light of his dying fire, honeing and polishing his steel.
Two hours before dawn, the courier was woken by a pole butting into his ribs. 'Get Up. We March to Stirling. We'll be there for dawn.' The courier could not recognize the man facing him for a minute. His boots were heavy leather, the sgian dubh tucked into his right, his body covered in maille. His surcoat of green and white was tied round the waist with pale linen, pulled wide in the front to show the black raven embroidered on it. his helm was dented but serviceable, and the flap of his coif hung open revealing a long red beard peppered with silver. At his belt hung Axe, Sword and Dagger. On his back hung his Kite shield, and the great crescent axe. His left hand was empty, the large ruck lying on the ground beside him, and in his right he held a spear, the butt of which he had just finished prodding the poor courier with.
As the courier wearily stood, the old man reached into his bag and pulled something out. He lobbed it to the courier, who caught it and looked at it without understanding 'Whats this?' 'Well... when I walked past your horse, I couldn't see blade. And you don't seem to have one at your belt, so you may well need it. Hang it from your belt.' At that the courier unwrapped the linen package to find himself holding the old man's dirk. 'I'm Jehan by the way, once, long ago, a knight. You?' The old man asked. The courier, securing the blade to his belt looked up. 'I'm Robert. What makes you think I'm going with you?' 'The Note. Lady Rauda payed you to fetch me and bring me back. Come on, lets go.' And so they set off. Stirling was about two hours on foot, and once there, Jehan found himself a decent horse at the faire. As soon as they had that and some supplies, they set off south to meet Jehan's old Companion.
It made a change to his travel techniques. Not a single bar-room brawl ended in more blood than that which comes from a broken nose or two. Nobody in his path wound up dead, or even heavily maimed, and it seemed to be almost no time before the pair of travellers wound up near Nottingham, in the great forest of Sherwood. 'Now what?' asked young Robert. 'Now, we ride, we look conspicuous, not something I've ever had a problem with mind you, and we wait for Raidho to find us.' 'Raidho?' At this point a redfletched arrow thudded into a tree beside Jehan's head 'THE REDJAY' came a bellow from the woods... a fairly feminine bellow. Robert cringed, for tales of the Redjay had had decades to spread. She and a man called only the Bearsark had cut a swathe of death through Scotland, England, and Wales, and when the reward on their heads hit the point that it wasn't safe for them to stay on the island, they put to sea, first with a merchant ship, before sailing with the Vikingr, even reaching as far east as Constantinople before returning and heading their seperate ways.
All was silence for a few minutes before the call came from a different part of the woods. 'Who trespasses on MY forest.' in the same voice as the first bellow. As Robert tried to think of a reply that would not end with him taking a red-fletched broadhead through the chest, his companion turned his head to face where the voice had came from, threw it back, and roared into the sky. 'Bearsark?' queried the voice, and then the woman threw herself out of the forest. Her hair was long, dark and curly, and her face was tatooed with woad. At her belt was strung a sword, clearly well-used, and a quiver of redfletched arrows. A longbow was held in her hand. She wore a short tunic of unbleached linen, covered with a heavy red waistcoat. 'It is you!' 'Well Of course it's me.' Came Jehan's casual response, which was immediately followed by him sitting up straight, staring her straight in the eyes, and him making a very formal speech. 'By My Oath You Summoned Me, And By My Oath I Have Come. Let The Gallows God, The Lord Of Thunders And The One-Handed One Witness This, And Hold Me Faithful.' At this, Robert blanched, and the Redjay laughed. 'You and your Oaths. Yes, I called you. Where have you been hiding?'
'Scotland, Up by the Forth. For far too long. Is it time for us to ride again? Sympathy is thirsty...' 'We ride. And this time we ride with cause.' 'We always had cause... Wasn't always good cause...' Robert could see the memories drifting across their faces... The first fights where they were foes, The battle which shifted them to allies. It had been a pub fight, like any other, until the bounty hunter after the outlaw said something the guard who had her in custody didn't like... From there one thing proceeded to another proceeded to a dead bounty hunter, a guardsman being outlawed and an outlaw gaining an ally. From there it had been a trail of pubs, brawls, and killings until the money on their heads caused them to seek other shores... They shipped out on a trading cog, but when it was taken by Vikingr raiders, they wound up sailing with them. The end of the raiding season, they followed some of their newfound comrades east, first to the lands of the Rus, and then south to Constantinople, called Miklagaard. They fought with the Varangian Guard until word came that things had quitened down back home, and then they returned. Now the chance had come for the two of them to ride together again, and they were ready to relish the affray.

To De Bruis!

Well, I know in my other Blog I said a story a day or so for a while, but this one just had to go up the now... More of the Accidental Viking. This one be set some time after the companions, having left Miklagaard in the company of a Templar (The tale of that journey can be found around here... http://javieralcover.livejournal.com/ Somewhere.) The rest of the Accidental Viking (Bar what goes up here over the next few weeks) can be found at http://rothas-writing.livejournal.com/ . Again, intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, and copyright to the same. Also again, warnings of violence, blood, death, drink, and innuendo. And, Without Further Ado. My Lords, My Ladies, Gentlemen, TO DE BRUIS!


(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)



The one they called Iuliano, dispossessed noble, Brother Serjeant of the holiest order of the Knights Templar, Companion to heathens, pagans and Infieles had been called before the highest representatives of his order in Jerusalem. "You have done well, Brother Serjeant, in securing for us building rights on the lands of De Bruis. But your task is not yet done." As Iuliano nodded in acquiescence, the Knight Captain speaking continued. "Our involvement in this matter must remain hidden for now. We have, through intermediaries, secured the services of an architect. He and his wife need an escort to the lands of De Bruis. One that cannot be traced to us." Again Iuliano nodded. "I know a pair. Good warriors, reliable. Fought with the Varangians." he paused, as this sunk in. As his superiors nodded, he decided to continue, to take something of a risk. "I think they know some of the heathen ways of the Vikingr. Perhaps, granted a dispensation by the order, they could pretend to Infiele ways. It wouldst certainly distance them from us." His superiors thought on this. And after some deliberation, a prolonged deliberation, in fact, they responded to him. "Much as it pains us, and God, to let those sworn to him pretend to other faiths. But distressing times call for distressing measures. Such a dispensation will be granted, and word passed to the Templars in these parts. Kindly make the arrangements, Brother Serjeant." And with that obvious dismissal, Iuliano left. He had three tasks to do. First, he spoke with the Brother Serjeant who had brought him the summons, and had the details of how to contact the Architect. From there he changed into his Noblemans getup, which he wore when he needed to be inconspicuous, and then he went to visit his erstwhile companions, the Bear and the Redjay, Jehan and Rauda by name. Finding them was fairly easy. There were only so many taverns in the holy land, and then there whereabouts could be narrowed down further by ignoring those drinking holes in the more affluent parts of the city. Then, he chose to ignore those that he recalled his companions complaining about inferior provisions. So, it only took him a few hours of searching before he found them. Or rather, before they noticed him walking into their bar, and raised a toast. "Hey, PEACOCK!" They bellowed, raising mugs of ale, as he strode over. As their mugs slammed onto the table, he grabbed their shoulders, and pulling their heads in closer, whispered to them "We need to talk. Negocios." At that, they left their tankards, and guided him to the room they had purchased with the last of their pay as Varayags. "What is this about?" They asked, as soon as the door was closed. The room was bare, with no windows, no hearth or chimney, and a stout door of heavily reinforced and barred wood. On each side of the small room was a bedroll, and a kitbag of sealskin. And of course, an arming tree with weapons stacked at the base. "I have an offer for you too, Infieles Though you are." At that the two started, as they reckoned he'd ceased to hold that against them long ago. "The Templar Order are willing to grant you a special dispensation, to pretend to be Infieles, should you undertake a small task for us." At this the two companions gaped... A moment later, Bear spoke. "So. We're to be be Pagans. Pretending to be Christians. Pretending to be Pagans?" He laughed, and after a moment so did Rauda. "And what do we need to do to obtain this dispensation?" "Nada mas Sencillo" Iuliano announced, Nothing Simpler. "The Templars need an Architect and his Wife escorted to the lands of the Lord Thomas De Bruis. And they need it done by folk who can't be traced to the Templars. And who better for that than a pair of Infieles?" He asked. "And all we have to do is see this pair safely to the lands of this De Bruis?" Asked Rauda carefully. Iuliano nodded. "We'll need money. For Horses. And lodgings on the way. Give us a week. Have them meet us at the Mercy's Gate Inn" referring to a well known tavern by the eastern gate to the Old City. "We've gotten to know the Innkeeps and Bar Wenches there... They ask for Raidho and Yeraw, they'll be directed to us." Iuliano left shortly after he recieved agreement, and made arrangements for the required funds, a map and directions, to be sent to the pair. He then visited the Architect and his wife at their home, and gave them the directions to the meeting place, and the meeting time, and warned them that their escorts were... less than christian. Meanwhilst, the Bear and the Redjay secured mounts and traveling provisions, and began to bear their Mjollnir pendants openly.
At the appointed day and the appointed hour, the Architect and his wife made their way to the Mercy Gate, and to the Inn that be there. As they made to step into the shadowed common room, they were forestalled by a body flying out of the doorway to land groaning on the ground. The landing was followed by a bellow of "And the next one to lay a hand on milady tastes my steel!" As they paused, waiting to see what happened next they heard a marginally more feminine bellow "I can fight my own battles, Bear". When another flying body failed to appear, they crept in, staying close by the door. The sight that greeted them, as they followed the grimy walls round to the bar was that of a pair of Northern Barbarians, surrounded by a ring of locals. One of the Northeners, a Woman, was not much greater than the locals in stature, but the other was a giant of a man by their standards, with long red hair hanging to his shoulders, and a shaggy red beard. Both of the northeners were armoured and panting heavily. On the other hand, every one of their opponents was battered and bruised.
As the various fighters began to settle down, and resume their seats, the Architect and his young wife reached the bar. "We're looking for... Yeraw? or Raidho?" They asked. The barkeep dropped a pair of full tankards on the bar, shoved them towards the pair, and gestured at the two northerners. "Those are for 'em. They're who your after." The pair carried the drinks over to where the two warriors sat, in a conspicuous bubble of empty tables. The drinks were deposited, and the Architect and his bride sat down on a pair of the rough hewn bar stools. "Yeraw? Raidho?" The man answered first. "I'm Yeraw. Jehan, Called Bear.", The woman followed this up, taking a swig of her newly delivered ale, "Raidho. Rauda, called Redjay" "You the bloke we be escorting?" The Architect looked at them, and answered in the affirmative. "We are. My name is John. This is my wife Anais." "Well Enough." Growled the Bear. He and Rauda drained their mugs, wiped their lips, and stood. "We leave now. We'll camp outside the walls tonight, and be at De Bruis within three days." Without another word, they turned to leave. As they collected the four riding horses and the pack mule they had procured from the stables, they whispered prayers under their breath to their elder gods. Farmognudr watch our steps, they whispered. Gangleri guide and Grimnir guard. Ward of Wodin, Lord of Thunders Look Away (That last being a prayer for good weather).
As they left the city, they made an imposing sight, John clad in the dress of a middle-class merchant type. His wife wore a dress of earthy tones, and rode side-saddle. The pair of them were in sharp contrast to their escorts. Bear, with his mailled hauberk coming to his knees, Chausse below them, mailled gauntlets on his hands a spectacled helm of the norse make. Over these he wore a cloak of brown wadmal, edged in green, with sword and axe and dagger belted to his waist, a round shield with a steel boss in black and white strapped to his back, and a two-handed crescent axe held loosely in his left. As for Rauda, she wore lighter armour, settling for a short and short-sleeved tunic, worn under a red-dyed leather waistcoat, and trews of wool. She had a longbow slung to her back, and a quiver full of red-feathered arrows hung from her belt next to a broadsword and dagger, and red feathers were tied into the hair framing her woad-streaked face. Their militant bearings, easy riding style, and close camraderie were woefully different from the worried postures of their charges, unsure of themselves on horseback, uncertain of their escorts, and worried by the chance of bandit attack.
Such a thing was absent that first day, and even most of the second. Mid afternoon on the second day however, a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, and began to close. Bear checked to ensure his blades were loose, and passed the reins of the Pack Mule to John. Rauda meanwhile had unslung and strung her bow, holding an arrow to the string, guiding her mount with legs alone. The cost of mounts well enough trained for that to be possible would have been prohibitive had they not been backstopped by the Templars. As the riders drew closer, they got a count. Half a dozen of them, closing fast on light mounts. It wasn't until the travellers heard the warcries and saw gleaming scimitars raised high that the two warriors knew they had to earn their keep. As Bear leaned into his horses mane, spurring it forward, Rauda loosed her first arrow. One rider dropped from his saddle, and she hastily drew and nocked another arrow. A second rider dropped, but the Bear was too close to let her fire another. Slinging her bow, she drew her sword, as he met the first pair of overhead swings by simply raising his Axehaft over his head, gripping it in both hands. The fine, damascus steel cut deeply into the ashwood haft, and he braced himself against the stirrups. The blades had stuck in his haft, and he used the greater mass of his horse, as well as his own, to bowl his two foes over, off their mounts. Discarding his greataxe, useful no more with the added weight of the scimitars, he didn't deign fit to draw a replacement blade. He stood up in his stirrups, as he wheeled his mount around. He rode it to meet the last horseman concerned with him, the other riding straight for Rauda. Rauda responded to her foe simply. As the scimitar swung wildly for the side of her head, she kneed her horse in the side, and as it lept into the smaller horse, the rider's swing was thrown off. Hers however struck true, three feet of edged steel sinking into his side, and toppling from his steed.
Bear on the other hand had a slighty different approach. As he and his foe drew nigh, he slid his right foot out of its stirrup, bracing his weight of his left. As the Saracen he was facing raised his blade high, he threw himself at the man, knocking him from his horse, and landing atop him. It took a few seconds, a few maille-armoured swings at the man's face before he realised that that snap he had heard on impact was the breaking of the neck. He stood, and spun, a scimitar bouncing off his helm, and another glancing from his arm. He lashed out, seizing the arm of the one who had struck his head, and with a snarl, headbutted the man, a proper Vikingr Kiss. Steel plate ignored the little padding supplied by the man's turban, and as his victim staggered, the Bear punched him the torso, ignoring the scimitar blows bouncing off his maille. He never noticed when they ceased, Rauda having slain the man in a thundering charge. He was too busy lifting his hapless foe, and casting him to the ground. As the Saracen drew himself up to balance tottering on all fours, the Bear rolled him over, and kneeling on the man's torso leaned in close to his face, making certain his black iron hammer pendant was plainly visible. "This Time" He snarled, spittle marking the terrified bandit's face, "I'll let you live." He took his knee off the man, and stood, dragging the man up by his neck. "Cross me again and you won't be so lucky." Calming down slightly, his voice less venomous. "Any time the Bear or the Redjay travel with naught but Warriors, we be fair game. If we be guarding others, Stay Well Away, Gorm Take You!"
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, bar those hassles that come from bearing an extra five horses, and the land took a dramatic change as they approached the lands of De Bruis. From the dry drab scrubland and desert, the land changed to green and wholesome, with wells spaced at intervals, water being drawn up by the aid of windmills, to irrigate the land and make it green and growing. By each well was a little pool, surrounded by date palms for shade, and whilst John and Anais wished to stop and refresh themselves, their guides would not allow it. Not until they had permission from those whose lands they were on. And here were such folks the now. Riders approaching, four of them. Their leader had a pennant lashed to the tip of his lance, in the colours of De Bruis, the black and yellow. "State you business" He demanded, lance tip lowered. Gently, with the top hook of his long-axe, he drew the lance point aside from his torso. "We are friends. We have business with De Bruis. I am called Bear. This is Red. We were hired to escort these two to these lands at the request of De Bruis." The cavalry leader nodded. "I was told someone was expected. Follow Me."
Following the riders, they were lead to the estates manor house, a fortified job on top of one of the highest rises. There they parted ways. The seneschal lead the two architects to the De Bruis, whilst the escorts were shown to seperate rooms where they were bathed, and fed, and watered. Following that they were shown to the rooms they had been assigned. Leaving the bulk of their weapons there, they then repaired to the patio in front of the manor. They were still there, lounging in their undertunics and watching the work go on around them, when the seneschal approached them with a summons. It was time to meet the one to whom they had delivered their charges. They were shown into a mostly bare room, with wide bay windows, shuttered with curtains of pale silk or thin cotton, and tapestries on the walls. A tall man was standing gazing out the window, his back to them. In the corner of the room, a young woman sat in a chair, concentrating on the needle-work in her lap. As the seneschal bowed and left, the man turned. "My name is Thomas De Bruis. I am lord of these lands." Standing firm and straight, not the slightest sign of servility in their poses, the pair answered him "Redjay." "Bear." De Bruis looked at them squarely. "I know. Iuliano explained much in his letter. What I want to know is why one who is in the service of the Christ is recommending to me a pair of heathen outlaws." The two companions glanced at each other. "Who says we be Infieles?" asked Bear, the spanish word the Templar used for them having caught on in his lexicon. At the same time, the Redjay asked "Who says we're Lainsajuotan?" Using the Finnish for outlaw. Both questions were rather indignant, and the lass in the corner giggled. "Iuliano" answered De Bruis. "He also says that despite that, and a tendency towards drunkeness and violence, you are good people. He even took great care to point out that whilst there are few of the commandments you will not cheerfully break, Carnal sin is not your style." At that the two outlaws grinned. They had put up with accusations of such since around the time they first met. Indeed, they had at one point almost beaten the Templar for such a belief. And for ensuring his companions had shared that belief, until they realised that the Templars they travelled with would tolerate fornication a lot more than the heathen rites the pair actually practiced.
"So," De Bruis continued. "I would like to employ you. Room and Board, a generous stipend, both for you, the former for your horses." Wary now, the two nodded. "I need to return to Jerusalem. Matters of state. My wife here," and he gestured at the woman in the chair, who nodded, "Wishes to remain here to ensure the good treatment of our people. If so, she will need bodyguards, as I have few retainers with suitable skills for such. What do you say?" The two companions glanced at each other, and then looked back to De Bruis. "Aye," they uttered simultaneously, and then Bear staggered as Red backhanded him over the face. "Very Well Then." Uttered De Bruis. "There is an oath I will require you to take. Kneel." He commanded, his voice stern. As they knelt, he drew his blade, and instructed them "Be Without Fear In The Face Of Your Enemies" The two kneeling warriors grinned. That they could do. They had long since abandoned fear of death. "Be Brave, And Upright That Your Gods May Love Thee" The grins spread. Their gods were gods of war, and bravery, and standing firm was something they and their gods understood. "Speak The Truth, Even If It Leads To Your Death" Here, the grins faltered slightly, for circumstance had forced them more than once to act to the contrary to survive, especially amongst the followers of the Christ. "Safeguard The Helpless, And Do No Wrong" The grins vanished. As Vikingr they had preyed on the helpless, even if reluctantly. "That Is Your Oath" Suddenly, De Bruis hand snapped out, lashing across Rauda's cheek. Even as her lips curved in a snarl, and she and the Bear tensed for leaps, the backhand struck the Bear on his. "And THAT, Is How You Will Remember It." Taken aback by that they paused, as he finished his speech. "Arise, Sir Jehan Bearsark, Arise Dame Rauda Redjay, Knights in the service to the Lady De Bruis." And here he turned and bowed to his lady. "Your first household knights, Milady" Whilst the two thus honoured simply gaped. He summoned his seneschal. "See to it that Milady's knights are assigned lodgings appropriate to their newfound rank. And send them to Milady once she has risen in the morning that they may come to an agreement over stipends and duties." And with that, he dismissed the two dumbstruck, newly elevated knights.

Bear's Tale

Right, This be a part of the Saga termed the Accidental Viking. So far, it be a cooperative venture between myself, one Lamia Macdonald, and one Javier Alcover. Any resemblance to actual places or historical events (In General) is entirely intentional, as is any resemblance to Actual persons...
Mostly because several of the characters are based off such folk, various friends, all of whom have volunteered. This one is set in Miklagaard (Constantinople, Byzantium, Istanbul to give it's other names) during that point where the Bear and the Redjay are serving as Varangians. Oh, As far as warnings go, blood, alcohol, violence, reference to death, some innuendo. And as far as intellectual property rights go, it belongs to Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, BSc... As of this date, 23rd of February, 2011


(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)



The Bear was drunk. Whats more the Bear was more drunk than his companion the Redjay. This had never happened before. Even she, his closest confidante, the woman who'd had his back since he was outlawed had never seen him this drunk. And they had travelled far together, across the length and breadth of England, up the coast of England and Scotland by trading cog and viking raider, then out to Norway, east through the lands of Finn, and of Svaer and of Suomi, and then south down the Dneiper to Miklagaard. They'd even sworn oath together as Varangians and taken their baptisms side by side (Something they had been forced into by the Emperor, who would not have an open heathen in his guard).
She didn't know what had set him off. She'd never seen him like this before, despite that they'd been fighting aside each other for damn near a year now. In fact, it had been exactly a year when she thought of it, and perhaps that was it. He'd left the palace alone in the morning, after making arrangements to meet at this tavern come evening. And, almost an hour late, he'd stormed in, stormed up to where the tavernkeeper plied his trade, and demanded drink. Ale, Mead, Saxon Jaeger, Rus Vodka, even Scottish Uisquebagh, he hadn't cared. Even now, he was raising a toast. Hefting his fist, tankard gripped in it high in the air, he began to bellow. 'To The Bitch and her Bounty-Hunter. Without Whom I wouldn't be where I am today.' And as he finished, he downed his full tankard in one, suds running down his face and his armour. As soon as it was empty, he slammed it down on the wooden table, and bellowed for another.
Whilst he was waiting, he sat back down, landing heavily on the chair. He leaned to his side, and began to speak to the stranger sitting there. "'Tis How I wound up here. Witch told me I was the only one for her. And here I find her carrying on with a bounty hunter. Well, I took issue, and so did he. Helped a bit that he wanted the bounty on my prisoner." and here he looked around, his head wobbling wildly, until he caught sight of the Redjay, standing back a ways with their new companion. He was a knight, a Knight Templar in fact, and had no clue that the only reason his newfound friends followed christian ways was the Varangian Guard would not take those who refused to change from the old ways. Bear pointed at her. 'It was her' he said. 'Prisoner not bitch. She's no bitch, she's a birdie. Redjay, Redjay we called her when we put the price on her head. Vicious things Redjays...' A pause here, whilst he bellowed for the tavernkeep to hurry up with his Ale. 'Where Was I? Ah, yes. Vicious things. Bounty. He tried to steal her. Already stealed one woman from me. Put an axe through him. Punched the head into his throat.' Here his ale arrived, and he took a long draught,
Wobbled a bit. Straightened up. 'Murder. Black, Bloody Murder. Not Bloody Enough. Shoulda Blood-Eagled Him. You know what the Blood-Eagle is? NO? Well, I'll no tell you. Tis a practice of Wodin. I'm not supposed to follow Old One-Eye. I'm a christian now. Christian I tell you. Says otherwise I'll fight you, Lord O' Thunder help me.' 'Twas about this point, the Redjay decided to intervene. She wandered over next to him, and stood behind him. He leaned his head back till the top of it rested on her stomach. And staring straight up at her chin, he says in a surprisingly steady tone. 'Here she is, Lady Redjay. She helped me, she did. Held off his mates, till I had to parry with my teeth. Don't step back.' It was too good an opportunity to miss. She did. And he fell. There was laughter. Much laughter. Which grew all the more when he swung his legs off the bench, grabbed the worst offender, and yanked.
Muscles raised in the guard and harden by a year of hard living, battle and travel dragged the man to the floor, and dragged the Bear to one knee. Whilst normally, the Bear was a happy drunk, something had him off colour. He didn't even bother with the man he'd just unseated, beyond putting an elbow into the mans crotch. He just stared at the others laughing, and growled low in his throat. Whilst their new companion, the spaniard called Iuliano, Peacock by his friends, didn't know him well enough to see what was coming, the Redjay did. Sadly, she was not quick enough to stop him. With one of his trademarked roars, he lept at the first table he could that had people laughing at it.
He suddenly seemed far more sober now that he had adrenaline coursing. His fists struck left and right, until the Redjay and the Peacock grabbed him from behind. They yanked him back and slammed him to the ground. 'What is with you today' The Redjay snarled at him, but he stayed silent. After a minute or two he even stopped struggling. 'Let me up. I'll not kill them.' he said softly. As he stood, shakily, he stared at her, and spoke slowly and softly. "'Twas a year ago today I learned of it. She'd sworn me oath, and she broke it. Broke them. I was already in a dark mood. And after the mockery I had before I left with you, I had no stomach for more.' Another slight pause. 'I'm sorry. I'll be off now, before I cause more trouble.' As he turned to leave, his companions, old and new followed. 'We'll get some drink, and raise a toast together, Bear.' the Redjay told him, knowing enough to not leave him alone. And with that, they set out into the street, heading back to the Varangian wing of the palace.
It had been a long walk back to the wing of the palace where the Varangians were housed. It had been made all the longer by the need to sober Jehan, the one they called Bear, up a bit. Or, in fact, a lot. He'd almost gone berserk in that last tavern, for a slight that normally he would shrug off. But in the end, they made it there. Jehan, his fellow guardsman Rauda, and the Templar Iuliano. Once they were in the luxurious rooms assigned to the two Varangians, Rauda went to fetch a skin of wine, only to be waved down by Jehan. 'I drink no more tonight.' He said. 'But I will', he continued, 'Tell you my tale, start to finish.' The three companions settled down, and made themselves comfortable, and the Varyag began. 'My Grandfather was a Norman Serjeant, his wife a Scot, from the highlands. His son was also a Serjeant, who married a Danish woman. He left on Crusade not long after I was born, and I was raised by my Grandfather who taught me how to ride and fight. My Grandmother kept me entertained with tales of the highlands, the old Celtic ways, and of the derring-do of the highland clans, rustling, fueding, and the like. As for my Mother, she taught me the Axe and the Knife, and... Religion. And they all taught me honour. Then I came of age. No Lord would take a boy, with no formal training and no experience and no gear into his service, so it was work as a labourer, turn to brigandry, or join the guard. I chose the latter. 'Twas a decent life, and as time passed, I gained many useful skills, learned to speak several tongues, and got myself betrothed. Lovely woman, worked in an Inn... you may have heard me speaking of her earlier... Anyway, I grew bored of splitting up brawls, taking pickpockets and, well the general everyday life. So, when word came that a notorious outlaw had been sighted nearby' gesturing at Rauda, 'I made sure I drew the short straw to go and arrest her. 'Twas probably for the best as I was the most skilled warrior in the guard. Well, I went out, and found the lady, and subdued her. and went to return home. By the time we started back however, it was getting late, and we were forced to put in at an inn for the night. Fortuneately, I thought, the Inn my betrothed worked at was on the way, so we stopped there. Unfortuneately, when I arrived, I found her in bed with a bounty hunter. Now, normally I'm easygoing when the insult is aimed at me. I was willing to let it pass. Until the bounty hunter tried to take my prisoner off me. And said a few things that were... unwise. So, he died. And those who fought beside him either fell or were driven off. I could not remain a guardsman after that, so we returned to my home to inform the guard I was leaving their ranks. And then we went adventuring. until we'd caused enough havoc that we needed to leave Norman lands. So we stowed aboard a cog, but it was taken by the Vikings, who we joined on accounts of our skill. And come winter, when we put back in at their home, we opted to become mercenaries rather than rely on charity. So we travelled east to Novgorod, then down the Dneiper, and then signed on with the Emperor. And then we met you.' And after he'd finished this tale, he pointed out it was late, and curled up in a corner wrapped up in his cloak.

An introduction.

To those of you who don't know, I have been known to write Short Fiction Stories. And have decided that rather than putting them in my normal blog, I will post them up here. Everything on this site is the Intellectual Property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Thank You