Nathan Meyer is a dangerous author. He's the kind of SF writer who really seems to threaten certain so-called "reviewers" with his penchant for writing "the wet dreams of teenage boys." That's just a fancy way of saying: people who may have long lived out their vitality in SF can't seem to stand the thought of new blood! Or blood at all for that matter. But what's this? We have swords, we have blood, we have sex and death and ... ah, best of all, we have readers, lots of them, who I am sure will be thrilled by the following sword and sorcery gem.



--- Daniel

The Blood Price
by
Nathan Meyer

"I want you to kill a man," she said.

The queen came to him in the winter.

Leaving her men-at-arms behind her in the long boat at the fiord she traveled alone on her horse to the stead of the mountain Jarl. She was comely, shapely with hair like white gold and a generous swell of breast that had turned the eyes of enough men into slavering wolves that she knew well the danger she took in coming alone.

This Jarl was said to be a man apart, different from the brigand-kings who ruled in the grim lands of deep, primordial forests between the ice fields and the violent gray seas. She felt the eyes of his pathfinders upon her as she made her way up the hill towards brooding fortress, but she passed unmolested, and ushered into the smoky hall of the warlord she took heart from this, though his shield-bearers were a wild and dangerous looking lot.

So it was that Ingrid, the queen, came before Crolec Fenrir, Jarl of the mountain hold. He watched her with the appraising eye she was used to, but he also looked at her with a curiosity beyond that of his loins and, from this also, Ingrid took heart. For her part she studied this warrior legend with an interest equally keen. That men sallied forth to raid for gold and women was hardly unknown in this age when men worshiped such grim gods as the frost giant Ymir, or Crom Cruaich, the Lord of the Mounds. Yet, in the day when this veteran had gone forth to make his wealth, there had still existed a practice now outlawed by the Sea Jarls because the cost in the lives of their warriors was to great and left the steadfasts weak.

In that time when men had gone a-viking the gamble had been more complete. Some lord of capability would put forth the call for an Odin-pact and the most ferocious warriors answered his call. They raided, raped, burned and pillaged until the holds of their long ships sat low in the water with the weight of their slaves and gold.

Then by agreement, the wild crew made its way to some island or secluded beach and drew lots one among the other. Two men would fight while the others watched and then by lots two more, until only the winners were left. So this was repeated until finally, of the raiders, there was only one and to he went the spoils. So it was that with one gamble a man could become wealthy as a king.

Such a man was Crolec Fenrir.

Ingrid looked upon him now, guarded by sons from a hundred thralls, with a cache of wealth that had kept him rich for longer than many kings ruled. She hoped to bend such a one as this to her will.

"I have come to bargain with you, Jarl." She said. "I want you to kill a man."

* * *

In his chamber Crolec poured her wine with his own hand. He seemed little concerned with pomp or circumstance, as were many of his stature. He was said to have only two passions beyond the bed, the study of runelore and the breaking of horses.

"I have killed many men." He replied. "What is so special about this one that a King should send his Queen unescorted into uncertainty?"

"My king does not know I am here." Ingrid replied. She took a small pleasure in the frank surprise on his scarred features. "I have come to save my kingdom, which my husband, in his pride, would loose."

"How so? What threatens you?"

"The one called Grund. Have you heard of him?"

"He is said to be the son of a giant, beserkergang, and blessed of Tyr, First God of War, to be undefeated in battle by any band or army."

"This is true, he may only be defeated by a single warrior facing him alone. You hear much from such an isolated keep," Ingrid noted.

"Skalds come," Crolec shrugged. "And to one who can see, the runes tell much."

"Grund and his bands have grown strong. They have issued an ultimatum to my husband, Himnir; become vassal or be killed. My husband is proud. Even now he sends an envoy back to the giant-son calling for battle."

"He will be killed." Crolec said.

"Yes," Ingrid said, equally as blunt. "And the kingdom lost anyway."

"So you want me to go alone into the land of a warrior blessed by gods and somehow pick a giant-son and bearshirt beserker out alone from his Ten and defeat him in battle?" Crolec scoffed.

"Yes," she said simply. "If any could, it would be the last man of an Odin-pact." When Crolec did not reply but instead studied his wine she pressed on. "In the hold of my ship is Grund's blood price. Enough gold to make you rich all over again, and twenty of my most beautiful handmaidens, none yet touched by the hand of any man."

Still, Crolec did not answer. He pulled on his thick, blond beard and his heavy, strangler's hands flexed thoughtfully around his cup. He was a killer who had not killed in long while. The song of battle was vicious in his blood. Ingrid sensed this.

"Surely a warrior such as yourself remembers what it was like that day of the Odin-pact, when you risked all and gained all. Surely you long to be challenged once more before you are laid in your Cromlech barrow and become known only in song."

Blue eyes bright with bloodlust, Crolec knew she had him. Too long had he lived the life of rune scholar and administrator, with only the taming of horses and the spearing of bears to satisfy his fighter's spirit. Still, he thought, it would be foolish not to drive home a bargain.

"There is this matter of your blood-price," he said.

"It is not enough?" Ingrid demanded.

Crolec shook his head and grinned his wolf's grin.

Bright points of color shone on the fair skin of Ingrid's high cheekbones. "You would have a queen play harlot to save her kingdom?" She demanded.

"You would have a Jarl murder to do the same," he countered.

She knew that it was of no use to argue further. He had named his price and Ingrid must meet it. He was not an unhandsome man for all of his scars, but no longer a youth. She went to him meekly enough, but willing. It was for her kingdom.

Crolec was not to be satisfied so easily, such was never his way. First he turned her like a thrall and took her the way a stallion takes a mare. But still this was not enough for the winner of the Odin-pact. The study of runes had taught him patience and he used it now until, like an unbroken horse, he had tamed this Queen Ingrid.

For the rest of her days, though she hated him dearly for it, whenever she lay with another man, be it her husband or some handsome young spear-carrier, the shadow of Crolec Fenrir lay across her mind.

So the blood-price was paid.

* * *

Crolec left his long ship behind him and went alone into the land of Grund, giant-son. Crolec took no warriors with him, neither loyal son or cohort. The nature of Tyr's blessing was such that to face Grund as leader of a band was to loose. Only in single combat could Grund be defeated, though he was never without his Ten, a bodyguard of shield-biting bearshirts.

Crolec carried his axe openly as he haunted the woods around the stead of the giant-son. Across his back lay strapped a shield, and against the cold Crolec wore his own bearshirt, made from the fur of the ice-bear, so that he was white against the drifts of snow. Legs wrapped in leather pants, he wore high boots from which the hilts of hunting knives protruded.

Before setting out Crolec had made sacrifice to Loki, god of pranksters. Only the trickster would be willing to work against another god's blessing when the outcome was so meaningless to the affairs of Asgard.

Scouting the land, Crolec came to the hold of Grund. The first night Crolec watched the stead, taking note of its comings and goings. He drank fermented mare's milk and ate the livers of oxen to keep strong in the bitter cold.

The second night he took a sentry.

When one of the gate-guards went down the shore to check the long boats Crolec crept up behind him and used his strangler's hands to throttle the man unconscious. Throwing the slack young warrior over his shoulder, Crolec ran to the deep woods.

There, far from the keep and before any alarm was raised, Crolec used knife and fire to gain the information he needed. Once the proud man had been broken his heart was given to Loki in preparation for the coming morning.

Then Crolec stuck the man's head on his own spear and placed this before the hold-gates of Grund, giant-son. The sentry's head was pierced through the skull by his spear so that his hair blew like a tattered banner in the north wind, jaw hanging slack above a dripping neck and open eyes showing only whites.

Grund's roar echoed that morning like the cry of the great bear so that it rolled like thunder out over the sea and reverberated against the mountains. Wild creatures heard the angry battle-cry and fled in terror. In his cave of snow and ice Crolec slowly chewed the liver of his foe and smiled a grim, bloody smile.

* * *

Soon after the Grund's cry the gates of the steadfast opened and an armored host rode forth with Grund in the lead on a massive warhorse. Huge and terrifying, Grund's matted red hair hung to his belt in back and his beard reached to his waist in the front.

Around Grund rode his Ten, wild berserkers to a man. Behind them came fifty warriors so that the ground shook beneath the pounding of their hooves as they rode. Where Crolec had stuck the head on the spear they stopped and Grund reached down and tore it up. He brought the spear up over his head and shook it as he cried out again. Blood spilled like rain over Grund and his Ten.

Grund's pathfinder easily followed Crolec's track to a clearing in a small valley behind the hills upon which the steadfast stood. There, Grund found his missing bondsman. Crows flew away in a cloud as the band stormed the clearing. The body was nailed to the trunk of a tree and left naked for the carrion feeders. Bloody slush pooled beneath the gore splattered bark.

"What manner of enemy is this?" Asked one of the Ten.

"A dead one," Grund promised.

He was in a black rage so that he was ill-put not to strike out in anger at the men who stood nearest him. Not since he had taken the mark of Tyr One-Hand had he been challenged in such a manner.

"Could it be Himnir sending battle challenge?"

"No." Grund shook his head. "He's to busy kept 'a bed by that gold-haired Ingrid to go raiding."

Crolec broke their palaver.

His cry echoed out across the little valley in naked challenge. It rolled down off the high hill every bit as loud and fierce as the giant-son's had been. Grund's head snapped up and his hackles rose like an angry dog's.

Grund saw the man in the bearshirt standing on the hill at the far mouth of the valley, where the deep woods began. Crolec beat his shield with a great battle axe so that it rang like a bell.

"A trap?" One of the Ten asked. "An ambush."

"Have all of the pathfinders reported in?" Grund turned to the tracker who had followed Crolec's trail to this place.

The man nodded. "No sign of a large band has been seen and no army could march without our knowing it."

"Errant beserkergang come to challenge the wrong man then," Grund said.

He thought no more on the subject for a red, raw hate descended on him like a cloud and it would not lift until his sword had drank deeply.

"To me!" he cried and swung into the saddle of his horse.

His men followed at once less his anger fall on them. Crolec stood unmoving on the hill as the band charged down the valley. But at the foot of the hill the land grew sharply steep and the trees grew massive and close together so that no horse could ride.

There Grund left his horses with two warriors and led the rest up the hill after this arrogant berserker who dared challenge him in his own stead. The climb was steep and two men were struck down when Crolec caved their skulls by lobbing rocks down into their midst.

When Grund reached the top of the hill Crolec was gone.

* * *

"There!" the pathfinder yelled.

Grund whirled and saw Crolec racing along the ridgeline running back from the hill. Grund cursed and bit down on the edge of his shield until the corners of his mouth ran slippery with his own blood. Around him his Ten did the same, blood lust and battle rage emerging from their frustration. In great strides they followed the warrior who dared bait a bear in his den.

Running was hard work through the snow. Each step a struggle, and armor only hindered them now in this mad chase. Ahead Crolec slid down the backside of one hill and the chasers plunged off the rise after him. At the bottom Crolec leapt a fast moving stream, clear as crystal in the cold, and began climbing a narrow ravine. Without thought Grund and his maddened Ten followed him, leaving the rest no choice. One by one, until all were together, Grund's band entered the narrow ravine and began to scramble upwards along the twisting path in pursuit of the killer.

Grund was near the top by the time the last of his men made it between the rocky cut walls of the ravine. He was gasping and his breath steamed out in billows from his exertion. Forced to pause, Grund sucked in great lung fulls of frigid, thin mountain air. He looked up, trying to gauge Crolec's progress.

The ravine lay empty above him. Snow pack clung suspended above the cliff-edges like the overhang of a roof. The winter sun was bright and sharp in Grund's eyes. Through the red haze of his anger Grund realized that such terrain could be the death of he and his band if the warrior had bowmen. When none appeared Grund again began his ascent.

A voice rang out. "Grund giant-son!"

Grund looked up as his Ten caught even with him. Below him the rest of his band stopped still on the trail of the ravine.

"Show yourself!" Grund demanded. "Show yourself, woman!"

"Death is here!" Crolec taunted.

The voice came from above Grund. He craned his neck looking up to where the top of the ravine ran packed heavy with winter snow. The warrior stared down at him.

"You are dead!" Grund raged and began climbing.

The axe-wielder did not run. He began to chant in deep bellows and Grund recognized the song as a prayer to Loki, god of tricksters. Loki was no fit god for a warrior to pray to in battle. The warrior kept the time of his chant by banging the flat of his axe blade against the metal rim of his shield.

The sharp sounds punctuated the deep voiced song and the cacophony rolled down, echoing loudly through the narrow ravine. To late Grund heard the deep rumbles as the snow pack, clinging to the cliff faces above them, first shifted and then began to slide. The men below yelled out useless warnings as panic took them and some even shrieked in their fear. Their cries reverberated off the ravine walls and merged with Crolec's own banging and chanting.

Grund threw his shield to the ground and sprinted for the top of the ravine as the snow came down in an avalanche. Grund forced his way up the path as tons of snow dropped down on screaming men. Some held their shields up in futile attempts to stave off the crushing weight of the avalanche. They were struck down as if by the very hand of Ymir, the frost giant.

The rumble of the falling snow filled the space of the ravine until Grund was deafened by the roar. The screams of his men were swallowed by the wet, clinging white and all of its insufferable weight. Reaching the crest of the ravine, Grund threw himself forward and landed hard near the top.

His vision swimming from lack of oxygen, Grund rolled over, gasping. In his horror he saw only mounds of white snow like piles of rubble where his men had once climbed. Before his eyes the snow from the cliffs settled and then began to slide. The avalanche slid down the steep chute of the ravine and piled up at the bottom. Here and there Grund caught dark flashes of a fur garment, or the wink of cold winter sunlight glinting off some briefly revealed bit of iron. Yet, when the snow finally settled, there was only a mountain of white and of Grund's band there was no sign. The silence after the devastation was as sudden and deafening in its own way as the avalanche had been.

***

Grund stood. He began his prayers. He knew what was coming, knew his power as leader of war bands gone a-viking had been swept away by a single, clever trick. This may have been true, but he was still Grund giant-son, the chosen of Tyr and he had never met a man his equal in this land or any other.

Spinning, Grund put his back to the ravine that was now the snow heaped barrow of his warriors. He looked up the shale and loose rock incline above him and faced the deep woods high over his stronghold, far from the safety of his ramparts.

The huge man sucked in cold air, felt it invigorate him. He began swinging his massive sword, loosening his powerful shoulder muscles. He seemed big as the white bear that hunted the ice floes in the far, bitter north.

"Come out then, Loki-spawn!" he cried.

Crolec stepped from the tree line.

***

The two warriors faced each other.

Grund towered over the other, who was no small man in his own right. Grund swung his two-handed sword easily. The other let his axe hang loose in his grip and kept the shield on his other arm to his side. Both wore the skins of bears as tunics.

"I am Grund, giant-son!" He cried. "I am the hand servant of Tyr One Hand, first God of War and I have never been defeated, little woman. Face me and face death!" Grund shook his sword at the man before him as again, he began to gnaw at the edge of his shield.

"I am Crolec of the Odin-pact. I hold the blood price to your life." Crolec answered.

"Then come get it!"

Crolec had picked his spot as best he could. The sun was high behind him, shinning in the eyes of his opponent. He had sought out an incline where he could swing his weapon down on his taller enemy and one with loose ground free of entrapping snow drifts to allow him free movement against Grund's powerful blows.

Still, the giant-son was a powerful, god-blessed, berserker and truly, Crolec had hoped to take him in the avalanche. But the field was as it was and Crolec did not shrink from the combat. Let death come if it was to, better the pain of iron than the eternal cold of cowardice.

Crolec slid down the hill towards Grund. Grund stepped forward, swinging his sword to drive Crolec back. Leaning down Crolec scooped up loose rocks from the broken ground with the lip of his shield and sent them sailing into Grund's face.

Surprised by the maneuver, Grund jerked his head back reflexively as he caught the loose shale and pebbles across his eyes. He turned back quickly, bringing his sword up to block the blow he knew was coming. He tried to focus on his opponent but the glare of the sun was harsh in his eyes.

Still, his reflexes were those of a man born to battle and his sword met Crolec's axe swing at the final moment. The blow that would have carried his head from his shoulders in a single swing instead bit down into the big muscle binding neck to shoulder. Blood squirted hot over the both of them as Grund sagged beneath the blow. He rose back up, throwing his shield from his arm.

Crolec came down, driving his own shield into the wounded man, striking him hard and pushing him back. Grund let himself go, sliding down on his feet and switching his sword to his unwounded arm. Crolec swung again with an over handed blow, like a woodsmen chopping timber up for the fire.

Grund stood and leaned back, his right side covered in his own blood. Crolec's axe came down just past his face to bury itself into the ground. Grund brought up his great sword, clumsy in such quarters, and stabbed forward with it. His breath exploded from him in a rage of pain and hate so that it sounded like the roar of an animal.

Crolec dropped his shield down and turned the blade, but he was put off balance trying to pull his own weapon clear of the ground. He stumbled back and his butt struck the hillside. Grund twirled his sword around one-handed and brought it down from the shoulder. Again Crolec stopped the blow with his shield, but this time the impact jarred into his body hard enough to snap his teeth together.

Letting go of his axe haft, Crolec swept his shield out in a curve and threw Grund's blade clear. Grund felt the battle rage well up inside of him, giving him the fury and the power so that his fatigue and pain submerged beneath his blood lust. Crolec caught him a blow to the chest with the heel of his boot, driving the giant-son further back down the incline.

Crolec curled up and forward, driving into the lean of the mountain to come to his feet. He pulled one of his long knives from the sheath in his boot even as Grund, using both hands now, and impervious to the pain, swung at him again, hacking in from the side.

Again Crolec got his shield there in time. The force of this blow numbed his arm from the elbow down so that his grip on the shield's front handle loosened and his arm welled up in an ugly blue-black bruise immediately. He was driven over to the side and the metal boss of his shield flew off so that a huge crack splintered across the face of his shield.

Sensing weakness, Grund pressed his attack. Screaming now, with ropes of salvia and specks of bloody spittle caught in the tangled mass of his beard, the huge man brought another slash cutting down. Aiming quickly, Crolec lunged forward so that he was driving into the blow, and he took the force of the strike high on his own shield but met Grund's blade low near the cross guard, where the force was lessened. Though it saved Crolec's arm, it was to much for his shield and it snapped across the top, splintering.

Crolec stabbed his knife forward into the other man. Grund lurched back and the knife took him high in the stomach. He screamed shrill in pain and jerked back from Crolec's lunge, the tough hide and fur of his bear shirt catching up the blade and snatching it free of Crolec's grip.

They paused then, for a moment. They looked at each other, their breath steaming out into the cold like that of racing horses. Grund looked down to where the handle of the knife stuck out from his bear shirt. If not for the thick hide, the wound would have killed him. Grund grimaced and tore the knife free. He chucked it away down the ravine below him so that it sailed out and then plunged into the snow.

Crolec crouched, casting the remnants of his battered shield from him. He reached down to his other boot and drew his other knife. It was a pitiful weapon in the face of the beserker's two-handed sword. Grund laughed, but when he did a trail of blood rushed out of his mouth and spilled across his beard. "I'll make a drinking cup from your skull," Grund promised.

Crolec did not answer.

Grund let the red haze sweep him up and he was screaming, charging forward sword swinging up above his head. Crolec answered the scream with his own battle cry and sprang forward to meet him, knowing he must close the distance and take away the advantage of the longer sword. They met on the steep incline, rock sliding beneath their scrambling feet.

Crolec brought his forearm up and caught Grund's wrists where they met to grasp the hilt of his sword. Crolec's other arm came around with the blade of the knife leading the way, striking Grund deep in his heavily muscled neck. The force of the beserker's overhand blow was to much for Crolec's already battered arm and his parry was knocked aside like chaff in the wind.

Grunds blade slid down around the collapsing arm and cut home into Crolec's side where the muscles of the shoulder joined with those of his back. This time, it was Crolec's bear shirt that saved him from much of the blow's damage, though the blade still bit deeply.

Grund towered above Crolec, who was driven to his knees. Their eyes locked mere inches apart, their breaths intermingled as intimate as lovers. Crolec saw the rage recede from Grund's eyes, disbelief rushing into fill them. The hilt of Crolec's knife stuck out from the bigger man's neck like the handle of a butter churn. Blood from the beserker's racing heart spilled out hot and splashed over the both of them.

Grund stood and his sword, smeared with Crolec's blood, dropped from listless fingers. It rang as it struck the loose shale and the sound seemed unnaturally loud to Crolec. Sun full in his face, Grund looked again at Crolec. Then the eyes of Grund giant-son rolled up in his shaggy head to show only whites, and he fell over backwards down the slope.

He struck and bounced like a felled tree. He turned over once and then again, before gravity fully claimed him. He picked up speed and went bouncing down the ravine with blood spitting out from him in scarlet pinwheels.

Confused, blood flowing in rivers from his wounds, Crolec pushed himself up and turned. He pried his axe loose and walked on shaking legs to the crest of the slope. He reached up and pulled his helm free, letting it tumble down the mountainside in a parody of Grund's body. He felt no elation, only a tired, grim satisfaction. He had killed Grund giant-son, chosen of Tyr One-Hand, the first God of War.

Crolec stumbled then caught himself. A shadow fell across him, and though steam poured out of his body, he felt a chill. Looking up he squinted through his swimming vision. Smiled.

Before him stood a dark figure in magnificent armor. Twice the height of Grund, He held in His hand a spear stretching out farther than a long ship. Where His other hand should have been, the wrist ended in a stump.

Heart singing, Crolec lifted his battle axe up and charged.

End

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