Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

14 - The Man of Many Names

There was no fear in Bard as he regarded Erikk. He had been ready to die since the night five years ago. Since he had looked upon hands washed red with blood. Since he had watched the torches approaching in the dead of night, heard the sounds of the hunt. Since he had told his older brother to go, to run. Since he had looked the soldiers in the eye and told them it was he who had slain those men. Since he had lied. A different life, a different man. There was no Ulworth now, no Elfrik. There was only Bard. There was only Deathsworn.

'Well met, Erikk,' he said, sadly, letting his crutch clatter to the floor.

'Well met indeed, Lord Eran.' Erikk's mad glean gave him away in such close quarters. His eyes were dog-hungry, his disposition fidgety as they digested the prey. The axe he held was five-feet of ash ending in a double-edged blade fit for the cleaving of armour.

'Did you write that letter yourself? Orl Ejjar must be proud. I'm surprised, actually ... you can spell Orel.'

Erikk smiled but Bard could see the anger yearning to release itself. The Mountainman flexed his fingers. 'What's your name. Your real name? I'll be sure to spell it correctly on the slate around your headless neck, when you dangle from the tower.'

'I have a few names. You can call me Bard.'

'Bard ...' Erikk tried the name. Tasted it, savoured it, mouth working in the centre of his wild red beard. 'You may have the others fooled, my whore of a sister, my drunkard father, but not me. You think you are the first assassin to try and claim my Orlship?'

For a brief moment Bard was lost to confusion. Then he realised. He doesn't know we're Deathsworn. He thinks I'm here to marry his sister and threaten his position as heir.

'Well ... Bard? Do you deny it? I heard you, last night, outside my chambers. I saw you earlier, taking my place at the archery. I have eyes and ears in this castle, for it is mine. I know you fouled the Sweet Ale with poison, I had ale-boys watching you. Now I shall have to wait weeks for another batch. For that alone, I would make you suffer.'

'Justice is coming for you, Erikk. It rides a mare that will not be tamed.' Bard looked to the closest torch, bracketed on the wall to his left. Keep him talking. Keep him angry.

Erikk roared a laugh Orl Ejjar would have been proud of. 'Justice? Hammar is mine.'

'And its women? Its children? Are they yours also? Yours to rape, yours to abuse and murder?' The agony came back to Bard then. Torment from behind a door as he listened to Erikk's defilement of the woman the night previous. He steeled himself and repeated, 'Justice comes for you, Erikk. You can kill me, it makes no difference. You are marked.' He managed to smirk, despite himself.

Erikk faltered, just a split-second, for he saw the sincerity in the words. 'Justice ... Let us see how far your justice gets you.' He turned and propped his axe against the wall, then unfastened the furs from the top half of his body and let them drop to the chamber floor. He flexed arms thick as small trees, loosened the hardened folds of white muscle, peppered with nicks and scars, rigid across his chest.

Bard struggled his sling off and looked, once more, to the nearest torch on the wall. Four steps.

'I have a game for you, Bard. To make things more interesting for me, I shall leave my axe there. I will not touch it, on Mortus I swear. If you can reach the axe, you can use it.' Erikk balled his giant hands into fists and took a step forward. 'Now, Bard of many names, I am going to break you.'

Bard lunged for the torch but Erikk got to him before he'd taken two steps. He used the bottom of his boot to stove Bard into the wall, the air expelled from him before his back smashed against the stone. 'You must be quicker than that to win the game!' Erikk rounded the throne.