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Dirk
Into the circle again
(Bloody Ridge III)
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Into the shaggin’ circle again, Dirk thought eyes stilled on the ridge, Hostus, himself part of their Shieldwall on his left, the O’ Dargan spawn on his right. Gods were laughing at him. Nasty bastards they were, the lot of them.
“Heard talk of a mixed-blood,” Zofia said in his ear. “Serving Lord Vanzon for years. A named man, his heart black as Ora’s, a right killer.”
Dirk turned to glare at her, eyes drifting down her exposed neckline, young skin rosy where the cold touched it, stirring his senses. Not a good thing before a bloody scrap, to have your mind wander.
“Say what ye want to say woman,” He spat, angry with himself.
“You may have fooled Lord Lucius,” Zofia hissed, herself quite angry for some reason. “But I don’t trust a half-Issir bastard.”
“I fooled no one. Is he yer Lord then? That what you’ll tell yer father?” Dirk snapped, but she kept her poise, a smirk on her lips.
“Worry about yerself Curd,” She said menacingly. “Why hide yer status, if you are on our side?”
Dirk snorted and turned to see the first Northman, riding a famished horse coming at them. Their war cries, covering his words.
“There are no sides, ye stupid noble wench.”
Not for the common people.
Unless you are at the top and ye look down.
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The rider got an arrow in the face, just below his right eye. It broke his cheekbone and flushed it out. It dangled before his ruined face when he dropped, Dirk silencing his cries with his axe. The scared horse kicked with its hind legs, a spear thrust piercing his chest, caught another Northman barreling behind him on his shield, split it in two and catapulted the man back five meters.
Leaving him senseless on the frozen ground.
Dirk smacked a horned helm with the flat of his blade, a sword almost taking his right arm off the next moment. He pulled back, tripping on his feet, Zofia stopping the short but broad-shouldered warrior with a blade through the gut. The man locked up for a breath, then turned and glared at her. He’d a dagger in his hand, somehow he’d gotten it out and hurled it, putting all his strength behind. Zofia swatted it out of the air, fast as a viper and slashed him again across the chest. She cried out in righteous fury, when he died, eyes flushing excited, blood on her face.
Fuck. She is beautiful, Dirk thought impressed.
Then a blade cut part of his mail off at the shoulder, peeling the skin and flesh under it and he jolted away, heart beating erratically. He tried to parry with his axe, but his opponent had a spear and pushed it away. Got him again in the left arm. Dirk sidestepped again out of harm’s way and the man turned to attack Zofia, who at that moment was helping Hostus at the edge of their wall.
Dirk made to yell a warning, stopped, started walking towards them instead, axe in his hand. A black heart, she’d said, but it hadn’t bother him. It was that half-Issir jab that’d stayed with him growing up. Half-Northman was the other part, she hadn’t mentioned. Equal parts they were, in his mind. But they wouldn’t have him, unless it was for a punching bag. A fool to spit on. Every day, since his mother had died.
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Vanzon at least, had given him a place to stay. Coin in his purse.
Curse ye to Ora’s hell, Dirk thought walking towards them.
“WATCH OUT!” He yelled, but Zofia didn’t hear him in the rumpus of battle. Hostus looking his way, saw his expression, eyes growing when he saw the warrior charge on Zofia’s back, spear in his hands. The old warrior moved swiftly, grabbed her left shoulder and shoved a surprised Zofia to the side, the spear missing her midriff by a hair.
Zofia screamed in horror seeing Hostus getting skewered through the chest in front of her. The Northman warrior cursed, pulled hard to get his weapon back, but it was stuck firm and Hostus took it with him, when he collapsed on his back.
Dirk jumped on the disarmed warrior, just as he tried to get a nasty long-bladed dagger out, batted the side of his helm with the flat of his axe. Once and he heard a crack, behind the clanging of metal. Twice and something gave, steaming blood on his frozen fingers. The man dropped on his knees with a whimper, still carrying Dirk on his back and a furious Zofia pushed her sword through his chest savagely, almost killing Dirk in the process.
He could hear the Gods laughing over their heads.
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“Fuck is the matter wit ye?” Dirk growled shoving her onto a frozen tree trunk, sometime later. Zofia hissed and smacked him hard in the face splitting his lip with a silver ring she wore.
“It’s your fucking fault!” She spat. “How he made it past you?”
Dirk licked the blood off his lip, letting his own calm down, before answering.
“He cut me,” He finally said. “I yelled a warning, Hostus heard it. You didn’t.”
“Bullshit! You’re lying!”
“Why would I? What’s in it for me?”
“How should I know? Fame? Coin?” Zofia replied flushed, red hair spilling over her eyes. Yeah, Dirk thought. A right beauty. But you can’t fool around with a woman that can have you killed over a word.
More so, if she’s O’ Dargan’s daughter.
“I need no fame,” Dirk replied with a grimace. “Got enough of it already.”
“Devious Dirk,” Zofia spat, finally putting two and two together. “Hoped it wasn’t you.”
Dirk shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t give a darn about her opinion, but his mood worsened.
“Praise the Gods twas me back then. The real me and not the monster in the stories,” He said through his teeth, blood trickling down his jaw, darkening his red beard. “Not the other Dirk, or you’ll be dead now.”
“Pfft,” Zofia hissed dismissively. “I lost enough time talking to yer likes. There’s a fight coming. We’ll let the truth decide yer fate after.”
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A man is fucked from the time he’s born, Dirk thought bitterly, feeling the snowflakes melt on his face. He gives it his all to stay alive, fights every shaggin’ day, breaking his bones. But in the end, he’s always in the fuckin’ circle. Shields all around barring his escape, enemies on his back, death’s blade coming at him from the front.
Lucius finished his speech, whatever good it did them. They knew what they had to face and his plan, well… might as well spit against the wind. A blind man can’t lead, nor one who knows naught about the land he’s in.
Only heroes opt to fight against such odds.
The young heir must have read a lot of gallant tales back in his palace.
In the North gallant people, usually ended up dead.
Feral Benton had sent his men charging down, but he’d stayed back. Revenge be damned. He’d a reason for it of course, the way Dirk saw it. The Numbers warband had refused the Jarl’s summons repeatedly in the past, but unless his eyes fooled him that was Twotrees Mcloud standing on that stallion, Gutrender sword on his back impossible to miss. Last time he’d checked, Twotrees was ‘Mad Wolf’s’ right hand man.
Sam the ‘Mad Wolf’ wouldn’t sent Twotrees Mcloud anywhere by himself. Where there was one, there were more. If he was here, the O’ Dargans had reached Kas and Benton had struck a deal with them.
It appeared Sir Lucius, for all his glorious talk of bravery and everlasting fame, had bitten off more than he could chew.
It was every man for himself now.