'Devious' Dirk Curd

 

Named man

part III

 

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He could feel the broken shaft tearing at his inwards, as he run towards the beam bridge, snow falling thicker with each painful stride. Dirk didn’t look back once, giving it all to the mad dash down the river’s slope. He reached the banks breathing hard, exposed skin covered in vapors as the temperature dropped even more.

Across the hardwood-timber made bridge he went, logs creaking under his boots. Over it and to the other side, the sound of men behind him lessening, which was a good thing, but going towards the road and the castle to cut him off, which wasn’t. So he kept going away from it, aiming for the hardwood, white-barked trees clogging up a split amid the mountain range. An hour later, perhaps a bit more and it wouldn’t surprise him at all, if it was not-even half o’ that, Dirk realized dark had fallen. He could see shapes still, make out the taller trees, everything else covered in a white blanket. The distant lights of the castle lost in the distance.

Dirk needed to find cover and light a fire. Survive the night. Getting discovered was a problem, dying from his wound and exposure to the elements a bigger one.

Even Northmen don’t hunt in the shaggin’ dark.

A broken trunk lodged sideways between a massive granite boulder and another tall tree, its branches the size of Dirk’s torso, roots hard as steel binding everything together, provided the roof he searched for, as rock and wood became one solid structure.

It barely stopped the wind coming in, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Working frantically in the dying light, the tired man cleared the small space of thorns, cones and pine needles. He moved broken branches around, creating a small pile he attempted to lit using the flint and the blade of his sword. Dirk would’ve used the axe, but he left that inside a dead Northman back at the Montfoot Bridge. His fingers clumsy, muscles tired and his wound still bleeding, it took him a god-awful time to create a small fire.

Dirk cried from joy like a madman, when the first flame licked his face.

Night had come in the meantime and hunger along with it, but Dirk put everything out of his mind and worked on his wound instead. He pushed and pulled at the small piece of shaft, groaning and crying at the same time. Cursing the gods, old and new. Fingers all bloody and slipping, on the verge of fainting, but not willing to give up, until he pulled the dead woman’s broken spear out of him.

The next part even harder to manage. Looking at the red hot piece of wood, Dirk took a couple of quick panicked breaths, trying to think of his mother’s face, right angry, when he realized that he couldn’t. Ye just have to do it, he thought. Cauterize the wound, or die.

And so he did and howled like an animal, before passing out.

 

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The morning of the other day, assuming he hadn’t gone out for more than that, found him waking up to the sound of a real animal, gnawing at his boot to reach his flesh underneath. The Direwolf’s yellow eyes stared back at him all hate, when he opened his, a low growl coming out of its black snout.

“Let go of my fuckin’ foot!” Dirk growled and kicked its massive head, putting everything he had in it. It was like kicking a wall. Wit fur on it. The Direwolf jumped away, almost destroying his makeshift shelter in the process, stopped dazed to let out a menacing snarl his way and then raising its head up, howled long and hard.

Oh, no ye don’t.

Dirk found his sword and got up to follow the predator outside. He could barely walk, but he wasn’t dead. He was hungry though. The cold slapped him in the face so hard, he almost went down on his knees, the white hurting his eyes and his teeth rattling. The Direwolf showed him his fangs as a warning, but Dirk grinding his teeth stood his ground and stared back at him just as menacing.

Was he scared?

Yeah.

But the wolf wouldn’t let him go and more of his friends would soon come to in for the kill.

In the same vein Dirk couldn’t let the animal go as well.

“I just want a meaty leg, same as you,” Dirk said and swung catching one of its paws, before it had time to dodge. The beast growled and snapped at him, the flat of Dirk’s blade pushing it back. He swung again, opened a gash in its belly three hands in length that bled a lot.

They circled each other, painting the snow red.

Dirk attacked again, knowing he was running out of strength and his spear wound had already started leaking anew. He wounded the beast three more times, before slipping his blade past its ribs and into its black heart, stopping it. It wasn’t a one-sided affair. Dirk lost two fingers on his left hand, in the bloody process.

 

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Light the fire again.

Mind your ruined hand.

Eat your fill.

It took Dirk another day to get back on his feet. Face pale and haggard, he cut through the snow, now almost knee deep, following a small path between the trees and chewing on a piece of half cooked half-burned meat. He moved away from the river and the castle. There was no way around that. The place was crawling with Northmen. Finding a Crull patrol would have been his best option. It was surprising, he’d seen no signs of them. It would have helped them and him a lot, especially during the scrap. So he moved towards their lands, staying far from the main road. Unfortunately for him, everything around was pretty much disputed. All the lands from Fenford Burg to Kas and the wilds between them and Eaglesnest.

But move deep enough into Crull land, he thought and you’ll run onto them at some point.

As luck would have it, Dirk fell upon Northmen instead.

 

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The first man, long black hair sprouting under a conical helm, wild beard adorned with silver and gold beads and a heavy pelt thrown on his back, turned to his friend and asked with a smirk.

“Almost didn’t see ye, ain’t that right, Eccentric?” The tall, lanky man with the fur and leather armour, face painted white but for the eyes and mouth, nodded in agreement.

“He’s almost frozen solid, I reckon,” He pointed.

“I would appreciate some help,” Dirk said, not seeing many options in front of him. He was too tired to run, too injured to fight and if the temperature dropped a bit more, another night outside, would surely kill him.

“Are ye hurt?” The first man asked, not much concern in his voice.

“Aye, direwolf almost got me, a couple of days back,” Dirk replied, through his teeth.

“Ye coming from Wolvesbane castle,” The man noted, a small smile on his lips, Dirk didn’t like at all. “Ye look like a Crull to me.”

“Aye, he does,” Eccentric, the painted man, agreed.

“Not a Crull, don’t mind my skin,” Dirk’s mother was a Northern girl, gods rest her soul. “Are ye lads in a warband?”

“Ye didn’t answer me query. Either because yer lyin’, or perhaps ye don’t know,” The man said. “What’s yer name?”

“What’s yours?” Dirk snapped and a nasty smile appeared on the man’s lips.

“Oscar Numbers,” He spat between his legs, branches breaking up and moving all around an alarmed Dirk. “This here is Eccentric Asmund,” Oscar added.

“Feral Benton’s brother?” Dirk asked, his mouth dry.

The wild clang of shields on his back returning, the echo bouncing inside the walls of his head. Don’t see ye getting out the circle lad, the old Northman had said. But you’ll have to, if ye want a name fer yerself.

“Same,” He snorted, eyeing the rest of his men getting out of the trees around them, “Stood right behind him and watched ye kill Black Trunk Evans, back in seventy nine. They were callin’ ye Devious Dirk then.”

Dirk smacked his lips, hand on the pommel of his sword relaxing.

“O’ Dargan took the castle a week back now, it must be. Routed the Crulls all the way back to Eaglesnest. Secured a foothold on both sides of the river,” Oscar explained, “Reckon ye were with Vanzon’s men,” He breathed once deep, mouth pressed tight in a grimace. “Are ye gonna fight, Dirk?”

It was a stupid plan, Dirk thought a bitter frown on his face, drawing his sword out and throwing it, between Oscars’ legs.

“I’m too injured to fight ye Oscar. I reckon, I’ll surrender.” He said raising his hands, the left maimed and still bleeding.

Oscar grunted, not pleased. “You’ll get better, I’m sure. Right Eccentric?”

“Seems fine to me. Should be,” The painted man replied, with a nasty grin. “That’s Devious Dirk right there.”

“Hah, there’s the spirit we will built on. Ruthlessness,” Oscar laughed, slapping his thigh pleased. “Now, we have some road to cover, until we reach Kas. Devious Dirk, I hope ye enjoy walking. We’ve no horses to spare.”

Dirk didn’t, but it was a lot of walking to Kas. A lot healing to be done, until then. He’d beaten the odds before. One thing at a time.

Get well enough first, he thought.

Then we’ll get out of the shaggin’ circle again.