The Boyar's Curse

By M. K. Dreysen

Yesterday, a semi-retired professor with a hobby in the curious and the odd
discovers something he didn't expect at all. Something he'd given up hoping
for a lifetime ago.

A thousand years ago, an old warrior, his adopted daughter, and their friend
from the other side of the world run for their lives. They are hunted, and
the only place to hide is the last remaining bastion of the old gods, those
whose time is running out.

How are they all connected?

This is the story of The Boyar's Curse...

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. K. Dreysen
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463516799

Book preview

The Boyar's Curse

The Boyar, Book 1

By M. K. Dreysen

Copyright © 2018 M. K. Dreysen

Aimward Drift Publications. Visit aimwarddrift.blogspot.com for news, updates, and upcoming stories.

Dedication

To my family, friends, and to the readers. Thank you all.

Chapter 1: Enter and Be Shriven

The Boyar climbed down from his horse, ancient knees and scarred over wounds aching with the effort. And the goddamned weather, he told himself.

It's hell getting old. Especially for a warrior.

He didn't have to hold onto the saddle, at least. Not yet, by God. He signed himself and turned to face the work of his men.

Fifty fucking years, and the smell of it still turns my stomach. The flies, he could ignore the buzzing. The blood, the scattered bits and pieces, the wailing of the women. These things he'd become used to. Not comfortable with, but at least used to them.

But the smell, that was the one thing he'd never been able to harden himself to. His gorge rose in his throat; he hawked and spit to clear it. Copper blood, brown warm shit, and yellow piss turning to ice in the snow. Why in the name of the great bloody holes in the hands of Christ do we do this to ourselves?

A crow called, mocking his old man's conscience. He wanted to throw a rock at it, thought better. He didn't know if Woden's heralds held much interest in their foregone followers turned to the southern God.

But he didn't think stirring up that interest by accident was wise. Just make sure you tell that old spear toting bastard that I'll be ready to spit in his eye first time I get the chance. He didn't say it all that loud, more muttered it under his breath. But it felt right, somehow, to make his peace with his father's god over the corpse field.

Besides, Woden'll get the joke.

The crow croaked a nasty little laugh in response. He'll look for you, Boyar. And find you. Be ready when he does. The bird laughed again, spread wings and flapped away.

The Boyar shuddered as the bird passed over him. And it wasn't in response to the trail of shit the crow left on his armor, either.

Even if he followed the Christian way, his father's gods held some claim to him. Old loyalty. Not worship, just an abiding sense of respect and honor for something passing from the world. He didn't allow his men to openly disrespect the old ways in his hearing.

And now he'd attracted the attention of the All-father, even if only in passing. Next time, just keep your big mouth shut, asshole. He shook his head.

The corpse field waited for him. There were other crows, hopping between their choice of the juicy bits. He ignored them as he walked between the bodies.

There were few weapons. His men were thorough; anything that an enemy could use for a weapon could be of further use in turn. Even the broken blades could be remade. Only the shafts of a few arrows, broken axe hafts, and spear shafts fractured lay on the ground to mark that this had been battle, and not slaughter.

The women were camp followers. He made sure to stay far enough away so as not to catch their attention. He'd tried to avoid killing the defenseless all his life, he wasn't ready to start now.

He wasn't searching for anything in particular, just renewing an old habit. He'd walked the battlefields, from first blood (a disaster, he'd been taken by the enemy and enslaved, and the walk was a punishment by his new master) through the mercenary days (he didn't recommend that path, more times than not he'd been attacked by the kings paying his troop as soon as he returned successful) 'til now.

The crows and their cousins were old familiar friends. He'd never seen a Valkyrie. Not supposed to, anyhow.

That path was never his to begin with. His mother had baptised him at birth. The funny part was, his parents never argued about religion. The lady from the south, stolen by his father on a raid through to the Black Sea, never worried about what gods her husband followed.

Only that she and her son, her only child, followed her God. Your father's ways aren't mine, son. I love him, but I don't worry about what happens to his soul when he passes. He'll go to Hell no matter what gods he follows, given the lives he's taken in this life.

That might have shocked him, except that his younger self understood the feeling. Loving his father was easy. He was a loveable old bastard, funny and full of life. But that only applied to the family he kept at home, and the men who followed his restless lead.

The people he raided, ceaselessly and wherever a boat could be pulled into shore, were another matter entirely. The Boyar's father was one of the last of the great Vikings, and he'd relished the constant search for treasure and blood on his spear, the one he'd dedicated to Woden in his first battle.

The Boyar still used the spear. It was strapped to his saddle, a short wide bladed thing meant for the up close and personal approach to the business the Vikings favored.

He wasn't looking for anything in particular. But he found it, anyway. A little girl, little more than a toddler, was looking for her father among the dead.

That stopped him. He crossed his arms over his breastplate, and watched as she made her way. She wasn't crying, that he could tell. Just going from body to body, pulling the helmets out of the way to look at the faces, until she'd found the one she was looking for.

When she spit in the corpse's face, the Boyar gave a half-smile in response. He'd likely have done the same in her place.

When she started kicking the body, and screaming curses she'd clearly picked up from the soldiers around her, he ran to her, scooped her up, wrapped her kicking struggling body in strong arms until she finally stilled.

His ears were ringing from her screams. She started shuddering, and that's when he realized she was finally weeping. At least you stopped screaming, little one.

He didn't want to approach any of the women. But an armful of child meant he didn't have any choice in the matter. He sighed, shook his head, and turned to face the inevitable.

It went about as well as he'd expected. The only reason he didn't end up with spit on his face was the girl in his arms. But as soon as he'd left to search for her mother, they spit on his back. Or threw mud or shit or whatever else was to hand.

Another reason to be glad his men picked up anything like a useful weapon after the battle, he mused.

In the end, whoever the child's mother was, she was nowhere in evidence. He grumbled about that as he made his way back to his horse. There's no use asking any of them about it, either. They'd probably expose the girl just to spite me.

He lifted the girl up to sit on his saddle. Hey, kid.

She turned to look at him. The tears had left streaks down her cheeks.

Where's your mom?

Dead.

Shit. What kind of asshole brings his child along for an invasion? Other than my father, I mean.

The girl looked at him, startled.

Sorry. I talk to myself, so you're gonna think I'm an idiot, on occasion. Listen, who was supposed to be taking care of you?

Father. But he's dead now.

Well ain't this just a kick in the ass. Budge over, kid. No use worrying about it now. He'd inherited a tag along, might as well get on with it.

She learned a few new curses as he climbed into the saddle. Settled in, kid?

She nodded, and he nudged the horse with his toes. Let's get out of here.

The horse didn't mind leaving, at all. She was used to the smell, barely, unlike her master. But if there wasn't going to be an actual fight, she didn't like being around the dead any more than he did. And compared to the bulk of her master in his armor, the added weight of the kid might as well have been a feather. The horse trotted away, following along in the trail left by her fellows in the main body of the Boyar's troops.

He attempted to persuade the child to talk to him, but gave it up as a bad job. Neither one of us is very good at this, I guess. Do you want me to find you a home in one of these villages?

The crofts and farms they passed weren't properly part of his lands. He'd taken on the responsibility for their protection, though, as an accident of doing too much service for the king. I figure if we look hard enough, we'll find someone who's grateful, and not willing to sell you to the Greeks as soon as my back is turned.

Her only response was to shake her head to say No.

He sighed at that. Look. Was your father a noble? Or your mother? Is there some big family that might be looking for you?

I don't know.

Right. And he'd taken her away without bothering to check whether her father's body showed any signs of rank. You don't want me to find a nice quiet home somewhere for you to grow up in, and you're not sure whether someone's going to come looking for you as a hostage.

She nodded her Yes.

Which means, kid, that I'm going to have to take you home and throw you in with my family. And then start writing letters to everyone who can read. Assuming that you would go back with someone who showed up looking for you?

He wasn't really surprised, given the way the conversation was going, when she shook her head No.

You'll take living in the household of a broken down old warrior who slaughtered your father and his whole troop over any sort of family that might be left where you came from? Kid, either you have a hell of a bad family life, which he admitted, might explain why her father would rather her be part of his soldier's life than stay behind, or you have got one really shitty idea of what a warrior's life is.

Father was a soldier, she replied.

Yeah, I remember. What are you gonna do if you have to kick my dead body, someday down the road?

Cry. And kick you again, just because.

Chapter 2: A Small Village

The Boyar let the horse pick her pace; they hadn't known each other much until this expedition, but he recognized a companion with good hard sense when he found her.

Both he and the little girl dozed for the trip. An old man, and a child having had a very difficult day, alternating snores as the mare made her way down the road. When the horse reached the top of the hill overlooking the camp where her herd was picketed for the night, she stopped, and then whickered soft and low.

The old man opened his eyes, slowly, habits of a lifetime and an iron will preventing a jerk that might have alerted an ambusher to his awakening. Instead, he found simply a small village of tents, familiar horsehair felt and tassles.

He patted the horse on the shoulder, then touched the toes of his boots to her sides. She was weary, after a long day that started with the sounds of a battle she didn't participate in. But the lure of a feed bag and a quiet night helped her pick her way down from the crest of the hill.

The Boyar normally would have waived off the soldiers who ran forward to help him down from the horse, Pride will have to wait he told himself. The girl stirred when he climbed down, turning with wide eyes to take stock of the camp.

Yes, they're my men, he told her. Does that worry you?

She nodded, Yes.

I don't blame you. They did just destroy the company your father was with, and your father with it. But, all in all, they're not as bad as all that. Here, you come with me. And he held his arms out.

She didn't hesitate. He grunted a little as she slid over into his embrace.

Now, let's go scare up something to eat. Oh, and ignore anything this bunch of fools says as we go along. They're just trying to get my goat.

Get your goat? What does that mean?

Nothing, except that when you have a group of soldiers with too much time on their hands, they find more ways to insult each other than there are stars in the sky, or drops of water in the ocean.

The walk through the little camp belied his remarks. The other men accused him of many things, from being too old to keep up with the rest of them, to taking the little girl for his own bedwarmer. The old man ignored them, and instead silently made his way to his tent.

Here. Not quite home, but it does what we need. He didn't allow himself the fripperies the Empire's commanders tended to, Not that I could afford it if I wanted to. But there was an iron box with a hip pipe for a chimney, stuffed full of charcoal and ready for him to light.

I don't suppose you know how... She was holding her hands out in expectation, so he passed over his flint and steel. Let me guess what your job was in your father's camp?

Papa said I could learn how and it might keep me out of trouble.

Just don't burn us down. It'll warm up pretty well, and there's not much we'll need to do to keep it going. He looked