The Defenders of Dolpheim

By Bruce Nickel

Ulrich Blackhand began his day in the Germanian village of Dolpheim like any other. An act of deceit and dishonesty from another would put his life in jeopardy and he would be forced to flee all that he has known. In his flight he discovers a threat to his people, their lives and freedom were in peril.
Hanoot Knutson loved to drink and to fight. He was truly happy when his tongue was wet with mead and his sword was wet with blood. He was sure of only two things. The foreigners would suffer for invading his homeland and he would earn a place in Woutan's great hall Walhalla.
As the morning grew brighter, it became apparent that Hanoot had not dragged the two Gauls very far at all. The colour of life had drained from their faces and their lips were a dull grey, lifeless eyes stared at the lightening sky. "I would like to know what the story is with these two?" pondered Hanoot as he cocked his head to the right. No sounds of anyone approaching were heard by either man and it was bright enough that anyone advancing on them would be seen as well. Hanoot continued, "They were already wounded when I killed them. Why would a wounded Gaul head north into Germania?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jul 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228802907

Bruce Nickel

Bruce Nickel was raised on a Cattle Ranch in Southwestern Saskatchewan Canada. He joined the Canadian Army in 1986 as an Infantryman. He served with the 1st Battalion Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry as a Reconnaissance Patrolman and Sniper. He served overseas on Operation Harmony Roto 4 Croatia (The Former Republic of Yugoslavia. After releasing from the military Bruce worked as a back country horseback guide in Banff National Park Alberta, and as a herd health worker on a small feedlot in Alberta. Bruce has completed training and is a Master Journeyman Sheet Metal Worker in Calgary Alberta. He is an avid motorcycle enthusiast and enjoys riding whenever he can.

Book preview

Prologue

This is a work of fiction; however, some fact exists in the storyline. The Romans did invade and attempt to occupy a region they called Germania. This resulted in a long, drawn-out war of attrition, which ended with Rome withdrawing completely by order of the Emperor Commodus after the death of his father Marcus Aurelius. The Thirteenth Legion existed and did fight in Germania. Because of difficulties in fighting the natives of the land, they were joined by the Fourteenth Legion and together were known as the Twin Legions. The challenges for the Roman legions were twofold. First, there was the unforgiving terrain: it was hilly, mountainous and, in reality, one giant forest. The Romans were not accustomed to fighting in this terrain and ran into difficulty when forced to do so. Second, their enemy were fierce and proud warriors who refused to be conquered, and whose religious beliefs vaunted a glorious death in battle. In the books I refer to the natives as worshipping Germanic gods, which we know as the Norse gods, but they had different names for them. My research on the Germanic names quickly became convoluted so I resorted to using the Germanic references for the main gods and defaulted to the Norse variants for others. In short, I plead artistic license and beg the forgiveness of the gods, history and my ancestors.

The villages, characters, terrain, events and situations are all figments of my imagination. Legion Legate Caius Agrippa never existed and I saw no reason to slander or defame the name of a real Roman legate who fought a difficult war. My goal for writing this was entertainment; if the story inspires anyone to research this very interesting time in history, or either of the fascinating cultures that appear in the books, then I consider that a bonus.

As the story developed, I felt compelled to write it as if I were reading the pages of a book already written. The pages were blank and I was driven to record the thought processes of Ulrich and the uncouth outbursts of the uncontainable Hanoot. It was with anticipation that I continued to write the story as the characters spoke to me, begging me to give life to their deeds and their lives, although they existed only in my mind. There were passages where I simply wrote what flowed into my imagination, while others required more disciplined thought. I was entertained by writing this story, and I hope you will find it a pleasure to read.

Chapter One

Dawn was starting to cast a grey light throughout the village of Dolpheim. The morning was crisp with a stinging chill and thick frost covered the ground and trees. The mud left from yesterday’s thaw was now frozen, and the ruts and lumps made walking difficult. Inside the blacksmith’s shop it was quite warm, and Ulrich Blackhand was stripped to the waist with his dirty, thick leather apron covering his bared chest. Tall leather gauntlets protected his forearms from the heat of the forge and the sparks he created while shaping the glowing metal with his heavy rounding hammer. Sweat rolled down his forehead and cheeks into his thick red beard and formed droplets on the thick hair of his chest under the apron. He lifted the blade he was forming to the backlight of the glowing forge to inspect the shape and thickness of it. His sharp grey eyes told him it wasn’t satisfactory, so he drove the steel into the forge and began to work the bellows.

Ulrich was taller than most men but not the tallest in his village. He was incredibly strong, though, barrel-chested with massive arms and forearms that were three times the girth of his huge wrists. He started his trade at the age of eight under the direction of his father. At first it was pumping bellows, feeding the forge and fetching and carrying. As he grew older, his father taught him the intricacies of working metal: how to shape it, harden it, and make it strong. Most important, he taught young Ulrich to find the spirit inside the metals, especially the weapons. Ulrich learned the trade and excelled; those who were familiar with his father’s work stated that Ulrich far surpassed his father’s skill. This was a claim that Ulrich firmly denied. It was true, though, that Ulrich could make anything from metals and wasted no material. His methods allowed him to temper the steel so that it was hard but flexible and would hold an edge. It was rumoured that his family were the descendants of Eitri and Brokkr, the dwarves that forged Donar’s hammer, the mighty Mjolnir. No explanation could be provided for Ulrich’s height if the dwarf story were true, however.

Ulrich pulled the raw blade, now glowing a bright yellow from the forge, and placed it on the anvil. Then he brought the heavy rounding hammer down onto the steel, making sparks spin across the shop, onto his apron and gauntlets. This was the time of year that Ulrich most enjoyed. Throughout the winter and early spring he could concentrate on doing what he loved: working metal. During this season, the village needed him more than any other. He was needed to repair or make the farming implements that would provide the grains and vegetables for the village and the weapons needed for the forthcoming raiding season. Ulrich didn’t enjoy raiding but understood the need for it. Not only did raiding provide the village with that they could not produce on their own but it kept the neighbouring Gauls disorganized and prevented them from attacking in force. Ulrich was a good warrior when he needed to be one, but he would rather work metal. These were thoughts he kept to himself; as a Germanic Suebian, it was expected he be a warrior and to enter Walhalla a warrior he must be. But the truth was he would be content to spend his afterlife in Bilskirnir, which was Donar’s hall. Here, he would spend eternity working metal and conversing with the red-haired blacksmith and god of the sky, thunder and lightning.

The blade had taken shape now, a groove worked down the centre, growing thick then tapering down to a fine hard edge. Now to temper it.

Is there a wet dog in here? came a voice from behind him. It was a voice Ulrich knew too well, that of his staunch friend and brother of many battles, Hanoot Knutson. Ulrich turned to look at his friend who had just stepped inside his shop.

Early for you to be up. The sun hasn’t yet reached the middle of the sky.

Hanoot lifted a skin to his lips and drank a mouthful of the contents. I’ve not yet been to bed. I thought you might like some water.

Ulrich grinned as he took the skin from his friend. Water? he asked. As he squeezed the contents of the skin into his mouth his suspicion was realized: it was mead. The two were unlikely friends. As much as Ulrich enjoyed his hard toil and would prefer not to do battle, Hanoot despised any work that did not involve weapons, fighting or earning his way into Walhalla. Hanoot Knutson was a drunk, a brawler, a warrior, and a true, loyal friend.

It smells as though someone soaked a dog, maybe a cow. Whatever it is that is wet in here is a hairy beast. And it is big and not smart—I can tell from the foul odour. Still goading the sweat-soaked blacksmith, Hanoot leaned against a wall brace, grinning.

Hanoot was one of a handful of men in the village who was taller than Ulrich, but he was not as broad-shouldered or large-armed; no one matched Ulrich in that regard. Hanoot sported a full head of thick brown hair that fell to his shoulders, a dense beard covered his square jaw and green-flecked grey eyes glinted mischievously. So, is it done? he asked the craftsman.

The blacksmith shook his head. It needs honing, a handle and a scabbard. It will be another day.

The brawler took another pull of mead and asked, Not enough hours in this day?

It may happen was Ulrich’s reply. But it may not.

Hanoot laughed. He was only being difficult because of their close friendship. If you are taking extra time then make it fancy, engrave the blade or something.

Looking up past bushy red eyebrows, Ulrich retorted, I am making it fancy. I will engrave an asshole on the hilt to show the gods and the world whose sword it is, and there will be no question.

Hanoot laughed heartily at his friend’s reply; he gave as well as he got. Then he noticed something he had not seen earlier: a heavy leather armour chest piece, much the same as any to be found in the village, but this one had iron plates shaped to the armour and riveted in place. The plates were located in such a way that they covered vital parts of the body but did not hinder movement. Engraved across the left breastplate was the spear-shaped rune representing Teiwaz; on the right plate was a severed hand. The armour was a beautiful piece of work, and its form and function the utmost testament of the craftsman’s skill and love of his trade.

By Hod’s frostbitten nut sack, isn’t this wonderful? he exclaimed, Hod being the blind god of winter. Which one is it for, the jarl or the ass? inquired Hanoot.

It is for the ass. The jarl is far too reasonable to request such a piece came Ulrich’s reply.

In that case, I hope the rivets all pop, the metal falls while he is pissing, it cuts his poker off and he bleeds to death in a puddle of piss. Hanoot snorted with venom.

The jarl of Dolpheim, Knut Teiwazson was a good man and well loved by the people of the village. In the raiding season he led from one success to the next and he ensured the spoils were divided fairly if not equally. Commerce inside and out of the village was equitable and fairness in any judiciary process could not be disputed. The village thrived and prospered under the leadership of Jarl Teiwazson. His brother Bromo Teiwazson was not loved, however, quite the opposite. He was a vain and arrogant man, and as honest and forthright as his brother the jarl was, Bromo was deceitful and disingenuous. He was neither trusted nor liked in the village and hid under the protection of his brother and family name. A large number of the villagers would have preferred to see Bromo Teiwazson dead. Hanoot Knutson was the first of that number. The fact that Hanoot was a first cousin to the jarl and his brother Bromo was irrelevant. The jarl’s father named his eldest son after his sister’s husband, Knut Dolphson, who was Hanoot’s father. Knut Dolphson was a renowned warrior and leader in the village but despite this he never became a jarl. Before Knut’s death at the hands of a Gaul raiding party, it was said that if he were to shit it was the jarl that wiped his ass. After his death the village suffered, even though the jarl still ruled—that is until Hanoot’s uncle, the father of the present jarl, challenged his position by single combat and cut his head in half from the nose up with an axe. Politics in Germania was a messy business.

The four men grew up together: Knut Teiwazson was the oldest, followed by Ulrich and Hanoot, who were born weeks apart with Bromo a month younger than they. On one rare occasion when Ulrich was reprieved of his duties as a blacksmith’s apprentice, the four were engaged in a bout of roughhouse skirmishing. Even at that young age, Ulrich was stronger than the other boys, and while the boys were shoving and pushing, Ulrich lifted Bromo to his chest and threw him across the village square. Young Bromo landed hard and his head glanced off a fist-sized rock and drew blood. Bromo jumped to his feet and shouted that he would tell his father Ulrich had hit him with the rock. This sign of weakness, deceit and treachery enraged the adolescent Hanoot, who proceeded to punch Bromo repeatedly in the face. Knut wrestled Hanoot to the ground before he could do further damage to his brother, which allowed the younger Teiwazson to spill his lies to his father the jarl. Ulrich attempted to catch him before he could do so, but the large lumbering apprentice was no match for the fleet-footed snitch. The jarl brushed it off as boys being boys and no harm being done, but to preserve family dignity Hanoot and Ulrich were strapped by their fathers—Hanoot with a sword scabbard and Ulrich with a slat of firewood destined to be fuel for the forge. So, a long and storied history between these village men was born.

Blackhand, are you finally done? These words came from Bromo Teiwazson as he burst into the shop with two men in his wake. Although less offensive than the greeting from Hanoot, the tone and speaker made each word grate on Ulrich’s nerves.

Yes, it is finished he answered. Bromo walked boldly to face the hulking blacksmith.

Should there not be a ‘my Lord’ in there? Bromo Teiwazson sneered.

Hanoot took a long pull from the skin, placed a glance at the two men who served for no reason as Bromo’s bodyguards and stated, There would be if you were a lord.

Hanoot was drunk and was immediately enraged by the presence of the jarl’s brother. Bromo passed a quick glance at the brawler but quickly dismissed him, knowing what kind of trouble Hanoot Knutson could bring. Well, let’s see it, dullard.

Although angered by Bromo, Ulrich turned and lifted the armour to show him. Bromo lifted it to inspect it and looked over it thoroughly. He was impressed: the engraving was ornate and finely done, the smallest details lifted from the metal. The plates were secured firmly with no chance of them falling off. This fact would have thrown Hanoot into convulsions had he known. Bromo turned the armour around and around examining it; although he was awed by the craftsmanship, his face wore a disapproving look. He slipped the armour over his head and his lackeys rushed to him to fasten the sides. Once secured, they returned to their place by the door. The armour fit perfectly and could easily be adjusted to accommodate warm clothing beneath it.

What price did we say? Bromo asked.

Ulrich answered, Two stone weights of silver.

Bromo snorted. I’ll not pay it. It fits poorly, the craftsmanship is poor and it weighs me down. My movement would be hindered and I would be sent to the goddess Hel due to poor armour.

Ulrich’s face flushed with rage. Hanoot shouted across the shop, It fits like your foreskin— Teiwaz himself would be happy to wear it, and in order for you to be killed in it you would need to be eye to eye with an enemy instead of chest to tits with my slut wife. Another reason why Hanoot despised Bromo. The Jarl’s brother became enraged and his face was now flushed as well. Hanoot put the skin down and grasped the hilt of his old sword that was to be replaced by the blade Ulrich was working on.

Ulrich raised his voice to get Bromo’s attention and calm the rising tension between the two. What would you pay then? he asked, still refusing to give a title to him.

I would have paid a half stone in silver, but now I refuse to pay that because of the disrespect from your friend.

Ulrich recalled the time and effort put into the armour, a new design that as far as he knew no one had done before. The rage welled up into his throat and he shouted at Bromo, That is no better than theft! We agreed on a price, I did the work and you owe me my wage!

Bromo turned to face Ulrich. Your work is shit and not worth the price of a single turd. He attempted to push the big man but only succeeded in pushing himself backward. He reached clumsily to his belt and drew his seax, a long knife carried at all times by free men either in front of the belly or behind the back. Bromo thrust the tip of the blade toward Ulrich’s chin. The blacksmith reached behind him to the anvil where his rounding hammer was and grasped it by the handle. A move for his own seax would have prompted his antagonist to deliver a lethal thrust through his jaw into his brain. The two lackeys remained motionless by the door with sneers on their faces.

Hanoot cursed at Bromo, You arrogant sack of pig shit! You lying son of Loki! That armour should bear the image of Nidhogg—I’ll rip your guts out through your ass!

Bromo sneered, believing he would easily get away with his threats and treachery. Ulrich Blackhand, you are a dullard and beneath me. I will not pay. He then pushed the knife forward through Ulrich’s thick dirty red beard and flicked it so the blade drew blood from Ulrich’s chin. Ulrich Blackhand had reached the point of no return and the pent-up rage became violent action. His left fist connected in the centre of Bromo’s chest. The armour took the blow, but he was propelled backward. Ulrich swung the heavy rounding hammer with his right hand in a large arc from the waist-high anvil over his head, crushing it down into Bromo’s skull where his forehead met his hair. Bromo Teiwazson was dead before his knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

The four living men stared at the body of the man on the floor, blood spewing from the jagged hole smashed into his forehead, lifeless eyes staring at the smoke hole in the roof above the forge. Bromo’s lackeys were the first to react as they tried to exit the blacksmith shop, simultaneously getting wedged against one another and slowing their escape. They were both of the same mind, which was to inform the jarl of the terrible and sudden end to his brother. Whilst they tried to push their way through the door, a now semi-sober Hanoot closed the distance and delivered a vicious punch to the temple of the man closest to him. As the lackey’s knees gave way and he started to crumple to the earthen floor, his companion managed to get through the door. Hanoot kicked the fallen man in the back of the head, slamming him forward so that he struck his forehead on the door timber. The fleeing bodyguard thought he had a clear sprint to the jarl, but that thought disappeared when Hanoot closed the distance and brought his right foot down in a kick to the back of the fleeing man’s knee. The lackey fell to the now partially thawed ground, scratching the skin of his hands and face on the earth that was still frozen and picking up mud from that which was not. As the man raised his head, Hanoot punched him with his considerable strength in the base of the skull, rendering the lackey unconscious. Hanoot picked him up by the collar of his leather tunic and dragged him back into Ulrich’s shop. The other lackey was still dazed by the door on his knees. As he hauled the unconscious man past his companion, Hanoot kicked the kneeling man under the chin knocking him out and breaking his jaw. Ulrich was still standing where he was in front of the anvil, looking over the corpse of Bromo Teiwazson.

Hanoot broke the silence. By Donar, Magni and Modi, I’ll be fucked! You did it now, you red-headed ox. Our old friend Knut will have you blood-eagled for this. Sure, his brother was a useless shit and a cheat and liar but still his brother. You, my friend are fucked.

Ulrich looked at his closest friend, still not quite believing what he had done. Killing was not new to him; he had killed many times before, but they were Gauls. This was a man from his village, a man whom he grew up with, a man whom he knew—despised, but knew.

Hanoot continued his alcohol-fuelled rant. Knut always protected this sack of pig shit. I lost track of how many times he stopped me from beating him. Knut is the jarl, you killed the jarl’s brother, and by Wuotan’s good eye, you are buggered! The lackey who made it out the door had opened his eyes and was staring blankly at Hanoot. The brawler noticed this and kicked him in the left ear, knocking him unconscious again. Run! You have to run as fast as you can, you great heap! I’ll not see my friend, my chosen brother, torn apart with a blood eagle! Take what you can and run. You can’t go to your home. You have to leave from here! Hanoot grabbed the skin and forced it into Ulrich’s huge hand. Lose the apron, put on your tunic and cloak and go.

Ulrich shook his head to clear it; the blood from the seax nick still trickled through his beard. He looked at his oldest friend and nodded not speaking. Ulrich pulled off the apron and put on his leather tunic. He then grabbed his bearskin cloak, draped it over his shoulders, and slung the skin with what was left of the mead over his neck. The two friends looked at each other, grasping one another’s shoulders.

Until Walhalla, my friend, Hanoot said. Ulrich nodded, still not believing what had happened. The men embraced as brothers. Ulrich turned, picked up the rounding hammer and ran through the door of his shop and into the forest.

@@@

The seer shook uncontrollably; the image his sightless eyes had witnessed troubled him deeply and caused his breathing to become shallow and rapid. He began to sweat and his knees gave way, causing him to crumple to the thatch-covered floor of his hut. He was cursed and loved by the gods. While others of his kind cut or gauged out their eyes to clearly see what the gods offered, he was born blind: blind, weak, frail and nearly crippled. His mother was promiscuous as well as manipulative and deceitful. He believed that his deformities were a curse by the gods on her for these misgivings. His mother openly scorned the gods, mocked them and defied them. So she was gifted a weak, blind child who had no means of supporting her as she aged. The seer was an only child, as his mother was struck barren after his birth and her once ravishing beauty faded quickly, making potential husbands uninterested. As harshly as the gods had treated him to punish his mother, they gave him a great gift: they chose him to communicate through, to see what was to be, and what he had just witnessed would have great consequence. He saw a hulking red-bearded man strike down a finely armoured man with a large hammer. He was sure he had witnessed Donar strike Loki dead.

@@@

Rufio Veranus was angry. He was angry at the senate for making him walk from Rome to Carnuntum then onward through this cold, shitty land. He was angry with the second in command of the Ninth Century, or optio, for yelling at him and striking him continuously. Mostly, he was angry with himself for enlisting in the legions in the first place. He should have stayed in his father’s food shop. At the time the thought of dishing out bowls of stewed meat and barley for the rest of his life had been horrifying. He remembered back to that shop with the L-shaped counter with countersunk wells to place the bowls of steaming food in, and the rich smell of the fish sauce. His father was a good cook and the shop was always busy, partly due to Rae, the Egyptian slave girl, who would clean the bowls, serve the customers, and—if his father received the right amount of coin—go into the back room with the patrons. His father frequented the back room with Rae when the shop would close and Rufio had also done so when the opportunity arose. He did so at great risk: if his father caught him with Rae, he would pummel Rufio bloody. Those were the good times.

He was lured into enlisting in the legions by the songs of the bards who told of heroic exploits and great battles of the mighty Roman legions. He had the chance once to view a triumph, as a victorious general paraded through the streets of Rome. He was enthralled and enticed to be part of the glorious Roman army. It was all bullshit, though; he had been in service for almost a year now and the most excitement he had experienced was learning battle drills on the Field of Mars. Since then, it had been march, dig, build defences, and then march again. Rufio was sure they had marched through the entire land of Gaul and the only Gauls he had seen were dead as stones. Rufio Veranus was tired of marching; he wanted to run. He wouldn’t though. He had witnessed what the punishment was for desertion. A man from another contubernium was captured after he deserted. The deserter was stripped to the waist and of his boots, then strapped face down to a flat cart. Then his back was whipped and the soles of his feet caned. When the punishment was finished, the man’s back was shredded of flesh and his feet were torn and broken. He was of no more use to the legion; his last act of service was to provide an example and a reminder. You belong to the legion. So, no, Rufio Veranus would not run; he would continue to march, and to dig and to build.

Fresh air, exercise and adventure! Titus Longinus exclaimed as he drew in a deep breath. There is no better life than the legions, hey boy? He looked to Rufio who was marching beside him. Two more years and I’m done. I will take my savings and it is off to Barceno with me. I think I will start a shop like your father had, complete with the whore you told me about.

She was a slave, not a whore, Rufio said curtly in defence of the Egyptian.

Titus snorted. Same fucking thing, lad. Then all of this will be tales of my extreme bravery that I will tell repeatedly to the big-titted whores in the brothels.

Titus laughed at his own wit. Rufio didn’t see the humour. They continued to march.

Chapter Two

Hanoot Knutson stood silently in front of his cousin the jarl, his hands firmly bound behind his back and feet secured such that he could shuffle but not walk properly, let alone run. While he said nothing his mind was racing, not from concocting a story or constructing lies, but in defiance. Vain asshole—he was thinking of his uncle— to change your name to indicate you are descended from the gods. Especially Teiwaz, the fierce god who sacrificed his hand during the binding of Fenrir the monstrous wolf.

Sure, the village seer had said it came to him in a vision, but Hanoot was sure that vision was prompted by a stone weight or two of silver. Arrogant prick and foolish—men can be bought, the gods cannot and it does no man any good to taunt them. He knew he was in trouble the moment a village woman entered Ulrich’s shop with a cracked cauldron in need of repair and saw two unconscious flunkeys and the recently deceased Bromo Teiwazson lying lifeless on the dirt floor. He