"You stupid boy"

 

Ulrich sipped frothy ale from his horn and stared into the snapping campfire. His mind began to wander, his gaze unfocused, and he somehow dredged up a memory from his youth. As a boy of ten years, Ulrich almost died twice in the same day.

He had been out roaming the ancient forests and checking his fur traps near his family village when he heard men's voices. He hid, thinking he would jump out with his wooden sword and startle the men.

"Ven vee get zhere, you get a bucket of coals from ze cook fire and blaze up a roof," an unfamiliar voice said. He had a strange accent.

Ulrich peeked from the dense undergrowth and saw two tall men. Both looked similar: thick beards, long brown hair, wicked axes in hand. The one with the strange accent had a pale scar that split his eyebrow. The other wore a green tunic.

"And I guess you'll be poking around for pretty girls to take back," another strange voice said.

"Fah," the accented man spat. "I just vant ze golden-haired one; ze chief's daughter. He thought he could cheat me on our deal..."

"But he's got another thing coming," his partner finished. "Yeah, yeah. I heard it a hundred times."

Ulrich's mind was racing. They wanted to kidnap little Inga! She was only nine. What should he do? For the first time in his young life, Ulrich was frozen with indecision.

Could he make it back to the village in time to warn everyone? Could he attack the men or scare them away? What should he do?

Out of nowhere, he remembered a joke his grandfather had told on a recent overnight hunting trip. "You don't have to be fast to outrun a wolf. You just have to be faster than the fellow you're with!"

His mind suddenly connected the pieces of a plan, and he acted on it immediately.

"Hey!" Ulrich cried, jumping from his hiding spot. He smacked Scarface hard across the shin with his wooden sword and bolted down a game trail that meandered through the briars.

Scarface cried out and hopped on one leg. "Get zat little bastard," he bellowed to his comrade.

The man in the green tunic dashed after Ulrich, but the briars were so thick, he also had to use the same game trail. Perfect, Ulrich thought.

Green Tunic was taller and gained quickly on Ulrich. The race lasted about a minute, and Ulrich made sure that Green Tunic kept him in sight.

Finally, Ulrich stopped to face his adversary, his chest heaving, his heart pounding. His hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead.

"You stupid boy," Green Tunic said as he strode toward Ulrich. He tucked his axe into his belt and balled his fist.

Ulrich tensed, ready to run again.

Green Tunic stepped closer and raised his fist to strike.

Ulrich's fur trap snapped hard on Green Tunic's ankle, the sharp metal teeth biting through shoe and skin and ligaments. He cried out and bent to loosen the trap that was chained to a nearby sapling.

Ulrich hit him hard across the jaw with the wooden sword, snapping it. The pointed half spun through the air, disappearing into the undergrowth. Green Tunic dropped like he a poleaxed hog. He did not move.

Ulrich relieved him of his axe, feeling jubilant that he had bested a grown man, one intent on harming his village and little Inga. With ferocious pride, he recalled the Warrior Song: "Where the wolf's ears are, the wolf's teeth are close."

He took a deep breath and howled like a wolf. It was a long, warbling cry full of wildness, full of victory.

To his amazement, a wolf answered back. Then another. Then a third. They were close, too. Maybe they would come sample Green Tunic. He would leave that to the fates.

Ulrich's blood was up, and he wondered if this was how a wolf felt, prowling his forest domain, a hunter of men. A predator. Fearless. It felt good.

Scarface was next. Ulrich unchained the trap and removed it from the man's bloody ankle. He dropped it into his haversack.

Ulrich trotted back, placing his feet to avoid dry leaves and snapping twigs. Blood pounded in his ears. The axe felt right in his hand. He had no more indecision.

In moments, he was back at the original spot where he had first hidden. Scarface was gone.

A rock whistled past his ear, and he dropped to the ground, startled.

"You little bastard," Scarface called from some hiding place nearby. "I vill drink my mead out of your stupid skull."

"Go fek yourself," Ulrich replied. "I finished off your friend, now I will finish you."

Another rock flow over, but it landed to his left. Maybe Scarface had a bad aim. Or maybe he had lost track of Ulrich. Ulrich picked up a small pebble and tossed it beyond Scarface.

Ulrich saw the ugly man jump up and bound toward the sound.

His back was to Ulrich for an instant.

Ulrich stood and threw Green Tunic's axe at the man. It landed between his shoulder blades, but it did not penetrate. Only the handle had hit, not the blade.

Scarface spun and bellowed, "You little fekker!"

Ulrich crouched and fumbled with his haversack. The bloody trap was in his hand. It was still closed.

Scarface strode through the brush, raising his own axe. Ulrich, his mind racing, noted that the man limped a little.

"Gods be damned," Scarface growled as the briars pulled at his clothes, slowing him further. Briars scratched his face and arms. He cursed anew.

Ulrich's hands trembled as he pressed the trap open. It was slick with blood, and it snapped shut as his hand slipped. He tried again, heart racing, sweat stinging his eyes.

"Stand and take your medicine little boy."

Ulrich stood. Scarface looked down and saw the open trap. His eyes widened, and his axe came down. Too late.

With the dexterity of a scalded cat, Ulrich swung the trap on its chain and connected with Scarface's groin. Simultaneously, he dove aside into an enormous clump of long, savage briars.

Ulrich didn't know that a man could make the sound that came out of Scarface's mouth. It was almost like a lady's scream.

Scarface dropped his axe and fumbled with the trap as he howled in pain. The crotch of his dirty linen breeches was stained with blood.

As he rose from the briars, a distant part of Ulrich's mind marveled that the scores of oozing scrapes on his arms and face did not sting a bit. Was this how the berzerks felt when they fought? Free from pain and worry?

Calmly, Ulrich picked up Scarface's axe. It was rusty and entirely ill-kempt. Maybe he could clean it up.

He walked away as the bandit screamed and screamed and screamed.

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