“You will find, Dread, that a snake can have many heads,” Emma said, stepping forward and hoping that her words rang less hollow to others than they did in her own mind.
“A snake that fears biting others is a snake that ultimately consumes itself. And you, little girl, will be consumed.” Dread spun about and leapt—in a single, sleek bound—to the wall surrounding the winter garden. She disappeared into a shadowy mist, blending into the night before disappearing entirely from sight.
The nightmare had left, but, looking around, Emma knew that the bad dream was just beginning.
Chapter 37
After they’d battled their way through dozens of warriors, there were none left to obstruct the Offeirs or budredda on their exhausted march to Enorry Falls.
Limner was honeycombed with tunnels connecting the great chambers that made up the below-ground portions of Hackeneth. However, few of these tunnels—those that could easily fit a man, anyway—found their way to the surface.
Hafgan knew why Rian had chosen this particular route for their escape. It would easily limit their pursuit. The exit spat out some couple thousand feet above sea level, emerging from just behind the gushing waters of the falls and wrapping around the mountain. A half a dozen paths split off at a wide clearing cut away from the rock, and those each branched into a dozen more. It would be easy to leave a few false trails and lose themselves in the mountains while evading any real pursuit.
That is, it would have been easy, had not fifty or more warriors blocked their path. Wiscon leaned on his massive axe with a grin, and Rinx, bearing most of his weight on a spear, stood just behind him. Pacing back and forth with a nervous energy, an animal sensing a coming storm, was Hafgan’s brother, Yurin. His bastard sword—the weapon that Hafgan had given him after he’d been expelled from the Haearn Doethas—gleamed in the sun and was sheathed in the snow. Standing true and tall.
“Your escape ends here, Iwan,” Rinx intoned. He was already engaged in his hedwicchen, probably to dampen the pain of his pierced thigh. It obviously hadn’t healed fully since the Cylch. A wound like that might never heal.
“Put your weapons down, and we’ll return you to your Pwoll without injury. We will imprison the rest; Leyr would not want the blood of any more Wasmer to sink into this soil. There are few enough of us as it is.” Wiscon’s face was grim and his voice regretful. He hefted his axe over his shoulder, smart enough to know the inevitable answer.
“Brother, listen. Brother, brother, listen to them,” Yurin crooned almost plaintively. He wouldn’t look at Hafgan, or any of them.
“You are all pathetic excuses for Carreg Da. All of you!” Rian proclaimed, pushing through their exhausted warriors and waving a bloodied mace at the gathered men. “You subjugate and crush the will of our proud people. You follow a manipulator and a false god, and murder your own kind in both of their foul names.”
“You have seen his power, and yet you still doubt the Flawless God?” Wiscon asked, furrowing his brow.
“Such power,” said Yurin quietly. “No one can fight such power.”
“There are a thousand ways to trick people into believing something. The mountains are not without magic, nor without people who have this skill, rare though it may be,” Rian said, all denial.
“If that is what you must believe,” Wiscon said, his voice low.
“We all believe what we must,” Hafgan answered quietly.
Just as he believed that they were fated to die on this mountain. Better, though, than to die in the Pwoll.
***
Though exhausted, the budredda held.
In a tight defensive formation, spears sticking out in every direction, they resisted the onslaught for some time. They were bound to fall, but determined to stand.
Enric’s unusually orange-haired face was concentration incarnate, as close to attaining his hedwicchen as he, or any of the budredda, had been. Somehow, he had mastered his anger while in captivity, and now fought with the cold calculation of a trained killer. His precise and effortless jabs wounded and surprised his enemies. Paston, always near his brother-in-arms, shouted instructions and encouragement, though he was prevented from any real fighting because of his arrow wound.
Alwyn, newly anointed as a budredda when they’d filed down his second set of canines, was more tentative. He was frightened, and fought as if his death was inevitable—not with a fierce desperation, but with submission. Hafgan struggled to protect their newest member, but he was too set-upon by these veteran Carreg Da warriors, and his strength was ever waning. Whatever anger had pulled him through the earlier confrontation no longer sustained him.
He could only watch as Alwyn fell, first pierced in the leg, and then decapitated as Wiscon waded into the fray, his enormous axe posing a danger to both friend and foe. At least, it would have, had he not been in his hedwicchen.
“Iwan! It is time!” he shouted, his voice booming and echoing the roar of Enorry Falls in the dwindling light of day. Another casual swipe of his axe cut the hand off a misbegotten budredda, Samuel, who’d been named after the former Duke of Rostane. He fell to the ground, grasping his bleeding stump.
It was indeed time, thought Hafgan. Wiscon roared a command and his men scattered to either side. Hafgan, more delicately, did the same. It was to be one-on-one combat, Haearn Doethas on Haearn Doethas. One was healthy and whole while the other was weakened, battered, and could not find his center.
But, even exhausted beyond belief, even with his mind clouded from his imprisonment, even without hope for survival, it was not in Hafgan to submit. His fate would not be Alwyn’s.
He twirled his silver spear easily in his hands, demonstrating speed beyond what any on this battlefield could muster, aside from Wiscon, Rinx, and maybe Yurin. The weapon still seemed to be a perfect fit for him, and was balanced better than any spear he had ever fought with. It likely wouldn’t be enough, but it felt damned good.
Even outside his hedwicchen, Hafgan funneled his attention to his opponent. Wiscon had that look of extreme concentration which gave away the fact that he had attained perfect, empty concentration. Physically, he was intimidating. Several inches taller than Hafgan, the largest Wasmer Hafgan had ever seen, he boasted muscles that stood taut against his tight-fitting war robes. His axe was so large that most warriors couldn’t lift the thing above their heads, whereas Wiscon wielded it with ease. He held extra weight around his midsection, betraying his love of the rich imported foods from Ardia, but it did little to slow him.
Having full access to his emotions, Hafgan could not help but be intimidated. Fearful, even. He was the superior warrior, but only in his hedwicchen. Only when his arms weren’t already shaking from exertion.
Wiscon sensed his weakness and sought to end the battle quickly with a cross-swipe of his axe. Parrying was not an option, no matter his strength, so Hafgan crouched down and jabbed forward at his leg. Wiscon, of course, anticipated the move and hopped backwards, swiping downward as he did. Hafgan had to roll to avoid being cut, and he stumbled to his feet. The blood soaking his upper arm said that he hadn’t managed to completely avoid the blow, after all.
“Iwan, give in now and there will be no more bloodshed this day. I promise this to you in the name of the Flawless God,” Wiscon said quietly, his voice betraying that he’d briefly left his hedwicchen.
“A false promise from a false god,” shouted Rian from over his shoulder. After only a single pass between the leaders, the fighting had diminished to being half-hearted, as men on both sides needed to see the outcome.
“I do not make false promises,” Wiscon answered with a frown.
Hafgan remembered the Wiscon of old. He’d been a prankster, always finding ways to trick the Haern Doethas trainees, and always finding a way to laugh, even when their bodies were being pushed beyond their limits. Once, he had sawed most of the way through Leyr’s bedframe so that the thing collapsed partway through the night. Another time, he had tied strings to a few rocks in their quarter
s, periodically jerking on one string or the other to make a rock jump. He’d been careful to do it only when Yurin was looking, and soon the other young men had thought him even madder than usual.
This somber, wild-bearded Wiscon was a different man. He no longer held any of that joviality. Another symptom of the infection that Leyr had spread.
“There will be blood, my former brother,” said Hafgan, echoing Rian. “Either now or later, the people will strain against the shackles of your god. The Offeirs already rebel. How long will it be until the people—the few remaining Wasmer—realize how subjugated they have become? Leyr rules through his silver tongue and the fear of your Flawless God, but the people are not as stupid as he thinks. They remember their faith.” However misplaced. “They remember their past.” However fabricated. “And they remember those who have fallen.”
He assumed a fighting posture. A lazy stance, much like Yurin would take in his random, unpredictable fighting style, with the tip of his spear resting in the light snow. With his training, in his hedwicchen, Wiscon would have a ready defense for any conventional style. Perhaps unconventional would win the day.
Both sides gave up the pretext of battle and lowered their weapons to watch.
“Let us stand here as an example, lending courage to our people below. Even if we fall….” Outnumbered more than two to one, it seemed plausible. “Let our blood flow red down this mountain and our death cries echo through Hackeneth. Through Loch Creed and Sebiant Rhisfel. Through Limner and the falls.”
“No one will see your blood. No one will hear your voices,” spat Rinx, limping forward from the battle lines.
Hafgan leveled him a glare. “You will have.”
With that, Hafgan staggered toward Wiscon, leaning in and then away, moving like a drunken Rostanian down in the warehouse district past full moons. Wiscon again attained his hedwicchen and struck out with a foot. Hafgan darted away, continuing to drag his spear in the light snow. He appeared to be observing the sky, oblivious to the focused warrior in front of him. Until Wiscon struck out with his axe.
Hafgan dropped his spear in the snow and jumped in close—something that was so counterintuitive that Wiscon had not even anticipated the possibility of it. He landed two quick blows, one useless thump against Wiscon’s ample gut and one crunching against his nose. Wiscon reeled back as blood spat out. Hafgan dove back to grab his spear, and then stood tall and lazily, doing his best impression of his brother, though Yurin was nowhere to be seen among the warriors.
“Tricks,” snorted Wiscon, spitting blood into the snow. “You forget, Hafgan. The hedwicchen learns.”
“Then I will need more tricks,” said Hafgan, though no more tricks came to mind.
The two warriors circled each other, making several more passes, both wary of the other. Though weak, Hafgan was at home in battle and somehow forgot his weariness. Wiscon, after that first drawing of blood, moved more cautiously. Even detached, he likely remembered that he had never bested Hafgan in sparring.
Wiscon did not tire, and nor did he grow impatient and make mistakes. Hafgan could not land another blow, and the cut on his arm began to ache. His bigger opponent was testing him now, becoming increasingly daring as he realized that Hafgan did not have any more antics. After a particularly brutal pass, where Hafgan stumbled backwards with another small cut on the same arm, he caught a glimmer of surprising movement off to the side.
He had stumbled next to Rinx. The man had always been as vindictive as a cuckold, and with a hole in his thigh, there was little more that Rinx would want to do than stick a spear in Hafgan’s belly and jerk it around in his guts. Which was why Hafgan found himself barely deflecting a blow with his spear, taking yet another deep cut on his shoulder as he stumbled to the side. Deflecting a second jab, Hafgan slipped in the mucky snow, falling to one knee.
“Rinx! Cease this!” Wiscon called from Hafgan’s left. Rinx’s eyes were wild. He was outside of his hedwicchen and lost in a fierce rage, heedless of his weak leg. His was a rage beyond anything that a Haearn Doethas should have been able to experience. He stabbed at Hafgan, brutal and efficient, and the Wasmer could barely fend off the attacks. A few tiny wounds appeared across Hafgan’s body—just barely piercing his war robes, but enough to cause bloodloss. He would need to end this, and soon, and then again contend with Wiscon.
He whipped his spear around at Rinx’s head, sacrificing a waning defense for a bold offense. But, the blade did not strike because Rinx was no longer there.
“Ya fucker!” shouted a deep voice, its Rostanian accent discordant amidst the mountains.
Rinx was lying in the red mush of the snow, Captain Jalen Yanso’s sword having cleaved through his collarbone and nearly severed his arm from his body. The Haearn Doethas howled like a madman. With his good arm, he reached for Hafgan. Yanso drove his sword directly into the man’s back with a two-handed thrust, sticking it into Rinx’s heart.
Hafgan looked at the human, half stunned and half amazed. He made to say something, but lacked the time before a gang of Carreg Da Wasmer threw themselves at Yanso and bore him to the ground. Paston and two budredda jabbed at the pile, and the battle was rejoined in earnest.
Hafgan barely had time to turn before Wiscon’s axe whistled toward him.
“Why…” Another slash that Hafgan sidestepped. “Did…” This one came much closer, but Hafgan stumbled out of the way. “You…” A great overhead blow nearly split Hafgan’s skull. “Return!” Hafgan had no choice but to parry the last attack, barely deflecting it, but in a motion that tore his spear from his hands and sent it flying into the churning snow.
Wiscon was breathing heavily now, like a horse past his limit, practically frothing at the mouth. His eyes were as mad as Rinx’s had been moments before, as mad as the eyes of all of those affected by the Red Eye that day in the Cylch. The work of the Flawless God.
Hafgan would die, now, at the hands of this madman, ignobly slain without a weapon in his hand, without having put up a real defense. But, again, better than in the bottom of a pit. He spread his arms, accepting of his fate. Rian’s screaming in the background tore at his heart, but he would not cower before his fate, nor run.
Wiscon brought his axe back, preparing a cross-body slash that would have the force to cut Hafgan in half. Hafgan closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
“Brother!” croaked a voice, its rough sound cutting through the din of combat.
Hafgan opened his eyes and stumbled back a step. The tip of Yurin’s great sword, a gift from his brother, had been struck through Wiscon’s back and sat protruding from his ample stomach. Yurin yanked the weapon to the side, gutting the Haearn Doethas and spilling his innards into the snow before he fell.
“Brother…” said Hafgan, barely comprehending what had just happened, so accepting he’d been of his death. Yurin hunched over, his sword dripping red into the crimson muck surrounding them. It was as if the sky was pushing down on him, and he refused to meet the stunned and questioning gaze of his brother.
The Carreg Da warriors fell back, having seen both of their Flawless God-touched leaders struck down, the first by a human and the second by one of their own. Some warleader was roaring commands, trying to regain control, while another was screaming contradictory orders
“Lieutenant, here!” Enric, limping heavily on one leg, handed him his silver spear. It felt odd in his hands, warmer than it should have been after lying in the snow.
“You bleeding fool,” said Rian, who followed behind. “You’ve got a deathwish or something, Hafgan?”
“I think we all have a deathwish, my eternal love,” Hafgan said, caring little that her eyebrows had risen alarmingly at his proclamation. He remained focused on his brother, who was inching toward them, shoulders hunched as if he would be beaten. A dog, but one with divided loyalties. Yurin stopped a few feet away, not saying a word. His white robes were anything but, smeared with the blood of Offeirs, budredda, and Haearn Doethas alike.
Hafgan’s
eyes roamed the battlefield, taking in the gathering Carreg Da warriors, half a dozen paths leading down the mountain, his own depleted and exhausted men, and the plunging Enorry Falls behind him. He felt the pain of his numerous wounds and the weakness in his limbs. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes.
“Paston, listen to me. You are to take the men and guide the remaining Offeirs off this mountain. Form the wedge, cut through them, and follow the southern path, and then head west. I will create a distraction.”
Across the field, the dominant warleaders argued as their men stood in disarray. The larger one, a brute of a man with a dozen braids in his beard, pointed furiously—directly at Hafgan.
Paston surged forward, brow furrowed in determination. “No, Lieutenant. We not be leaving you, not again.”
“You will not be leaving me,” Hafgan corrected him. “Rather, you will be leaving me, but don’t expect that I am throwing my life away. I have a plan.” A weak and desperate plan, but a plan. “Remember, form the wedge, holding wounded in the center, and slice through them. I will find you after.”
With that, he strode forward without glancing at his former to-be bound, his brother, or his faithful following, gripping his silver spear and plucking another one from the body of a fallen warrior. Halfway across the battlefield, the Carreg Da began to notice and shout, with the larger warleader shoving the smaller aside and shouldering his own weapon. Hafgan, without pausing, dropped his silver spear and, taking a short run, hurled his looted weapon at the larger warleader.
The man was too fast, but Hafgan’s weapon struck the thigh of a warrior behind him, setting him to howling and rolling in the snow. Without waiting to see the reaction, Hafgan bolted to his right, making a straight path for the mountain walls.
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