They were creatures of magic, reminiscent of the mud men. But instead of being warriors swathed in mud and stick and stone, these were warriors merged with condensed shadows. Shadows that had gained substance, that formed dark blades, that stretched into claws to pull warriors from their horses.
Seeing Little Wolf frozen, Harad raced his horse forward. As the shadow beast towered above the young clansman ready to consume him in darkness, the Hound lifted his hammer over his head and swung. He swung so hard that he unseated himself from his horse but at that moment when he was weightless, he sprung with his legs so that his entire body was launched behind the cold hard metal of the hammer.
Metal cracked skull. Harad hit the ground, the wind emptied from his belly, sucked out and not coming back. Hooves of horse and men danced near his head and the trees circled against the sky.
Then his breath came back in a rush, so quickly that he thought he would throw up, but he pulled himself to his feet, hammer clutched to his chest. A forest warrior was dead beneath him, brains and blood and bone a pool swallowing pine needles, the bound shadows long fled.
Little Wolf had regained his arms and legs. He and the other remaining clansman were jabbing their spears into another shadow creature, and her screams cut through the haze in Harad's head. Even after she fell, the sound lingered in his ears.
Patch was alone, fallen off his horse, one leg bent at a wrong angle beneath him. His beard was steeped in blood and with one arm he beckoned at Harad, and with the other he was being dragged into the thick underbrush by a shadow man.
"Hounds to me," called Harad, the battle cry lighting from his lips. He knew that the Hounds were dead, that no others would emerge, that they would not gather one last time for a stand against the darkness. He was alone, and it was up to him to save Patch.
Harad charged across the clearing and as he did so, he heard the sound of feet pounding the earth alongside him and the measured breath of Little Wolf and his clan brother. They were not his Hounds of old, but they came with him. They ran forward to face death and to save the life of one of their own.
The shadow creature saw that it was outnumbered and Harad feared that it would vanish back into the shadows among the trees. There it would have its advantage again. From the darkness, it could bide its time, waiting to pick off the warriors one by one.
It made to move back towards the edge of the trees. But it stopped. Patch had latched onto the arm of the beast with one hand while the other circled the root of a tree, anchoring the creature to him.
Patch laughed like an idiot.
His effort was short lived. The shadow man pulled an obsidian blade from his belt and thrust it into Patch's chest.
But the Hound's effort had not been in vain. Little Wolf's spear flew true and pierced the thigh of the shadow-man and a quick lunge from the other clansman pinned the creature down. Harad finished him with a sickening thump of his hammer.
"Patch, hold on, you. We'll find Eliode and she will heal your wounds." He sent Little Wolf and the other back into the forest.
Patch bubbled laughter, which descended into a wet uncontrollable cough. "Split us like unscarred youth."
"We should have stuck with Shield."
"He's the lucky one, isn't he?" said Patch. His breath was more ragged and Harad's big palm could not stench the blood from the chest wound.
"The boys are getting Eliode. You hold on."
"I saw Lake's End again. Never thought I would."
"We'll get you back. Add this to the Song of the Hounds."
Patch struggled to breathe. Harad screamed into the trees. Silence answered. He was alone, his companion dead in his lap.
He stared into the sky, into the dark clouds that welled in the gaps between the trees, and opened his mouth to unleash the song of his heroic brother to the uncaring gods.
But no words came.
HEALING
GYRN'S ARM LAY across Birgid's lap. The cloth that wrapped his arm was wet with blood. She plucked an end to slowly unravel the binding. He smelled of the peat and the heat of his body trespassed hers.
The Painted Man had not come to Birgid at first. Through the window of the tower, she had watched him, arm clutched to his chest, as he had walked among the grasses that surrounded the tower. The grass should not have been green. There was hardly enough light and warmth for it here this far north, but Fennewyn poisoned it with his words. The grass grew a vibrant green like the meadow where she had burned Fionn.
Gyrn was sweating. She could not tell if it was fever, his nervousness or just being so close to the fireplace in her tower chamber. His woad had darkened with dried blood, turning his skin more black than blue.
How we all change with blood, she thought.
She peeled back the final layer of reluctant fabric to reveal the gaping, swollen cut. She could see bone. She wasted no time and let the emotion choke her throat. The song unfurled, the words rising from deep within, words she knew but could not say, words tumbling around her as if they occupied the space in the chamber, as if they were blocks that rebuilt the world.
Then she was pitched in the chamber with Gyrn's soft hands on her ribs and elbow. She steadied herself on the stool. The fire crackled. The frigid air penetrated through the lone window. The banded wooden door was slightly ajar, unlocked. With Fennewyn back, she could not escape. It did not matter if the door was locked.
"Were the others wounded?" she asked.
Gyrn frowned.
She looked at his arm.
He shook his head sharply. "It was an accident. I slipped from a high stone. Should not have had my knife in hand but I was looking for eggs. Stupid of me."
"Why didn't you go to Fennewyn?"
"What would he have done?"
"Heal you," she said.
He shook his head.
"Does he not know how?"
"Why would he heal me?"
Birgid tossed the bloody cloth into the fire. The flames slowly consumed it. "I want to leave."
Gyrn shrugged. "He will not let you go."
"I know that."
The Painted Man sat at her feet, his fingers tracing over the red raised scar. "He does sleep. Very deeply. Every so often he drinks too much and then is as good as dead."
"Walk me to the edge of the Whale Road."
Gyrn stood, the light of the fire flickering against his skin. Out of the window the sound of men laughing lifted then faded. Gyrn turned once at the door, mouth opening to speak, and then left pulling the heavy wooden door closed behind him, pausing a moment before dropping the iron latch into place.
She wondered what it would be like to see the Whale Road. Would it be foreign to her or was the North the same where ever she went?
***
Gyrn crouched in the mists, his back against the cold stones of the tower wall. The others huddled about a small fire, idle. They too had come from near the Whale Road or from far north where the long icy fingers kept their grip on the earth throughout the year. They too had left behind their lives. Gyrn had much in common with them.
But Gyrn kept his position by the doorway to the tower. No raiders came to threaten them. No legion marched. But to sit watch by the door gave Gyrn purpose and helped keep away the doubt.
The wind tore against the grasses, hissing, spitting the mists past their faces, and howling through the narrow windows of the stone tower. Up there, she sat in her room. Alone. She shivered now. She never had before, but now it seemed to Gyrn that the witch could never stop shivering. She could never gather and keep the warmth to her.
He ran his finger over the raised scar on the inside of his forearm. Her words had seized him, pulled him away from this world and then with the end of her song he was back in it again.
She was like the witches and warlocks of old, the ones with names, but more often than not nameless. They bent rivers, stopped the wind in its tracks, and drew the heat of fever from children. They no longer lived in this world except in the stories told by the hags
in the shadows and the toothless men about the village fires.
Few near the Whale Road held onto any words of power. But their power was simpler – the ability to heal. Not even the healing of torn flesh, but the slow steady chants that broke fevers or found where illnesses lay in bodies or felt the coming of strangers. The great magic had been lost near the Whale Road at the churning edges of the Western Sea.
But then Fennewyn came. He was preceded by stories from other clansmen encountered on lonely passes. Whispers were shared of a warlock from the east who had come to raise an army, a man of magic who gathered for the returning glory of the North.
Gyrn and the others did not care so much about all this. There was food to be caught from sea and forest. The ends of their lands needed to be patrolled and defended from other clans, especially the People of the Deer who had been forced from the south and now sought lands to steal and claim as their own. An eye needed to be constantly kept for the rumor of a Legion of Dhurma breaking past the Black River or setting its white-hulled ships upon the turbulent seas.
Then Gyrn's wife fell sick. It had happened so quickly. He had left her two days prior while he tracked boars in the forests north. She had smiled after their lips touched. Those parting moments filled him with regret, clouding his mind and heart, so that the beginnings of all journeys were full of anger. After the boars had been killed, Gyrn had felt that lightness that anticipates returning. Upon seeing the thatched roofs, the children darting, and the smoke rising, he was joyous. But all that turned when he entered the shared roundhouse. She was alone, wrapped in blankets, sour, sweaty, eyes lost. The village healer no longer sat with her. Days passed. She would not drink. She would not eat. The beating of her heart retreated from her wrists and neck. The old women began to burn the sage and sing the songs that would carry her to the underworld.
Then Fennewyn had arrived – bald headed, wild eyed, more animal than human in his worn furs. He had seemed to known everything: that Gyrn was the finest warrior, that Gyrn was loyal to the death, that Gyrn would give anything to save his wife. So Gyrn had given his word to the warlock.
Now Gyrn wondered whether he would ever see his wife again.
The other Painted Men about the fire called Gyrn to join them. They were idle, rolling bones and clutching jugs. He shook them off and ignored the muttered curses. He pulled his furs tighter against the wind.
He tried to imagine his wife's face. He tried to see her as clearly as those moments when she pressed her lips to his. But it was as if he viewed her through a thick fog, that she had become less real in his memory. Dark hair, fair skin, pale lips. He could see her but none of the details. She was swallowed by the mists.
What was fading? His memory? Or was his future with her disappearing with each passing moment at the foot of Fennewyn?
The door groaned behind him. He turned his head without rising.
Birgid stared from the threshold, shadow inhabited eyes on the distances, strands of hair whipping about her cheeks and caught between her slightly parted lips.
"He comes," she said. "Shield Scyldmund comes for me. For Fennewyn. And he rides with death."
REUNION
WHEN SPEAR HAD reported that the warlock was not at the Northern encampment, the decision was easy for Urbidis. He made the men break camp and saddle up, and then led them through the trees, and then back south a bit to take advantage of the cover of the low hills. They then began describing a wide semi-circle through the gullies and creek beds. They would skirt the encampment and turn north towards the tower of the warlock.
They kept a loose line, Spear in the lead, Urbidis and Pullo following and Vincius in the rear, every breath a curse to his mount.
After some time they reached the edge of a forest. When Urbidis had started his horse towards the cover of the trees, the Northman protested.
"These are the Dark Woods," Spear said. "They are haunted. I have known none that have entered and returned."
"Fear reigns in the North," said Vincius.
"I won't enter these woods."
Urbidis eyed the border of the forest. It never pushed very far east so they would be able to track along its edge and still continue north.
Later Pullo brought his horse even with his commander.
"We're well out of sight of the encampment."
"The only remaining threat will be scouting or hunting parties, but if Spear's superstition runs deep, we'd only need to step into the woods to lose any pursuers."
"Commander?" Pullo stared at his fat hands on the reins.
"Speak your mind."
"What happened to the boy?"
"I told you. I let him return home."
"I still don't get how he could have just walked right past us without any of us seeing him. It makes no sense at all. We should have seen him. He would have come by for food at least and his bedroll."
Urbidis snorted. "He made a promise to me. One that can't be broken."
"We should have kept him with us. It would have been safer."
"Leave it alone already."
"We should have seen him."
"I let him go."
The sergeant cleared his throat, made to speak and then shook his head. Some time later he spoke. "What are we doing up here? The things we have done. I think we're getting lost."
"The tower's north. Spear will lead us there."
"That's not what I mean. How can we return with all that we have done? My father wanted me to spend my days on the seas with him. After he died, I returned to Xichil, but it felt like another land."
"Focus, soldier. On our mission. Focus on the tower."
"And when the mission is done, then what?"
"We return home."
Pullo spit out laughter and let his horse drift away from his commander.
They did not need to travel far before Urbidis began to feel uncomfortable. He kept seeing movement at the corner of his eyes, fleeting figures in the shadows of the trees, shapes that appeared and disappeared amongst the black trunks. The trees were ancient and towering, the tops swaying against the slate sky.
He took some reassurance that they would only need to track the border of the forest for a half day or so before they would hit the southern edge of the bog in which the tower of the warlock lay.
They were approaching that bog, the mists rising heavy in the distance, the black trees abruptly ending, when he saw the riders. There were a half dozen of them riding quickly out of the Dark Woods, a half dozen Northmen.
"I thought you said no Northmen could survive the Dark Woods," said Urbidis, drawing sword and shield and adjusting his helm.
"They don't," said Spear. The Northman looked as if he were about to give rein to his horse and turn the other way.
Urbidis's hand snaked out and grabbed the reins. "Settle your horse down, Northman. We treat deserters worse than we do Northmen."
"Just like the boy?' asked Spear. "I could have brought him back to us. How far could he get on foot? He was just a boy."
When Spear had come back from his spying in the encampment, he had asked what happened to the boy, and said not a single word when Urbidis recounted his tale. Instead, the Northman disappeared into the mists, returning an hour later, hands and knees covered in fresh dirt.
Urbidis threw the reins back at the Northman. "I'll not have any of this now."
Spear sneered. "He was just a boy."
The Apprentice Chronicler cleared his throat. "Argue about what you will later. Right now, the riders stare down at us. We need to deal with this."
"They see us," said Pullo. "What choice do we have?"
"If we run, they will follow," said Spear.
"We are outnumbered," said Vincius. "And I am no soldier. We are charged with finding the warlock and the witch and killing them, not fighting all of the North. We should just head into the woods and hide ourselves and eventually they will pass."
"I don't think that's a very good idea," said Urbidis. The shadows of the woods stretche
d back far beyond the reach of his eyes.
"It's a piss poor idea," said Spear. "If we run, they will pursue us. Do you think we could out run clansmen in their own land? Maybe by myself and with a fresh mount I might be able to, but they would be dogged in their pursuit and in the end where would we go? Honestly, the only relatively safe place here in the North for any of you Dhurmans is the fortress in Cullan town and even that only stands because the clans have never organized themselves again, not after the death of the Warlock King."
"I'm no Dhurman," mumbled Pullo.
"As good as. You think a fishmonger's son will run any faster. You and your countrymen are some of the worst riders I have ever seen. Truly."
"We stand and fight," said Urbidis.
"They come," said Pullo.
Urbidis ordered his companions to draw their horses together so as not be split up by a sudden charge. The numbers were bad. He doubted they would survive the encounter. But so despite the odds, he knew that he had a chance to survive and that was all that he ever really wanted.
The approaching horsemen came slowly. Urbidis waited for the charge. He could almost make out their faces.
"Harad?" called Spear. "Is that you, old dog? And Shield?"
"Spear," Harad called as he drove his horse ahead of the other riders.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were bound for Lake's End."
Shield and the others came up with their horses.
"Plans changed," said Shield.
Spear stared at the forest. "You came from Lake's End?"
"Passed through these foul woods," said Harad. "We barely made it out alive. There is evil in there. Horrible evil. We lost Patch. Creatures, half-shadow, half-men, haunt that forest. They attacked us, came after us. We defeated them and then we were fleeing when they attacked again but Eliode here, she saved us."
Black River (The Hounds of the North Book 2) Page 24