Seeing that Kern has stopped on the lower trail, the animal paused, stared down with its fierce golden gaze.
“You never alone,” Nahud’r said. There was no recrimination in his dark brown eyes, but perhaps a soft touch of wistfulness to the man’s voice.
Kern could guess. A native of the fabled southern deserts of Shem, brought into service and educated with a merchant’s family in Nemedia, the black-skinned man had traveled across more lands than Kern had even heard tell of. He read. He wrote. And he was as deadly with the scimitar he carried at his side as any man who fought with Kern.
He was also one of several slaves taken by a Vanir raiding party and rescued by Kern after he chased down the northerners to free Daol, and Maev, Burok’s daughter. He’d had no home to return to, so he’d stayed with Kern. And welcome to have him.
“Mayhap not,” Kern finally admitted. “Not quite so alone as some, anyway.”
He started walking, leaving room for Nahud’r to remain at his side. The wolf stalked forward, pacing them. Kern glanced down the shallow slope, over the rest of his pack, who struggled and straggled along different trails. Daol and Reave and Ossian. Hydallan and Wallach Graybeard. Long shadows stretched out behind them, as the sun prepared for its final fall behind the Black Mountains.
“To them, this is as close as they have felt in months. That they are coming home. It should feel that way, shouldn’t it?”
The Galla had mentioned to Kern the survivors from Gaud’s ruin crossing the Black Mountains. Cul, of course, had only been a shocking first. Kohlitt, Reave’s cousin and brother by marriage, had been among the prisoners rescued out of the Vanir camp. And Halei, Garret’s niece. The outcasts quickly learned that several score had survived the attack on their village, the fires, and the ruthless hunt. Two of these succumbed to wounds. Another chose to be “released,” his broken legs slowing the clan down and risking all. Another was lost to the mountain spiders.
Still, better than fifty men, women, and children of both Gaud and Taur had braved the mountains and come down into eastern Cimmeria, and now carved out an existence in the shadow of Clan Murrogh’s stronghold.
And few, if any, were pleased to see Kern Wolf-Eye back among their dwindled numbers.
“How does it feel, Nahud’r? You nay have family here. Or kin of any kind. There is nay one person we’ve seen who even looks as you do. Do you get tired of the stares, the talk?”
The Shemite walked and thought for a moment. “You remember first morning we spend after freeing us?”
He did. Crisp and quiet, it had been. And with supplies stolen from the raiders, it was one of the first mornings in months when Kern had felt as if he’d had enough to eat. They all had.
“You stare at me that morning,” Nahud’r said. “Watch me, like I was part of show.” He saw Kern’s puzzled face, realized he had slipped back into the Aquilonian tongue. “Like strange creature.”
Kern remembered. He had watched Nahud’r perform some morning rituals. Had stared at the Shemite when he strolled out of camp to relieve himself. But the man’s piss had been as golden as anyone else’s.
“I remember.”
“That last five days. Maybe six. Then you, you stop staring at me in such a way. All your warriors stop, after time.” He glanced over. “Answer your question?”
Kern considered. Then laughed softly. “Nay. I understand that we grew comfortable with you. But still, you face every day knowing you are nay any closer to home.”
Nahud’r stopped. He crouched on the path to pick up a sharp-edged rock. In the trail’s hard-packed dirt, he scratched out several lines and curves, forming the rough letters he’d once taught Kern, who’d been fascinated with the thought of a man having so much time as to be able to learn to write and read. Who could devote entire days, and months, to such a pursuit.
He read them now. The first words Nahud’r had taught him. Also crouched alongside a trail those several months ago.
“A miracle happened this morning.”
Nahud’r offered the stone to Kern, who took it in a strong hand. He bent down, and scraped out the rest of the sentence, sounding it out as he carved each letter into the ground.
“The sun . . . rose . . . in the . . . east.”
The letters weren’t perfect. Kern had not practiced them in weeks. But good enough to recognize. “Every day is a new day,” Kern said, still fighting with the Shemite philosophy.
Nahud’r shrugged. “Every day a new day,” he repeated, as if agreeing. He rose and brushed his hands clean.
“That,” he said, “how it feels.”
The Shemite had little else to say, and Kern wrestled with that small piece of desert wisdom on the rest of the quiet march. They saw a few other clansmen, some heading out in small hunting parties, others gathering wild berries from the hillside brush. There were few waves. Fewer welcomes. Quite a few stared openly, and Kern ignored them as he saw Nahud’r doing. Kept to himself, still chewing on their earlier conversation, until disturbed by shouts ahead as the first of his warriors finally cleared the trails and trotted down toward the lakeside settlement and stronghold of Clan Murrogh.
Of course, the stronghold itself was hard to ignore. At the peak of the next ridge, Kern stared over it, always with an eye toward where a weakness might be found—and fixed—before the Vanir came. Not an easy task. A large, triangular spit of land jutted into the lake where the waters crowded closest to the cliffs. Out on this rocky peninsula the Murrogh had built their magnificent lodge hall and, surrounding it, large stables and many of their homes. Then they had walled off the peninsula with rock and timbers, forming more of a long, low run than the tall palisades Kern had come across in the northwest territories.
Not quite as inspiring. Still, over the years it had apparently proven plenty strong.
Spreading out along the lakeshore was a widespread village, broken into several distinct neighborhoods, and many small camps formed by the warriors who had answered the summons of Morag Chieftain. And there, closest to the eastern approach, was the small community toward which Kern’s warriors streamed. Among those huts, and homes, people moved about with ease. Peacefully. Today, at the least. Some tended crops or cattle. Others applied themselves to the never-ending need to build. More walls. More homes. It never ended.
Fortunately, for the Gaudic and Taurin refugees, there was plenty of rock that could be quarried by hand out of the nearby hills, or at times found among the rubble calved off the cliff face. And they had not settled for ramshackle hovels, but had built fair-sized homes with stone foundations and walls of woven branches and mud, and well-thatched roofs. And a long wall that stretched from cliff face all the way to the lake, protecting themselves as best they could from any attacking war host who might come at Clan Murrogh from the east.
Cul’s doing. As with most clans in Conall Valley, Gaud had lived through too many peaceful years to worry overmuch about walls and fortifications. Cattle stealing and raids for new wives was part of the way of things, and walls rarely helped. But after suffering the true strength of a raider attack, that lesson was well learned.
Word passed quickly that the outcasts—the Men of the Wolves—had returned. There were a few shouts of recognition. Even a few calls of welcome. From atop the ridge Kern saw Reave and Desa up near the front, each of them scooping up a wild tangle of long, gangly limbs, which would be Reave’s surviving niece and nephew. Kohlitt’s children, Bayan and Cor.
“Good to have someone waiting,” Nahud’r said. Then he turned down into the next switchback, ambling along in no particular hurry. No one waited for him here.
Kern held his place on the upper path a moment longer. Also in no hurry. Feeling a cold flush prickling at the back of his neck, as if in warning. The sensation of being watched. Almost by reflex, Kern glanced up and back, searching for the dire wolf, assuming it had crept down closer.
No sign of the wolf. Instead, Kern’s gaze grabbed at a child who crouched on the upper slope near a clust
er of nettle and purple foxtail. The boy had dark hair, glossy as a raven’s feathers, brown eyes, and a square face he recognized at once. Mal, son of Morag Chieftain!
Four summers, Kern knew, but the boy had size and speed for a lad nearly twice his age. And a sharp mind as well, though the child hid it behind a stoic silence, which also didn’t seem natural for a small boy. One who should be running in a pack of his own, tumbling over his own feet and finding trouble up in the rafters of the lodge house, or setting rafts loose from the docks that lined the nearby shore. Always so serious, so intent.
And set loose to run where no boy of four summers had a mind to be.
Kern did another quick search for the wolf, worried that Frostpaw might not see a child and instead see prey. Part of Kern’s pack the animal might be, following, protecting even, but it was still a wild beast and could run the lad down in mere heartbeats. But Frostpaw had already gone to ground, stalking carefully while so close to so many people. No doubt it would hide for the rest of the day. Perhaps sneak in toward night or run off to hunt.
But always, always to return.
“Come down from there, Mal.” Kern saw no one else so far out from the village. No other boys, and no older man or woman to keep an eye on the chieftain’s son. A dangerous place for him to play. “Come on, now,” he said, a touch stronger.
But the boy gave Kern a curled-lip grin—nearly a snarl of his own—and leaped down the hillside at an angle away from Kern. Hit a smooth, steep shoulder and slid several lengths toward the lakeshore community below.
Glanced back once, eyes flashing a dangerous glare that rocked Kern back on his heels. A chill rushed through Kern, and in the back of his mind dark shadows played.
Nay! He’d not let the power rise again. But his control was slipping, he knew, when a scolded child nearly set him off.
Part of it, he felt certain, was that instant of surprise as the boy’s eyes seemed to burn with a familiar golden fierceness. That single flash of inner fire. But Mal’s eyes were brown and the boy was certainly Cimmerian, born to Morag and the Lacheish woman whom the chieftain had stolen from his rival nearly five years before.
Jumping at shadows.
Kern shook his head. He had enough troubles to worry about without borrowing more. He started down the hill as well, far behind the boy, who fled strongly for the village proper and had already passed Nahud’r as well. Bringing up the rear, just as he had the two weeks before when Cul Chieftain led them into Murrogh.
And, like now, he had both anticipated and dreaded the moment. Hanging back, letting the others approach first. Watching as Brig Tall-Wood stood talking with Cul, always one of the Gaudic chieftain’s friends and strongest supporters. Seeing Reave take his sister’s husband home, to hold once more his niece, his nephew, and grieve again for the loss of his sister and her youngest, whose bodies they’d found in Gaud’s ruin. And Ossian, counting up the two dozen Taurin lives who had escaped a Vanir slaughter not once, but twice. Some even welcomed him warmly as the son of Liam Chieftain.
But other than those few, the greetings had been cautious, and cold. These were warriors who had abandoned their clan—and no matter the reason—once outside, always outside. It was stretching the boundaries of tradition even to welcome or treat with them. To exchange hands, and hugs, and stories shared with food around the fires that night. And Cul had not stood against them, which was a surprise. Though perhaps less so when the entire community had quieted on her arrival.
She was there today as well, of course. Waiting at the wall, with a nod, or a casual hand clasp, as the warriors returned. Kern had learned that quickly as well, through rumor and the talk that filtered back through Daol and Ossian. Nothing happened among this small community, even with it tucked up to the side of Murrogh’s strength, without her notice and approval. Cul still led—he was chieftain, after all—but she stood closest to his side and was the foundation of his strength now. Had to be. He was a chieftain who had let his clan be nearly destroyed. She was Burok Bear-slayer’s daughter, and respected no matter what her condition.
Maev.
She stood the other side of the low, stone wall, hands resting on the uneven top as she guarded the switchback gate through which everyone had passed but Kern. Her blue eyes were deep and calm, and her hair pulled back into a severe tail that hung halfway down her back. She looked pale today, and had dark smudges beneath her eyes.
“First out,” she said, as Kern approached. “Last back.”
“Everyone has come back,” Kern said. “And with good news for Morag Chieftain. That is all that matters.”
“And a dozen Vanir heads on spikes, according to young Ehmish.” Her eyes had a cold, savage bite to them. “That matters as well.”
One of the Gaudic clansfolk taken by Vanir and one of their Ymirish masters, Maev had more reason than most to hate the northerners. To hate him, in fact, though she remained civil enough. Part of their bargain, as he recalled, two nights that he could never forget, no matter the reasons that had led up to them. Her worry, not for what the clan might think, but what only she could know and be forced to recall every day if the worst happened. Her plan, to seek Kern out at those times. To come to him. Taking the devil she’d known over the one who had forced himself upon her.
And a wise precaution it had turned out to be, Kern decided. And could not help the touch of regret, and shame, that burned coldly within him as he came through the gate, and as Maev backed away from him, arms coming down to fold protectively over the slight bulge in her dark, woolen shift.
Her pregnancy had finally begun to show.
7
KERN WAS GIVEN the night to rest, then Morag Chieftain sent for him.
The sun was a dimmed, distant brand, still low on the horizon and working to burn off a thick, gray haze that blanketed the sky. Midday, Kern guessed, before it could free itself. And it would be welcome. A cold snap the night before had powdered the ground with a touch of ice, raising gooseflesh on most of his warriors already up and around. Breath puffed out in thin, frosted streams.
The messenger sent to fetch him along waited while Kern finished off the oat flat cake he’d already torn into several steaming shreds. A brown-eyed warrior with a Murroghan’s square jaw and a scar twisting from the corner of his right eye to the clipped edge of one ear, he shifted from one foot to the other as if trapped inside the small circle of canvas tents set up for those without space—or simply not welcome—inside one of the nearby huts, ready to be away. He spoke briefly with Old Finn, then Nahud’r, waiting while Kern bounced his last two pieces in a well-callused hand to cool them.
Fresh from the cooking fire, with a few early berries mashed into the paste for sweetening, what the flat cakes mostly tasted of was the animal fat in which they’d been fried. Better had been the eggs Ehmish had found, or filched, and the warm, fresh milk Garret Blackpatch bartered from the Murroghan for a few of the best blades brought back from Gorram Village.
Finally, he dug his sword belt out of a nearby tent and strapped it on over the wide leather strap securing the top of his kilt. His chain-mail vest and a new knife to replace the dagger he’d given up in Gorram, and the bloody spear he’d already carried so far, and he was ready.
“Morag allows you to bring two men.”
Daol had slipped away early with Aodh, before sun’s rise, to hunt the slopes of the Black Mountains. Reave was within sight, coloring the water at the lake’s nearby edge, but the large man was more comfortable with action than talk.
“Nahud’r,” Kern said, and caught another flat cake tossed to him by the Shemite. He nodded his thanks, drew his knife to impale the cake before it burned his hand, and motioned for the dark-skinned man to follow.
Another glance around. “Ehmish.”
“Yea, Kern?” The young man said it with such enthusiasm, Kern almost relented and let the lad come. But not when he didn’t know the chieftain’s mood. “Sorry. Nay. Go kick some doors. Rouse Ossian from whatever bed he’s found
. Have him catch up before we reach the lodge hall.”
It was a short, muscle-warming run to reach the lifted gate that allowed entry onto the large spit of land thrusting out into the lake. The calm waters reflected back a clear blue sky this morning, with the sun scattering its light in a thousand sparkles spread far out as the eye could see. Kern walked around a disguised pitfall, set just beyond the gate, and chose one of the nearby paths before the Murroghan warrior could order him forward. The trio scattered a flock of chickens and chased off a bleating goat, twisting between homes and huts as they worked their way up a rocky upthrust to the magnificent lodge set atop with a commanding view of the lake and several leagues of shoreline. It would take much for the Murroghan war host to be caught off their guard.
The lodge itself was equally impressive. Easily as large as T’hule Chieftain’s lodge back in Conarch, the Murrogh had used quite a bit more stone and massive, rough-hewn timbers to help support a roof not thatched but shaked with split cedar. Built long and low, to resist the winds which at times stormed across the lake, it could pack inside its sturdy walls the men of Clan Murrogh and likely those of several neighboring villages as well.
Ossian caught up with the trio just short of the lodge hall, hardly winded from his sprint but scowling with his head half-shaven and the crusted scar on the right side of his head slathered over with the stale grease he’d been using to stand up the dark, bristling hairs.
“Yea, and you couldn’t give me a moment more,” he said.
Kern tossed Ossian the uneaten half of flat cake he’d carried along, sheathed his knife, and tied a leather stay about the handle. “Morag Chieftain wants to talk.”
Not just to the outcast leader, either. Kern counted half a dozen standard-bearing spears, each one driving into the ground outside of the Murroghan lodge hall. He recognized the antlers of nearby Galt, and Borat’s opossum’s tail. Small villages, but hardy, and each able to put forward at least a score of strong warriors. Kern might have counted up each of the others by name and likely numbers as well, except that he saw the next one in line—with its collection of ebony fangs dangling down on thin, white cord—and, recognizing them, suddenly shouldered his way past the messenger for the darkened lodge hall doors and through the small knot of people crowded just inside.
Age of Conan: Songs of Victory: Legends of Kern, Volume IIl Page 7