“Kern!”
Maev grabbed at him before he shoved past her, pulling him in at her side with a grip like steel and a sharp dig of her fingernails into his flesh. Cul glanced over from Maev’s other side, where he’d been speaking with Brig Tall-Wood, then away again. Even in the dim light, falling through the door and a few narrow windows, Kern recognized from the small groups clustered around them representatives from the several gathered clans and villages. All of whom waited to be taken back through the long house, where the leader of Clan Murrogh and many of his clansmen must have been holding a private council.
“Clan Galla,” Kern said, as Ossian and Nahud’r caught up. The messenger, his task accomplished, left the unruly outcasts among their own. “I saw tokens outside of the Spider’s Teeth tribe. Have the Galla come down out of the hills?”
“Survivors have,” Maev said. “We do not have the entire story yet. Morag Chieftain bids us wait.” She released him then, obviously trusting Kern to be reminded of his place.
He did. He also noticed Maev’s sudden closeness. Could smell her clean, damp hair, washed in the lake only this morning no doubt, hanging in thick tangles over both shoulders. He saw the restlessness in her eyes. Her thin, compressed lips, the pale touch on her cheeks.
Morning sick again, he guessed.
At least he could be happy that she lived, even if catching pregnant with child had been among her most undesired fears. Kern had wondered for months what might have happened to Burok Bear-slayer’s daughter. Thought of her. Kept her memory close and recalled her every time he caught her scent—or believed that he did—on the blanket they’d shared.
He remembered the first moment when she’d touched him, recoiling as if burned. But she hadn’t been so put off to leave. Or, more likely, she’d been desperate enough to set aside her fear. Her revulsion.
He also recalled the few moments of kindness she’d showed him when she’d had no reason to. All but challenging Cul when the Gaudic chieftain cast Kern out on Burok’s funeral march.
But mostly, he remembered the words she had spoken to him on her father’s deathbed. The day before Burok’s passing. Kern had come from within the draped sickbed, ducking quickly under the hanging bearskins in his hurry to escape the foul, rotting odor of the black gangrene eating away at his chieftain’s leg. There had been Maev, working, honing daggers, oiling them against further rust. Busy-work, certainly, but work that still benefited the clan.
Setting aside the most recent blade, she had looked him to the door and waited until he was ready to pass through, back to the fresh air and the cold grip of winter.
“It should be you,” she said then.
Lying on the deathbed instead of her father. Brain feverish and blood poisoned by the slow, crawling death eating away his leg.
He remembered. Clearly as if it had been yesterday.
He wished he didn’t.
“Wolf-Eye!”
The summons came from the far end of the lodge, barked in a deep, strong voice with just a touch of rasp to it. A voice made to carry, to be heard through the deep clefts of the mountains or along the darkest forest paths.
Kern felt Cul’s glare burn at the back of his neck as he stepped forward, drawing Nahud’r and Ossian after him as they left the others behind. They strode down the empty central aisle, which gave way on both sides to long tables and benches, and cold, dark fire pits. Only a few flickering torches lighted the way. Kern had seen the room packed to bursting with lively talk and gaming and feasting, filled with the scents of meat sizzling over open flame and of strong wine and mead. But that was not this day, this moment.
Now the trio approached the far end of the cold, dim hall and a much more select gathering. Men whom Kern recognized with their tattooed faces and chests, and their dark hair pulled up into topknots. Others whom he did not, right away, with braided beards, and ritualistic scars slashing up the sides of their faces. All of them were filthy from what had to be days of hard travel and fighting. Bloodied, he saw, and bedraggled. And for every one of them at least two of Morag Chieftain’s kinsmen stood nearby. Twenty . . . thirty men and women all told, surrounding their leader, clearly stamped with the looks of Clan Murrogh. Morag’s strongest warriors or most sage advisors.
And his family, of course. Kern spotted Deirdre at once, her youth only slightly spoiled since being taken as Morag’s new wife five summers back. She still shaved the hair over her temples in Lacheish fashion, but she appeared comfortable enough as the chieftain’s wife, standing next to her husband’s chair with one hand on his shoulder. With the other she held the hand of their young son, Mal, who stamped and shifted about, always straining against his mother’s grip, wanting to be away.
A waste of time, and a distraction, keeping the boy leashed down for such a meeting. Mayhap he would be Morag’s heir one day, if Jaryyd was not allowed to return. But for now he was far too young to be included. Kern found himself wishing that the wild boy would break his mother’s hold and dash off.
“Close enough, Wolf-Eye,” Morag growled as Kern approached, barely stepping inside the large circle of men and women. His dark, dark eyes watched every move around him with quick, furtive gestures. “You’ve brought it?”
If the chieftain’s young son at times tweaked Kern’s sensibilities, Morag positively offended them. The man had once been a powerfully built warrior with a great reputation for sword and the strength of his rule. The song sung of him most was a daring summer raid against Clan Lacheish where his men had taken ten cattle and Morag himself had taken a wife who was nearly as valuable. Daughter of Cailt Stonefist, Deirdre was a prize if for no other reason than her influence among some of the small, upcountry villages. And Morag had taken her—and held her—from the east’s largest and strongest clan.
But there were other songs, and these were of the misfortunes that soon fell on Clan Murrogh. Morag himself fell ill on the journey home, taking an infection after one last skirmish deep in the Frost Swamp off the Hoath Plateau. He had lost weight, a great deal of it, and his hair had fallen out in patches. No one had given him odds for survival.
Except that he had. Regaining some of his strength, and fathering a child on Deirdre. The boy bound her to Clan Murrogh more strongly than any other custom, and though by all whispered tales her husband quickly grew tired of her, she had stood by her duty as wife and mother.
Morag was no longer possessed of the great strength of his tales. The man had sunken eyes and pale, loose skin. His hair was thin and wispy, though still dark, and his teeth were gray, rotting stumps. Nor did he pick up a sword to lead his people forward in battle. For that, he had war leaders. Most recently, Crom had delivered Cul Chieftain to Murrogh, and it seemed a good match. Cul traded his strength and cunning against the Murroghan’s generosity and protection for his people.
And for that, if no other reason, Kern accepted the man. Morag might be the choice forced upon him, but Cimmeria needed strength wherever it could be found.
Morag frowned as if sensing his thoughts, and Kern chided himself. The anger buried at the back of his mind stirred and was ruthlessly smothered. The man was known to sniff out trouble. Kern knew better than to go looking for it.
He reined himself back in, if slowly.
“You have it?” Morag asked again, this time more forceful. There was little lost from his strong voice, at least.
“Yea, Murrogh Chieftain.” Kern had peace-bonded his sword and dagger, as was required, but he carried the bloody spear still wrapped in its small shroud of woolen blanket. He cradled it in one arm, as a mother might her newborn. Unwrapping the broken shaft, he gripped it by one end and held it flat out toward the other man.
Not threatening. Not in any manner.
Still, Morag recoiled slightly, as if wanting to sink into the clean rushes that were woven in a covering mat for his high-backed seat. “Gorram Village has pledged their support to me?”
“Against the Vanir,” Kern said, steering the conversation with great
care. “The northern raiders have raided Gorram twice. I do not believe they will be back.”
The chieftain laughed. Cold, but not completely unpleasant. He reached up and scratched deeply at a bald spot within his hair. Plucked out a long strand and dropped it on the floor. “Killed them all, did your wolves?”
“Most, but not all.” Kern still held out the spear, but the chieftain gave no orders for anyone to take it from him. He lowered it. “Jaryyd caught a few of the escaping men, however, and finished what we began.”
At the mention of his older son Morag grew agitated. “Do not throw his name about so casually, Kern Wolf-Eye. Especially in mine own lodge.” He shifted his gaze left, and right, then settled back. “I should declare him cast out and be quit of him. Him and his cutthroats.”
The casual viciousness rankled, but Kern swallowed back a sharp response. “Any sword raised in the name of Morag Chieftain strengthens all of Murrogh,” he said. “And all of Cimmeria.” Reminding the man of the other clans gathered without, and within.
“Yea, well, some new blades may have been found, Kern Wolf-Eye, which is why you have been summoned.” He nodded to the small gathering of Galla, and those whom Kern had finally recognized as belonging to Clan Hoath. “It seems your Vanir threaten to overrun the plateau.”
“Morag Chieftain,” one of the Hoathi complained. This one had three scars slashing across each cheek, and white hairs grew from them amid his dark, lustrous beard. “We waste time discussing small villages and wayward sons. We have peoples, both of us”—he included the Galla in a curt nod—“being hunted down and slaughtered. Clan Hoath has been turned away by the Lacheishi, so your strength is all we have left to ask after, but I will not waste another moment in the presence of your pet Ymirish.”
So this man, at least, knew very well of Kern’s blood, and Grimnir’s brood. The Hoathi spat the Ymirish name out with as much venom as he could, and his dark glare all but threatened violence.
Kern readied himself, but Morag intervened with a dark glance and darker voice. “You’ll nay tell me what will be. Not in mine own lodge, Hogann.” He waited, and the Hoathi, recognizing his weakness, settled back. “Tell him.” He nodded to Kern, but his eyes never left the Hoathi. “Tell this one what you told me.”
Hogann had a large, cruel mouth that drew itself out into a strained grimace. As if he’d bitten into something distasteful. “Vanir!” he said. “By the dozens and by the scores. We held them down all winter. But then, as the snow finally thinned, they massed together behind a great northern demon and smashed at us again. And again. Always driving us back. Always clipping off a piece of our strength, here or there. The plateau’s edge. Horace Falls.”
He snarled at Kern, as if it had been his fault. “This last month, we gave up the Field of the Chiefs.”
Even though they’d certainly heard the story already, several men among Morag’s advisors made large fists. A few beat against the sides of their legs, their chests. Angered beyond simple words.
For his part, Kern was also taken with a cold, speechless fury. And he expected a similar reaction among his own warriors, and those clans who waited for word back by the lodge doors. The Field of the Chiefs was a revered place among Cimmerians. By legend, the ground where Crom battled Ymir, the frost-giant god of the north, and finally threw the great beast down in defeat. If there was a greater place of power in Cimmeria, it could only be Ben Morgh and the House of Crom itself.
And the great demon of which Hogann spoke?
“Grimnir.” Kern said the name in a whisper, cautious and careful. Though even mention of the giant-kin was enough to set off new, painful sparks behind his eyes.
The Hoathi nodded. “Yea. Blood of Ymir hisself. Saw him, I did, and amazed to live to tell of it. Took a spear through the throat and pulled it out as if it were nay trouble at all. Skin like corpse flesh and the face of a beast. Half again as tall as our strongest man. Surrounded by his tall warriors, and spidery sorcerers who draw down storm clouds from the sky and raise the walking dead from the ground. Dead-frost hair, all of them. And eyes like great wolves. Eyes like yours.”
Hogann took a strong step forward, several of his men pressing up behind him, hand on the hilt of his sword. Madness spun in his gray eyes. A blinding rage like the kind Kern had come to know so well. Certainly a threat that anyone could recognize.
Kern recoiled, dropping back into a ready crouch. He already held a freed weapon—the only person in the room to do so—and reversed the bloody spear with a quick flourish, holding it up at shoulder level with one hand clasped just behind the blue-iron head, and his other braced against the butt, ready to thrust it home through the man’s heart if he so much as took one more step.
Nahud’r and Ossian jumped forward, flanking Kern, hands to the hilts of their blades and damned be the courtesies due Morag’s presence. Several more Hoathi reached for blades, and there were shouts of “Treacher!” and “Ymirish!” used as curses.
Other shouts, from the front of the lodge hall.
The sound of running feet.
A boy’s laugh, as Morag’s son found the sudden chaos entertaining.
The first swords rasped free, and Kern’s cold flesh warmed with sudden strength as he prepared to sell himself as dearly as needs be. But the blades belonged only to the kin of Morag. Murroghan men and women who jumped forward to put a fence of sharpened steel between the Hoathi and Kern’s small trio. Most of the blades pointed in Kern’s direction. Most of the angry glares as well.
“Kern! Nay!”
The command came from behind him, but Kern did not relax his posture. Not when Hogann and his men had yet to back down, and so much naked steel sided against him. It took all he could do not to strike the first blow. To cut and slice and call up the strength that boiled in his blood, so desperate for release that Kern felt it charging into his muscles, taking control as his arms readied for the first, violent thrust.
Then cold steel kissed the side of his neck as Cul’s sword slid up from behind, tucking a sharp edge just beneath Kern’s left ear.
“Back down, Wolf-Eye.” Cul’s voice was soft and dangerous. His wrist a simple turn from letting out Kern’s life. “If someone has to die today, it will be you.”
Morag Chieftain had never left his chair, though several of his best men had crowded in around him and his wife. The boy had escaped his mother’s grasp at last, though, and crouched off to one side, eyes darting from Kern to Hogann to Cul, then to Kern again. He seemed merrily excited about the idea of bloodshed in the lodge hall.
An inexcusable insult, should it happen.
“Kern?” Maev stepped up to his side, slipping between him and Ossian. Her belly brushed against him, and the spark of warmth that jumped from her to him in that moment shattered Kern’s concentration.
He glanced in her direction. Read the concern and not a little fear as the tension in the room continued to mount.
“Kern.” She raised her hand, slowly, and put it on his arm. Gently, firmly, she pushed against his straining muscles. “Take hold of yourself.”
He tried. Desperately he tried. A violet haze, like the af terimage of a lightning strike, blurred his vision. He felt the threats building around him. Morag’s men. Hoathi. Cul at his back with a blade right up against Kern’s throat! Only Maev’s calming words helped him reason through it. Helped him fight back the flood of power. He let his arm be pushed aside and down, lowering the spear he held until it pointed harmlessly at the lodge hall’s stone floor.
Then, with a violent shrug, he slapped Cul’s sword from his neck and spun away. Retreating from the chieftain’s council, the Hoathi and Galla, and his own people.
“Ymirish!” Hogann’s call chased after him. “We are not finished yet!”
But Kern was. For now. He was quit of the council and the company of so many men he could not trust. Seeking a quiet moment to regain his temper and control.
Before he tore the entire lodge hall down to bare, broken earth.
<
br /> CUL FOUND HIM, not long after, standing down by the lake’s edge. Bringing Brig Tall-Wood along.
Kern felt their approach without having to look behind him. He simply knew. A sound . . . a taste. It was there, in the back of his mind. Warm and heavy and a touch burned, like flat cakes left to the fire too long.
He grabbed the sides of his head and squeezed, wanting simply to push the thoughts, that dark roiling power, out of his head and away from him. Far away. It wasn’t natural or sane. He shouldn’t “simply know” such things. Just as he knew Ossian and Nahud’r waited farther up the trail, in the shadow of the lodge hall. Watching over him. Waiting for him to come back of his own choice.
Cul had never been so patient.
“Quite a display,” the Gaudic chieftain said.
“Pull it back,” Kern whispered, still working at his control. Staring into the sun-dappled waters. “Drown it.”
He felt stronger, at least. Stronger than he had in Morag’s lodge. Strong enough, now, to glance back, though he never quite released his focus on the lake. He needed something large, and calming, to help smother his roiling thoughts.
Brig did stand next to Cul, though the warrior looked less comfortable now than he had several months before, in Gaud, after helping Cul claim his place as chieftain. Nothing too obvious. It was in the way he shifted from one foot to the other. The gaze, which flicked from Kern to Cul. And the tense muscles, as if he stood ready to draw his blade at any moment in service to one, or both, of them.
A beast with two masters.
He immediately felt the worse for making such a comparison. Was this how Kern repaid a man who had saved his life several times over? Actions spoke louder than empty words ever would!
But Cul, Kern had little reason to hide either his dislike or distrust of the man. “Does Morag Chieftain summon me back?” he asked, as if speaking to a simple messenger.
Age of Conan: Songs of Victory: Legends of Kern, Volume IIl Page 8