Age of Conan: Songs of Victory: Legends of Kern, Volume IIl

by Loren Coleman

  Cul glowered, his face darkening. “Take care, Wolf-Eye.” But he did not advance on Kern. “Nay,” he finally said. “Morag Chieftain speaks with the Hoathi and the Galla. He will likely forget your outburst since the man threatened you.”

  He swallowed against a tight knot in his throat. Pull it back! “I did nay see your blade near Hogann’s neck.”

  “And you shouldn’t. Clan Hoath is strong, and would make a better ally than your dirtscrabble pack. Isn’t that what matters? Forming the strongest alliance possible to face the Vanir?”

  “If we are ever set to face the Vanir,” Kern said, letting a touch of rebellion color his voice. Anger peaked up again, sending a thrill coursing through him. He recalled Jaryyd’s words. “Are you certain we won’t push for the highland lakes?”

  Cul shrugged. “With Clan Hoath as an ally, all villages from here to the Eiglophians will flock to our standard. Clan Lacheish will nay be able to stand against us then. They will accept a peace, and an alliance, or we will crush them for good.”

  “You are gaining Morag’s obsession with Clan Lacheish. An obsessed man does not make good decisions. Cimmeria can afford one enemy now. One! And that is Grimnir. Try to remember that.”

  “Did you remember it, Wolf-Eye, when you nearly caused a brawl in Morag’s lodge hall?”

  “I’ve done worse among better,” Kern said. Thinking of Ros-Crana. T’hule Chieftain. Sláine Longtooth. What a force those clan chieftains might have raised!

  “Kern—” Brig said, taking a warning step forward, but Cul cut him off with a raised hand, just as done with caution.

  “Wolves take you back for their own, Kern! What do you think to accomplish, insulting Morag Chieftain and Clan Hoath?”

  “More than you did for Gaud, cutting away at our strength right when we would need it most!”

  Kern had pushed past all boundaries. He knew it. And didn’t care. When Cul clawed for his sword, he leaped forward as well.

  To find Brig Tall-Wood standing suddenly between them. One hand clamped around Cul’s wrist, keeping his chieftain and Morag’s war leader from drawing blade. The other with his own blade out and ready, brandished in Kern’s direction.

  “Back down! By Crom, Kern, I mean it.”

  Kern could have swept Brig aside with ease to get at Cul. To get at someone. The scent of blood was thick with every breath. He tasted the warm, metallic flavor of it at the back of his throat. His need for it drove him to the edge as power raged behind his eyes, never fully banked since the confrontation in Morag’s lodge hall. Like a living thing, or a force guided by another’s hand, it surged and pressed and hammered at Kern for its release.

  Knowing there was such a part of him he could not control, could not understand, Kern feared it. Feared it so much he had kept a stranglehold on that pressure for several weeks. And, like any dam forced by a raging torrent, his was also weakening. Letting small trickles seep past. Bending under the weight of so much strength.

  Even now, though, he refused to give in. And no matter what else Brig was about, straddling the great divide between Gaud’s survivors and Kern’s outcasts, his actions swept aside so easily and forgotten. By the simplest laws of nature, he had served the pack well, and Kern did not, ever, forget one of his own.

  Pull it back. Drown it!

  Nowhere else to go with the power raging at the forefront of his mind, Kern spun away from the confrontation and pushed his confusion and anger out into the lake, beneath its calm, cool waters. An instinctive reaction, but leaving him feeling the better for it. Setting himself back on even footing for the first time since entering the lodge.

  It gave him control enough, for now, he managed to wrestle back the beast’s great strength, caging it once again in the darker shadows. Chaining it down. Never, never wanting to loose it again.

  Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard the echoes of a frustrated roar.

  He looked around, sweating and spent. Brig had succeeded in pushing Cul away by several paces. But the other man’s dark look promised that Kern’s words would not be soon forgotten.

  “We are not done, Wolf-Eye.”

  Kern nodded. He believed it. What was between them reached too far back. To Cul’s declaring him cast out from the clan. The animosity that had always welled up between the two, even as youths.

  But Kern also had something new to chew on, now that his thoughts were back in order. Something Cul had asked of him without realizing how important the question truly was. What was Kern trying to accomplish here? With the raging power no long blinding him, he still could not see an answer, and it bothered Kern more than he wanted to admit.

  He looked up the trail, where Nahud’r and Ossian stood, torn between rushing down to involve themselves and waiting for some call, some signal. Kern sent them one. He circled a hand overhead, then pointed off in the general direction of the Gaudic community.

  They rose and set off at once, together, to round up the others; whatever Kern had in mind.

  Not much, actually. Only the shadows of a new plan. One that needed discussing among the entire pack. Kern waited until Cul and Brig moved off, then he followed as well.

  And none of them saw the underwater rocks, nestled in the mud near the shore, glowing a dull, dark red as they began to boil the lake water.

  8

  KERN GAVE HIS warriors the week to decide.

  Fate allowed them three days.

  That afternoon rolled in with a taste of early summer. A cloudless, bright sapphire sky and the sun, having already crossed the line between winter and summer solstice, hanging in it fairly high, smiling down with a lasting, buttery warmth. It sparkled in a thousand tiny gems out on the lake waters. Quickly dried the morning dew. Encouraged children to leave off their chores for games of chase, stripping down naked for a dive into the lake, and playing at King Conan.

  Not a game most parents approved of, of course. They might tell Conan’s tall tales around fires and lodge hall feasts, but just as often his name was slapped out as an insult. A lesson not meant to be followed. Conan, for all his legendary exploits, ultimately chose to abandon his clan and Cimmeria.

  And once outside the clans, forever outside. A lesson Kern had learned very, very well.

  But it was hard to explain such to excitable boys and more than a few girls who used large, thick branches for swords and buckets for shields. Each staked out a claim on the green slopes rising up from Murrogh, and it became a contest of who could knock the others down, claiming the highest point for themselves. There was bruising and a great deal of laughter.

  Kern watched their play for a short time while taking a break on the practice grounds. Sweaty, aching, he had dip pered up a large cup of water from a nearby barrel. Now, looking up, he poured the tepid water over his face and shoulders, washing away the salty taste burning on his lips. Clearing his eyes.

  The children could stay at it for hours, he knew, listening to their distant calls and their curses. Watching one get clubbed against the shoulder, hard, knocked over to tumble down the grassy slope. The other boy raised his mighty sword overhead in victory, shouting a high-pitched battle cry; only to have one of the girls sneak up behind him and take his legs out with a quick, vicious swipe. Then he, too, made that long, desperate fall toward the bottom, clambering right back up again.

  Kings rose. Kings fell. Doing one’s best in battle seemed to be the important thing.

  And so it was, he decided, returning to his own training.

  The clan warriors did not bother so much with tricky slopes and carefree rules. Murrogh’s practice grounds sat on a wide, flat area not far from the slopes, cleared of most brush and surrounded on three sides by the Gaudic settlement and two of the larger warrior encampments. Wooden targets set up against moldering straw bales provided an archery range for bow and arrow. Cleared ground, packed down hard, for grappling and tests of strength. And several Challenge Circles set down with rings of stones or simply cut into the ground by the point of a b
lade.

  Here the men and women rallied by Clan Murrogh wrestled and fought for wagers or simply for honor. It was where they worked hard to improve their swordplay, their fighting ability. Kern had led a handful of his men to the field today, each taking his turn inside a circle, defending against one attacker after another. Reave’s greatsword. Gard Foehammer’s pike. Kern’s nimble blade. Others trickled in as morning turned over into afternoon, until most of his warriors and many from the Gaudic community had gathered here. Daol and Brig and Aodh split away to challenge each other with bows at thirty paces, then sixty. Desagrena watched Ossian wrestle with Mogh, offering advice on handholds. Not all of them kind.

  Most, however, stayed with the Challenge Circle. Demanding, and not a little dangerous with naked blades being used to batter aside shields and sword strokes. Looking for that opening, and being able to pull away just in time to prevent real injury, it took masterful control and a disciplined mind. Not just muscle and heavy steel.

  Of course, that didn’t explain why Reave still held his position at the center of the circle, having knocked Kern out four rounds before, then dealing just as easily with Ehmish and Gard and Danon.

  Now he fought Nahud’r, the two circling each other carefully. Like most of the Cimmerians, Reave wore nothing but kilt and boots. That and the dark thatch of hair that covered his massive chest and broad back. Sweat glistened on his face, his arms.

  Nahud’r had pulled on the tattered remains of his southern-style breeks this morning, the black silk pants he’d worn when captured by the Vanir. And a loose, sleeveless jerkin. He’d cast aside the scarf he often kept wrapped about his head when traveling. The polished blade of his scimitar flashed in the sun as he shifted from one stance to another, anticipating Reave’s next attack.

  Reave’s performance had drawn a small crowd of warriors from several different clans, men and women who stood at the edge of the circle, cheering or offering advice, or simply watching and waiting. Kern recognized a few with the scarred cheeks of Hoathi. More with the hook-shaped noses common among Clan Borat and the squared jaw of Murrogh.

  And there was Mal, again. Morag’s young son, left to run wild over the compound as the boy saw fit. He stood between two large men, Hoathi and Murroghan, his eyes bright and alive with interest, idly plucking long strands of dark hair from his head as if keeping score in some fashion. Like the others, he watched for the first mistake. But he did not join in with a rowdy cheer or even a child’s laugh, Kern noticed. The boy stood mute, ignoring the boisterous calls of men and women who stood around him.

  Some offered wagers on Reave, for his size and sheer strength. A few backed the Shemite, for his exotic appearance if nothing else.

  Reave’s sword point hovered about the height of Nahud’r’s chest. He stayed flat-footed against the ground for greater stability. Strong, Cimmerian style. When he moved in, it was with a great leap and a savage, hoarse cry.

  Nahud’r took Reave’s first blow against the light shield he raised overhead, ducking beneath the attack.

  His scimitar flashed back once, and again, in small, biting movements that could have cut deep into Reave’s legs, his stomach. But the large man was no easy target. He pulled his sword back on guard, deflecting the fast, slashing strikes.

  Then it was Nahud’r moving in on a pressing attack.

  There was no warning. No shift of movement or even in the eyes that Kern saw. The dark-skinned man sprang forward with blade flashing and striking and slashing from every direction in a whirlwind of activity. He whirled around in a graceful, dancing spin, the wide flange on the end of his sword ringing again and again against Reave’s heavy Cimmerian blade. Several men hooted and cheered in delight at the performance.

  But Reave was not to be bested this day. He kept his greatsword on guard, deflecting one attack after another. “Sure, and you . . . are a feisty one.”

  The words came out in gasping breaths, but there was a smile in his voice. Slowly he shuffled about in the Challenge Circle to turn Nahud’r in close toward the ring of stones. Too late, the dark-skinned warrior realized how close he was to the boundary, and he overreached himself trying to turn back into the center of the arena and keep up his attack at the same time.

  It was all the opening Reave needed.

  Knocking Nahud’r’s scimitar up in a high, blocking sweep, he stepped in and delivered a heavy kick into the Shemite’s gut. Nahud’r folded over, and Reave came back down with his greatsword to smack the flat of the blade against the back of the other man’s neck. Another head collected.

  Then Reave gave the Shemite’s rump a second kick, propelling him from the circle to the cheers and laughter of many in the small audience. Nahud’r stumbled over the encircling stones and fell, but rolled off his shoulder and quickly back to his feet with the catlike grace he’d become known for among Kern’s pack. The dark-skinned man rubbed at his bruised stomach, grinning wide to show his white, white teeth.

  He touched his chest and his forehead, then saluted Reave with a quick wave.

  “Fearsome,” he said. “When your front side you offer the enemy. Not the back.”

  It took Reave a moment to realize Nahud’r referred to the arrow he’d taken in the rump the week before, but then he laughed full and strong. “Yea. A blow to my pride, that was.”

  Grinning, he waved off two new challenges by Garret Blackpatch and another from Ehmish, finally surrendering the arena. So it was those two who took the circle next while Reave and Nahud’r joined Kern near the water barrel. Hydallan also sat nearby, with the wrapped bloody spear laid across his lap. And Danon, a shallow cut on his arm being wrapped by Old Finn. Earlier, Danon had let his concentration waver. It wasn’t a mistake he’d soon forget. Or likely repeat.

  Reave didn’t bother with the ladle, but simply dunked his entire head in the barrel, then whipped back up, spraying a sheet of water from of his long hair. “Yea. A good afternoon.”

  Kern agreed. Though he could hardly call himself warmed by the activity. No matter the sun or the false flush of color to his normally pale skin, inside he was chilled. That touch of winter deep down in his bones, like the cold taste that blew down off the Black Mountains.

  Still, his muscles had a looseness about them that felt good. And he’d counted a strong showing from nearly all his warriors this day.

  Except Danon. Who hissed as Old Finn finished tying the bandage off over the wound.

  “Wallach would have bitten out a piece of your hide to go along with the gash,” Kern said.

  Wallach Graybeard knew more about teaching swordplay and had fought in more Clan feuds than anyone else in Kern’s pack. Falling into the role of weapons master for the group, even with one hand he was as canny and savage a fighter as Kern might hope to lead.

  The Taurin nodded, recognizing the truth of it. “I would have deserved the bite,” he agreed. “Losing my grip that way.” He glanced back over one shoulder, as if worried that Wallach might be stalking up behind him even now.

  He wasn’t.

  In fact, Wallach Graybeard was the only man whom Kern had not seen this day. Most everyone else had taken turns with the Challenge Circle, or worked with Daol on their archery. Doing a quick glance over the practice grounds, Kern even saw Valerus, the southern cavalryman, running his mount hard along the far side of the fields, racing two Murrogh riders who sat their chargers bareback. Valerus carried one of the metal-tipped lances he favored from horseback. The Cimmerians used lighter, faster spears.

  As a unit the three horsemen turned, advanced, then wheeled around and raced back in the other direction. All under Valerus’s lead. Not surprising. Cimmerians were no great horsemen, even on the eastern plains. While Valerus had trained most of his life to fight from horseback.

  But nay Wallach.

  Mayhap he was ill. Or tired. Or simply healing, Kern decided. The older man had reopened the wounds on his wrist several times, pushing too hard as they came across the Black Mountains, and even lately in the bat
tle at Gorram Village. Better, then, that he stay at ease. Take the entire week Kern had offered them all to rest and think about the very simple question he’d put to them.

  What did they hope to accomplish?

  He hadn’t considered the idea that fate would intervene. Though perhaps he should have, as he saw Cul Chieftain appear on the practice grounds not a dozen heartbeats after thinking the question to himself once again.

  The Gaudic leader looked less happy than at their last encounter. He strode forward as if he were crushing the life out of some enemy beneath each step, grinding his anger beneath his heels. No doubt of his destination, as he made a straight line for Kern’s small pack.

  So focused on Cul, Kern did not think about the clansman who followed after him. Did not recognize the man at all, in fact, until they were less than twenty paces away, and by then even Reave had noticed Cul’s determined approach.

  “Trouble,” the large man muttered. And shifted around to put his large frame between Kern and their former chieftain.

  He never reached for his sword, for which Kern was grateful. But there was no doubt that Kern’s warriors had all shifted into a protective semicircle. Cul saw it as well and stopped several paces short with the other clansman stepping up next to him.

  “You guested with these warriors?” he asked Kern. It wasn’t a casual question, but one barked out coldly. More like an accusation.

  Kern recognized the second man as a tribesman of Clan Galla by his tattoos and topknot. And yea, he remembered this one particularly by the thunderbird design stretched over his face, its wingtips slashing from temple to temple in a dark, blue band across the eyes. One of the warriors who’d captured Daol and himself on the trail over the Pass of Noose. And had later saved Daol’s life from the spider’s poison. One of Tahg Chieftain’s men.

  He also remembered the man from Morag’s lodge hall, standing to one side in cautious silence as Kern’s men and the Hoathi nearly came to blows. That had been three days before, and very little had filtered out into the encampments about the Galla since that time. Only some little news of the Hoathi and the talk of alliance.