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

by Loren Coleman

  Afterward, Ehmish panted, staring at the glassy burns, sweat standing out on his forehead, his upper lip. He sat up, looked to Kern. “Wallach,” he said as if just remembering. “Have you seen to him?”

  Only Reave and Desagrena and Nahud’r were also close enough to hear his question. Desa hissed in a sharp breath. The two men glanced uncertainly at Graybeard, last to rise and just beginning to stir on the far side of the clearing.

  “Why for?” Reave asked. “Nay saw anything wrong with him.”

  But Ehmish looked suddenly afraid. Not for himself, though. “His wrist, Kern.”

  It was more in the way Ehmish said it, Kern decided later, that sent him quickly across the camp despite Desa’s call to wait. He remembered the fresh blood on bandages. The recent pale, slack skin and day sweats. An illness, he’d thought. Anything else, and Wallach would naturally tell him, get himself taken care of. Wouldn’t he?

  Apparently not. The old veteran was still half-dressed and had yet to strap the leather cuff over his amputated wrist. Tied only in a loose bandage of boiled cloth, there was no hiding the black corruption circling his wrist like a foul bracelet, or the dark, infected veins that bulged and twisted up the inside of his arm.

  Or the stench it gave off. Wet, rotting flesh. An odor that reached back in Kern’s mind to dredge up memories of Burok Bear-slayer, and the slow, lingering death the Gaudic chieftain had known.

  Gangrene!

  Wallach pulled his arm away from Kern’s grasp. But not before Kern felt the feverish heat burning in the skin. Wallach’s eyes had dark smudges under them, and his face was pale and sweating.

  “Leave me be, Kern. Nay anything for it.”

  Now they were pulling in a crowd. Galla who looked at the wound and made a warding gesture. Looks of concern—even horror—from Wallach’s companions in Kern’s small pack. Brig Tall-Wood hissed through clenched teeth. Old Finn stomped away, muttering to himself over and over, “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “You didn’t say anything?” Kern knelt on one knee next to his man. The veteran who had saved his life many times and had taught him a warrior’s skills. “How do you nay say a thing about this?”

  “Nothing to say,” Wallach groused. He lay back on his blanket. Tired, tired. “Turned black on the way to Gorram. Desa helped me treat it. We shave the corruption away every morning. But it’s in my blood now. You’ve seen what this does. I can only hold it off for as long as I’m able.”

  “We could have tried another cut. Off at the elbow.” A dangerous attempt, but possible. Men lived through it. “We might have saved it.”

  “And mayhap we wouldn’t. And there I’d be, stretched out on some floor again, fighting the tremors and the infections. And nay any use to you at all.”

  Wallach sat up again, struggled to his feet without help. Kern rose with him. “I thought of it, back at Murrogh. You think I wouldn’t? I nay wanted to go through it again, Kern, but I thought of it. And then we’re talking about the northern trek, and there was nay any time.”

  “You might have stayed behind.”

  Wallach shook his head. “Where you go”—he nodded to Kern, to some of the others who stood close by—“I go.”

  Crom’s bloody hand! What was Kern supposed to say to that?

  Not much, as Wallach pushed away from him for the nearby forest. Leaving Kern standing there. Mute. Unable to fathom the depths of such a sacrifice. For the pack? For him?

  What had he truly done to deserve the loyalty of such men and women? Led them off into danger. Bought them a half year of hardship and pains. And each of them paid for it. They paid in blood and sweat and the scars both little and great. Reave’s shoulder and Ehmish’s side. Garret’s eye, clawed out by one of Grimnir’s snow cats. Wallach’s hand, taken in that same battle. Ashul’s life.

  Ashul. He still could not shake the memory of her death. Lying in the muck and rainwater at Gaud. Staring up at the pack, barely seeing, as she stammered out his name.

  Whu . . . Wull . . . It had taken great effort for her, choking as blood filled her lungs. Wol . . . Wolf!

  He’d leaned in close. Wishing there had been anything to do for her.

  Whu-whun . . . One of . . .

  One of them. She hadn’t finished her accusation, but Kern knew. He knew. This had been her price for leaving the clan. For following an outcast. Ashul knew it. One of the Taurin who had joined him with Ossian and Mogh and Danon. A fine warrior, and a good woman who had become important to Aodh as well; until her death it had seemed that Kern’s pack led a charmed existence. Some close calls, but every warrior surviving battle, after battle, after battle.

  But not then. Not at Gaud.

  And not here, either. Wallach was just as dead. He just refused to lie down and accept it yet.

  Finn had the right of it. Sure enough. Damn, damn, damn . . .

  With Wallach Graybeard set in his path, refusing to discuss it any longer, the morning lapsed into an awkward silence. Finally, Kern sent out patrols in different directions, no longer willing to risk approaching the Frost Swamp but wanting to search the local area as best and as fast as they could. Looking for Galla survivors. Searching out any trace of more Vanir.

  He led one of them himself, running Reave and Ossian and Nahud’r far out to the east, not stopping until after midday. They found trail sign of a small group on horseback, likely coming around the eastern edge of the Frost Swamp, heading south. No way to tell if they were Cimmerian or Vanir. Lacheishi or Hoathi refugees or even a patrol by Jaryyd Morag’s-son, searching for fresh hunting grounds.

  They tracked the signs for another league. Kern marked the general direction, and they returned to camp.

  The frozen mists had not yet thinned or burned away, despite a strong sun climbing across the southern skies. Kern held no doubts now that the unnatural fog crawled out from the Frost Swamp, and so long as they remained in close proximity, they would feel its chilling reach.

  He made plans to strike camp and move it before nightfall, but waited until the rest of his patrols all checked back.

  Daol and Aodh had found no new signs to the south, but where the fog thinned, vanished game had been plentiful. Three spring-fat rabbits bagged, a grouse, and a wild boar. After losing several leather sacks inside the swamp the day before, anything that added to their provisions was a bounty. Waiting, sitting around idle while a midday meal was prepared by Finn and Desa, the warriors watched and hungered as two of the hares crisped to a light brown over a bed of coals and low flames. Juices sizzled and dripped down into the fire. The scent of meat was strong.

  Strong enough, it seemed, to call back in the final two patrols.

  Surely by coincidence, Gard Foehammer and Ehmish raced up before the game was half-cooked, both men winded and sweating from a long, hard run. Valerus rode in a few moments later, looking properly disgusted and not a little embarrassed.

  He hitched his horse to a tree outside of camp, grabbed a scrap of wool blanket, and began to rub down the sweaty beast.

  Tergin’s patrol, with several of his Galla kinsmen, had the far northwestern run and were the last ones back, though they still arrived in time for a shred of fresh meat and some wild shallots Desa had discovered growing near a small stream. They also led in a pair of cautious, Hoathi warriors with a lean, hungry look about them and haunted eyes that had seen a great deal of recent fighting if Kern was any judge. Both had ritual scars slashed across their cheeks. One had a fresh scar, crusted with dried blood, stretching across his forehead.

  They wouldn’t say much, and when they saw Kern their first instinct was to reach for blades, no matter that Tergin had warned them. The larger of the two licked his lips and rehomed his half-drawn weapon.

  “You are the wolf-eyed one, then. You fought Grimnir above the Broken Leg Glen.”

  How that tale had made it up on the Hoath Plateau, Kern was eager to know. At the same time, remembering how much anger and resentment Hogann had shown him in Morag’s lodge, he did not want t
o press these men too hard, too fast. “I was there,” he said simply. Then nodded to Desa, who threw each man a strip of golden skin and fresh, steaming meat.

  And as hunks of meat were ripped off the rabbit, tossed from hand to hand to cool, there was finally some open talk of the night before. Talk of the battle, and the strange creatures that had grafted themselves with illusions to appear as the Ymirish, and as Kern. Their guests were let alone to listen in as they desired. They nodded at the descriptions of the swamp creatures.

  And they could put a name to them.

  “Doppelgängers,” the smaller man said.

  Hydallan started. “Heard tales o’ them.” The tracker was well traveled, after all, having led several raiding parties over the Pass of Noose in his day. If anyone had picked up a hint of such a creature, it would be him. “Conan fought one on the slopes of the Eiglophians.”

  Of course he had. The Hoathi also knew that tale. And with their plateau so close to the Frost Swamp, they knew the creatures as a very real threat.

  “Use glamour and shape-shifting to steal the guise of another man. Or woman.”

  Tergin nodded. The little girl they’d rescued from the swamp sat on his knee, quiet and calm as she listened to her elders talk. Kern remembered her from his brief stay among the Galla encampment. A curious, brave child.

  “T’e deeper canyons of t’e Black Mountains have a similar creature,” he said, and she nodded. “At times, t’ey try to take t’e place of t’eir victims. Live out t’eir lives.”

  “Why didn’t it try to kill Kern?” Desa asked. She raked fingers back through her oily hair. “Take his place?”

  Kern paced around the outside of the small gathering, keeping his distance from the Hoathi. He tore slivers of warm meat from a rabbit leg, slowly, making it last. “Never got close enough. Too many people nearby.” He looked from Gard to Ehmish, to Wallach Graybeard, who had finally and reluctantly joined the group, ignoring any pitying looks. “It would have copied one of you, if it could have gotten you alone. Or killed you all. Then come back to the rest of us wearing your face.”

  He caught Wallach’s eye, and asked, “How did you know? That it was nay me you put your blade to?”

  The pale man shrugged. “Did nay move like you. Or quite sound like you, though close. Close enough, mayhap, if it weren’t for the sword.”

  Ehmish remembered, his eyes wide. “The broadsword!”

  “Yea. Kern’s turned a deft hand at the short blade, but he couldn’t swing a broadsword so easily if he tried.” A shallow, dry grin. “Sparred you enough to know how you hold a blade, I have. And when it repeated that silly flourish, answered to ‘Wolf,’ I knew. Yea, I knew.”

  And that creature died the same way as the other. A little less blood. More of the gushing, black ichor. It screamed and thrashed through its death throes, tearing large chunks of its own hair out, its face running like melted wax.

  Finally, when it had stilled, the only face left to it were unblinking, open eyes of fading green.

  “So,” Reave said, “we know what to call them. We know what they do.” He slowly picked his way over the conversation in his careful manner. “Are they any more worry to us?”

  Reave looked suspiciously at the warriors closest to him. Daol reached over and slapped him upside the head. Both men tried on smiles of grim humor. They suited.

  Kern shook his head. “The illusions aren’t perfect. You have to be willing to buy into it. I’ve seen nay anyone here acting suspiciously, or showing signs of . . . cracking around the edges.” He changed what he’d been about to say, wanting to hold back his one, worst suspicion.

  Not yet ready to put the rest of them in the same danger.

  “What is our plan, t’en?” Tergin asked. He set the child down, sent her scurrying off to her mother with a swat. “South? West, around t’e Frost Swamp, and up on t’e Plateau for Clan Hoat’i?”

  Kern had considered this the night before on their long trek out from the Frost Swamp and throughout most of this day as well. Learning of Wallach’s injury, if anything, had pushed him toward stronger action. By Crom, he would do whatever possible to repay the man’s trust and his sacrifice. How could he not be willing to give up just as much? Risk all?

  “We know the Hoathi are not faring well against Grimnir.” He looked at the two warriors. They sat mute.

  “The Terror has smashed several war hosts now and pushed them out from the Field of Chiefs, even.” Kern spread his hands. “To my mind, there is nay one thing more important than setting ourselves against the northern monster.” A pause. “Unless it is to be certain we kill him this time.”

  “The Beast can nay be killed,” one of the Hoathi said, speaking up. The larger man put out a restraining hand, but his companion shrugged it away violently. He had held this pent up within him for some time, and like a boil the poison spilled out quickly when lanced.

  “Saw it, we did. Grimnir came through our lines at the head of his Ymirish and Vanir. No one stood against him long. But before Cahn Chieftain fell he put a spear through the giant’s chest, skewered Grimnir through the heart, then drew his sword and ripped out the Great Beast’s throat. Grimnir barely slowed. He came on, and on. Tore Cahn Chieftain apart with his bare hands.” Winding down, his voice got small. “That’s when we ran. Marik War-leader led the retreat. Nay anything else we could do.”

  “And Grimnir not chases you down?” Ossian asked, skeptical. “Finishes you off?”

  Now it was the larger Hoathi who shook his head. “He sent a Ymirish-led war host after us. As many Vanir running the plateau as there are, he can pick and choose. Mayhap Cahn Chieftain wounded the Beast badly.” A shrug. “Mayhap rumors of a western host come through Cruaidh are true, and he turned to deal with them.”

  Suddenly, the entire gathering was on its feet. Excited and not a little strident.

  “A western host?” Daol asked.

  “Cruaidh?”

  “Is it Sláine Longtooth?”

  The questions hammered thick and hard at the Hoathi from all sides. Beat them back into silence before Kern regained control. But they truly could not—or would not—answer anything more. What they knew came (supposedly) from captured and questioned Vanir who had been in a large battle at or near Cruaidh. Marik War-leader sent some men running west, to discover the truth, and these two for the south, to seek further aid from Clan Murrogh. They had no chieftain, so no bloody spear had been sent. Standing by traditions most cautiously. They knew that, but little else of the final rumors being whispered among veterans, except the host was supposedly led forward by a strong woman with a sharp tongue.

  Ros-Crana!

  Kern wanted to believe that. But with the Hoath Plateau between them, there was little he could do nay already being done.

  “If it is truth,” Kern said. He waved down the shouts and questions. “If,” he said, “then mayhap there are enough Cimmerians rallying to put Grimnir on the defensive, to drive him from our lands once and for all times.” He stared them down, each one. “Mayhap to kill him.”

  “But how?” Desa asked. “You near sacrificed yourself the last time, and still the Terror lives. Hurt the Beast, yea. You did that. Riled him as well, I’d say.”

  And set the giant-kin and his hordes to marauding through Conall Valley. Wiping out villages, entire clans, in his fury. Kern caught the dark looks cast in his direction by the Hoathi, but set them aside just as easy. He already knew the consequences that hung over his head.

  Knew the price he was willing to pay for them.

  “I can nay tell you how it can be done,” he finally said. “But alone, I do know we will fail. We need Murrogh.” He looked into the distance. Then back at his warriors, and at the Galla and the Hoathi. The bright, normal eyes that met his golden gaze without flinching. Waiting.

  “I intend to deliver them,” he promised. “One way or another.”

  That started a new round of chaos. Discussion. And several arguments. Of the best path by which to re
turn to Murrogh. The best way to convince Morag of the need, the desperate need, to strike now. If Clan Murrogh’s war host would even be strong enough, with or without aid from the west, and how fast the Cimmerian host might travel north and whether it would be in time to save the Hoathi.

  “Listen. Listen!” Kern shouted them all down and stared them back to their places. Only Tergin and the Hoathi remained on their feet. The rest squatted, or grabbed a knee, or rested back on their haunches. Kern crouched to their level, rubbing one hand over his face, knowing the argument he’d receive.

  “We do not have time for much discussion. This is best done quickly. I leave before nightfall, and no one else—no one else!—will follow.” He stared back at several dark glares. Swallowed heavily. “It’s six days back to Murrogh under the best circumstance. I can cut that by two, running at night. No one else can see the trails as well as I do, and I won’t be able to slow for you.”

  As good an excuse as any. And it happened to be truth, with his golden eyes allowing him to see on the darkest nights as well as most could near the end of twilight. With a moon up, he would hardly be slowed at all. It didn’t matter that it was hardly the reason he wanted no company.

  “Clan Murrogh will march north. That I promise you. Stand ready for them.” He noticed Brig startle. “Be ready to lead them around the swamp, up onto the plateau.”

  There were confused expressions, and a dark glower out of Daol and Reave, who may have heard the finality in Kern’s tone. Might know him well enough to raise an objection, a question, and ruin his plan entirely. But Brig spoke up first, and after that, no one had time to even think to question Kern. They would all be too shocked.

  “Morag isn’t six days back, Kern.” Brig stood, drawing all attention to him. “He’s two.” The man swallowed hard, but his stare was without any hesitation. “He left Murrogh four days back if they held to plan.”