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

by Loren Coleman

  A good thing.

  Also, the tent’s large room was cut in two by a sheer stretch of fabric, pinned to the canopy and hanging down to shield the chieftain’s sleeping quarters. And a shadow moved the other side. Kern assumed it was Deirdre of Lacheish.

  Of course Morag had brought his trophy. How else to assure Cailt Stonefist’s appearance?

  “Cul says you have words for me, Wolf-Eye. Words I’ll nay like.” Morag’s hair, thin and patchy, was more di sheveled than ever. As if the man had not slept well this night, if ever. The bare spots on his scalp were puckered and glassy from long-healed scars.

  “He says you will present Cailt Stonefist with the bloody spear. That you’ve brought it back.”

  Kern nodded at the bundle in the crook of his arm. Slowly, as if following through a formal ritual, Kern reached up and peeled open the wrapping of thick blanket. Dropped it at his feet. He held the spear now, in both hands. As an offering.

  “Yea, I’ve brought it back. Though I nay longer believe you worthy of it.” The Murroghan warriors to either side of their chieftain glowered, hands on their swords. But the blades remained in the sheaths, per Morag’s paranoia. “Rather offer to Cailt Stonefist, is truth.”

  “You’ll give it to me,” Morag said, nearly shouting. His dark, deep voice rang with a near-frantic echo. Then, calmer. “It’s mine. All this. This moment. This life.” His smile was savage and cruel. “You’ll give me that bloody spear, and I may only strip the hide off your back before I send you and your wolves fleeing for the mountains from which you came.”

  “You’d find that difficult, Morag.” Kern deliberately left off his honors. Just as he deliberately left the spear stretched out at the limits of his reach. Dangling it before the chieftain, whose eyes did not leave it. “I’ve been to the Frost Swamp. And I know you for what you are.”

  A gamble, to challenge Morag so openly, in the presence of his supposed kinsmen. To insult him again, and again. A true chieftain would have ordered Kern killed. Or sent out to die in a hastily erected arena. A warrior chieftain would do the job himself for any of the slights Kern had thrown at Morag’s feet.

  But if Kern were right, the man had no honor to protect.

  Only greed. And malevolence.

  And a dark, desperate secret to protect.

  “I said to give it over!” Morag yelled. Which was when he shoved forward, one hand reaching out to grab the spear as if he could easily wrest it from Kern’s strong, two-handed grip.

  Too late, Cul saw it. As did Hogann, Kern thought. Both men reached for swords. The two Murroghan reacted out of reflex, one turning to grapple with the Hoathi. The other, to block Cul.

  Maev, too, moved now. Turning toward Kern as she finally read in his actions what he’d intended all along. “Nay!”

  All too late. Kern twisted the bloody spear and pulled, locking Morag’s arm out straight. Then leveraged it to drag the other man forward. Yanking them body against body. Wrenching the spear free of Morag’s bony hand. Reversing it.

  And Morag saw it, too. The lesson none of them remembered from Kern’s last interview in Clan Murrogh’s lodge hall. None of them but Kern.

  That the broken, bloody spear was, itself, a weapon.

  A weapon Kern drove forward with the last of his flagging strength.

  Right through the chest of Morag of Murrogh.

  17

  WITH THE CLOUDS piling up thick and black and heavy with moisture, blocking out the sky and sun, dawn crept up as a general lightening of the dark, finally settling on a heavy, downtrodden gray. Freezing rain fell in halfhearted drops—promising a wet, terrible day—and short echoes of thunder rumbled in the distance like the slow, heavy footfalls of Ymir himself.

  Lodur approved.

  He paused on the side of a hill, his broadsword already in hand, though he had no intention of using it. Surrounded by men and women with thick furs wrapped around their wide shoulders and metal breastplates polished to a gleaming shine, heavy leather skirts banded with strips of metal or studded with spikes. He smiled thin and hard, encouraging those few who dared look him in the eye. Pushing them by will alone for the top of the ridge, the end of their hard march, and the prize that waited for them on the other side. The fruits of his treason. Sweet nectar of the north. Such a difference a single season could make.

  At first he had detested the arrival of spring. Though it was late coming to some parts of Cimmeria, the signs were there as birds returned and game stirred, and the sun climbed in the southern sky. Unwelcome heralds. He saw these as nothing but a reminder of their failure. A waning of Grimnir’s power that had come after the First One’s fall from the bluffs overlooking Clan Conarch.

  In the northwest territories, in the valley, with Ymir’s lasting winter choking life from the clans, the Ymirish had walked as gods for a time. Unstoppable forces, or so they’d thought. Lodur’s own fall from grace came at the hand of his false brother, Kern; the one of thin blood, who smelled of corrupted ice and Cimmerian beast. And he might have remained low had not Ymir’s Call lifted him back up among the ruins of Venarium. Blessing him with a deep warmth he had never felt his entire life as that cold, frozen spark within him suddenly flared to life, and his own power was born during a night of darkness, and screams, and blood.

  It came strong to him, Ymir’s touch. Strong enough for Grimnir to summon him back, to allow Lodur to earn his redemption for past failures.

  Which was how Lodur knew now that it was not fate but their God’s hand that placed him on an eastern path, in place to support Grimnir’s final plans. Letting him taste the blood of Kern’s fallen warrior at Gaud. Carrying with him the smell of the funeral pyre and visiting a similar fate on the mountain tribes that had dared to stand in his way.

  And even though Kern had slipped from Lodur’s reach, for now, the sorcerer felt his false brother’s presence many times. Knew when Kern had touched on his own flickering power in the defense of Gorram Village. When Kern had burned powerful bright at Murrogh’s lakeside stronghold, and Grimnir’s will bore down on him to accept, to cross over, to honor his blood.

  Knew Kern’s victory in the Frost Swamp.

  Knew this morning when he killed Morag Chieftain, and had laughed for his brother’s despair and pain.

  “Kern.” Lodur’s whisper was cold, calm. “You should have accepted Grimnir’s hand and Ymir’s blessing, when you had the chance.”

  Now it was too late. Too late for all.

  Lodur looked up into the sky, drawing down the winds, the clouds, the rain. A breath of winter’s lingering touch wrapped about him, the winds whipping at his frost blond hair, tugging the hem of his cloak, shrieking in his ears. He pulled in a piece of the zephyr, binding to it a part of himself—that which warmed him from within. Breathing dark life into it.

  “Torgvall . . .” he called, whispering to his warrior brethren traveling within Cailt’s war host. A simple summons. And one the other Ymirish expected.

  All was in place. Cailt Stonefist and Murrogh’s war host. Kern Wolf-Eye. And his own warriors, of course. Spreading out across the back side of the ridge, hunkered down with blades standing naked in their hands, waiting for his final order. For his display of true power.

  Now!

  Ready, he tugged at the thin tendril of power leashed at the back of his mind. The connection he’d made over the Pass of Noose, bonding to his whim one of the darkest, strongest creatures of the Black Mountains. There was resistance. There was the feel of frigid wind rushing against leathery wings. And a shrieking call that raked talons against Lodur’s nerves.

  Obey! He fed a measure of his rage to the creature, letting it feel the pain for its refusal. Felt its own anger and hatred build, the wildness within it that wanted to reach through their link and rend him apart with talon and tooth. To kill him. Yea, it would, if he gave it the chance.

  But until then, it feared as well. And fear, like anger and pain, could be used to control. He tugged harder and felt the shift of weig
ht, the quick turn and the rush of wind as it dived out from the clouds. Lodur, staring ahead at the snow-frosted ridge, felt the shadow passing up from behind him, then over him, rushing by with the beat of leathery wings and a shriek of rage.

  Then the wyvern was past, flashing by the ridge to fall upon the first of its victims.

  Lodur smiled. Then raised his sword overhead and waved it forward, sending the Vanir on their charge. Up, over the ridge. Never to be denied their own bloodlust. Lodur climbed after them, but then stood upon the ridgeline to look down on the formerly peaceful village of Lacheish.

  “Summoned my war host,” he whispered, remembering Cailt’s shaman. “Marched it at my enemy, I have.” And if Cailt had expected to find Lodur’s warriors on the south-western trail, ready to help him defeat Murrogh, that was all the worse for him.

  It was perfect, for the northerners. Especially with Cailt Stonefist poised to smash Murrogh’s war host. Or, mayhap Murrogh would stand the stronger even without their chieftain. That did not matter so much to Grimnir’s plans, or Lodur’s orders, so long as either happened. And it would. It must! Lodur saw no other path left open to fate.

  Crom had long abandoned Cimmeria.

  And Ymir walked these lands once again.

  KERN DRIFTED THROUGH a dark, cold void. Blacker than any night he’d seen, with no moon and no stars. A metallic taste in his mouth, which might be (his) blood, but no sensation of pain or comfort. Not even the feel of ground beneath his feet or against his body.

  Only the cold.

  That frozen spark buried deep within him, which he’d lived with his entire life.

  He was at the same time trapped in that experience of drifting, yet apart from it as well, looking down on his own body as it floated against (or through) the seamless dark. There was no concept of the passage of time, though every so often, after an indeterminate length, the entire void flashed—for an instant—with color, and a touch of sound. Like sheet lightning. And broken thunderclaps. He began to expect them, and cling to those interruptions as a drowning man might a rope that was thrown to him. In this shadowed, frozen place, they were the only flashes of life to be found.

  Flashes of his life, as it turned out.

  The violent eruption of color came at (he believed) shorter intervals and for greater and greater durations. First there was the long, dark void. Then the world erupted around him, instantly returned in bright color and loud sound. But still, he was not fully a part of it. It was as if he existed in three places. Inside the scene, acting out his role in it. Floating, drifting, across the world; or, drowning in it, as if the world were now deep lake that had swallowed his body. And again, the spectator, watching his drowning body submerge into the (streams of) memory.

  The first memory he recognized was of the Challenge Circle, where Reave had faced Cul’s supporters and lost. It still wasn’t much more than a quick flash. Just enough to latch on to, and hold after it was gone.

  Then that cold run south, after Cul cast him out. Feet kicking through the snow. Legs pumping and his breath coming in ragged, frosting clouds.

  And the wolf, racing next to him, pacing him the entire time (or had that come later?).

  The scenes changed. Blended. None of them happening exactly the way he remembered. He watched as Ehmish lay bleeding on the ground, with a battle-axe caved into the boy’s side. Not the way that had happened, certainly. Or when he’d met Ros-Crana in the hot spring baths, he knew that Jaryyd should not have been there, standing guard over them. He had not met Jaryyd yet.

  Faster they came. Fragments blurring together in a mix of old and new. And through them all Kern watched himself make his mistakes or celebrate a few hollow triumphs over and over. Soon, it was as if he ran back through the last several months of his life, pursued by Vanir, and a Ymirish sorcerer, and Grimnir. Grimnir!

  Yea, the Great Beast was there. The golden-eyed Terror. Stalking Kern, even when the giant-kin could not have been there. Watching, and raging when Kern turned from one path to the next and so narrowly escaped death each time. Then, after a time, studying him with some measure of respect. His cracked lips and crooked teeth splitting into a bestial grin. A deep, cunning look haunting his golden eyes. To think of Grimnir as a simple beast was a mistake. The giant-kin had intelligence and cunning, and a physical strength that transcended mortal ken.

  And he heard Grimnir’s roar of approval as Kern shouldered aside Brig Tall-Wood and Cul Chieftain and Maev, bursting into Morag’s tent with a savage snarl curling his lip as he used the bloody spear to stab Morag again and again and again.

  Nay. Not the way it had happened.

  That memory was too recent, too strong. Kern seized it and twisted it back into place. Relived that quick, brutal strike as he shoved the spearhead through Morag’s chest. Twisted it inside, digging for the man’s heart. Felt that first jet of hot blood splash across his hands. A few warm drops spattered his face as well, burning on his lips. Tasting of . . . blood. Fresh, human blood.

  Had he been wrong?

  They pulled him off their chieftain, the two Murroghan warriors. One tackled him high. The other doubled his hands together into a great fist and hammered it into the side of his head. Kern stumbled back, collapsed. Was buried beneath the one warrior and the sentry who’d run inside, and Kohlitt right after. And Maev, as well, throwing herself at them, screaming for everyone to stop, cease, to hold!

  Blows hammered at him, but Kern shrugged them aside with the last of his strength. Captivated by Morag’s final moments, the chieftain staggering back into Hogann, who held him upright while bright red blood continued to pour down his chest.

  Cul leaped forward, grabbing the spear as if he might pull it free and save Morag’s life. Too late for that.

  The sheer fabric that had shielded the sleeping area inside the tent was ripped back. And Deirdre was there as well. Watching as her husband bled to death.

  Watching as (finally!) the red blood darkened, turned black and foul, and Morag’s face melted. Like wax held too close to a flame, it softened and fell in on itself. It ran with bloody streaks as parts of Morag’s skin simply sloughed away. And the chieftain jumped out of Hogann’s grasp, thrashing about violently as it screeched with a high-pitched keening Kern recalled from the Frost Swamp. And Hogann knew as well, the horror giving way to recognition, then disgust.

  Which was when one of Morag’s warriors kicked Kern aside the head, and darkness came crashing back down for an instant.

  An eyeblink.

  Thunder cracked through the heavens as the world shifted. And now Kern clung to the side of a sheer cliff. The ground falling away far, far below. The edge, outlined against gray skies, still far out of reach above. Muscles straining as his fingers dug for small cracks and holds above his head. His toes lifting against small outcroppings not much larger than a fist.

  Face pressed against the cold, black granite, he looked to one side and saw ten . . . twenty warriors all on the same climb. Scaling up this cliff for the edge of the Hoath Plateau. He knew where they were. Just as he knew the woman who clung nearby on the cliff facing, struggling upward with her sword and spear lashed across her back.

  Ros-Crana.

  If it were truly her. If Kern was someone here. She led her warriors on a difficult climb that no Ymirish would think to patrol. She’d make it onto the plateau.

  And, likely, she would die there.

  Kern clenched his eyes shut, shoving aside the thought, the vision.

  Opened them with his hands no longer straining against rock, fighting the pull of gravity, but with leather reins wrapped around them. Again. Racing over frozen ground. But not the same. Nay. Not here.

  He sat on the horse much easier this time. He ( . . . Torgvall . . . ) leaned forward, rocking easily with the gait of the stolen animal. He rode with a gray patch of sky on his right, the coming of dawn. Riding north. Eager, glad, to be away.

  Cailt’s war host was finished. Stonefist himself might die, and that would be be
st for all. Ymir’s justice, after suffering the chieftain’s poor graces for far, far too long.

  But it was not to be as easy as he thought. When three shadows rose up ahead, standing atop a grassy knoll, he pulled the reins to turn away from them. Away from the bows being stretched overhead.

  He heard the twang of release. Caught his breath. Then exhaled again as he raced away, and the arrows missed.

  Except for one, which struck downward like a bolt of lightning, catching the horse right in the side of the neck. Burying itself up to the feathers. And the horse screamed, diving forward in a violent, stumbling roll that pitched him from the saddle. Sailing him through the air. Sailing . . . sailing—

  —out over the lake. He watched, standing on the ridge, as the wyvern spread its leathery wings to catch at the air, banked sharply, and dived again at the over-lake community.

  “Good. Good,” he yelled. And laughed into the building storm, his voice carried away on the violent winds that continued to sweep his hair and his white bearskin cloak straight out to one side.

  The village burned in several places. A few of the homes set on stilts. A covered platform. Men fought along the piers, and on the shore still, though the Vanir had gained the upper hand there, finishing off the thin line of defenders.

  Someone had chopped free several piers in the network, isolating parts of the village from the fire, from the attack. So, it would not be a complete loss. But enough. Enough.

  The wyvern shrieked as arrows slashed through the thin membrane stretched over its wings. Another caught it aside the neck. But then it stooped hard, dropping beneath the next flight, and flashed across the top of the two-story lodge hall. Taloned claws slashed downward, and snatched up two more archers from the thinning pack. Carrying them up higher and higher.