Eldir and Alvis watched their king closely. The bodyguard rocked from foot to foot. The adviser rubbed his hands together in a habitual gesture.
The king clarified further, gaze still locked on that of his lieutenant. “But if our causes separated, you would follow hers.”
Valr Kirin knew the answer that the king wanted, but he would not lie. “Yes, Sire.”
Tenja heaved a great sigh that shuddered through his muscled body. “My men’s safety means too much to place them in the hands of a leader not wholly committed to them.”
Kirin lowered his head. “I understand, Sire.”
“No, you don’t understand!” King Tenja’s fists clamped over the armrests of his chair like huge, white boulders. “Damn it, Kirin, you’re the best warrior I’ve ever had and the finest leader. We’re in the middle of a war, by Thor’s beard! Why now?”
“I’m sorry, Sire. I didn’t choose the time.”
Tenja opened his mouth, his face purpling, as if filled with all the blood his gripping hands had lost. Before he could speak, the doors rattled open, and a soldier named Thorfin stood in the entryway. A lumpy, brown-stained parcel swung from his hand, held at arm’s length.
All turned at the interruption. Valr Kirin stepped aside to make room for King Tenja’s soldier, glad to be free of the massive king’s attention for a time.
The warrior walked toward the throne hesitantly, his gaze straying repeatedly to the package he carried, then shying away as quickly. It appeared as if Thorfin did not wish to even look at the parcel; yet he feared that if he glanced away, it might harm him. His shuffling approach seemed to span an eternity.
King Tenja’s patience evaporated before the soldier reached a polite distance for conversation. “What do you have there?”
Thorfin continued his journey as he answered. “It’s a package, Sire. It came strapped to the back of a horse. One of ours, I believe, that we lost in the battle.” The effort of speaking and moving at once seemed too much for Thorfin. The bundle slipped from his fingers, plummeting to the floor. It landed with an almost liquid slap, and its contents settled to the shape of the floor. Mouth wide in horror, Thorfin looked up. He made no move to reclaim the package nor to move around it.
“What is it?” Tenja demanded.
Thorfin shook his head, sending his gold braids into a whipping dance. “I’m not exactly certain, Sire.”
“Asps or some such,” Alvis said sourly. “Destroy it and have done.”
Valr Kirin studied the pack from a distance, certain that the dark stains came from blood. He saw no movement to make him agree with the adviser’s guess.
“Open it,” Tenja said.
All the color drained from Thorfin’s face. He edged toward the parcel obediently.
Sympathetic to Thorfin’s fear, Valr Kirin took a step forward to handle the matter for the soldier. Before he could move any closer, Eldir shoved through, clutching his ax. He glared at Thorfin. “Warriors don’t shrink from the unknown; they destroy doubts with bloodshed.” Using his gigantic frame to shield the king. Eldir cleaved the pack. Twelve severed hands spilled to the floor. They lay paler in death than life, streaked brown, their fingers stiffly bent in rigor.
Grief and outrage clutched Valr Kirin at once. Even Eldir recoiled so suddenly that his horned helm slid askew. No note or explanation accompanied the package, but the Northmen needed none. Without a doubt, these were Vikerian hands that should wield weapons in Valhalla. Now the souls of those brave soldiers would rot in Hel, barred from the reward they’d earned by the malicious swordsman who had dismembered them. History and precedent dictated who that man must be. Colbey did this, still every bit a Renshai.
Silence hovered, while all five men stood like carved ivory. The king’s face went nearly black. “Infidel! Beast! Child of Demons! Go. Kill him now. Kill him yesterday.” Tenja’s eyes flashed with rage-inspired madness.
“Sire, no.” Valr Kirin spoke softly.
Tenja’s attention whipped suddenly to his lieutenant. “Don’t ever try to command me, Slayer. I’ve killed men for less.”
“Sire, please. I’m not trying—”
The king sprang from his chair, jabbing a finger at Valr Kirin. “Quiet. You and I still need to talk.” He spun to face Eldir. “Swiftly, lead B ranks through the hills. Leave no enemy alive. Slay as Northmen were meant, like wild wolves berserk with blood hunger!”
Eldir howled a war call that reverberated through the chamber. Still clutching his poleax, he charged through the doorways. Soon his cries echoed down the corridors as soldiers became caught up in the battle frenzy he inspired.
Alvis slumped with his head in his hands. King Tenja faced the wall, his fist striking the gaudy tiles repeatedly. Sorrow filled Kirin Raskogsson, for the men dismembered as well as those rushing to certain death. If only I had held my news a few moments longer, he might have listened. I could have saved those lives. Kirin cursed his timing once again. Calmly, he lowered his head, offering prayers to Odin and waiting for the king’s acknowledgment.
* * *
Though no lower on the crags than any of his men, Colbey saw the Vikerians first. They milled and wove without regimentation, and Colbey knew that they frothed and howled like rabid beasts. Their lust for slaughtering enemies would overcome all caution. Surely some had partaken of the berserker mushrooms that inspired men to fearless insanity. Others whipped themselves into blood frenzy with focused outrage and promises of vengeance. Like Colbey, they all welcomed death. Yet they would not find it in the cold passion of steel. If Santagithi’s strategy went as planned, there would be no swordplay.
“Northmen coming!” A sentry steered his mount cautiously around the huge natural triangle of loose rock to the warriors clustered above it.
Colbey raised his arm as the Northmen came into full view on the ledge beneath the talus fan. Their war cries bounced from the cliffs, loosing bits of shale, which tumbled harmlessly down the slope. Colbey examined them, finding nearly fifty braided reavers led by a muscle-bound warrior in mail. The sight stirred a primitive hatred in the depths of his soul. Still he waited, with his hand raised, as the Northmen passed beneath him. The plan called for him to drop the fan not on, but after the Vikerians, blocking escape. A quarter mile farther along, Garn would drop another collection of talus just before them, trapping the Northmen in place before Santagithi’s central pile of stone shattered them.
Colbey’s men on the mountaintop trembled in anticipation, but their leader waited until the trailing Northmen passed the outer edge of the fan. Then the Renshai dropped his arm, and his followers raced to their task. Boulders bounced through the precariously balanced talus. The mountain shuddered, then it shook beneath an explosion of dirt, slate, and boulders.
What little remained of the Northmen’s formation broke into confusion. The narrow ledge did not give them room to turn their horses, so they plunged forward, heedless of those directly before them, to escape the stones thundering down upon them. Nevertheless, when the avalanche trickled to dust, nearly all of the troop remained intact. An unstable pile of rubble blocked their retreat. The wolf howls faded to a relative silence, punctuated by whispered questions.
Colbey listened for the sound of Garn’s talus fan falling ahead, and the hush nagged at him. Come on, Garn. Get that thing moving.
The Northmen had little reason to believe the rock slide was anything but a natural result of their shouts, but Eldir scanned the cliffs.
Colbey froze, glancing over his men. The horses snorted and danced, tied well above and beyond sight of the Northmen. His men dotted the mountainside, dressed in gray that blended into the stone. Eldir’s need to stare into the sun only made the hiding easier. After a time, the Vikerian gestured his followers forward, making a brisk motion to keep them quieter.
Still, Colbey heard nothing ahead. The leading fan had not yet fallen. Something’s wrong. Rage trickled through Colbey. The trap had taken too much planning to fail now. He made a cutting motion that or
dered his men to remain in place, then ran to his horse. Mounting, he spurred the animal through a rift along the higher ledge. His ride took him past Santagithi’s dark-clothed soldiers, waiting with massed piles of boulders, then he drew up even with Garn’s pile of shale. Harried guardsmen swore, rolling boulders that rattled through the talus fan and flew over the slope but did not set the talus in motion.
Below, the Vikerians rode toward them. Colbey pulled up his horse as the Northmen drew even with the fan above them.
Garn’s men had begun to tire, and the hail of boulders ceased. Colbey’s obvious frustration sent his horse into a sideways prance. Unmounted and unarmored on the cliffs, Garn’s men would need time to prepare before they could catch up to the Northmen and engage them in battle. Meanwhile, the enemy might reach Santagithi’s Town, in all their wild fury, with only an abbreviated force to meet them.
Inflamed, Colbey kicked his horse toward the edge of the cliff above the mountain. The beast hesitated briefly. Then momentum carried it over the side. A boulder shifted beneath the impact of horse and rider. The horse skidded into talus, shrilling as it lost its footing. Stones jostled down the mountainside. For a moment, nothing happened. Then silence broke under a deafening roar.
Colbey’s horse dragged its hooves, scrambling desperately for a hold. Northmen dived recklessly from the path of the falling talus. Eldir spurred his mount, and it responded with a burst of speed even as the thundering torrent of stone buried the rider at his heels. The leader alone escaped in front of the avalanche. Most of his troop lay, shredded corpses beneath layers of rock. Others had fallen from the ledge into the canyons below. The survivors milled, trapped between rock slides and at the mercy of Santagithi’s men.
Colbey fought the wild surges of his horse as it slid toward the pile of rock. Though no longer in motion and piled on the ledge, the talus would surely shift under the weight of Colbey’s animal, carrying man and beast over the edge. He struggled for control of his panicked steed. As they stumbled toward the talus, the stone grew less steady. Another rock shifted beneath the animal’s hooves, sending it into an uncontrolled slide. Then its hooves bunched on a solid crag. At Colbey’s urging, it sprang to the ledge below, on the far side of the fallen stones.
With a howl of triumph, Colbey dug his heels into the horse’s side. It leapt forward, galloping after the single retreating Northman. As he closed, Colbey hunkered over its neck, sword drawn.
Apparently hearing the hoofbeats, Eldir swiveled. Seeing Colbey, he cursed and freed his sword. Yet the narrow pathway left no room for him to turn safely. He faced forward, jabbing his horse into a run as Colbey slowly closed the gap between them.
Eldir kept his mount flush with the mountain wall so that Colbey could not draw up beside him. But blood-sickness was on the Renshai like physical pain. Again risking his life on a horse’s footing, he tore his reins to the right, drawing his horse to the far side of the fleeing Vikerian. The gelding pulled up effortlessly, its rapidly moving hooves the length of a dagger blade from a fall.
Eldir’s eyes became blue blazes of hatred. His thick neck and shoulders threatened tremendous power.
Colbey raised his sword for a death stroke, but Eldir swerved toward him. Slammed by the Vikerian horse’s shoulder, Colbey’s steed lurched aside. Its right forehoof came down on empty air, and it tumbled over the side. Colbey sprang. He landed hard on the neck of Eldir’s mount. His sword crashed against the Vikerian’s mail.
Impact threw Eldir from his horse. He staggered to his feet on the ledge behind as Colbey rode off on his mount. Nor could Colbey find the space to turn the horse on the narrow ledge. Instead, he reined to a stop and slid from the matted flank. Sword in hand, Colbey smiled as he stalked Eldir.
The Vikerian officer crouched with his back to the cliffs. The fall had dented his horned helmet, but he wore it with pride. He gripped his massive sword in both hands. His face remained frozen in an expression of abhorrence. He stood half again Colbey’s height and twice the older man’s weight. “Renshai!” he screamed. “Join your tribe in Hel.”
Colbey lowered his sword, waiting.
“The loser of this battle will never reach Valhalla.” Eldir’s threat came through clearly. Should he best Colbey, he would take special care to dismember him.
Colbey shouted as he sprang. “Then rot in Hel, you bastard.” His sword flashed twice before Eldir thought to move. The first stroke smacked harmlessly against armor. The second pierced the lightly mailed armpit.
Eldir staggered. His sword made a wild arc, cutting a gash in the stone. The strength of the maneuver threw him further off balance. Colbey’s blade fell against his mail, hurling the wounded Vikerian over the side of the mountain.
Colbey watched as the Vikerian clawed vainly at the air as he fell. Blood ran from the Renshai’s blade, striping his hand. He stood, unmoving, until nothing remained but the echoes of Eldir’s dying scream.
Colbey cleaned his sword and sheathed it, realizing as he did that the one blow he landed had severed no body part. His lips twitched into a grim smile. “You were wrong, Northman. We may still both make Valhalla.”
And the Vikerian’s death in honor did not bother Colbey at all.
* * *
The forest north of Santagithi’s Town sparkled with summer dew, and sunlight speckled the leafy floor in patches defined by the leaves and branches overhead. Garn led Rache and Episte from clearing to clearing, their tiny fists warm in his grip, their palms already adult-rough from forming calluses. It had taken years for Garn to understand the solace and natural beauty that attracted Arduwyn, Sterrane, and Mitrian to the woodlands. Now the aroma of greenery, evergreen, and damp seemed headier than any perfume. Birdsong and warmth buoyed his mood, so light, free, and pleasant after days spent cooped up in Santagithi’s strategy room. Later, Garn knew, the general and his officers would rehash terrain they had learned by heart; and Colbey would train his youngest charges. But, until then, Garn had finally found some time alone with the boys.
Releasing Rache’s and Episte’s hands, Garn stepped over a fallen trunk that animals and the elements had stripped of its bark. The pale brown wood had turned soft, riddled with insect holes, burrows, and scrapes. He turned to assist the boys.
Episte sprang to the surface of the deadfall. “Look! I’m a squirrel.” Though the ancient trunk rocked beneath his weight, he scurried along its length, the ever-present sword wobbling at his side. When he reached the end, he pirouetted. Perching like a king among the twisted roots, he watched Rache attempt to clamber after him. The younger Renshai used his hands, digging his nails into the wood, trying to fling a short, pudgy leg over the trunk. His light, short-bladed sword hampered his movement.
Though Garn had seized the chance to supervise the children’s play, irritation gripped him for reasons he could not fathom. “Up you go,” he said, taking Rache’s arm and assisting his son’s scramble to the surface. Garn searched for the source of his ruined disposition, but the need to focus on Rache precluded careful consideration.
The instant Rache’s feet touched the deadfall, he tried to run. The log rolled, stealing his balance, nearly dumping him. Rocked in his seat, Episte laughed, catching his equilibrium effortlessly. Garn tightened his grip on Rache’s arm, steadying. Rache’s face grew somber. His features screwed in concentration, as if his life depended on his ability to negotiate the log. He placed each foot with a serious caution he had not previously displayed. Garn assisted, pacing a course on solid ground that paralleled Rache’s on the log.
Episte called out encouragements. “Hey! Rache’s a squirrel, too.”
Rache smiled. Garn glanced at his other charge, studying the short, but disheveled, yellow hair and bright blue eyes as if for the first time. A youthful, golden attractiveness and grace completed the picture. Though Episte had inherited his mother’s oval face and the patterns of her speech, in all other ways he resembled the man who sired him.
Rache Kallmirsson. The bitterness that had dri
ven Garn for most of his life flashed to the surface instantly, stifled as quickly by guilt. It seemed evil to revile the son for the cruelty of the father, no matter how deeply that hatred had burned. Garn’s feud with Captain Rache had become a thing of the past, worked through fully, or so he thought, in the days and moments prior to the Renshai’s death. It surprised Garn how easily a random thought had reawakened malice long-buried, and he tried again to find the joy that had suffused him in the forest. Shame accompanied the effort. Whatever enmity he had harbored for Episte’s father had nothing to do with the boy. With his dying breath, Rache had asked Garn to raise Episte well, and Garn knew he had to take that responsibility seriously, no matter the resentment he had not quite managed to crush.
As Rache nearly reached Episte, Garn hefted the younger boy and set him down on the path. Episte skipped back along the deadfall, then hopped to the ground beside Rache and Garn. “I like playing to be squirrel when . . .”
Garn let the child’s voice flow around him, mostly un-heard. Episte had reached the age where it took him eight hundred words to say what he could have gotten across in six. Almost two years younger, Rache remained mostly quiet, though he occasionally added a qualifier to Episte’s rambling that usually only made things more confusing.
Garn continued walking, each hand clasping a child’s. He kept his gaze on the stirring greenery and the carpeting of leaf pulp and needles, avoiding looking at Episte. When he did not see the boy’s likeness to his father, Garn could keep the idea of raising Rache’s son as a distant construct. His own deep-seated prejudice shocked and upset him. Once he had accepted that his own son would bear Rache’s name, the step to attending the man’s child seemed simple. Yet, the similarity of features had tripped Garn up, and the natural grace that made Rache seem clumsy in comparison only worsened the problem. Repeatedly, Garn told himself that the two years difference in age accounted for most of the disparity. In youth, even a few months could mean a great deal when it came to maturation, both physical and emotional.
The Western Wizard Page 30