“Daol will be on the other side,” he told the larger man. “He’ll step in late, and try to wrestle one of Cul’s supporters out of the circle.”
Reave grunted, and blew a long draw of frosted breath out through clenched teeth.
“Expect the Tall-Wood brothers to come for you early. They work well as a team.” The previous summer, in fact, they had outwrestled every match the village could put together.
A nod. And another grunt.
“By Crom, Reave, will you listen to me?” Kern grabbed his friend by the elbow, turning him around. “Cul’s people are going to work together against you. You have to think faster than them.”
“Thinking’s nay my strong suit,” the large man admitted. He punched Kern hard on the outside of the shoulder. “You think for me, Kern. I’ll handle the Tall-Woods.”
Blowing out an exasperated breath, Kern nodded. “They won’t be looking for Daol come late and from behind them. When you see him, it’s your best chance.”
Any more advice was interrupted when Maev arrived, carrying a dagger that had belonged to her father. She held the hilt in her left hand, laid the blade across her right palm, which bore a crusted wound from the morning’s bloodshed. No words were spoken as she walked into the Challenge Circle, looking neither right nor left to acknowledge or favor any one potential Challenger. Right to the arena’s center she walked, then held up the dagger as she turned one time in place.
Kneeling, she drove the blade down into the frozen earth, sticking it two inches into the ground.
Then she retreated along the way she’d come, joining a group of the village women, who waited in Jocund’s company with bandages and splints and what few herbs the healer had salvaged from her kit. Challenges were rarely bloody, but accidents happened.
Maev’s leaving the Circle was all the men had been waiting for. Two clansmen jumped in together . . . Brig and Tabbot Tall-Wood. An older Challenger followed them into the Circle—someone in the village pulling for Reave, or thinking to make a stab on his own—but the brothers grabbed each other by the wrist and caught the older man across the throat, staggering him backward as if having run into a tree limb.
He dropped to the ground outside of the Circle, wheezing for breath but mainly unharmed.
The village cheered the first good challenge. There wasn’t a great deal of applause, but voices rose in support and defiance.
If it had been simply a mad rush for the dagger, Kern believed the brothers—one of them—would easily have won. But Challengers remained in the Circle until all opponents from the village had been faced down or defeated. And with every new entry a clansman could reenter to oppose, though once cast out each lost the right ever to pull the dagger from the ground.
Three other clansmen entered at about the same time, two immediately falling on each other and the third being set upon by the Tall-Woods. Then Reave—who quickly tossed out a young pup with no business in the Circle, without much more hurt than a bloodied nose and kick in the seat—and finally Cul.
Cul kicked Wallach Graybeard square in the crotch from behind. Kicked the veteran warrior again to roll him from the arena.
When he did it, his eyes were on Reave.
Like metal to lodestone, the two favorites worried less about the others involved and more for keeping a wary eye on each other as they pulled closer and closer together.
Men had laughed at Reave’s dealing with the ambitious teenager, winced and groaned at Cul’s rough handling of Wallach. Kern took the challenge much more seriously, seeing his friend taking on all comers and being in no position to help. He grasped at the air in front of him, laying hands on imaginary opponents, ducking and weaving every punch or kick thrown at Reave, who battled like a northern Berserker unleashed on poor farmers.
The Tall-Woods rushed him right away, but Reave stopgapped them with hamlike fists into the sides of their heads, bashing the two together and dropping them like sacks of oat meal.
Reave had no time to drag them from the Circle, though, set upon by another of Cul’s supporters. Meanwhile, Daol entered late and rapped Morne, one of Cul’s most stalwart friends, on the back of the head, stunning the man and shoving him back over the boundary. Kern grinned savagely, and hoped, and yelled support for Reave to try and divert any attention from Daol.
Meanwhile the Tall-Woods shook themselves back to sensibility, staggering to their feet.
The taste of blood scratched at the back of Kern’s throat as he quickly yelled himself hoarse, sucking back great breaths of frigid air. His pale skin puckered against the cold as he ripped away his poncho and stood bare-chested on the edge of the Circle. Watching Reave beset by two Challengers, and Daol being wrestled to the ground by a new man, he nearly jumped in himself.
He did not, though. Any man stepping forward had to be someone the clan would follow. His challenge would bring another half dozen warriors into the arena, and tradition or not, they would be ready to harm Kern as severely as possible. That wouldn’t help Reave. It wouldn’t help the clan.
Kern had done his best in Burok’s memory by helping prepare Reave.
Unfortunately, his friend was a warrior born but not so much a leader. Daol, at least, had freed himself from his earlier tangle, and come up behind the Tall-Woods, putting Brig in a headlock. Cul tried crabbing over to help, but worried more about Reave, who now had eyes only for his chief rival. Kern winced as Reave ignored first one man—who smashed a two-handed fist into the side of his head—then a second, who threw himself around Reave’s body, trying to stagger him backward.
Might as well have tried to uproot a tree. The massive Reave shrugged off both, but continued as well to ignore Daol, who fought toward Reave’s side to lend a hand.
Cul and Reave swerved toward each other, catching another of Cul’s friends between them. Cul shoved Dabin aside, and Reave continued him on his way with a kick into the stomach that folded Dabin over and rolled him from the Circle.
But before Reave laid hands on Cul, Tabbot Tall-Wood dodged around his brother and Daol, tackling Reave around the neck and dragging him down. Reave shed the smaller man with a violent clap against both ears, but then Cul was on him, wrapping a mighty arm around Reave’s windpipe, choking the breath out of him while another man planted his knee into Reave’s abdomen. And it was all over.
Brig Tall-Wood dashed Daol out of the Circle, hand beneath Daol’s kilt and applying serious pressure, leaving Daol wincing on the ground and sickly pale. Together, Cul and the Tall-Woods manhandled Reave to one side of the Challenge Circle. Careful not to go to such extreme measures against one of the village’s best warriors, Cul simply let the brothers carry Reave out of the arena with them, ridding himself of his strongest supporters as well as his only true rival.
No one else stood against Cul after that. Kern felt a sickening twist in his gut, watching Cul stare down a larger man, then throw a smaller Challenger out by the scruff of his neck.
And at that moment, Cul had the Circle to himself. Diving forward, he pulled the dagger from the ground, rolling back up to his feet with it held not for show, but ready in case any latecomers decided to challenge.
No one was so foolish. Not even Kern. Cul would have no choice but to gut anyone who opposed him.
Chieftains could not afford to let anyone challenge their authority.
Ever.
3
SNOWS RETURNED THAT night, mixing with sleet in the early morning but freezing hard on the ground again before next midday.
Trapped inside the village, most clansfolk gathered at the lodge and worked hard to scrub out the scent of sickness and death that had come with Burok’s ailing. The old chieftain’s body was stored in one of the empty dry pits under the lodge house. The burning scents of lye and alcohol slowly replaced decayed flesh and sour sweat. Fresh air, cold but clean, blasted in through the ruined doorway.
Kern wasn’t sure when the whispers started, or who started them. The wary glances began around noon, at least by the ti
me he noticed. Clansfolk eyeing their neighbors. All wondering whom Cul would favor and whom he would not. Many angry glances were shot out at the weather, as well, which had turned for the worse again. And at Kern, who always drew attention at such times. Several of his clan kin stared openly at him, as if discovering his odd presence for the first time. But no one held his amber gaze when he stared back.
The constant muttering, the shied glances, they set Kern on edge. His hands balled into fists when he wasn’t working. He caught himself glancing over his shoulder far too often, feeling the prickling warmth of hostile eyes always on the back of his neck.
“The village can’t take too much of this,” Daol offered in a low voice, joining Kern and Reave as they kindled a small fire on the newly swept hearth.
Tiny fingers of flame guttered among wood shavings and dried moss. It smelled too green, but looked like it would catch regardless.
Kern fanned the fire with a flat hand, encouraging it. His mood had not improved, and his gaze flashed dangerously about the room. “You set a pot over flames, and don’t watch it, it’s going to boil over.”
“You’re nay the cheerful one,” the normally quiet Reave said. But a smoldering anger burned behind his eyes as well.
Morning fare had been stale oat flat cakes sprinkled with bone meal. No cellars were opened at noon either, and people grumbled loudly. There were several uneasy looks at the too-small pile of casks stacked in one corner of the lodge.
Cul did not appear until near midday, arriving with Maev, wearing Burok’s heavy bearskin cloak, trimmed in red fox and studded with iron tags. With the cloak’s shoulders thrown back to bare his chest to the elements, he looked every inch the chieftain Burok had once been. He kept Maev nearby for the rest of the day, Kern noticed, or himself near Maev, anyway.
Kern also saw many villagers make a point of congratulating Cul on his victory in the Circle. Cul responded to most everyone, even Reave and Daol, though his answers were clipped short.
Those Cul ignored, or worse, spurned, quickly worried for their future in Clan Gaud. More than a few fights broke out as Cul’s favored lorded it over those on the receiving end of such disdain. Daol quieted one argument before it got out of hand, trying to preserve a fragile peace inside the clan, but mostly the fights burned out on their own accord after heated words and one or two thumps.
The worst, though, was when Old Finn limped up without his crutch to blatantly offer Cul a water flask. Finn’s deep-wrinkled brow and long gray hair should have afforded him greater respect. His life celebrated. Few warriors lived to be so old, and in many Cimmerian clans an elder’s advice carried as much sway as the chieftain’s word.
Cul wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then turned his back on the older man.
For a moment, Kern thought the once-proud warrior would strike at Cul. Instead, Old Finn slunk away like a beaten mutt. No one looked in his direction.
No one save Kern.
Hard times, Burok had said. Yes, they were coming.
Cul barely waited for Finn to limp out of earshot. “The clan comes first,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Winter has not released its hold on Cimmeria, and there isn’t enough food. And now we must take Burok Bear-slayer to the Field of the Chiefs at the foot of the Eiglophians. We travel east, and then guide our way north by the Snowy River country. It will be a hard journey, but I will make it. Maev will come with me. And Reave.”
The large man looked surprised to be chosen, but not Kern. A newly seated chieftain did not leave his strongest rival behind. The Tall-Wood brothers would ward the village for Cul, Kern silently bet with himself.
“I need a dozen strong backs for carrying, and some young legs to run ahead as scouts.” He smiled grimly as a few of the village youths, barely more than boys, stepped forward to volunteer for the arduous trip.
“We leave tomorrow. Brig Tall-Wood and Tabbot will be your wardens. They will see to your safety. Those who are left behind.”
He looked about with a severe gaze. The entire village held its breath.
“Those who are not cast out.”
Kern caught the sudden slump in many shoulders as Cul made his promise to begin thinning Clan Gaud. Many, he saw, were resigned to it. Assuming—perhaps rightly—they would be among the first to go. Older clansfolk, like Finn. Those who knew their prime working years were behind them.
“It’s too early,” Kern spoke up, ignoring the sudden, wary glances Daol and Reave sent his way. He wasn’t backing away from this fight. Gaud was all that Kern knew. Few who left the tribe ever survived. Fewer still thrived. Not every Cimmerian could be Conan. “We can all tighten our belts another notch.”
“There is not enough food, Wolf-Eye. Burok should have culled the herd weeks ago. We all know that. The raid against Taurin cost us more than we gained. In the end, much more.”
Rising to his feet, Kern met Cul’s steely gaze with a determined one of his own. He swallowed dryly. “I still say we can survive as a village.”
“And I know we cannot. It will take a great deal of provisioning to support us away from the village. The clan would die before I returned.”
“Then do not go.”
At Cul’s side, Maev startled. Her dark look was full of sudden wariness. Cul also looked puzzled, not sure he heard correctly. “Not go?”
Kern nodded. “Stay in the village and let Burok Bear-slayer keep until the thaw. The dry pit will serve until the herds have returned and we can safely transport him over the eastern pass.” It made perfect sense to him. Marshal your resources, and spend them in the sparest manner possible.
“Turn our backs on the traditions and customs that have served the clans since Crom walked the earth? Deny Burok his final rest?” Cul thundered his outrage. “I should have expected as much from you, Wolf-Eye. You’ve never belonged to Cimmeria, or to Clan Gaud, have you? You belong to the wolves and to winter!”
Kern turned his gaze to the assembled villagers. Few met his stare. Those who did glared back in open hostility. He had never felt his strangeness as clearly as he did at that moment. Cimmerians were not a superstitious lot by nature. Crom had created the Cimmerian people strong enough to handle the world on their own terms, after all. But each one, man and woman, had a breaking point.
“Burok knew what he was doing.” He said this to Maev, wondering if she had Cul’s ear as well as his prick. To Cul, “He thought we could make it.”
Cul glared, stepping slightly in front of Maev as if protecting her. “Burok was wrong. The fever had him. And by Crom, Wolf-Eye, that is the last I will say on it!” Cul’s voice thundered across the room, putting an end to the argument.
Everyone waited. Both Reave and Daol looked ready to stand in Kern’s defense. Kern stared them down, keeping them to their seats by sheer willpower. He had known better, challenging the chieftain’s first commands, and he would shoulder that cost alone. He had nothing to lose.
“Worried about your own future, aren’t you, Kern?” It was a rare moment, Cul’s use of Kern’s given name. It sounded strange from his mouth. As strange as the grim smile that peaked up at the corners. “Well, you have a strong back and a good arm for wood if not for a sword. I think you have a chance.”
“In fact,” he spoke with some laughter in his voice, as if he’d just had a pleasing thought, “you’ll be among those heading out tomorrow. That is decided.” His voice turned dark and heavy again. “Now sit down.”
The weight of the Gaudic chieftains rolled over Kern, pressing him back into his seat even though some spark of defiance encouraged him to continue arguing. His mind, though, told him it was done. Cul had bestowed favor upon him. To speak out again would appear selfish and shallow, and lessened the sacrifice given by those who would be forced to abandon the village, to look for life (if it was to be had) elsewhere.
“Take this night,” Cul told the others. “Weigh your own worth, and be prepared for the morning.
“For
it must be decided by then.”
“HE’S REALLY GOING to run the mountain line in this weather.” Kern shook his head. “It is a bad decision.”
Daol shrugged. He prodded a small dung fire with the tip of his knife, stirring the flames to keep them lively and warm as fatty juices dripped down and hissed among glowing embers. The thatched home he shared with his father was at least three times as large as Kern’s small hut, where his friend barely had room to lie down among his meager possessions. Here, at least, they sat in modest comfort.
“Leave off, Kern,” he warned.
Smoke from the fire stung his eyes. He breathed in its sharp, green taste, and the scent of crisping flesh from the roasting chucker. The plump little birds were rare this time of year, but he had found three trapped by the morning sleet in a nearby thicket. Two for the clan. One for the hunter. Had to keep his strength up, after all.
“Still wrong,” Kern muttered. He sat cross-legged near the small fire pit, next to Hydallan, reaching a hand out for warmth.
Daol saw him shiver even so, and wondered not for the first time what it must be like to live with the frozen touch of winter as your constant companion. If anyone in the village accepted Kern’s difference more easily than Hydallan, who had shown Kern the skills of hunting and tracking in the years before his son came of an age to be taught, it could only be Daol. Several years younger than Kern’s twenty-three summers, Daol had looked up to Kern for quite some time before becoming truly aware of his friend’s strangeness. And even he, at times, caught himself looking sidelong at the pale man, not understanding him.
He brushed dark hair out of his eyes, frowned, and used his knife to saw at the long bangs. He threw the hair into the fire, which gave off a quick, acrid stench. “You tried,” he said, trying to offer some comfort.
“Not hard enough. After old Finn was turned away like that . . .” Kern trailed off, shaking his head.
Blood of Wolves Page 3