Blood of Wolves

by Loren Coleman

  A large man, certainly.

  A ferocious warrior.

  But not the frost white hair and beard that looked so much like one of the fabled snow bears of the far, far north.

  Certainly not the yellow eyes Kern had only ever seen in a still pond’s reflection.

  The frost-haired man was huge, standing at least three handbreadths over Kern. With waxy-pale skin, he wore the leather cuirass banded with metal that was common among Vanir. And he used the bastard sword as easily as Kern might a knife. No wild, slashing attacks but with short, brutal stabs that went for Kern’s heart, his face.

  Rage twisted the raider’s mouth into a feral snarl as he jabbed and struck.

  Kern’s shield took most of the damage. It was easier to handle than the heavy steel blade he retrieved from the ground. In a hand accustomed to its weight and grip, the broadsword was a solid weapon. Not as fearsome as a Cimmerian greatsword, perhaps, but few men other than Reave or perhaps this giant of a northerner could effectively wield such a length of edged metal.

  Still, Kern flailed at the other man. Each weak thrust was turned aside or parried directly, the blow ringing down through the steel and up his arm. Several times it felt as if Kern had dislocated his shoulder, though he did not lose his grip on the sword again because without it, he and Maev were dead.

  The northerner came at him again. And again. He had incredible strength, which did not seem to flag, while Kern was on his second day with little to no rest and very little to eat. Twice they came up body to body. Once Kern managed to slam the boss on his shield directly into the other man’s face, laying his cheek open in a wide flap that showed the teeth behind.

  The stream of curses he spit back at Kern were a heady mix of Nordheimir and Cimmerian.

  The second time they pressed together, the Vanir worked his sword around the edge of Kern’s shield. The shield’s leather arm strap took most of the thrust, leaving Kern with a shallow slice up his forearm and holding on to the shield by the handle alone.

  “What are you doing?” Maev cowered back against the tree as the fight pressed close. She had lost her cloak and her kilt. Only a long tunic protected her from the cold. “Kill it!”

  Easier said than accomplished. “He isn’t a tree, and this isn’t a wood axe,” Kern snapped back, circling at the edge of the clearing, keeping a wary eye on the frost-man.

  Kern was doing the best he could for never being heavily trained as a warrior. Also, he had to admit, the northerner’s similar features had him rattled. If the yellow eyes both men shared were of concern to the frost-man he did not show it at all, while Kern could not help wondering where this odd-colored man had come from.

  And if there were others like him.

  Another clash. Kern felt his arm growing slow behind the broadsword.

  He couldn’t last a great deal longer. As the giant man charged forward again, Kern whipped his shield up barely in time to stop the point of the bastard sword, which aimed right for his heart. He remembered the single-thrust wound that had killed Oscur, and knew this warrior was the one responsible. It had been a slaughter for the veteran raider, this strange northern warrior, not a battle. The youth had never stood a chance.

  Rather than falling into despair, however, Kern banked the anger. Fanned it into a strong flame. He borrowed strength from it, letting it fuel his muscles as he brought his sword up and around in an overhead slash, chopping down at the raider’s shoulders.

  The Vanir got his own sword up on guard, and Kern hammered against it.

  In fluid, swinging motions, Kern brought the broadsword around again, and again. All overhead swipes that arced down at the larger man. All relying on the practiced muscles he’d built while chopping wood.

  Up. Around. Down.

  Hacking away at the Vanir’s defenses, trying to shatter the bastard sword or beat down the man’s arm long enough to take him at the throat or the chest. Kern drove the warrior back step by step, until the last of his strength was nearly spent.

  Then he lost his shield to a mighty swipe of the northerner’s blade. The raider slammed forward, knocking Kern off-balance, shoving the Cimmerian back against the wide bole of a red cedar and pinning him against it. Kern’s sword arm caught between the press of their bodies, trapped.

  With numb fingers Kern clutched at the frost-man’s wrist, holding off a finishing blow as the bastard sword wavered overhead. Then he felt a large hand wrap around his throat, beginning to squeeze.

  The warrior’s breath reeked of carrion. His yellow eyes smoldered with rage. He spit words at Kern, all in the nasal tongue shared by Nordheimers, but Kern did not need a translation.

  He was going to die.

  “Do something!” Maev yelled.

  He couldn’t work his sword free. If he’d had the training and the strength left, he might have snapped the blade up hard enough to gash open the raider’s leg. Maybe into the groin. Kern was barely holding on to it as it was. The heavy blade pointed at the ground, and try as he might, Kern could do nothing except slap it weakly against the side of the raider’s leg.

  Gasping for breath, he felt his knees begin to buckle under the pull of the earth. Dragging him into darkness.

  With everything he had left, Kern shoved down. Working his shoulder into the raider’s chest, he put his full weight behind the thrust that speared his broadsword through the raider’s foot, through flesh and the crunch of small bones, pinning the northerner to the earth.

  A pain-filled roar filled Kern’s ear, nearly deafening him. Kern sagged in the northerner’s grip.

  Then there was a stinging slap, and the raider jerked. The hand at Kern’s throat lightened, and he twisted away with a diving roll that took him out of the bastard sword’s reach. Cool, fresh air filled his lungs with new energy. He stagger-sprinted for Maev, intent on working her neck clasp free to give her the chance to run. Saw her staring back to one side, no longer interested in the fight.

  That was when he remembered Maev’s shout, and the stinging sound. A cut through the air that reminded Kern of hunting trips.

  Maev had not shouted to him, but for him.

  He spun back toward the raider. The frost-haired giant sagged forward, hugging the cedar’s scaled trunk, sword still rammed through his foot, the gray-feathered end of an arrow sprouting from his back just below one shoulder blade.

  The Vanir warrior tried to push himself back upright, levering his large hands beneath him, against the tree. Another arrow thwapped into his body, higher than the first. Then, as Kern watched, a third. Into the back of his neck. Finishing him.

  It was an easy path to follow, turning back along the arrow’s flight. A shadow stood just within the trees, reaching out into the moonlight with only his hands and a Vanir hunting bow visible. One last arrow nocked and ready. He lowered his weapon slowly, seeing it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Then, drawing the knife wedged under his belt, he stepped forward into the clearing and tossed the short blade to Kern, who caught it by the hilt.

  Daol.

  They met near Maev. Daol waited silently, eyes glancing away from her disheveled state while Kern cut through the rope at her neck, then carefully untoggled the clasp to rid her of the leather collar. She staggered away from the tree but did not fall, keeping what remained of her dignity. Checking on the northern warrior, she spit, then retrieved the broadsword for Kern and brought it back to him.

  “If you’re going to keep this,” she said, “learn to use it.” She thrust it back into his hands.

  The men said nothing to her, letting Maev find her balance.

  Daol glanced back the way they’d all come, searching the shadows. “I thought you might need some help,” he said.

  Kern nodded. He unfastened the bedroll roped at his back and retrieved Maev’s arming sword, which he had wrapped into the middle. She took it without a glance or a word of thanks, belting it on over her tunic. With the sheath hanging down alongside pale legs puckered in new gooseflesh, Kern again becam
e aware of how undressed Maev was and quickly doffed his winter cloak. She accepted that, too, wrapping it tightly about her.

  Daol stepped back into the forest, picked up a pack where he had dropped it. “Food,” he promised. “Flint and rope as well. I cleared out right ahead of the returning raiders. They were barking up a storm, trying to decide who to chase down and kill. But our kin all left on different paths, following horse trails it looked like.”

  Good. And if Aodh and Ehmish had evaded the first Vanir, they might have a chance as well.

  “So is there a plan?” Maev asked, breaking her silence again. “Or do we stand here until the Vanir think to chase after their leader?” She nodded toward the dead body but made no reference to the northerner’s strange looks. Though her eyes were guarded as she stared at Kern. Wary.

  Kern nodded north toward the Pole Star, visible through a break in the dark, overhead clouds. “We meet up with the others,” he said. “Then we get you home.”

  “Good enough.” Maev began walking, striking out ahead with determined strides.

  The men had no choice but to follow her. She made it nearly an hour before the adrenaline and her strength gave out completely, and she collapsed in the snow.

  After that, Kern carried her.

  10

  SIX CLANSMEN, SOME with rescued prisoners in tow, trying to find each other in the dark and lonely stretches of Conall Valley had seemed a nightmare to consider. All of their familiar landmarks were to the south, the one direction they didn’t dare go. Following the line of foothills below the Snowy River country always made for a good path, but there was that small raider band split off from the main group to worry about. If the Vanir turned away from Cul’s party, or were on their way back after another successful raid, they would be doing the same.

  Kern knew that his small band wouldn’t have another full day’s travel and another battle in them. He’d had to come up with something different.

  Which was why he was going to head straight north on a run, holding it long enough for the Dragon to chase the Bear around the Pole Star about twice the breadth of a hand. Roughly an hour. Only then would he swing around to the west. Everyone else had fled the raider camp on some north or north-by-west path. They would hold that line for only a hand’s turn of the constellations. After that, everyone made a slow turn. West, if they had traveled north. North, if by west.

  Sooner or later they would cross his path and converge on a new campsite.

  It would also put them in the vicinity of Clan Taur, if Kern’s reckoning of distance and direction were holding. As a backup, the Gaudic clansfolk could rendezvous there. There would be no free handouts. No sympathy. But with Vanir raiders about, they could hope for a parley at least.

  Maev slowed them down, of course, after her collapse. Some things were harder on a person than long runs and short, violent battles. She woke up after a time, recovered enough to struggle forward on her own. Slowly. She kept her silence throughout the long march, even when their small group broke through some underbrush to see a dire wolf outlined on a nearby hill, or later saw such an animal lurking near a sheltered dale.

  If she noticed or thought it strange to see the beast stalking them, she gave no outward sign.

  Daol raised his bow at one point, seeing a clean shot. Kern simply put a hand on the end of the arrow and pushed it toward the ground, shaking his head.

  He had no explanation for himself or in answer to Daol’s raised eyebrows. It was just that . . . if it was the same wolf he had fought and wrestled with, shooting the creature now would feel like he had betrayed it. If he was going to kill the wolf, he should have been willing to do so on its terms, with tooth and claw. He’d had that chance, and decided against it.

  His friend let it go without an explanation. Maybe he sensed the connection.

  Maybe he was simply too grateful to be alive and free that he wouldn’t argue.

  Finally, scouting out a protected vale, the three swept away a good clearing in the snow and had built up a fire for warmth by the time Desa, then Wallach, staggered in with supplies and the rest of the rescued prisoners. A few were content to drop onto a cleared section of ground, roll themselves into a blanket or muddied cloak, and fall asleep. Most stayed awake as Wallach produced a large shank of venison, and Kern quickly set strips of it to cooking on sticks propped up near the flames.

  Soon the savory scent of cooking meat drifted out from the camp.

  Kern believed it was the smell that finally brought in Reave, the slow-moving man leading in a wounded horse that he’d discovered along the way.

  “Traveled a bit farther west than needs be,” Reave said. “Cut back northeast to make up. Did a little sleepwalking, an’ worried that I missed the tracks.”

  So he had crossed back and forth over a great run of territory before finally hitting someone’s trail. The horse he had found only an hour back, already complaining of its broken leg. The animal was too weak to resist anymore, offering only a small neighing cry when it limped forward. Reave led it over to one side, hitched it to a nearby tree.

  Then he dropped his heavy bulk at the fire’s side, took a skewer of partially cooked meat for himself, and tore off a large, bloody bite.

  More stories came out slowly. Few as boasts. Most simply retellings. Wallach and Daol both told theirs while setting up a slaughter pit for the wounded horse, putting the animal out of its misery and staking out more meat to be slow-cooked for preservation.

  Daol, as it turned out, understood enough of the northern tongue to know the Vanir had been looking to join up with another raiding team. Coming across the funeral host seemed a bonus for them, and their frost-bearded leader had been upset to the point of raging when the initial attack cost them five warriors. Which was why he sent a small party back to regain their honor, including two wounded men who slowed down the entire band.

  The northerners, Daol said, had called their leader Ymirish. The blood of Ymir. As if he might be descended from their frost-giant god. Talk degenerated to careful conversation regarding the yellow-eyed warrior with the pale, waxy skin and hair the color of old frost. Even Maev joined them long enough to confirm that it had been the northerners’ leader who had taken her, and later kept her as spoils of battle. She shivered, holding her hands out to the fire. Then she wrapped herself tightly in Kern’s cloak and left, bedding down at the outer edge of the cleared area, barely within the cast of flickering light.

  Silence reigned. No one looked specifically at Kern, though he suspected there were many among the former prisoners especially who stole glances his way, comparing the two men.

  In a small side pouch on his pack, Wallach found a small wrap of dried fruits, which he passed around. Kern chewed slowly on tough leather slices of sun-dried apple. They tasted musty, with only a hint of flavor, but still a welcome relief.

  When another of the venison skewers finished roasting, he tore meat off and bounced it from one hand to the other as it cooled. It had a wonderful smoky taste, and occupied him for a time as the night deepened and others told halting tales of their captures, or parts in the rescue. It was then he noticed a pair of savage eyes shining out in the darkness, reflecting back the firelight. They hovered far enough back that the wolf was hard to find unless you were looking for it. Kern looked. Feeling generous, he went to the slaughter pit and found a pile of entrails that would only be left to rot and chucked them out into the darkness. They fell too close to the camp, though, and the wolf would not come for it.

  “You pick your friends strangely,” one of the rescued prisoners said, as Kern regained his place by the fire. The ebony-skinned fellow, who had sat quietly and listened, until now. He used the Aquilonian tongue. Haltingly, and with a thick accent, but clear enough for most Cimmerians to follow.

  Kern glanced at Daol and Reave. “I think they would say that they’re the ones with poor taste.”

  “Any man with friend who come to rescue him like you did . . . he not poor.” That said, he turned
back to the fire and continued to shred his food, bringing the meat up to his mouth in tiny slivers. Making it last.

  Fewer than half of the troop remained awake by then. There weren’t any stories left or much conversation to speak of. “So?” Daol was first to ask. “What do we do now?”

  “You take Maev back to Gaud,” Kern answered slowly, thinking through the next steps. He was amazed that any of them had survived this long, but where did they go from here? “You, Semie, and Fough.” They were the other two captured with Daol and Maev. They were all still part of the clan.

  “What about you?” Daol took in the other outcasts by eye.

  Desa shrugged, poking into the fire with the tip of her knife, watching the end turn black. Reave and Wallach both looked to Kern.

  “We cannot go back,” Kern said. “Cul will have sent his runners back to the village, and the Tall-Woods will know we are all outcasts.” Once outside the clan, always outside. That was custom and law. “I don’t know if Cul will take in the other two we rescued.” The dark-skinned man did not look up, either not understanding Cimmerian or not caring. “But they can be given enough food to have a chance at making the southern borderlands.” Horseflesh and hard biscuits.

  Daol chewed on that a moment. Then he shrugged. “I go where you go,” he said simply.

  Kern had expected the younger man’s gratitude. But he also owed a thought to Daol’s father. “Would Hydallan appreciate that decision?” he asked.

  “He’d remind me . . . and you . . . that a man makes his own decisions, and he does not turn from his debts.” He glanced at Reave, suddenly unsure. “We should have come for you when Cul cast you out.”

  There was no way to tell how deeply that hurt had sat inside his friends, festering. No doubt it would have caused them trouble with Cul before ever reaching the Field of the Chiefs.

  Still, Kern remembered something Burok had spoken over a summer fire. “Being chieftain is easy,” he said now, reaching back for the words. “Earning it. That’s hard.”