Blood of Wolves

by Loren Coleman

  Dig a hole, prop a leaf or twig in the way, and wait for prey to come traipsing by. Then, out! Snare and sting them, and haul the catch back down into the underground lair for weeks of slow eating.

  As Desa and Nahud’r helped Ehmish back to his feet, half-carrying him to the entrance of the nearby mine, he watched Kern and half of the troop burrow down into their spiderholes, blades in their fists, ready to come springing out on the attack. Everyone else grabbed some cover behind a boulder or small pile of hardscrabble tailings. They would wait and spring on the Vanir after the trap had been sprung.

  That’s how it should have happened.

  Of course, Ehmish shouldn’t have gotten himself wounded. Should never have been trapped in the situation he’d found himself in this evening. A little bad luck and one rushed decision had spoiled it all. He and Doon and Desa had been set to stir up the raider camp and draw the Vanir out so the rest of Kern’s pack could fall on the main site and free the slaves. That they’d accomplished, with Desa sniping at the raiders with bow and arrow while Ehmish and Doon both used slings to slap small bullets into flesh.

  One sentry killed, and several men around a campfire wounded before the Vanir charged into the night. The three of them split apart then, running for their own spiderholes, which had been set up earlier.

  Ehmish’s was right back along the trail where trampled snow made it impossible to tell his tracks from those of men who had passed by earlier. A stick held up one side of the snow-covered blanket, like a feeble tent just waiting to collapse. He lay in a prepared trough, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and simply rolled it over him in a quick turn, drawing along the snow’s weight and its camouflage.

  Then he simply had to wait it out, for the attack on the campsite to draw back the raiders, who would meet (as planned) Kern’s ready warriors.

  But there had been more Vanir camped nearby than Daol or Brig had found. And Ehmish had come scuttling out from his spiderhole too early, as a half dozen raiders ran back to join the growing fracas. Two of them set on him with a lust for blood, hammering at his defense while the rest charged onward.

  He kept the broadsword in front of him for a moment. Maybe two. Then one raider slipped a blade inside Ehmish’s reach to slice deep and long and painfully down his side . . . turning the blade in . . .

  Trying to slip it beneath his rib cage and a thrust for his vitals.

  Aodh and Reave saved him, having come to his shouts and warnings even as the entire plan fell apart. Most of the slaves, when set loose, had been too enamored of their freedom to bother with anything more than grabbing a weapon and charging off into the night. A few hesitated, looking for vengeance or simply recognizing the safety in numbers. But they weren’t used to fighting as a group, and they straggled out into a loose wall that was the first to fall under the swords of the returning Vanir.

  After that it was break away into the night. And running . . . running . . . Shouts and horns chasing after them. The sound of feet scraping against—

  —the cavern floor!

  Ehmish startled, coming back from the fevered drowse he had begun to slip into with a hand clasped over his mouth and strong arms pulling him over to the wall of the cave. His side lit up with new fire, expelling the weariness which had nearly claimed him until . . . until . . .

  Again, a distant echo of feet slipping against scrabble rock and smooth-worn stone. People moving deeper inside the cave.

  And voices. Flat and nasal, whispering words that Ehmish almost recognized. He did not speak the northern tongues, but he had heard Vanir curses enough of late to recognize them when he heard them.

  No one had bothered to check the cave for side passages or signs of life.

  No one had had time.

  Nahud’r held Ehmish against the cavern wall, his lean-muscled arms pulling the young man into the darkest corner, where they lay still and silent. Desa was gone, having returned to the others. Except for the scuffle and soft whispers echoing to them, silence reigned. Ehmish heard nothing from outside, but imagined the Vanir were getting close, close.

  Now he understood the caution implied in the dark man’s embrace. A shouted warning might bring the raiders outside running, crashing in among their companions.

  But not to shout meant letting more warriors in at their backs, where they were not expecting trouble.

  Light flickered back inside the cave’s ultimate darkness, casting a few stray shadows before going out. Candlelight, Ehmish guessed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, panting like a dog through the pain. He hoped that the others had caught a glimpse of the light. That it hadn’t been buried too far back from the mine’s entrance.

  No sign of the others. No call of help. It was Ehmish and Nahud’r. The young Gaudic still had his silver-chased broadsword, never having released his death grip on the wire-wound handle. He guessed that the dark-skinned Shemite still had his scimitar within reach.

  But there were many, many Vanir. More than Ehmish would have thought, creeping up through the old mine. He felt their presence in the rock now, and heard the scuffs and shuffles of many feet. The shadows swirled and shifted deeper into the cavern, and he counted four . . . five . . . six men moving up on them. Nahud’r brushed his fingers lightly over Ehmish’s eyes, and the young man understood without having to be told. He squinted, reducing any gleam off the whites of his eyes down to the barest speck possible.

  He saw the shadow of movement as the first Vanir warrior stepped past them, moving for the entrance with naked blade held in front of him and teeth bared in a feral grin. Then the second. The third. That was when Ehmish made his decision.

  That was when he realized that it had been his decision all along, to be a part of these men and women. These warriors. Every time he had stepped forward. Every league he’d run alongside them. Those had all been choices. Kern and the others, they had stood by him because he had done the same for them. And he did so now.

  He broke free of Nahud’r’s grip, rolling back into the main cavern with his broadsword already thrusting up from the floor, toward a raider’s unprotected belly.

  Warmth gushed over his sword, his hand. Slick and foul, with a latrine scent that promised a deep gut wound. The man’s scream of pain thundered in the cavern’s close quarters. It echoed up and down the cave’s length and no doubt bellowed forth from the entrance like the roar of a wounded dragon.

  No time to think about the sharp pain he’d reawakened in his side, or the new trickles of blood that spread down over his hip. There was only his sword, lashing out and biting at flesh, and the raiders who stood all around him, confused by the sudden loosing of a beast among them. A wolf!

  One of Kern’s wolves.

  THE DARKNESS OF the spiderhole was absolute. Kern waited, facedown in the slush and the cold, sharp-edged hardscrabble that tailed out from the nearby mine, smothered beneath the felt mat Daol had drawn across him. The weight of snow across his back and legs pressed down with a firm hand. His poncho protected him from a great deal of abuse, but here and there a sharp rock dug past the tattered leather, and snowmelt trickled inside, drawing icy lines against his chest.

  His breath quickly turned the air close—warm and humid. It drew out the smells trapped by the felt. The rank odor of the Vanir who had rolled himself inside the mat for who knew how many nights. His own sweat—and yea—blood, too. Even the scent of he and Maev, together, still lingered after all this time. Though perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part. And deep down, beneath the odors of use, was still the musky, wild smell of animal. Mountain goat or mammoth. Something that could never be washed or aired out of the tangle of woolen hair.

  The blasts of Vanir horns were muffled to his ears, but growing closer still. The strength of their calls promised him that. He couldn’t tell from which direction, but assumed every way but east, where the mountain cliffs would make passage difficult.

  Let them come in staggered numbers. That was Kern’s only desire. A pair at a time. Knots of three or fou
r. Given that, his pack of hunters could pull down the raiders without suffering loss of life or even injury. It was the way of the pack, and it served Kern’s warriors well. The pack would always be stronger than a few rogue predators.

  There were shouts by then. Hard as they were to grasp through the layers of snow and cloth, they sounded confused, and still full of pain. Perhaps Kern’s warriors had hurt the raiders more deeply than they’d thought. The mournful blasts tapered off in number, though the few that remained became more strident. Excited.

  Then nothing.

  Silence descended. If the Vanir were still out there, they had to be close. Very close. Creeping up on the old mine site, perhaps expecting another ambush. Or planning one of their own.

  As heartbeats counted off long, painful moments, Kern began to imagine the stealth of a raider, moving cautiously as he came down one of the paths so clearly marked by the footprints of his warriors. Spear or broadsword held ready. Shield tucked in close to protect his heart and throat.

  There! They spotted the unnatural hillocks beneath the snow and knew them for what they were! Did that one move? Even just a little? A sharp breath, or a quick adjustment against the prodding of a sharp stone, that’s all it would take.

  The flame-haired Vanir, tossing his long braid back over one shoulder, waving down the Ymirish who also trod so close by and pointing out the deception. Kern’s mouth dried with the sudden, bitter taste of adrenaline.

  More warriors creeping forward now, careful of any betraying sound. Coming up with one or two men to each mound. Weapons drawn back for quick, deadly thrusts.

  The spiderholes turned into burial shrouds for Kern and half his people.

  A loose stone tumbled nearby, and a heavy thud sounded near Kern’s head as someone dropped down from the mound of old tailings.

  Rolling back against the mat, Kern furled it beneath him as he freed his sword arm first. A handful of snow fell into his face. He shook clear with a violent toss of his head. In time to see the tall shadow standing over him with a javelin or pike held carefully across his body, whipping the long shaft around as Kern sprang his trap before the other man was able to deal death so easily.

  His arming sword thrust for the other warrior’s vitals, but the pike’s wooden haft knocked his point aside at the last second. A return thrust nearly pinned Kern to the ground, but he turned it with the flat of his blade and rolled into the man’s feet, trying to throw him off-balance as he whipped the blade up to slash at the man’s exposed chest.

  And stopped as he recognized the kilt, of all things, as the heavy woolen wrap common to Cimmeria. Not a banded or studded leather skirt at all. Not what his enemy would wear.

  Not with the fox’s tail of Cruaidh dangling down from his belt.

  What Gard Foehammer recognized to stay his own thrust Kern couldn’t be certain. But suddenly the two warriors both halted, both in midstrike. The nearby ground erupted as more warriors flung themselves out of their spiderholes. Kern hissed a sharp “Hold!” to his warriors before someone made the same mistake he almost had.

  More of his hunters dropped down from nearby trees or ducked out from behind boulders or scrub. Kern rose carefully to his feet, wondering at Gard’s arrival. And that of his clansmen, as several Cruaidhi gathered behind him, weapons naked and already stained with blood.

  “The horns?” Kern said.

  “Unholy noise,” Gard said as if agreeing. “We ran right up their backsides without hardly a whisper of alarm.” He shook his head. “You’ve set a hard pace to match, Kern Wolf-Eye.”

  The man might have said more, but that was when the wounded bellow of a great beast rolled out of the nearby cavern. Then came the ringing clash of steel against steel, and more shouts of pain and Nordheimir curses.

  “Ehmish!” Kern shouted. And with one mind his troop rushed for the abandoned mine entrance.

  Desa was closest, having concealed herself near the yawning black after helping carry the youth inside. She disappeared inside, briefly, then came stumbling back out into the silvery gray cast of moonlight with a large man wrapped around her, trying to club her unconscious with the haft of his broadsword.

  Desa folded, but not from weakness. She rolled down onto the ground, pulling the shaggy-haired Vanir with her. Planting a foot into his gut and rolling him up and over the top to bowl him into Wallach Graybeard and Hydallan. Their swords rose and fell, rose and fell, hacking mercilessly at the stunned warrior. Kern caught up with Reave and Daol as Desa staggered back to her feet, and the six of them rushed forward.

  Then Kern pulled them up short as the shouts and clashes of steel ceased as abruptly—and as shocking to those outside—as they began.

  They waited, as if not daring to rush in blindly. Desa had been fortunate the Vanir raider hadn’t run her through as she chased into the darkness. The silence that yawned out from the dark entrance promised them that the danger, however it had turned out for the men Kern had left inside, was over.

  Two men, as it turned out. Nahud’r had remained a moment longer with Ehmish, and now came out with the younger leaning heavily into his shoulder, limping and weak, but still on his feet. Ehmish’s face was twisted into a mask of pain and fury, made all the more frightening with the splatter of blood that painted one side of his face red and speckled the other with dabs and dollops.

  “We should have checked the cavern,” was all that Kern could think to say.

  Ehmish grinned back at him. Blood stained his teeth as well, and he spit the taste to one side. “Yea. We should have,” he said.

  Then he tumbled forward from Nahud’r’s grasp, into Kern’s arms.

  Kern lowered the young man to the ground, shouting his people back as they crowded in. He shoved a few of them who got in his way while he felt for life at Ehmish’s neck. A thready heartbeat. Too fast and too weak, but still there.

  “Let me,” a papery-thin voice whispered in Kern’s ear.

  A strong, liver-spotted hand grabbed Kern by the elbow and lifted him away from the fallen warrior. It wasn’t the strength that pulled him aside, though, but the confidence in the grip. Kern stared into the other man’s face, and looked past the cast that smeared across the right eye. Callaugh’s shaman knew what he was about, and it radiated from him in the same way Kern had seen in healer and war leaders alike. He bent over Ehmish, already digging into one of the many muslin sacks tied to his side.

  The appearance of the older man, though, raised many questions for Kern. He looked back to Gard, who had now been joined by Sláine Longtooth and Ros-Crana, who held the severed head of a Ymirish by his long, frost blond braid. And dozens of warriors mixed together between Cruaidhi and Callaughnan. Kern did not see him, but he heard Narach Chieftain haranguing a troop farther back into the darkness.

  “Both of you?” he asked, scarcely believing it. If he’d had to be rescued, having it be by the leaders of two strong villages seemed too good to be true.

  “You made it hard to resist,” Ros-Crana said. She hefted her trophy, letting blood and gore drip from the neck to spatter into the snow and slush around her feet. “The entire Crom-cursed land is stirred up behind you. And ahead. You’ve painted a target that no one could refuse.”

  A victorious chill washed through Kern as he read into her words, her tone. Something in the way she spoke. “No one?” he asked.

  Sláine Longtooth crossed arms over his chest, stared off into the night as if already looking at the next battle. “Finally,” he promised. “After all this way and so many lives.”

  Kern did not doubt that Longtooth thought of his fallen son, Alaric, first among them.

  It was Gard Foehammer, though, who finally gave him a straight answer. Perhaps he thought of the many lives lost at Cruaidh, and again over the Pass of Blood. But he was a warrior born, and knew how to keep his target in sight once it fell beneath his gaze. “Grimnir, Kern.” The protector of Cruaidh reversed his pike, jabbing it point down into the frozen earth. As if driving the finishing blow into
his enemy. “He’s drawn together his war host near Conarch.

  “You’ve lured out the great beast himself.”

  26

  A CLINGING FOG, damp and cold, cloaked the following morning. It rolled over the Cimmerian encampment before dawn, cutting visibility down to not much better than a stone’s throw. Draping shadows over the warriors who slept or sat quietly, or walked about alone as they prepared themselves for the coming day.

  Kern shook himself into action slowly, with heavy deliberation. The eve before Ros-Crana had promised they were but a short march away from Conarch, and the promise of battle had kept Kern awake most of the night. Back against a tree and huddled beneath his blanket, staring into the dark and cold as his breath plumed before him. Hearing Frostpaw’s strong howl as the wolf patrolled the edge of the encampment. Watching the change of sentries.

  Not caring so much what the battle would bring to him, but suddenly at ease that his long march seemed to be over.

  For better or worse.

  There was no call to assemble. No order to move for Conarch. Men and women simply started moving about with more direction, more energy. They drifted off in clumps and clusters. Kern checked on Ehmish—alive, but one of those being left behind that day among other wounded—and kicked a few of his own men awake. Then he set about preparing. Pulling his tattered poncho overhead and belting the iron-shod greaves around his legs. The heavy broadsword of Burok Bear-slayer he strapped across his back. Arming sword at his side, its sheath tied around his wide, leather belt opposite of his long hunting knife. Winter cloak draped over his shoulders, with its tattered roll of wolf’s fur matted and filthy.

  His extra weapons and the foodstuff he carried went into his blanket roll, tied with a few lengths of braided horsehair, then a long leather cord he slung over his shoulder. Kern slung back his new shield as well, then squatted near a dead fire pit as he watched the rest of his warriors gather to him.

  Nahud’r rolled out of his bedroll with scimitar already naked in his hand. Finding a good whetting stone, he set to sharpening the curved length in long, rasping strokes. Aodh and Doon passed around shanks of dried beef and crusty flatbread. Old Finn rose cursing his stiff joints and the damp chill.