“Maybe he needs to be taught a lesson,” said Spear. “Maybe he and his men need to be cut down a notch or two, and maybe Cruhund and all the other upstart warlords need to remember who Spear Spyrchylde is. I’m a Hound of the North! Warlock slayer! I lorded over Cullantown when they were dragging their sorry asses through the deserts of Hopht for Dhurma. The Black River was mine! No one crossed me! No one edged in on what was mine. No one!”
“Well, that was a lifetime ago, old man.” Longbeard snorted. “The name of Spyrchylde is only the stuff of campfire stories on a cold night. We’re nobodies. No great feared bandit force. A bunch of losers and misfits. They’d laugh knowing we rattle our swords and bang our shields before we do what? Swooping down on unarmed pilgrims? Charging into an abandoned clan holding? Spear, the world’s passed you by. No one’s trembling at your name anymore. Your name slips from the world.”
“That’s going to change,” said Spear. “Killing these men will be the first step in putting my name on everyone’s tongue again. With those five gems, we’ll have coin to play with. Men will come to us. We’ll grow. They’ll begin to fear us, and through the borderlands, they’ll start singing of Spear’s crew.”
Longbeard laughed. “At some point the talk needs to stop. A sword actually needs to cut. And coin shared. Otherwise, you’ll be singing that song by yourself.”
Later, while the others finished off the last of the chicken and the dark of the night settled into the sky above, Spear wandered beyond the fall of the light of the small fire, to the outcropping. In the distance, the light from torches on the walls of Grymr’s Hold pricked through the dark haze. Spear would roust his crew early, lay in wait along the forest trail that meandered towards Cruhund’s keep, and when Red Tail came along, they would descend with arrow and spear. He could imagine the gem, bright red in his palm. The first real step to reclaiming what was his.
Spear sensed Night before his old companion made a slight rustling at his shoulder.
“All this for what?” said Night. “A gem? A dozen gems won’t make a difference. You know that, don’t’ you?”
“I know what you have to say. ‘Return to the North. Find the other Hounds. Together again.’ And what difference is that?” asked Spear. “I want something solid and heavy in my hand. Men at my back. A fortress from which to rule.”
“Killing his men is just that.”
“But it’s his men. Cruhund’s men. He’s a cheat and a scoundrel. Sleeping in my bed, walking in my boots the moment I crossed that river. A cur nipping at my heels. Now others think he is more than I ever was, with his keep and his men in their armor, with their stitched dogs pretending at being Hounds. You see it as well as I do. They insult all that we were. I need to kill those men. I need to knock his dogs down in the eyes of Longbeard and the others. They need to see who Spear Spyrchylde is. Not just the stories around the campfire. Not the old man who runs them around in circles and promises what he can’t deliver. No, we’re going to kill these men. Cut Cruhund down to what he is. Show that his men die the same as any others. By our hands. They need to see that the man they follow – Spyrchylde – is a terror in the lands. This is important to me. They need to see that I don’t lead them to a slow death, but that I lead them to glory.”
Spear waited for Night to say something, to counter his argument, but he saw only the trees, his companion faded away long ago.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“WHERE THE HELL is he?” muttered Longbeard. “You said Red Tail would come. So where is he?”
Spear could hardly hear anything above the hiss of his own breath through his nostrils. His teeth were clenched so tightly he thought they might crack under the pressure. He wanted Longbeard to shut his yammering.
Spear and the others crouched on a small rise overlooking a footbridge that spanned a creek. He stared down through the opening in the trees at the empty planks of the bridge. They had been lying in wait since before dawn and now even through the murk overhead, Spear could see that midday was fast approaching. Red Tail should have been on this footbridge hours ago. It was the only way from Grymr’s Hold to the keep. Instead the bridge remained empty and Spear’s crew fumed, their grumbling louder with each passing hour.
“We’re fools to follow you.” Longbeard stood and brushed off burrs from his trousers. He threw his arms wide. “At this point, I’m done with you! You had your chance. Ever since you stabbed Black Arrow in the back. At least under Black Arrow we weren’t being dragged all over the borderlands chasing ghosts. Your time is done.”
Spear rose quickly. “So this is it? You turn your sword on me?”
Longbeard laughed. “I haven’t drawn a sword against you and, honestly, do I even need to? Look around. Who’s going to follow you anymore? Any of these men? Or any of these women?”
Spear could see the expressions in their eyes. Seana no longer even looked at him. They had lost faith in him. He had promised them a better life, coin, and mead, and what had he delivered? A handful of dirty coins.
“Your time is done, old man. Best you get on your way.”
“You can’t do this,” said Valda shaking her head at Spear. “You promised! You made a deal. You swore you’d bring me the heads of those five men.”
Longbeard combed his fingers through the ends of his shiny whiskers. “He made that deal. The old man. Not us. Now, about that gem, girl.”
Valda leapt back, a small knife suddenly in her hand. “You stay away from me. You promised. I never should have trusted you. I should have known. You were going to steal the gems from me anyway, weren’t you? You never meant to kill those bastards, did you? You were just waiting for the right moment to rob me. You never meant to keep your promise.”
“What promise? I made no promise.” With two quick strides, Longbeard covered the ground between himself and Valda and snagged her hand. Slowly he bent her wrist until the knife clattered at her feet. “Where’re you hiding those gems, girlie?”
Val cursed and lashed out with a foot. Longbeard tightened his grip on her hand. She fell to her knees. She whimpered and her eyes teared.
Seana stepped forward as if to speak, her eyes now drawn to Spear, and he knew she wanted him to act. This was the moment that he could prove himself to her. But this was the moment for which Longbeard had been waiting: the bloody fight in which the young wolf would dethrone the old one and take over the pack.
But if Spear did nothing, he would also lose.
“Let her go!” howled Spear.
Longbeard released his grip. Val snatched the knife from the ground and ran past Spear into the bushes towards the footbridge.
“We made a promise,” said Spear, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“You did, but your word means nothing.” Longbeard smiled.
The others backed away creating a widening circle. Not a single one of the bandits moved to Spear’s side. Even Night hung back in the shadows of the trees. None chose to stand for him.
“Where’s your honor?” said Spear.
“We’re thieves, you fool!” shouted Longbeard. “And how do you of all people talk of honor? Stabbing a man in the back to take over this crew? No honor in that. Can’t even honestly take what you want.” He pounded his chest. “At least I come at you in the open! I have nothing to hide! Time for talking is over, old timer!”
Spear hesitated. He knew the moment he drew his sword he could not turn back. Either way this ended, one of them would be dead in the clearing. Even if he was victorious, he would be no closer to his dream. He shuffled to the right to try to gain higher ground but Longbeard matched him.
The young Northman dropped his hand to his axe handle.
Suddenly Bones hopped between them, up on one leg, finger pointing down the slope. “He comes!”
Through the trees, Spear saw the movement of figures. Red Tail was crossing the footbridge. But he was not alone. Trailing behind his horse, two men walked: Northmen, wide-shouldered, clothed in worn Dhurman armor, likely new recruit
s from Grymr’s Hold for Cruhund’s growing force.
“We’ll finish this later,” said Spear. “Now we earn our gem.”
“No!” Longbeard’s hand did not leave his axe handle. “We take the girl’s gem and forget about pursuing these men. Not risking my life for this.” He scanned the bandits circling him. “Where’s the girl? Where’d she go?”
Bone’s finger darted out again.
Valda stood wide-legged at the end of the footbridge, that knife clutched in her hand, and Red Tail, mid-bridge, pulled up his horse.
His voice, full of phlegm, carried from the bottom of the slope. “What is this? A bridge troll?” He bent forward to Val and, on recognizing her, laughed. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?”
“You killed them all.”
“I guess this time when we’re done with you we better make sure you’re dead.”
Spear broke from his standoff with Longbeard and ran. His feet slid on the grassy slope, and as fast as he fell to his back side, he pushed himself up and tore through the underbrush, heedless of the small branches whipping against his cheeks, the hidden stones threatening to turn an ankle. He lost his footing again, rolled forward and then finding his feet staggered to the end of the footbridge, sword drawn and shield chambered.
Red Tail laughed. “Doesn’t stop, does it?”
“Right here it does,” said Spear.
Red Tail signaled to the two men behind him and they squeezed around his horse and dashed single file on the bridge. Spear raced ahead, the back of his hand sending Valda over the side of the bridge and into the shallow waters of the creek below. The thin planks trembled beneath the pounding feet.
In the moment before contact, Spear lifted his sword overhead and expanded his chest as if he sought to drive the blade down through the first man’s head. As his opponent lifted his shield to block the blow, Spear skipped forward and kicked, the bottom of his boot crashing into the man’s chest and sending him tumbling into his companion. Then Spear was on them, never giving them the space to get off their backs. His blade cutting a tight figure eight against the dark sky. The razor-sharp edge splintered wood. It sparked off metal. Blood and bone arced.
Spear only had the sense of something coming at him and he shifted just in time to catch Red Tail’s spear with his shield. Its shuddering blow split the shield. The iron head did not penetrate Spear’s armor but it still hit him hard enough to drop him to his knees.
Feet pounded on the planks. Red Tail’s sword floated overhead, his mouth wide, his teeth flashing, his beard swinging in the air. Spear could not lift his sword and shield fast enough.
The sword began its downward arc.
Red Tail’s laughter swallowed the birdsong of the forest.
Biroc’s arrow silenced him. It whistled in the air just above Spear’s head, an impossible burst of darkness, and into the man’s gaping mouth. His sword spun across the sky, end over end. Red Tail pawed at the arrow and tilted. He hit the planks hard next to Spear, so close he could see the last bit of light draining from the man’s eyes.
Spear wanted to rise but his hands trembled, the energy of the fight surging through him. His stomach tightened into itself and the world disintegrated into black dots. All that remained was his own labored breath.
Then they materialized at the end of the bridge – Night’s knives glinting beneath the drapes in his cloak; Biroc with another arrow notched; Seana alongside Kiara; Little Boy with his axe held across his thighs; and in the back, behind Bones, Longbeard stood, with his lips pinched in a scowl.
Valda sat on the bank of the creek shaking, her bony arms wrapped around her knees, a splatter of blood painting her face.
Spear struggled to his feet and then staggered over to Little Boy. He tore the axe out of his hands and then returned to Red Tail. Three chops freed the head. He kicked it over the edge of the bridge so that it landed with splash at Valda’s feet.
“Where’s my gem?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CRUHUND STARED INTO the water swirling through the gorge below.
After a long morning, up at dawn and through the surging storm, the upstart warlord and his remaining crew of fifteen had reached the ancient bridge that led to his keep. Crossing the bridge, they had stopped. Now they sheltered under a handful of lean-tos that had been constructed over the past year. Hard cold rain rapped on the planks of the bridge.
While the others had sought shelter, drying out and hoping the storm would clear before the last hard climb to the keep, Cruhund stood alone at the middle of the bridge.
It was an ancient structure, built of old cedars, rough hewn and carved with runes worn almost smooth. The bridge was wide enough for a wagon to be drawn across it, but narrow enough that a dozen men – well-armed and disciplined – could hold it against a much larger force. On the keep side of the bridge, defensive structures had been built, small chambers of stacked stones, designed with arrow slits. Molgi had once pointed out the notches in the rails on the bridge and suggested that timbers could be laid across so that a horse charge would be disrupted or a shield wall would have to break in order to advance. The bridge had been built to defend the keep and that pleased Cruhund.
He laid his hands on the moss covered rails. Beneath him the water cracked and hissed on the tumble of stones below. He lost his thoughts in the swirl of water, mesmerized by its endless movement. He had once, late last fall, tried to follow the stream to its source but the bed was rugged, stepped, and the slick rock became impassable at a certain point with a misstep meaning a fall to the death.
While he did not know where the stream came from, he knew where the waters led. They fed into other rugged mountain streams until, further south, they merged into the Black River. Everything fed that great river. He knocked a twig over the edge of the bridge. It disappeared immediately in the white swirl, dipping below the surface and never coming back to his sight. He imagined it riding the pulsing waters all the long way to the Black River proper, over the treacherous footing of the crossing at Oron’s Belt and then drifting past the wide waters by Cullantown.
It had only been five years since Spear had burned the fortress, five years since Cruhund and Yriel had fled before the coming of a vengeful Dhurman legion, five years of a hard-scrabble life on the border at the eastern edge of the North. But in the end, though, it had been worth it. Men gathered to his sword. Travelers on the road fell. Merchants lost their fortunes. Year by year, he built back what Spear had stolen from him, and when he had found the keep last year, abandoned, full of human bones, he knew then that he had risen farther than he ever would have in Cullan, a strong arm under the heel of Dhurman conquerors.
Here in the borderlands he was finally free. He finally had started becoming the warlord he dreamed of. And nothing would ever take that from him.
He stared through an opening in the forest towards the dark gray cliffs. The keep was visible despite the rain. Did she watch for his return from the balcony? Did she even have the strength to get out of bed this morning?
Cruhund returned to his huddled men.
A sudden gust of wind rose and the cloaks of the mercenaries cracked around them like the wings of attacking beasts.
“I’m back to the keep. Big Haran, you’re in charge. Wait for Red Tail and Molgi and the bag of coin. Then pick three and hold the bridge.
“You just going to leave us here? In this weather?” Big Haran stepped out of the shelter, his teeth bared. His cloak was pulled tight to his shoulders. “While you ride back to the comfort of the keep? That’s what you are thinking? I have a better idea. Why don’t you stay here at the bridge and I’ll ride ahead? Get back to your little whore.”
Cruhund squinted against a sudden swirl of wind. The tips of his braided hair fluttered. He stared at the man through narrowed eyes and when he finally spoke, his voice was so low it was nearly lost beneath the hum of the wind. “You want to come back to the keep with me? That what you want? You want to get back to my…my little who
re?” Red streaked his lips and bits of saliva flew from his mouth.
Big Haran, realizing he had misspoke, retreated to the lean-to, shaking his head. “This weather. Got under my skin. Why don’t we all just head back?” He looked to the others for support, but the men turned their gazes as if the wind made it impossible to look into this argument.
“But we’re not done yet, are we?” Cruhund asked. His smile cracked his dry lips, reopening a dozen cuts. “Molgi comes. Coin in the pocket. Deals have been made. What else would we do? Harass pilgrims? Try our luck against One Eye? No, my friend. Walk away from this and, what, empty pockets and no mead to fill our bellies? That how you plan to lead men?”
“No,” said Big Haran. “Maybe the weather’s not so bad. Just a bit of wind after all. You head on back, boss. We’ll catch up later. I shouldn’t have spoken.”
Cruhund laughed and patted the man on the shoulder. “Can’t make up your mind, can you?”
“I’m sorry. This weather’s gotten into my head. That’s all.”
“Weather’s bad. Weather’s good. In the end, makes no difference.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll say nothing else. I give you my word. We forget this, right?” He held out his hand for the warlord.
Small drops of rain pinged off Cruhund’s iron helmet, a few beads rolling as slowly as tears. “You won’t forget this,” said Cruhund, and he whipped his hand out, clamped around the other’s wrist, and jerked him forward.
Big Haran hit the ground hard face first, sprawling onto the slick boards.
He gathered himself to his hands and knees. Cruhund stepped forward and kicked him in the face, the top of the warlord’s boot sending a spray of blood and teeth over the rail of the bridge.
Five Bloody Heads Page 6