Within the huge dark, sudden fires were lit. The brilliance of torchlight appeared in empty sconces and where there had been the great freeze and the cold anonymity of suggestive shadow, now there came disclosure, stark blazing heat and the threat not of the unseen, but of realisation. The men of the southern Nor’way had never hunted the sea bear for its fur, its flesh or the poison in its heart and liver. Few of them had ever seen one. Now, turning a tight bend in a narrow passage and meeting the black nose and wide toothed snarl of the huge beast face to face, terrified those who died quickly by its bite and claw, but also those behind, who turned and fled.
Men, fighting a disjointed onslaught in scraps of fierce and sudden battle without access to their leadership or co-ordinated charge, did not know whether their forces were already losing, or might be closing in to victory. The transanima knew. Each fighting man or beast received his orders through his mind, or that of his neighbour. They had no doubt of success.
Thoddun led a few men down to the open cave, annihilating the guards still hovering there. At last those early prisoners, the older and weaker transanima originally left to keep the castle when the great armies marched out for war, were permitted to return, rowing their small boats quietly back to the land of their safety. Tired but excited, they stayed there, sharing the few weapons they had been given for a possible defence, waiting until the castle was back under their lord’s control.
Thoddun climbed back to the long mazes, fighting as he went. The great hall where he had suggested all those who wished to surrender might keep a secluded haven, was still little used. Some groups skulked there, muttering, part shamed. Thoddun passed the door and heard their discomfort. Three wild men stood in a corner, their shoulders turned against the men; a dozen men, no more, shivering in the glum dark. Thoddun entered. He quickly lit a fire across the wide hearth, allowing the men to crowd around. There were less of them than he had hoped, but those there were he gave the gift of comfort. “When this is over,” he told them, “I’ll need good warriors with more intelligence than idiot bravado. You’ll be the new leaders I’ll trust to take any survivors back to your valley.”
“Will you come with us then, and be our king?” one asked.
“Will you kill Lord Grimr?”
“And how can you tell which side is winning?”
Thoddun laughed. “If you see any of your men passing here, half ready to surrender, then call them in by the fire. I’ll be back.”
Outside, five humans had surrounded a young bear, swords thrust through its eyes and ears. Thoddun came on the corpse near the sea gates, ragged bloody fur and an unnecessary death. He recognised a youth he had not long since tutored. He jumped across the spread limbs, calling to other bears to join him. Up the stone steps towards the battlements they chased Grimr’s men, knowing them by the smell of bear blood on their blades.
Thoddun yelled, his first adversary scrambling four steps higher than himself. The man turned, hurtling back, sword slick in scarlet, poised and aiming straight down. Thoddun’s arm had more force. His sword was longer, and he was quicker. He took the man up through the groin, slashing testicles, bladder and belly. He stepped aside as the dead man tumbled headlong, and immediately took the second on the steps. He cut through both the man’s ankles with one swing, then beheaded him as he fell to his shattered knees. The bears ripped the others apart. Thoddun turned away from the growling and slaughter behind, hurrying back down the stairs to the main corridors.
He passed two bears gorging on fresh killed meat and ordered them away. “We’ve no time for that. The feast comes after the victory.” Then in the glimmering shade of an iced corner he saw the remains of his own friend, the wolf Manute who had faithfully served the Althing. Killed as a traitor, by other wolves.
The fighting was spasmodic and sometimes startling. Men burst from dark corridors, the sudden shafts of torchlight on metal blades, the furious screams of war. Climbing the worn slip of old stone steps, leaping up several at a time with the echoes of boots behind and the risk of a knife through the ankle or a sword through the groin, left no space to turn and face the danger. Then other boots coming down and another face above, leering white from the gloom. Trapped between two enemies, and the wild clash of steel on steel.
Thoddun heard all those who died. His own, in their final moments, tried to Shift. Dying within the channel eases pain and brings joy to banish fear, but in battle there is rarely time to Shift and death is quick. Where the body slumps silent, the channel’s mind wails as it leaves. The cries all came to Thoddun, weighing heavy. He also heard the deaths of Grimr’s people, and their panic and confusion. The awareness of death was continuous. Sometimes, when many died in the same heaving moment, he could not tell which were his own, and which human, for all minds cried out before snapping into eternal quiet. Those he killed himself clamoured loudest in his head, deafening his own deep concentration.
He killed one of Grimr’s men already wounded, a whimpering of prolonged agony, a young jarl badly mauled and cowering to die alone in an empty corner. The boy had lost both feet and his belly sagged open. His hands grasped at his intestines, trying desperately to stuff them back into his body. His sobbing faded as his strength left him but he was slow in dying. Thoddun found the boy and gave him peace.
Striding away, Thoddun was cornered by a small group of humans, expensively armoured, blades well blooded. He recognised a few from his own childhood. They rushed from the lower hall having succeeded in a battle against four of Thoddun’s sky army. Thoddun had heard his people die. Now he whirled around, facing the victors. There were six of them but in the shelving passageway only two could reach him and he decapitated those first two with a single sweep of arrogant steel. The next two leaped at once and behind them another two strained, pushing forwards. Thoddun snarled, bear fury, pressing with sword and knife. He kicked with such force that one man was hurled backwards, flattening both those behind. Thoddun’s sword took the only man standing, then turned to those who had fallen. He killed them all and climbed over their bodies, wiping the blood from his boots and the guts from his blade as he crossed.
He strode on and met Lodver, leading a crowd of men and bears. Lodver said, “My lord. Seems already there’re few left to kill. More have surrendered. Most are dead.”
“No.” Thoddun shook his head. “I can smell them. There’s fifty or more down by the main gates, defending the way in, in case others of us are waiting outside. Also barring the way out to any traitors escaping from their own side. Follow me.”
Inside the towering wooden doors, the space of the great entrance court and vestibule was wide and arrow slits shone with the bright risen daylight. A large group of Grimr’s men had massed there, and several dead transanima already lay bloody at their feet. Thoddun charged from the passageway, Lodver beside him. A surge of men and bears came behind. They rushed the elite of Grimr’s huskarls and jarls. Six archers fired on sight, ten threw javelins. A spear entered Lodver’s throat and he fell at once.
Thoddun ran directly forwards, dodging steel. As he fought, he silently called to Lodver. “Crawl aside. If you try to fight on, I’ll kill you myself. Shift if you can, that’ll give you more strength and peace both, then stay in the shadows. Do whatever you need to stay alive. I can heal you when this is over.”
Lodver’s thoughts were faint. “I’ll obey as you order me, lord. But the point has gone too deep for healing.”
Thoddun was fighting hard and his breath was short but he answered quickly before moving onwards. “Pull the steel out. Shift and curl tight. Breathe slow and shallow. Then wait.” He swung his sword two handed, then hewed with one hand only and drew out his knife with the other. He killed a man with the sword point through the heart, crushing ribs and lungs as it slashed. He killed another with his knife in the same instant, stabbing sharp through the man’s open mouth.
The bears were growling and hissing, a huge paw crushed a man’s skull and spun his brains in a pale soft splatter across the
ice and stone. Another bit through a man’s pelvis, grinding the bone into splinters with furious teeth.
Many of Grimr’s men were armoured, chain mail over leather tunics, great reinforced shields used both for battering and in defence. Little time to aim for the vulnerable place in the armpit where the chain mail gaped, but with skill and the power of the best forged steel, mail could be pierced. Some of the enemy fell in the first onslaught. One of the largest, as tall as Thoddun and far wider, hurled himself forwards, berserk and screaming. Thoddun recognised a childhood friend, a boy with more courage than brain. The charge would have taken him backwards and flattened him but Thoddun sidestepped and flung his knife, then whirled around, raised his sword two handed and brought it down with great force. The Norseman shuddered, blinked and swung his axe. The impetus fell heavy across Thoddun’s shoulder, smashing his collar bone. He bit his lip, blinked, came back around and made his own charge. The man before him was incoherent, shrieking his battle cry. His mouth was still open and his tongue lolling when Thoddun split it down the middle, his sword crashing through the man’s leather helmet. Thoddun’s blade sliced the skull. The screaming faded to a spitted gurgle.
Above their heads an eagle screeched. Thoddun had ordered the sky army to Shift and fight as men. A bird, unassailable in the open skies of a clear day, was vulnerable enclosed beneath stone ceilings or shouldered low by ice. Thoddun did not look up but ordered the bird away. It was already too late and the eagle fell, three arrows in its breast, wing and eye. Its tattering of limp feathers, twisting and somersaulting to the ground, twitched once and was quiet. The fighting men stumbled over its bedraggled remains and stamped, boots bursting its small body, limp feathers clogged with its own and other’s blood; the wasted debris of life absorbed into the unforgiving ice.
Thoddun stood a moment, judging the balance. In that one place his own people were outnumbered, but they had not yet lost. He stumbled momentarily to the wall where he leaned, controlling his breathing and the spasms of nausea and pain. He touched his fingers to his collar bone, exploring the damage. It seemed considerable. He then followed the curve of the wall, feet careful for the bodies thickly heaped, and came to the small place of deeper shadows where Lodver lay. He squatted down, putting his hand to Lodver’s brow, and called him silently. Lodver had not Shifted and remained man. Too weak to Shift meant close to death.
“You’re wounded,” whispered Lodver.
“Not as badly as you,” Thoddun replied. His fingers gently searched out the gaping hole in Lodver’s throat, still bleeding, seeping a watery pink, but not perhaps as terrible as he had first supposed. He pinched the flesh between his probing fingers, closing the wound. In his mind, he began the chant.
Lodver sighed softly as his mind followed, collecting and absorbing the enchantment. “I can continue this alone now,” he murmured. “Leave me.”
Thoddun nodded. The chanting, though brief, also helped heal his own injury. He stood, strengthened his knees, lifted his sword again and strode back into the battle. He killed two more men before it was over, a straight thrust through the ribs and up, then beheading the second with a wild, painful swing.
There before the main gates, more than half his people had been slaughtered and three badly hurt including himself. But every man, fifty two of Grimr’s best, lay dead or writhing, life ebbing. Thoddun stumbled back to his knees and leaned against the wall. The pain now swamped his strength. He called quickly; mind messages; contacting each contingent of his scattered army, then assessing the contrasting thoughts of the enemy.
The transanima were celebrating victory.
Throughout the castle the battles had been spasmodic. Most quickly won, small groups of Thoddun’s people killing the humans on sight, chasing them screaming into the sea or into the dark corners to die fast and bloody. Many transanima were also dead, more than three hundred lay destroyed and butchered. But the war was won. Thoddun traced his other leaders and closest friends. Flokki, Safn, Karr, Wenden, Byhrnoth, Tenrik, Halfdan and Rulf all lived, and were unhurt. He sought out Skarga. She sat quiet, talking to Egil and Erik. Outside their tent, Kjeld sprawled happily, eating clams, his mind glowing, aware of the victory. Thoddun stretched out to the minds of men. Ogot’s human army trudged closer but their thoughts mingled with those of Grimr’s people who had surrendered and now huddled around the fire. None could be defined, not one distinct from the other, and therefore offered no exact definition of their numbers or positions. But there were many more now, Thoddun thought, in the hall where he had called men to surrender and exclude themselves from the fighting. He hoped the best of Grimr’s men had clustered there, but he doubted it.
Grimr, tight locked in his chamber, had also privately surrendered. Screeching continuously for release, his voice behind the great wooden door had remained unheard. None of his orders could be obeyed. None had heard him so none had broken down the door of his imprisonment. Eventually, unable to judge the success or otherwise of his people, he had accepted fallibility. He then lay in bitter fury on the bed, rose and marched the confines of the room, returned to collapse, then marched again. It was his reborn wolf cub, struggling to maintain breath, that finally called to him and turned his anger away from the unseen fighting to the softer need within. One plaintive whisper, and all Grimr’s concentration was steadied. At once he lay still and closed his eyes. He smiled in wonder and clasped his hands across his heart. Taking no more interest in the deaths of the men he had led to battle, he began to chant softly to himself.
Thoddun’s mind turned to Knut. The child was crying. Able to hear much of what happened above, below and around him, he was confused and frightened. He was also angry. He understood why his father had locked him away. He did not agree with it.
Wiping his sword carefully on the ruined thighs of his britches, Thoddun crawled back to Lodver and helped him up. Together they staggered along the wider corridor to the congregating groups of their successful army. Immediately others took control. Safn took Lodver for healing, and attempted to convince Thoddun for the same.
“I need to talk to my brother and the boy.”
From beside him, Flokki shook his head. “My lord, is that wise? You’ll collapse. You’ll aggravate what could still be easily bandaged. I beg you come with us, and Shift to ease the pain and start the healing. If irritation sets in, if the broken pieces of bone dislodge, if the shoulder dislocates -”
There were the first celebrations. The day’s light had fallen drear with the sun full set below the ocean’s horizon. The windows darkened quickly, but more fires and torches were lit and the castle blazed. Some had trundled up casks of ale from the sodden cellars, and were filling their first cups. Many who had fought only as men, now Shifted, roaring their delight. Others, sober, dealt with the dead. Honoured friends were carried down and laid ready in rows along the lower passages, shrouded in shadow, prepared for later burial in the snows outside.
Thoddun took a deep breath and set off quickly for his own chamber. He was still unlocking the door, the grating of iron in the lock having alerted Knut, as the boy was already throwing himself into Thoddun’s pain racked arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“Stop clipping your talons,” observed Egil, frowning.
“But it’s not fair,” said Erik, furiously biting his finger nails. “We could help.”
“Doing what?” demanded Skarga. “Fly over and drop owl shit on the enemy ranks?”
Egil sniggered. “Let’s face it, he treats us like babies. But we can’t do anything about it. We can’t even Shift easily yet and we can’t fight very well either. And come to think of it, we haven’t actually got any weapons.”
“I’ve got a very good knife,” scowled Erik.
“I wish you could do useful mind tricks, instead of talking rubbish,” muttered Skarga. “I want to know how everything is going.”
“We’re winning of course,” said Egil. “What else?”
“That’s not the same as knowing for s
ure,” said Skarga. “And how’s Thoddun? I know he’s the best warrior in the world, but anyone can be killed.”
“The best warrior in the world?” grinned Erik. “Who told you that?”
Skarga glowered. “But it doesn’t mean he’s invincible. So go and ask Kjeld what’s happening.”
“Kjeld’s got his mouth stuffed with creepy slimy things out of the sea,” said Egil. “If you want I’ll go and ask one of the others. There’s twelve men sitting guard out by the other fire. They’ll all be following the fighting in detail.”
“Go on then,” said Skarga. “I want to know.”
Throughout the long day, the boys wandered backwards and forwards, asking for information, begging news. Eventually, “Manute’s dead.” Both boys had admired the wolf man and were distressed. “No one should get killed. Can’t we fight without anyone dying? There’s hundreds of us to just a few of them.”
“There’s hundreds of them too.”
As the sun rose, skimming golden dazzle across the wave crests, Skarga went out from the tent and spoke to Kjeld. He sat by the fire he’d lit, big square face fire forged half scarlet half iron. At his feet, a growing heap of shells tinged the snows with a clammy smell of brine. “It’s terrible sitting in this echoing silence,” Skarga said. “After living with the camp, so noisy and busy, now it’s strange and frightening. Anything could be happening in the castle. All our people could be dead. Thoddun could be dead.”
Kjeld shook his woolly curls, his moustache bristled and his eyebrows twitched. He seemed to be suffering a conflict of decision. How to firmly denounce such an absurd and horrendously insulting possibility, and yet remain respectfully polite to his queen. “Umm,” he managed. “Sure all liven. Lord fighten’ mighty hard. Doin’ mighty well. Close ta’ finish wit’em mighty big victory. Must’n worries.”
Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy Page 80