Blood of Wolves (31 page)

“Sure and this is a good idea?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

Kern hoped, but couldn't say for certain.

The sulfurous steam that wafted over the village made most clansfolk into shadows and could hide any number of plans to ambush the small envoy. But it simply wasn't in the nature of most Cimmerians to strike against their word. If they had to kill, they killed openly. And why lie at all? Crom had gifted them the strength to face the truth.

Still it was just good precaution that Longtooth directed Gard to carry the bearing spear. Kern knew from testing the other man's ability with a war pike, Gard could strip the sheath of his spear tip (or simply thrust through it) in less than a heartbeat. If things went badly, Clan Cruaidh would not fall without drawing blood.

Ros-Crana met them at the lower slope with a trio of warriors also carrying sheathed long spears and bonded broadswords. Longtooth and Foehammer studied her with something approaching cautious respect. After only a few minutes in her company, Kern had not been so surprised to learn that she was war leader for the village. Narach Chieftain, as it turned out, was her younger brother.

This was information he had passed along, of course.

Ros-Crana did not waste time, gesturing the small party, which included Kern as well as Daol, Reave, Desa, and Ossian, ahead of her. Sláine Chieftain had brought four of his own strongest warriors. It made for a good-sized force.

Coming under the shadow of the fortified walls, Kern saw their construction make an impression on Sláine Longtooth equal to the one it had first made on him. Not only was the rock base a good three arm's lengths thick, it was cemented together with “mud and mill-crushed stone, and resists even the best battering ram our own warriors could test against it.” Ros-Crana hadn't bothered hiding her savage grin. Rising through the middle of the wall, the timber palisade was held together with sharp spikes as well as being banded in metal at two different heights. The sharpened top of every fifth pole was missing, leaving a murder-hole where an archer could lean out for a quick bowshot, or for a strong man to pitch a rock down on the heads of any attackers.

The wall sealed off the glen's two gentle slopes, relying on the steep bluff face to prevent a massed attack otherwise. There was room enough for the local cattle herd and fowl to shelter inside the keep, and lean-tos for fodder and emergency shelter. Not every home could be squeezed into such a space, however, and leave room. There were several dozen wattle-and-daub huts and a few timber-constructed great homes clustered together outside the palisade in small, isolated neighborhoods with clear, open space in between them.

Grouped by family or friendships was Kern's guess. With the wide spaces in between to form a stretch of murder ground—any raiders who took one section of the village would have to cross through that open area to reach a second neighborhood.

Clearly, this idea had been of concern in the past. The evidence of Vanir raids was clear. Newly raised shacks and huts sat next to the burned-out husks of older construction. Stone walls with fresh mud cement replaced portions of walls torn down under duress. Burned and brittle twigs cracked underfoot.

The valley clansfolk marched past a round-walled hut made of quarried stone. Three men were busy rethatching its roof, tying bundles of rushes and hay in place with bark-weave rope. A simple enough task to bother three grown men. Kern saw at once how these warriors could form a bottleneck behind him, trapping the small delegation. Each man, he noticed, had a sword tied to his belt. Though they didn't look too nervous or too worried, yet, with the valley clansfolk accompanied by Ros-Crana.

The six warriors guarding Narach Chieftain glared back with a great deal more suspicion.

The small Callaughnan party waited within bowshot of the palisade walls, within a circle of flame-bearing torches. Two camp stools had been set out at the center of the arena. Next to one a bearing spear had been planted in the ground, decorated with strips of blue and gray cloth and the skull of a mountain lion, which was Clan Conarch's totem. An elderly man with a white cast smearing one eye and white hairs coming in thick over his temples walked around the cleared circle, sprinkling powder from a muslin sack over every torch. The flames burned blue for a moment, then green. Then settled into a tinted yellow that burned away more of the lingering wisps of steam and cast a cleaner, brighter light than any normal brand. His task accomplished, the shaman stepped to his chieftain's side.

If a person hadn't known better, or hadn't seen the elder man set at a task rather than calmly waiting, that person might have assumed the elder man was chieftain over Callaugh rather than Narach's shaman. In fact, Narach Chieftain was much younger than any of his warriors. Younger than Daol or very close of an age. But he obviously commanded the respect of the older and larger warriors, which was not to say the younger man was small. Not of Reave's height and oxlike shoulders, but easily several fingers taller than Kern and built for his stature. He had a young man's casual grace and the lean muscles of a veteran warrior. His face held deep lines, his features craggy as were so many clansmen of Clan Conarch and the northwest region.

It made him look older than his years, though his eyes were as clear and bright as any Kern had ever seen.

“So you are the one they speak of,” Narach had said at their first meeting, crossing arms over a thick chest bared to the cold. A cape of spotted mountain lion fur richly trimmed in white fox had hung from his neck and over both shoulders, as it did again.

“That would depend on what they say,” Kern had answered carefully. Assuming nothing but the tallest tales had made it there ahead of them.

It was the shaman who responded. “The wolf-eyed outcast from Gaud, who hunts the Ymirish and challenges Grimnir himself. They say you have already defeated a snow serpent and one of the yellow-eyed sorcerers of the north.”

“Mostly,” Kern admitted. Modesty had not prevented him from agreeing to the basic truths. “Though the details are exaggerated I am certain.”

Narach shrugged. “I would agree, if our tales had come from others among the valleymen who have stopped by here and traded Vanir weapons for food. But we first had these stories from captured Vanir.” The chieftain nodded to one of his other men. “Ask Colin.”

“Is true,” a horse-faced warrior agreed with his chieftain. “We ambushed a small band coming back over the Pass of Blood a week ago. The Ymirish, he escaped us in a blizzard that quickly rolled eastward. We traded quick deaths to the raiders we captured in exchange for news out of the valley.”

Meaning they tortured the Vanir, in repayment for several years of cruelty and murder, and finally cut their throats when they had heard enough.

Cimmerian justice wasn't easy, but it could be merciful. After a fashion.

Sláine Longtooth heard all of this as well, while he sat in one of two camp chairs brought out for the chieftains. Nothing more than a thick flat of leather stretched over the spread limbs of a tripod, it allowed the two men to sit while their warriors and advisors stood behind. Gard Foehammer stood closest, bearing spear holding the fox's tail over Longtooth's shoulder. Sláine traded what sounded to Kern like mostly accurate information concerning the destruction of Cruaidh.

Kern and his people sat through the retelling of both stories, quiet and concerned for where the talks might lead.

Narach nodded Colin back into line. “We learned that several raiding parties were ambushed this side of the Snowy River country, and that this Ymirish saw defeat at the village of Taur. We did not believe half of what he said, claiming that several dozen villages all rallied against them. But to admit defeat was enough.”

It was Longtooth who first looked to Kern.

“So the Ymirish you fought against at Taur still lives. And he did not join in the assault on Cruaidh.”

Kern had come to the same conclusion. “Though he must have passed Grimnir's war party on his path back to the Broken Leg Lands.”

“Sent back in disgrace?” Ros-Crana asked of those who had fought against him.

Desa shook her head, oily locks swaying over her eyes. “An impressive fighter, that one. A head again taller than the one Kern described leading the raiders we met near the Pass of Noose. You do not set aside such a man so easily.” For some reason, this last comment made Reave shift about uncomfortably.

Ros-Crana frowned, doubtful. But Kern considered it. Accepting a skin passed over to him from Ros-Crana, he took a swig. Dark ale, thick enough to stand a dagger in. He nearly choked on the strong drink, expecting something much lighter. He coughed back a gasp, feeling the alcohol burn up into his sinuses. A strong aftertaste of root ginger, added to a cask after brewing, clung to his tongue. He washed it away with a second draught. Then a third. Passed the skin along to Reave.

“I have to agree,” he finally answered. “There must be another answer here.” He frowned, remembering. “If Ossian had not led forward the Taurin fighters, and we hadn't outnumbered him two to his one . . .”

“If, if, if.” Longtooth waved a hand, his patience wearing thin. “We all know now what
has
happened. What we do next, I care about.”

“You have done enough. Grimnir's wrath will come swiftly.” Narach glanced at the nearby cliffs, as if expecting the northern warlord to suddenly appear. When he turned his attention back to Longtooth, his eyes hardened. “Keep this one nearby”—he nodded at Kern—“and the demon will find you.”

It was the second time they had implied a personal grudge between Kern and the legendary war leader. Sláine Longtooth scoffed. “This Grimnir may be a savage fighter, but he is no god, to know everything that has happened.”

“He will know of the defeat you handed his followers in the Pass,” Narach bit back quickly. “That will be enough.”

Many Vanir had staggered west ahead of Longtooth's war host. Not everyone was stopped. A few stragglers always slipped past. One raiding party had been too large to risk intercepting, though it hurt Narach to watch a slave line of twenty clansmen being hauled north.

“Twenty?” Longtooth growled. If they had swarmed down from the mountains, likely the slave line was made up from many of his people. “I would not leave one man in the hands of those animals.”

“That is an easy decision for you to make, Sláine Chieftain.” Ros-Crana balled her large hands into raw-boned fists. “Would you have still tried forcing the Pass of Blood, knowing now what Grimnir would visit on Cruaidh?”

“No one knows the future,” Kern said, seeing Longtooth's fury building around a toothy snarl. “It does no one any good to worry about what might have been. It simply is.”

“It was not an easy decision,” Narach promised, bridling at the implied rebuke to his honor. “There were risks I had to weigh against the good of the clan.”

The Callaughnan shaman nodded slowly at his chieftain's words. “They had a sorcerer,” he said. “You can tell by the dark clouds that lower themselves in the sky when they pass. Killing one of these men always invites the wrath of Grimnir.”

Which was why Kern was supposedly a marked man. He had been the one to thrust a sword through a sorcerer's heart in the pass. The men of Callaugh knew of that as well.

“How?” Sláine Longtooth asked, biting off the word with a soured expression. Though Kern already had it reasoned out. And he was mostly right.

“Warriors from Clan Maugh passed by yestermorn.” Ros-Crana spoke through clenched teeth. “They challenged for a small treasure of blue-iron weapons.” And Narach had put them up against some silver Vanir bracers and a torc with a single, large ruby set in the center. Spoils from the battle for the pass. “The Snowy River warriors put down two of my best, one of them for good.”

They had also told a fascinating tale of Kern's battle against the snow serpent that sounded a great deal like the one Nahud'r had spun out while walking over the stone arch two days before.

“No matter.” Longtooth dismissed the tale and the Callaughnan's caution all at once. “We hunt the Vanir, as they have hunted us for two years and more. If Grimnir wishes to come out from under the cover of his blizzard, we will see how mortal he truly is.”

“I cannot help you there. I have never come up against him myself.” Narach's craggy face hardened into a dark mask. Obviously, this was a hard bone to swallow.

“I can tell you I've set some of my best warriors at Grimnir over the years when Conarch has called for aid. At first, I fully expected them to bring back the head of the Vanir war leader. This leader of the Ymirish. As more lives were fed into the maw, however, I merely waited for news that he had fallen to
anyone
. This year, I have hoped for even one of those warriors to return. None of them ever has. All Callaugh gets back are demands for more warriors, more weapons, and rumors of the beast-leader who will not die.”

The rest sounded very familiar to Kern, and to Longtooth as well no doubt, who had experienced the northerner's savagery firsthand. A hulking demon with eyes of golden fire and the strength of five men. No, ten. Immortal and unbeatable. The Vanir told similar tales of Grimir's prowess and powers.

It was the trappings of legend. It was hard to fight against a legend.

But Sláine Longtooth seemed determined to try.

“We have not fought our way over the pass for nothing,” he promised, fists clenched and barely held still where they rested against either leg. He rocked forward on his camp stool. “I tell you now, Narach Chieftain, I will not be pushed back to my valley by tales and superstitions. Grimnir is a living warrior. He can bleed, and he can be killed.”