Soul of Dragons (48 page)
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At noon they reached the hold and village of Skullbane.
Unlike the others, the village sat atop a large hill, secure within a stout ringwall of rough stone. It looked prosperous – pigs grazed in vast pens around the base of the hill, and Riothamus even saw a pair of mammoths, their long, furry trunks reaching up to pluck the remaining leaves from the trees. Yet the signs of fighting were everywhere. The docks and fishing boats at the river’s bank had burned, and Riothamus saw that the earth had been churned to mud beneath many running boots.
And a dozen fanged Malrag skulls hung over the ringwall’s gate.
“They’ve had hard fighting,” said Arnulf.
“Aye,” said Riothamus, looking over the hill.
“A good place for a hold,” said Arnulf. “That ringwall is strong. With those pigs and a source of water, they could hold out for a long while.”
“But not much longer, I think,” said Riothamus. He pointed. “See those mounds?” The Tervingi buried their dead in mounds outside their villages, especially warriors who fell in battle, and dozens of fresh mounds lay at the base of the hill. “They’ve lost many men, and recently. I’ll wager the Malrags have been throwing themselves against the walls, over and over again. They’ll wear down Skullbane eventually.”
Arnulf grunted. “Poor bastards. Well, maybe they’ll see reason and join Athanaric.”
“They know we’re here,” said Riothamus. “I saw the swineherds take off running for the gate when we came out of the trees.”
“Aye,” said Arnulf, scratching at his tangled beard. He lowered his voice. “Any Malrags?”
“A few,” said Riothamus. “Three or four, scattered in the trees around the hill. Scouts, I think.”
Arnulf spat. “No use chasing them. Lone Malrags are stealthier than cats. Well, if the devils come looking for a fight, we’ll give them a fight. In the meantime, let’s see if the headman will listen to us.”
He gave orders, and the spearthains and swordthains positioned themselves at the base of the hill, while Arnulf and Riothamus trudged to the gate of the ringwall. The gates remained closed at their approach, and no one stirred atop the wall.
Yet Riothamus was sure that someone other than the Malrag skulls watched him.
“Hail!” roared Arnulf, looking up at the ringwall. “I am Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, a swordthain to the hrould Athanaric of the Tervingi nation! I wish to parley with Fritigern, the headman of Skullbane!”
The echoes ran over the hillside.
No answer came from the ringwall.
“Perhaps they fled when they saw our approach,” said Arnulf, fingering the hilt of his sword.
“No,” said Riothamus. “They’ve held out this long, even when every other village for fifty miles has been burned. We won’t scare them off.”
The gate, built of heavy logs, shuddered open a few feet.
A woman stepped into sight.
She would have been pretty, thirty years ago, but despite her gray hair and wrinkles she still had an aura of vigor. She wore a diadem of polished bronze, and a golden torque around her right arm. The wife of a wealthy swordthain, or perhaps even the holdmistress herself.
“You seek Fritigern?” said the woman. Her blue eyes were cold and hard.
“Aye,” said Arnulf.
“You’ve come too late,” said the woman. “A Malrag spear took him in the chest seven days past. You’re Athanaric’s men, aye?”
“I am Arnulf son of Kaerwulf,” said Arnulf.
“I heard,” said the woman. “I am Ethringa daughter of Jordanic, the holdmistress of Skullbane. What is your business here?”
“I’ll be blunt,” said Arnulf. “The hrould Athanaric wishes you to join him.”
“Why?” said Ethringa. “Does the mighty hrould wish me to hold his cups and scrub his floors?”
“No,” said Arnulf. “He wishes you, and your clan, to come with us when we leave.”
“When we leave?” said Ethringa. “When who leaves?”
“The Tervingi,” said Riothamus. “Those of us who are left.”
The wind moaned over the hilltop.
“Why?” said Ethringa. “This is our home.”
“Our home is infested with Malrags,” said Arnulf.
Ethringa lifted her chin. “We are Tervingi. We have fought off the Malrags for generations beyond count.”
“So we have,” said Riothamus. “But we cannot fight them now. There are too many. Village after village has burned. Thousands of warriors have fallen. If we stay, the Malrags will kill us all. No one will be left to sing the songs of the Tervingi nation.”
Ethringa gave him a disdainful look. “And just who are you, stripling?”
“I am Riothamus, son of Rigotharic.”
Ethringa sneered. “The witch’s apprentice. Bah! Your kind has no place among the Tervingi.”
“Athanaric thinks otherwise,” said Riothamus.
“Athanaric may be a great hrould and warrior,” said Ethringa, “but in this, he is a fool.”
Arnulf snorted. “You sound like Ragnachar.”
Ethringa spat. “That is an insult, swordthain. Were you Ragnachar’s men, I would not even be speaking with you. I care nothing for Ragnachar, his orcragar pets, or the Urdmoloch he worships with such devotion.”
“Ragnachar,” said Riothamus, “agrees with Athanaric. He leads his clans from our lands.”
Ethringa blinked, once. “He does? And what do the other hroulds think?”
“They think nothing,” said Arnulf. “They are dead.”
For the first time shock flickered over Ethringa’s face. “All of them?”
“Fallen in battle against the Malrags,” said Riothamus. “Athanaric and Ragnachar are the only hroulds left.”
“And if Athanaric said the sun rose in the east,” said Arnulf, “then Ragnachar would say it rose in the west. Yet they both agree the Tervingi must leave the middle lands and find a new homeland.”
For a long moment Ethringa said nothing, her face blank.
“No,” she said at last. “This is homeland. The blood of my sons has been shed to defend it. I will not abandon the graves of my kin.”
“Then you will die here,” said Riothamus.
“We will hold out,” said Ethringa.
“How many fighting men do you have left?” said Riothamus. “Or are all of them buried beneath these mounds? Do you have only old men and boys left to carry swords and spears?”
“We shall endure,” said Ethringa. “We shall fight to the last.”
“Then you will die,” said Riothamus. “If you come with us, the children and the women might yet live. If you stay here you will die…”
“Then let us die,” said Ethringa.
“But…”
“If they want to die, let them,” said Arnulf. “Athanaric sent us to ask Fritigern to come, not to force his folk to march with us.” He looked at Riothamus. “The rest of the Tervingi will reach the fords of the Iron River in another five days. We’d best join them.”
Ethringa hesitated. “Custom demands that you eat at the table of the hold for this evening.”
Arnulf shrugged. “You are kind, holdmistress. But we are leaving these lands, and you’ll need every scrap of food to hold out here. You may as well have full bellies when the Malrags butcher you.” He turned. “Come. I want to get as far west as we can before night falls.”
Riothamus said nothing, staring at Ethringa, and she looked at him with disdainful contempt. He could argue with her, plead with her, try to sway her to see reason. But she would ignore everything he said simply because he could use magic, because he was the apprentice of the Guardian.
He turned to go and stumbled, catching himself on the shaft of his spear for balance.
An icy chill washed through him.
Ethringa scoffed. “Are you drunk, witcher? Or have your pet demons begun devouring your flesh?”
Arnulf knew better than to mock him. “What is it?”
“I sense something,” muttered Riothamus, straightening up. Dread tightened in his gut.
“What?” said Arnulf.
“I don’t know,” said Riothamus.
But he did, deep down.
He cast the seeking spell, his magical senses reaching out.
And he sensed the corruption in the forest, a black mass like a rotten tumor.
A black mass moving closer to the ringwall of Skullbane.
His eyes opened widened. “Malrags. At least eighty. Heading for us.”
Ethringa grabbed Arnulf’s arm. “Call your men and come inside my walls. If you stay out here, the Malrag devils will butcher you all.”
Riothamus knew Arnulf wanted to go blade to blade against the Malrags. Yet Arnulf was no fool, and he only had thirty men to stand against eighty or more Malrags.
But if they retreated within the walls of Skullbane, they would be trapped here until they starved to death or the Malrags slew them all.
“No,” said Riothamus. “Listen to me. We must face them outside the wall. I can help.”
“Do not listen to him!” said Ethringa. “He is a witcher, a wielder of dark arts. Perhaps he is even in league with the Malrag devils! Come into the walls, before…”
“No,” said Arnulf. “We are Tervingi, and all men must die. And if this is our day to die, we shall do it as men, rather than hiding like rats in a hole. Come!”
He strode down the hill, Riothamus following, as Ethringa slipped back into Skullbane’s ringwall. A dolorous iron bell rang from Skullbane, the clanging echoing off the hillside, the pigs squealing in terror in their pens. An alarm bell, summoning the men of Skullbane to arms.
What few of them were left.
“Get in line!” roared Arnulf, his massive axe in his right hand, his shield on his left arm. “A wall of shields! Facing the trees, now! Let’s show those Malrag devils how men of the Tervingi fight!” The swordthains and spearthains hastened to obey, forming themselves into a wall of shields and spears and swords.
Yet there were only thirty of them.
A moment later the Malrags emerged from the trees.
Dozens of Malrags, clad in ragged black chain mail, black axes and spears waiting in their hands. Black veins threaded their leathery gray hides like the roots of a dead tree, and their blank white eyes focused on the Tervingi warriors. Riothamus saw no Ogrags among their numbers, which was a relief, nor any balekhans or shamans.
But still more Malrags than they could face.
They rushed forward, gray lips peeling back from their yellowed fangs.
Arnulf stepped forward from the shield line. “You have a plan?” he said, voice low.
“Aye,” said Riothamus, eyes fixed on the Malrag warband.
“Better do it, witcher,” said Arnulf.
The Malrags roared and surged forward, charging for the shield wall.
Arnulf bellowed a war cry and slammed the flat of his axe against his shield. He began to shout a song in his raspy voice, bellowing one of the ancient songs repeated by the loresingers of the Tervingi throughout the generations. It told of Tervingar, the great hero of old, and his rebellion against the cruel tyranny of the Dark Elderborn. The swordthains and the spearthains took up the song, and soon their shouts echoed over the hills, louder even than the Malrags’ howling war cries.
Riothamus stared at the creatures. For a moment he was six years old again, his father’s hold burning around him, and the Malrags howled for his blood…
But he was not six years old any longer, and he had other weapons.
Riothamus closed his eyes and concentrated, hands wrapped around the oak shaft of his spear. The magic welled up in him, drawn from the bones of the earth beneath his boots, the wind moaning overhead, even the tangled roots of the trees threading through the ground. The power flooded through him, almost more than he could contain. Yet he channeled and focused it, as the Guardian had taught him, and cast a spell.
He threw out his hands, fingers hooked into claws, and glared at the sky.
Lightning ripped down from the gray clouds...
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About the Author
Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.
He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.
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