The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (15 page)

He nodded and a smile came across his grizzled face. ‘Very well, Lady Summer Wolf, we’ll finish checking the village and move out in an hour... with your word.’

‘My word is given, Master Falling Cloud,’ she responded with authority.

Rexel backed off a few steps and turned to the rest of the company, issuing the order to check the remaining buildings and assemble the dead.

Wulfrick stepped behind Halla’s shoulder and spoke quietly. ‘You should have slapped him.’

‘He’s bigger than me,’ she responded with a smile. ‘And I agree with him.’

Wulfrick frowned. ‘Most of Ursa’s men won’t be at Jarvik, but the Bear’s Mouth will be impossible to pass. We have two hundred battle-brothers. We’re tough, but we are not that tough.’

‘There’s a cloud-stone in Jarvik, yes?’ Halla posited. ‘Old Father Crowe has one in Oreck’s Spire in Tiergarten. We need to know if Alahan is alive and it’s the quickest way.’

The axe-master’s frown increased and he moved round to face Halla. ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘Stupid, but clever.’

‘Shut up,’ Halla responded with irritation. ‘It makes sense. It would take months to reach Tiergarten, but we can be in Jarvik within three weeks if we move quickly.’

‘And the Bear’s Mouth?’

‘Grammah Black Eyes will see if he is worthy to be thain of Hammerfall.’ It was spoken with aggression and Wulfrick responded by narrowing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

‘Strong words again, one-eye,’ he said.

Halla had been called the name a thousand times since she first lost her eye and every time she heard it she wanted to punch the speaker. On this occasion, she decided to let it pass. ‘Go and help Falling Cloud,’ she answered drily.

* * *

The weather stayed fair as funeral pyres were built and the common folk of Hammerfall were laid to rest in traditional Ranen fashion. Heinrich Blood had his chance to shine and the young novice of the Order of the Hammer did not disgrace his god or his company as he spoke the words for the fallen. He had a small token, given to him by Brindon Crowe – a hammer pendant, finely honed out of the deep ice of Fjorlan. The young man clutched it tightly as he spoke of the ice halls beyond the world where the dead would go.

Rexel cried, but he was not embarrassed. Oleff stood next to him, glaring at anyone who might think of making an insulting remark. Halla’s company had several men of Hammerfall and each took the death of his people extremely hard. The realm had no city and had always been in the shadow of Teardrop, Ursa and Summer Wolf, although its people were extremely proud to hail from Hammerfall. Falling Cloud seemed to exemplify the stubborn spirit of these Fjorlanders, which made them shake with emotion at the funeral pyres.

‘The Bear’s Mouth is our death,’ said Heinrich, letting his voice rise, ‘we give our lives to Rowanoco if he gives us vengeance in return. If two hundred honourable men...’ he looked at Halla, ‘and women of Fjorlan have a place in the ice halls beyond the world...’ The company was as one, looking at the novice with wild eyes and rapt attention. ‘Then let us die with our enemies’ blood on our faces and their hearts in our hands.’ A low growling cheer began to form. ‘I pledge to you all that death is our right and we will take it... we will rip it from the limbs of any man foolish enough to face us.’ Heinrich’s voice grew louder with the accompaniment of two hundred warriors snarling into the air. Halla felt her breathing quicken. ‘We are the chosen of the Ice Giants. We are the instruments of death for those betrayers... and we will... not... fear...’ The last words came out at the top of Heinrich’s voice and he spat with the emotion he experienced at delivering the words of the Order of the Hammer. The company roared their agreement and the sound carried far in the cold air of Hammerfall, hanging for a moment over the funeral pyres, as each man pledged his death in the fight against Rulag the Betrayer.

CHAPTER 6

He kicked open the door and strode inside, drawing a light hand-axe as he did so. He always carried two small throwing weapons on his belt and a large double-headed axe across his back. He hoped that the larger of the weapons would not be necessary within the hunting lodge. The weather outside had become progressively more hostile, and Alahan had decided to find some respite from the snow. If he were to die, it would not be the weather that put him down. He was the bearer of his father’s name and his strength of body and mind was equal to any task, but he was pragmatic enough not to challenge the driving snow to a duel.

The lodge looked deserted and he replaced the axe. The young warrior threw back his thick hood and shook the snow from his cloak, feeling better as the warmth returned to his body. He was shorter than his father, at just over six feet tall, though his shoulders were large and well muscled. He had inherited the jet-black hair of his family and wore his beard long and braided in silent tribute to his uncle, Magnus Forkbeard, priest of Rowanoco, killed in Ro Canarn.

At twenty-six, Alahan was the youngest high thain of Fjorlan ever to sit in the halls of Fredericksand. But, as he moved further into the small hunting lodge, he was painfully aware that he had not yet sat in the halls of Fredericksand, having been attacked on the day he learned of his father’s death. The treacherous lord of Jarvik had betrayed Algenon Teardrop and his battle-brothers swept through Alahan’s home, killing any Ranen still loyal to the house of Teardrop. The traitor’s idiot son, the lordling Kalag, had been sent after the children of Teardrop and his men had closed in on Alahan, despite the snow. They had already captured his sister, Ingrid, though even now the little wolf of Fredericksand was likely conspiring a way to escape from their clutches and find her brother.

Watching Ingrid taken away in a dirty net and knowing he was helpless to assist her had been the hardest thing Alahan had ever had to endure, but he knew that he had to stay alive. If Rulag dared harm Ingrid, he would never keep the Order of the Hammer on his side. The priests of Rowanoco would not intercede if Rulag declared himself high thain after killing Algenon, but the lore masters of Fredericksand forbade the killing of children.

He puffed out his cheeks and was planning to get some rest when he heard a sound from further within the lodge. His hand went quickly to his battleaxe and he darted forward, crouching in readiness. The noise was a rhythmic shuffling from the next room – a room that was dark and, when Alahan entered, had seemed empty. Now he saw a shadow cast on the wall as he advanced into the room.

The man he saw was hunched over a low wooden table, scuffing his feet firmly against the floor and grunting in the manner of a wild bear. Alahan stopped when the man didn’t turn to attack him. The stranger was a brute of a man and wore no armour on his torso, where vein-filled and swollen muscles strained against his mottled skin.

The hunting lodge provided protection against the worst of the storm, but it was still cold and Alahan wondered why the man had so readily discarded his wolf-skin cloak. There was no indication that the young thain of Fredericksand had been observed, and the stranger seemed distracted by whatever was causing him to tense his body and grunt with exertion.

‘A cold night,’ Alahan said quietly.

The stranger growled, sounding even more like a bear, and spun round to reveal a bare, tattooed chest and a ferocious face. Alahan did not step back, in spite of the man’s grotesque, misshapen head and his vibrant blue tattoos.

‘There’s no fight here for you, berserker of Varorg,’ Alahan stated.

For a moment the man stood, glaring at Alahan as a beast would glare at its prey. His eyes showed that he was fighting the urge to roar out and attack the young thain, but his padded and clenched fists made it clear that the berserk rage was unwelcome to him.

‘You’re a long way from the Low Kast,’ Alahan offered, in as even a voice as he could muster. ‘Why is a berserker of Varorg in the realm of Teardrop?’

The man closed his eyes and bared his teeth, each of which had been filed to a sharp point. Breathing heavily, he exerted a considerable effort to maintain control. ‘Not... of Varorg...’ he spluttered out. ‘Not... any more.’

He turned away from Alahan and sat down heavily on the floor with his back to the young thain. It was a pose struck by a hundred stroppy children every day, but it looked strange when adopted by a monstrous berserker of the Low Kast. His arms were crossed and he huddled forward, rocking slowly and muttering unintelligible sounds to himself.

‘I’d offer to come back later,’ said Alahan, ‘but it is cold outside and I’m being pursued.’

The berserker didn’t respond. The frozen wastes of the Low Kast were home to the chieftains of Varorg and their ferocious berserker tribes, men who followed no banner and answered to no priest. To see one of their number so far west was strange, to see him huddled up like a petulant child was stranger still.

‘Conversation is, by all accounts, not counted amongst your people’s skills,’ said Alahan, ‘but I am stuck here until the storm lets up, so don’t be offended if I keep trying to talk to you.’

He sat down wearily on a rickety wooden chair and surveyed his surroundings. The hunting lodge had clearly been home to the berserker for some time. Several sacks of dried meat and fruit were stored in the corner and a rudimentary bed had been set up next to the empty fireplace. Alahan had lost his bearings in the snow and wasn’t sure exactly where in his realm he had ended up. East of Fredericksand was the best he could come up with, but to find such a man living here made him think he must have strayed off the trail in the storm and stumbled across a long-forgotten lodge. The berserker had a single lantern to provide illumination, but otherwise the lodge was dark and it was unlikely it would be seen unless a traveller should happen across it as Alahan had done. This seemed a welcome development because it made it less likely that the lordling Kalag would be able to locate him, at least until the storm abated.

‘Do you have any firewood for that?’ he asked the berserker, pointing to the empty hearth.

The man remained hunched up with his back to Alahan and simply pointed to a pile of broken furniture in a basket.

‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll get a bit of heat back into the place.’ Alahan stood up and threw an armful of splintered wood into the open hearth. He then took a flame from the low-burning lantern and slowly coaxed a fire into life.

He was worried that the smoke might be seen, but weighing up the advantages of the warmth against the remote possibility of a thin plume of smoke being spotted through the driving snow, he thought he could risk it. He was exhausted and shifted his weight uncomfortably in the chair, before moving it out of the way and slumping down on the floor instead.

Alahan blinked several times, trying to stay awake. The berserkers of Varorg were unpredictable and he did not want to fall asleep until he had got at least a few sentences out of the man.

‘Name is Timon... I’m called the Butcher.’ The words came out of the berserker’s mouth as a hesitant growl.

Alahan wondered if the man had been reading his mind, or whether he was simply aware of the effect his people had on the other men of Ranen. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Timon. I’m Alahan Teardrop. This is my land... well, Rowanoco willing, it will be my land some day soon.’

Timon the Butcher rolled around on the floor at the mention of the Ice Giant. ‘I’m sorry, Varorg. I am weak,’ he wailed.

His head was more readily visible now and Alahan could see his skull through wide splits in the skin. Bumps arose at odd angles and the man had wrapped leather strips around his forehead to stop his head becoming too misshapen. The young thain had never met any of the servants of Varorg before and the descriptions he had heard clearly did not do them justice. Even curled up and crying, the berserker was a beast of a man.

‘I’m sure the Ice Giant will forgive you. I don’t think he’s that easy to annoy.’

Alahan had heard the legends of Varorg. His uncle had spoken of Rowanoco’s first appearance to the men of Ranen. The story told how an enraged Ice Giant had appeared in the Low Kast and how, in his guttural growling as the rage took him, the primitive men of Ranen had discerned the sound
varorg
. Magnus used to say that Rowanoco later regretted his first appearance and kept his rage in check. However, the truth remained that the berserkers of the Low Kast were the oldest followers of Rowanoco, whether they called him Varorg or not.