The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (17 page)

The door was pushed tentatively inwards and Alahan saw a hand appear at the edge of the wood. He grabbed the door and pulled it roughly. The man on the other side grunted and lost his balance on the snowy doorstep. He was greeted with a powerful downward swing of Alahan’s axe as he tried to regain his footing. The blow split his bear-skin hood and dug several inches into his skull, killing him instantly. Alahan rose quickly and assessed his remaining opponents. The five looked tough but scared. As he had hoped, the initial ferocity of his attack had rendered them slightly stunned.

The grim reality of his situation only dawned slowly as Alahan realized that he could not afford to let any of them escape. To make matters worse, Timon was once again wailing at the sight of the dead man on the doorstep, his hands clamped to the sides of his head.

‘Please stop testing me, Varorg... I am weak,’ cried the berserker.

Alahan had to admit that the roaring was also likely to cause alarm among the remaining battle-brothers of Jarvik. He let them assume the worst for a second or two, before stepping out of the lodge and on to the snow. He kicked the dead body from the doorway and tightened his grip on the haft of his battleaxe.

‘You’re outnumbered, boy,’ barked one of the men of Jarvik. ‘There are five of us.’

‘You should have brought more men,’ replied Alahan as he attacked.

The nearest man raised his glaive, using the wooden shaft to parry the axe blow. Alahan put considerable strength into the swing and split the glaive’s handle down the middle, lodging his weapon in the man’s shoulder, at the angle where it joined his neck. The remaining four moved to encircle Alahan and the thain lost the advantage of surprise.

‘You’re quick, boy, but now you’re fucking dead,’ spat a man swinging a large war-hammer.

‘So come and kill me, you treacherous troll cunt,’ was Alahan’s reply.

The remaining men numbered two axes, a glaive and the hammer, whose wielder seemed to be nominally in charge of the squad. Alahan let them assemble round him, each keeping his distance and showing grudging respect for the man who had quickly killed half their number.

Two men moved at once, swinging from above their heads and attacking him from flanking positions. He darted forward and deflected one blow with his axe while dodging under the other. He spun round and swept the legs from under the man he’d parried, before killing the other with a single-handed upward swing into his ribs. He quickly moved to smash the hilt of his axe into the fallen man’s neck.

‘I don’t feel fucking dead,’ he barked at the two remaining men. ‘Maybe Kalag should send better men after me.’

The realization that they were fighting the son of Algenon Teardrop slowly dawned on the two battle-brothers of Jarvik, and both looked ready to run.

With a grim look on his face, Alahan moved cautiously to where one of his throwing-axes was lying. Without taking his eyes from the remaining men, he picked up the weapon and took a step towards them. The dogs were beginning to howl loudly and Alahan was glad he could no longer hear Timon’s wailing from within the lodge. Maybe the axe did need a name, he thought to himself.

The man with the hammer looked more willing to fight than his companion and so Alahan focused on him. ‘I take no pleasure in killing fellow Ranen, even treacherous bastards, but you have to die,’ Alahan growled.

The man of Jarvik held his hammer warily and adopted a defensive pose. ‘Come on then, boy.’ His words were confident, but his hands shook against the handle of his hammer.

Alahan moved quickly. Taking one hand from his axe, he extended his arm and rammed the crosspiece of his double-headed weapon into the man’s nose. He’d struck just as the battle-brother had stopped talking and the older man had no chance of getting out of the way. Alahan then repeated the manoeuvre, ramming the crosspiece into the man’s stomach and sending him sprawling on to the snowy ground, his nose broken and his breath coming in short gasps. He didn’t take his eyes from the remaining warrior as he casually sliced the fallen man’s throat with a single swing of his axe.

Alahan did not enjoy killing these men. They were not skilled opponents and their deaths served only to keep his location secret. Nevertheless, as he killed the last man, Alahan Teardrop, high thain of Fjorlan, felt that a line had been crossed. Ranen fighting Ranen was commonplace, axe-masters, chain-masters, even Free Company men, all were used to seeing men die. But this was different. As he cleaned his axe and returned to the hunting lodge amid a cacophony of barks and howls, Alahan realized that this was now a civil war. His father had been convinced that a Karesian enchantress was behind the problems in Canarn and Fjorlan, and Alahan, too, was beginning to believe that only sorcery could have torn apart the men of Ranen in such a fashion. The dark woman who appeared to him in nightmares was ever in his thoughts and he feared that more than his hall in Fredericksand was at stake.

* * *

Alahan and Timon had been running for most of the day, at a pace that made it just about possible to carry armour and weaponry and not die from exhaustion. They had stopped briefly around midday for some hastily eaten dried meat and unidentifiable roots, but otherwise the day had been a long and tiring one. The sled dogs had been too afraid of Timon and even after an hour of coaxing had been unwilling to carry the berserker. Strangely, this made him apologize repeatedly. He’d said little as they ran, but Alahan had been impressed at Timon’s stamina. The huge berserker never seemed to tire or to need rest and the young thain wondered if he had run to Fjorlan from the Low Kast.

The terrain of the realm was currently a sheet of white. Winter was approaching and the rugged landscape was covered in deep snow. Alahan knew that a river marked the traditional boundary between the realms of Teardrop and Summer Wolf, but he doubted they’d be able to see it beneath the snow. He thought the first indication they were travelling in the right direction might well be the city of Tiergarten itself, though Timon had insisted that they would run into trolls well before they sighted the city. Apparently, the early snows meant the Ice Men of Rowanoco felt more comfortable outside.

As they approached a rocky gully, not yet covered entirely in white, Timon stopped running. ‘We should rest here,’ he said in a low rumble.

‘Really? Because I’ve only just stopped feeling my legs,’ was the dry response from Alahan.

The berserker frowned, an exaggerated expression that made his face crease up. ‘I cannot feel tired. You should say when you do. I do not want you to hurt yourself,’ he said sincerely.

‘You don’t ever feel tired? That’s a gift I’d gladly take.’ Alahan was panting heavily and, though he was a fit man, a day of running in the snow had taken its toll.

The snow itself had stopped and, though a bitter wind flew down the gully, the temperature was not too bad for the time of year. They were not within sight of the sea and landmarks were few and far between, making the occasional rocky outcropping a significant reference point in the snowy wastes.

‘You should rest, friend Alahan,’ said Timon.

‘Thank you,’ panted the young warrior. ‘I think I will. These rocks are decent cover, unless that snow starts drifting.’

Timon smiled as Alahan sat down with his back against rock. The ground was hard and flecked with snow, but with cover from the wind and his thick bear-skin cloak, the son of Teardrop thought he could find a degree of comfort.

‘Do you mind talking, friend Timon?’ he asked, as he shifted his position against the stone.

The berserker screwed up his face again and Alahan guessed the expression meant he was thinking. ‘Not at all, though there are things I cannot say.’

‘Such as why a berserker of the Low Kast won’t kill? That is not your people’s reputation.’

‘I know,’ Timon replied with downcast eyes. ‘But I made a vow. You may ask me anything else.’

Alahan nodded and began to remove his stowed weaponry and to get as comfortable as he could, feeling waves of tiredness flow over his aching body. ‘How did you come to know Aleph Summer Wolf?’

Timon lowered himself into a cross-legged sitting position. ‘The thain of Tiergarten visited my village when I was young. There was pestilence and my mother had died in my arms. It was a hard time for my people.’ He was looking off into the snow. ‘The thain had many warriors with him. I think they were looking for deep ice to make their cloud-stones... or maybe jewels... I don’t know.’

Alahan knew that Ranen cloud-stones were made from mined ice, but had never thought where the ice came from. ‘You fought them?’ he asked.

The Butcher nodded. ‘My chieftain was a brutal old berserker and he ordered all men to give their lives to keep the Low Kast pure. He was no great friend to the Fjorlanders. Even with so many dying from plague, he kept attacking. Even when Aleph begged him for peace terms, he just laughed.’ Timon’s expressive features showed that he had not agreed with his chieftain’s decisions.

‘Who won?’ asked Alahan.

‘They did,’ was the simple response. ‘They won every time we attacked. We were outnumbered and most of my village were simple men, but the chieftain kept ordering us forward. Men died, hundreds of them. Those not killed by Fjorlan axes were killed by pestilence, until only a handful of my people remained and the chieftain had been gripped by insanity.’

Alahan frowned at the tale and looked with genuine sympathy at the berserker. ‘How did it end?’

‘I was barely a man at twelve years, but I was sent forward with my father to die,’ he said, with an angry curl to his lip. ‘But I acted without honour and refused. I had barely started to embrace the rage of Varorg, but I wouldn’t see my father and mother both die before my eyes and so I challenged the chieftain.’ Timon was sitting in the middle of the gully and snow was beginning to drift in front of him as he spoke. ‘Aleph saved my life when I was defeated. He spared me and my father when he had no need to. His priest healed our pestilence and the few men who remained surrendered with honour. The men of Tiergarten killed the chieftain and let the rest of us live.’

Alahan raised his eyebrows. ‘You view that as kindness?’

‘We had been attacking him unceasingly, and he spared our lives. A man of the Low Kast would not have done that. Aleph Summer Wolf was the first man I ever saw show mercy.’

‘I understand mercy, but why try to find him now?’

‘I have nothing to offer the Low Kast... not any more... so I seek out the best man I know and pledge my fate.’ Timon spoke with conviction, as if acting out an honour ritual of his people. ‘He should see it as a privilege,’ the berserker stated with pride.

‘And his daughter?’ asked Alahan.

The man of the Low Kast absently chewed on a fingernail. ‘I will hope that she is worthy of my fate. If not, I will find another.’ Alahan smiled warmly at Timon, accepting the berserker’s simple world view.

The young thain yawned loudly and fell further back against the rocks, making sure he was under an overhang. He was exhausted and he found Timon’s voice strangely soothing. ‘I may need to sleep, my friend,’ he said wearily.

‘That is good.’ Timon smiled broadly. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you. We will have to do it again.’

Alahan laughed, a loud, good-natured laugh, and gave the berserker a comradely slap on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get to Tiergarten and both reach our goals... I’m sure of it.’

* * *

Alahan was tired enough that the cold bothered him little as he drifted off to sleep. He had no bedroll or camping gear and wished he had been thinking more clearly when he had fled his home. At the time, his head had been full of anxiety for his sister and indignation at the treacherous battle-brothers of Jarvik. He estimated that they were no more than a week from Tiergarten and, as he closed his eyes and felt his breathing slow down, he prayed to Rowanoco that he would find allies in the realm of Summer Wolf. He had known an old priest called Brindon Crowe and he hoped the man would still be there.

Timon was standing above him, watching the snowy tundra from the high ground. Alahan was finding the man of the Low Kast a most intriguing travelling companion and, despite his initial lack of conversation and strange ways of thinking, it was evident that the berserker was more thoughtful and intelligent than was typical of his people – though, as he felt sleep intrude, Alahan was aware that he had only his uncle’s word for this.

Then a deep, rumbling sound travelled along the gully and caused his eyes to open. It was an elongated and guttural snarl, which echoed off the rocky terrain. Alahan sprang to his feet and picked up his battleaxe. Looking down the narrow gully he could see nothing but a bank of drifting snow. He glanced up, but Timon was no longer there. The sound continued and Alahan swore under his breath as he realized he was listening to the keening of a troll.

‘Timon,’ he whispered upwards, ‘we need to move.’

There was no response from the berserker.

‘Timon,’ he repeated, ‘it’s a troll.’

Alahan had encountered the Ice Men of Rowanoco a number of times in his life – living in Fjorlan made it almost inevitable – but he had never had to fight one and, if stories were to be believed, a troll was easily a match for a dozen armoured battle-brothers. Magnus used to say that the Ice Men of Rowanoco were essentially eating machines that would devour rocks, trees and men with equal gusto. Their bellies were never full and they would attack an army as readily as a mountain goat.

He crouched under the rocky overhang and waited. His breath was slow and he dared not blink. He peered into the drifting snow and saw a huge shape lumbering forwards. Hugging the rocks as best he could, Alahan saw the beast emerge into the glaring white of the realm of Teardrop. It was bigger than the ones he had seen near Fredericksand, standing over ten feet in height, though its hunched gait made it likely that its full height was a good deal larger. He couldn’t make out the creature clearly, but its bulk made Alahan’s fist shake as he gripped his axe. Almost as wide as it was tall, the troll swayed as it walked, following a zigzag path in its approach to the gully.