Blood of Wolves (23 page)

“That fast?”

He nodded. “I was up, coloring the creek, when the first arrived. Volunteered to help them make some cloth lean-tos for sleeping. Never quite finished as more bodies turned up during the next watch.”

Ehmish nodded toward another area swept clear of snow. No tents. Just a small pile of packs and bedrolls, with a couple of large men sitting on them. “They came in this morning. Five men and women from Clan Maugh. Heard them talking. Said they didn't want to let the Cruaidhi have all the fun.”

Maugh. Kern knew the settlement. High up north in the valley, about as close as one could crowd the Eighlophian Mountains without being snowed in for eight months of the year. Hard men and women. Gard was lucky to have them.

“What do you think?” Kern asked.

Aodh bent down, finishing some squat stretches. His old joints cracked and popped. “Maugh?” He chewed on the ends of his salt-and-pepper moustache a moment. “I don't like those fellows much, but they're impressive with a sword, I'll give 'em that.”

“No,” Kern shook his head, “that's not what I mean.”

He nodded everyone back up toward the fire where Nahud'r had joined the others. The dark-skinned man threw Kern a rag torn from an old blanket. Kern blotted away his sweat before the morning air settled a chill on him, then passed the cloth to Ehmish. Brig Tall-Wood crawled out from under a shallow lean-to of planks laid up against the stone ruins of one of the old bridges, scratching himself, yawning.

Daol and Finn handed out flat cakes. Hot. Kern bounced his from one hand to the other, cooling it.

“What do you
think?
” he asked again. His question included everyone.

Silence. Then, “Hundred . . . hundred fifty men up in the pass? Another fifty ready to head off after them?” Mogh hawked and spit to one side. “I think we're suddenly small game in a large forest.” It was the longest speech he'd yet to make in front of Kern.

Ossian shrugged, rubbed some animal fat over his head in a greasy smear. “We was heading toward the Broken Leg Lands anyways,” he said, scraping a sharpened blade over his pate, slowly, in even, measured strokes. The thin smear of fat protected his skin, but was not enough to soften the stubble. It rasped dryly against the blade. “Fifteen men trying to sneak past or a few hundred forcing their way through—either way, we gets where we're going.”

“Come too far to call it off now,” Old Finn offered. “Not like I can go back, anyway.”

Not like any of them could, in fact. Kern tore a piece of flat cake away and popped it in his mouth. It tasted of stale grease and oats, but it was warm and would fill the hollow growing in his stomach.

He stared west, into the cold haze that had settled over the rising Teeth of the mountains. The Pass of Blood lay in between his band and the Broken Leg Lands. So much of what they could and would do depended a great deal on what was happening up there in the mountains.

“Daol?” Kern asked.

But his friend was already wolfing down what remained of his own food, rising from a squat near the fire. “I know,” he said, anticipating Kern's question. “I'll see what I can find out from Gard.”

Not a great deal, as it turned out. Gard remained busy seeing after newly arrived warriors and preparing them for the trek up into the mountains. He did admit to sending runners westward, to check on the chieftain's progress. None of them had yet to come back, which could mean the fighting went well, and they were pressing farther through the pass than anyone had expected.

Or badly. And the chieftain had need of every man who came along.

He would be getting them. By noon, another fifty warriors from outside Cruaidh had swelled the struggling settlement, which looked more like an armed camp now than the valley's largest village. Axes hammered in all directions, chopping firewood for dozens of fires. Swords were scraped against sharpening stones. Warriors tested themselves against one another in several makeshift arenas.

There were a few real clashes between clans with centuries-old feuds. The skirmishes usually ended at first blood before anyone truly got hurt, but even that did not bode well for clansmen assembled under the bloody spear.

“No strong chieftain here to hold them in check,” Ossian complained. “They answered the call of Sláine Longtooth, not Gard Foehammer.”

The best Gard could do, in fact, was let it be known from the start that he'd set his own warriors on any clansman who maimed or killed another inside Cruaidh. Kern was glad for that promise. He did not miss the glances of suspicion and outright hatred that followed him around the settlement.

Feeding the assembling war host was a larger problem than a few squabbles. Most brought with them enough for a few days . . . a week at best. An extended campaign over the western pass would take better supplies, though. The villagers were already on starvation diets, and several dozen clansfolk—men and women, young and old—volunteered to leave with the growing army to relieve pressure on the kin left behind or simply to get better rations for themselves.

Fortunately, nearby farms and villages were also scraping the bottom of their larders and dry pits for the last of their dried meats and autumn roots. A few scrawny packhorses, loaded with whatever scraps could be spared, were led into Cruaidh close to noon. The horses were butchered directly after being unloaded, their meat cooked and wrapped in oilskin for preservation. Bones were split open for their marrow, and boiled into a broth that everyone shared at the midday meal.

There wouldn't be much left in Cruaidh once the army departed.

That included people.

Kern expected a visit during the day, but did not bother sitting around to wait for it. When Gard Foehammer eventually searched him out, the Cruaidhi found Kern and his warriors exercising with some weapons practice near their temporary camp at the creek's side. Wallach Graybeard officiated, having taken on the role of training master. He'd set half of them trading strokes against one another. The other half he left to call out advice and encouragement and jeers.

Several were taking wagers for honor in the current sparring match between Kern and Reave, a mismatch if ever there was one. Reave's greatsword had twice Kern's reach. The shield Kern had taken from the Vanir evened the odds only somewhat, but each time he turned away an attack, it felt as if his arm might shatter.

Kern saw Gard amble up and ground his pike against the frozen earth, letting the spear lean back against his shoulder, crossing his arms over it, waiting patiently. Kern had no time for conversation. Sweating freely, trying to work his arming sword through Reave's guard, he merely grunted in the Cruaidhi's direction, then thrust for Reave's ribs again, and again.

Each time he was turned away by a hard parry as Reave whipped the greatsword around in magnificent arcs.

“Speed,” Wallach called out. “Speed versus strength.”

Twice Kern slipped inside of Reave's reach, but both times the larger man kicked him away. Kern was learning to whittle the other man's defenses down, but slowly. Too slowly. The arming sword grew heavier with each passing moment.

Finally, taking advantage of Kern's flagging arm strength, Reave managed to slap the flat of his blade against Kern's sword arm. Kern stepped back, defeated, gasping for breath which came raw and cold. Several warriors cheered for Reave's display.

As did Kern. It had been a great display of skill, and he was happy to have the bruise rather than be missing an arm. Still gulping for air, he thrust his arming sword point first into the frozen earth, letting it stand on its own for the moment. He blotted the sweat from his face, careful to avoid smearing away the horse fat protecting his cheeks. He caught Gard's eye, and saw the village protector gauging him carefully. Rather than stand under the attention, he nodded and gestured him forward at Reave.

“Care to have a go?” he asked, getting control of his panting.

As good a way as any to break the awkward moment. And to be completely truthful, Kern was eager to see how the other man wielded his pike. It was a strange weapon of choice for a Cimmerian.

Gard hesitated barely for the span of a heartbeat. “Don't mind if I do,” he said. Grasping the pike in both hands, he raised it overhead in salute and a limbering stretch. He left it up there as he moved forward into the training area, angling the spear's butt end back down at Reave, like the stinger of a wasp.

Wallach Graybeard smiled, then hid the expression behind his hand as he scratched into his thick, gray beard. He nodded Reave forward. Obviously, he wanted to see the pikeman in action as well. Reave shook a spray of sweat from his brow, his dark braids slapping across his face, then against the back of his neck. The Cimmerian greatsword came up in a half-guard position, ready to parry or thrust home.

And Gard suddenly leaped forward with his pike thrusting out, easily half-again the reach of Reave's sword, looking for the Gaudic warrior's heart.

Reave beat the pike aside, barely. Smashing aside Gard's next thrust, he spun inside, sword slapping at the Cruaidhi's legs. But Gard grounded his pike in the way and Reave barely missed tripping over it.

The spearman had a unique style about him, Kern recognized, treating the pike as much as a staff as he did a spear. Perfectly calm with batting aside a sword strike or rapping the polearm against an exposed knee or elbow. Forcing an opening where he suddenly thrust for the heart, or the throat, or the groin. Always for a critical injury.

For his part, Reave relied on the greater weight of his sword, trying to smash aside Gard's defense. When he jabbed, Gard retreated. When he slashed inside, Gard met him body to body or simply spun him away with an easy swipe.

Back and forth, with neither man giving the other an easy victory. Then, stumbling aside from another slashing attack, Reave took the butt end of the pike right over his left kidney. He staggered but did not fall. Stepped back. There was no disguising the amazement that showed brightly in his pale blue eyes. Clearly he had thought to win the match.

Massaging the bruise, he dropped his swordpoint toward the ground in salute. A few of the others tossed Reave some jeers, laughing. Reave gave them back a rude gesture.

“Very well done,” Wallach said, a rare compliment from the veteran.

With a flourish, Gard reversed his pike and grounded the blue-iron point into the ground. Then he looked over at Kern. “Are you rested yet?” he asked, leaning his pike forward in challenge.

Kern, though, read that question in two different ways, and considered carefully how he would answer. “Near enough,” he said, speaking for himself and for his small band of warriors. He smoothed a hand back over the sweat-damp scarf tied around his head, protecting his ears. “But if you're in a hurry . . .”

“It's not good, most times, to cool down so much.” Gard picked up his pike and stretched it overhead again.

“I'll give you the best I have left.” Kern reached down and pulled his arming sword from the ground. He scraped the tip against the side of his boot, cleaning off a small clump of earth. “It may not be much, though.”

The Cruaidhi laughed. It was a warm sound, not mocking at all. “Said the man who played his arming blade against a greatsword. And held his own from what I saw.” He looked at the short blade in Kern's hand. “Why not pick up a real piece of steel against me?”

Because Kern couldn't handle one half as well as the arming sword. And he'd also rather his opponent continue to underestimate him. “We make do with what we have,” he said, and lunged forward.

The pike flashed out, batting his sword point aside. An answering thrust tagged the butt end of the spear against Kern's shield.

“We do at that.”

Kern came at the match a bit differently than his friend had, concentrating more on defense until he learned how to create an opening in Gard's defenses. He worked shield and sword together, always wary of the pike's reach and the skill the Cruaidhi had already demonstrated with it.

It caused the match to drag on, pushing back and forth without rest. Kern's infamy around the settlement and Gard's high profile attracted a few more spectators. And still more. More than a few times, Kern heard calls of “Run him through,” and “Take him! Take him now!”

It focused the attention of the assembling army on him rather than the coming battle and the real enemy. And Kern's people were just as susceptible. A few shoves and hands going to the hilts of knives and swords promised that bloodshed was not too far off.

“Maybe you're right,” Kern offered, as he and Gard Foehammer came up body to body. “Sooner rather than later.”

The Cruaidhi put his shoulder into Kern's shield, shoving him back. “Today,” he said through tight lips. He spun the pike overhead, smashing it down at Kern's shoulder.

Kern turned it with the flat of his arming sword. But his own lunge fell short. The pike's reach was harder to get inside than Reave's greatsword.

He shuffled forward, stabbing and jabbing, trying to force the larger man back a few paces. “You still think . . . this-is-a-good-idea?” His words fell out in a rush, spit with each quick, short thrust.

Gard adjusted his grip, holding the pike by its center and smashing first one end in, then the other, parrying each strike, then battering Kern backward with a bruise against his elbow, his shoulder, his hip.

“Doesn't matter what I think. Matters what I need.”

“Matters what we all need,” Kern corrected. He jabbed.

“Cruaidh!”

“The valley.”

“Cimmeria!” they shouted at each other.

Kern had shifted from his defensive gambit to an all-out attack, reaching into his reserves to fight Gard to a standstill. Both men leaned into the battle, neither giving up a single step. Kern's sword and Gard's pike were a blur of clashing steel and cleft air. With that last shout they shoved forward with speartip and swordpoint, Gard high and Kern low.