Tangled Webs (38 page)

The First Axe nodded toward the Northmen warriors. “Tell them how.”

Without pause the Rashemi turned to the assembled fighters. “Merrow attack in a quick, swarming charge, then fight hand to hand. All of you who have pikes and spears, get behind the tables now! Send a few arrows toward the merrow from behind the shield wall, but otherwise keep yourselves and your weapons out of sight until my signal. All others, take a place behind me.”

The Northmen fell into position. Fyodor stood behind the tables so he might see the coming attack. Behind him he heard the chanting that brought on the Ruathens’ berserker rages. He himself stared intently at the creatures who descended the stairs toward the courtyard, their webbed feet slapping the ancient stone. When his frenzy came upon him, he wanted to be certain he spent it on the invaders.

Most of the merrow merely batted aside the first storm of arrows. Four or five of them fell, pawing at the shafts that protruded from the soft tissue at the base of a throat, or in an eye—but not enough of them, apparently, to convince the surviving creatures that the fighters behind the shield wall posed much of a threat. One of the sea ogres, a ten-foot creature with three black horns protruding from its forehead, shouted a guttural command. The merrow darted into formation. Leveling their spears and tridents at the swordsmen, they charged.

“They will jump the barrier,” Fyodor cautioned the Northmen, speaking fast to time his words with the swift approach of the sea ogres. “Fall back three paces, set your weapons high, brace them well-now!”

The hidden warriors snapped up and into position, their pikes and spears angled up for the attack-just as the merrow leaped. The creatures had their eyes upon the swordsmen and axe-wielders beyond, and those few who perceived the new threat could not change their momentum. The ogres fell heavily onto the waiting pikes. The Northmen held on grimly, many of them going down beneath the weight of the impaled sea ogres. Some of the spears broke upon impact, not all found their mark-but the first charge was definitely halted.

Roaring out to Tempus, the rest of the Northmen warriors charged. Axes glinted wickedly in the torchlight as the men felled sea ogres like doomed timber. Here and there in the courtyard some of the merrow faced off in duels against individual swordsmen, but the creatures’ speed and strength were overmatched by the berserker frenzy of Holgerstead’s fighters.

As Fyodor parried the stabbing attack of a merrow’s spear, he felt the familiar heat of the berserker frenzy sweep through him. Suddenly he faced the much taller sea ogre at eye level. The creature’s almost comical look of surprise washed slowly over its face; then it rallied and swept the spear up and around in a leisurely arch. An illusion, of course. Always did Fyodor’s battle frenzy speed his movements to the point where the world around him seemed to move at a crawl.

The young berserker’s hand snapped out and caught the wooden shaft of the merrow’s weapon. He stepped aside as he yanked down hard, bringing up his knee in the same instant. The shaft splintered like seasoned kindling. Fyodor still held one end of the shattered weapon. He drove the thing deep into the merrow’s gut with such force that his fist followed the shaft, sinking deep into the merrow’s body. He released the weapon and plunged his hand farther upward, seeking another hard object: one of the ogre’s ribs. His fmgers closed on it.

Fyodor used the momentum of the creature’s fall to help him tear the rib free. He spun, ducked under the swinging blade of another merrow’s hauberk, and then thrust up, burying the macabre weapon deep into the ogre’s eye. He tugged at the curved rib, wrenching it down and around as ifhe were cranking a windlass, in the process thoroughlyand literally-scrambling the merrow’s brain. Gray tissue oozed from the creature’s nostrils as it plunged face first onto the blood-soaked ground.

With the first threat past, the young berserker looked around for more enemies. The merrow were thickest around Wedigar-in some dim corner of his mind, Fyodor reasoned that the creatures must have been instructed to do away with Holgerstead’s leader. He waded in, his black sword slashing a path toward the First Axe.

Wedigar was bleeding from a dozen wounds, some of them deep, and he was weaving on his feet. Yet he fought on, his battle-axe flashing as he fended off the much larger creatures. Fyodor noted that the man did not fight in frenzy. Perhaps the merrow had come upon him too quickly; perhaps his mead-poisoned mind could not summon the needed focus. Whatever the case, Fyodor fell in at Wedigar’s back and fought back the merrow that pressed upon his commander and friend.

Screams of warning came from the keep; several Northwomen leaned from the high windows and gestured frantically toward the outer walls. Some of them took up small bows and began to rain arrows into the far reaches of the courtyard.

Fyodor darted a glance over his shoulder. Swarms of hideous, fishlike men were creeping toward the fighters in eerily precise, V-shaped formations. Two of these groups flanked him and began to close in on the beleaguered First Axe and his young protector. Fyodor sensed the solid form at his back falter, then go down on one knee.

Wedigar, the FirstAxe ofHolgerstead, had fallen at last.

A second change swept through Fyodor, something far

beyond the fire and ice of his battle frenzy. It was as if a strong wind blew through him, sweeping him toward insentience. The black sword dropped from his hand, and he whirled, lashing out at the two merrow who stood triumphantly over Wedigar, their spears poised for killing thrusts. Enormous claws ripped across the throats of both merrow, and the lifeblood of the creatures washed, like a crimson fountain, over the fallen First Axe.

Fyodor shouted a warning to the others as he pointed toward the new enemy. He was not at all surprised to hear the roar of an enraged bear coming from his throat, or to perceive his gesturing hand as an enormous, black-furred paw. He merely dropped down onto all fours and charged the oncoming fish-men.

The creatures let out clattering shrieks and scattered at once, fleeing from the seemingly rabid black bear that raged toward them. But the Rashemi warrior was faster still, falling upon the fish-men with rending claws and slashing fangs.

A wild shout went up behind him as the Northmen rallied. The uncanny frenzy that claimed Fyodor seemed to touch them as well, speeding their movements and bringing them onward in a valiant rush. For many moments the courtyard was a blur of flailing swords and axes as the Northmen cut down the invaders with relentless glee. Meanwhile, behind the line of battle, Wedigar stirred, groaned, and wiped the merrow’s blood from his eyes. The sight in the courtyard beyond both thrilled and worried him. A new shapeshifter had come to Ruathym; his people would overcome the enemy-although with little credit to him. But the fighter put aside personal pride at once, for as he studied the young Rashemi’s unnatural rage, he realized this was no usual hamfariggen warrior. Wedigar was not at all certain the battle would stop when the sea creatures had been overcome.

The First Axe dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the thick wooden gate in the outer wall. For several long moments he strained at the bolt; it gave way with a shriek of metal. He tugged until the heavy door swung inward. The surviving merrow and their sahuagin allies fled at once toward the offered escape. Still in bear form, Fyodor pursued, galloping after them and roaring in inhuman rage. Behind him roiled the Northmen berserkers, intent upon driving their enemies back into the sea.

Wedigars wife, Alflilda, came running to him from the keep, her eyes frantic and her skirts flying. Her keen eyes swept over him, noting his sluggish movements and the shivering he could not control. She had been a warrior’s daughter before she was a warrior’s wife, and she knew well the signs of the numbing illness that came after battle wounds. She shrugged off her cape and wrapped it around her husband’s shoulders.

“It is done; it is enough,” Alflilda pleaded. “Come and let me tend your hurts.”

“My sword,” he grated out.

The woman hesitated only a moment; then she hastened back to fetch the fallen weapon. Wedigar sheathed it, then put one arm around Alfhilda’s shoulders, accepting her offered strength. “I must get down to the water’s edge,” he said, grimacing as a new wave of pain struck him. Alflilda had heard the story of the Rashemi’s curse, and she followed her husband’s reasoning at once. The frenzies ofHolgerstead’s warriors would cease when the enemy disappeared; Wedigar intended to ensure that Fyodor stopped fighting as well.

Alflilda’s eyes were bright with a pain deeper than Wedigar’s as she helped her husband toward the coming battle, and perhaps toward death. Although she was justly proud of her husband’s battle prowess, she had seen the young Rashemi fight, and fear chilled her to her soul. But Wedigar had his duty, and she had hers. She would accept her husband’s choice and give him what aid she could.

By the time the struggling pair reached the shore, the last of the sahuagin were splashing frantically into the waves. The Ruathen berserkers ceased at once, some of them drooping with exhaustion, others chanting out victory songs. Only Fyodor was not appeased by the disappearance of the sea folk. Still in bear form and snarling with battle lust, he prowled back and forth along the shoreline.

“All of you, back to the fortress!” Wedigar commanded. The men eyed the raging shapeshifter and hesitated, made uncertain by their love and loyalty to their First Axe.

But the Northwoman seized the axe from her husband’s belt and brandished it. “Obey the First Axe, or die by a woman’s hand,” she shouted at them, her eyes blazing.

The men nodded and fell back, shamed into compliance by Alflilda’s devotion and fortitude. Without a backward glance, she followed them into the fortress and threw her weight into helping to close the massive door that would bar her husband from the safety of the fortress.

Wedigar waited, his sword still in his scabbard, until the Rashemi in bear form at last turned away from the sea. The bear’s eyes, a bright and incongruous blue in his darkfurred face, burned with killing rage as they settled upon the wounded warrior.

For a long time they stood so. Then a shudder ran thraugh the massive form of the bear, and the fur began to recede, disappearing into the pale-skinned body of a man. In moments Fyodor of Rashemen stood before Holgerstead’s First Axe, naked and white with exhaustion, but otherwise unhurt.

He looked at Wedigar with puzzlement, taking in the man’s many wounds, the hand poised on the hilt of his sword. Then understanding came, and he nodded slowly. “You came here to kill me,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

The young berserker drew in a long, shuddering breath. “For this, I thank you,” he said simply.

Wedigar responded with a grim smile and shrugged off Alflilda’s cloak. He handed it to the young warrior. As Fyodor wrapped it around himself, the First Axe swayed. “I am glad it was not needed,” he said in a fading voice. “You are now a true hamfarrigen, my friend, and trusted in this as in all other things.”

Fyodor caught Wedigar as he fell and slung the unconscious man over his shoulder. Slowly, painfully, he climbed the steep and rocky path that led back to the fortress village. The door swung open to admit them. Several men rushed forward to take Wedigar from Fyodor’s hands, and they carried him into the keep to be tended by the village shaman. Following Alfhilda’s calm direction, the other villagers fell to work tending the wounded, building a funeral pyre for the dead, dragging the dead and wounded sea creatures down to the shore to be fed to the sharks-no honorable fire for them.

Garbed in shirt, breeches, and boots donated by some of his berserker brethren, Fyodor worked steadily beside them. His thoughts, however, were with his wounded friend. When Alfhilda came again into the courtyard to bring a report, Fyodor listened as avidly as any Holgersteader to her words.

“The shaman says Wedigar will live. His wounds, however, are many and grievous, and he will not fight for many days. He asks, therefore, that you accept Fyodor of Rashemen as First Axe in his stead, to lead you in battle until such time as he can resume his post. And there is more,” she said, lifting a hand to still the rising murmur of astonishment. “Wedigar names Fyodor as the heir to Holgerstead, according to the law and custom of this village, until the day the girl Dagmar bears him a shape-strang warrior son. I accept the customs of this land and the duties given my husband and lord,” she concluded softly. “Can you, his sworn men, do otherwise?”

Her face was regal; her eyes defied them to pity her. The men fell silent before the force of Alfhilda’s words and the depth of the proud woman’s devotion. Then, as one, they drew their weapons and laid them at Fyodor’s feet. In solemn unison, they echoed the pledge spoken by the stalwart Northwoman.

“To the First Axe of Holgerstead, all blades be pledged. In peace and in battle, we will follow.”

Fyodor stood, silent and stunned, as his berserker brethren pledged fealty. He could not repudiate the charge that Wedigar had laid upon him, but neither could he bear this burden for long. Although he had not turned on his comrades in his latest and most terrible battle frenzy, the sheer power of it horrified him. He had listened to Wedigar’s stories of the shapeshifting warriors, but it had never occurred to him that he himself might take on animal form. It was bad enough that he fought without consent of his will. This utter and complete loss of self was more than he could abide.

The Rashemi knew he would have to travel to Ruathym village the next day and tell Liriel all that had transpired. Unless the drow wizard could cast the rune successfully and soon, Fyodor felt he would have no choice but to seek out Wedigar and beg him to fnish the task he was prepared to do at the water’s edge. The young berserker could not take his own life; this was strictly forbidden a warrior of Rashemen. Death was a gift that could come only at the hand of a trusted friend, or, perhaps, a swift and treacherous foe.

When the night’s grim work at last was done, Fyodor went to the room given him in the warriors’ lodge. He stripped off his borrowed clothing and fell gratefully into bed, too tired to care that the faces of slain multitudes would haunt his dreams.