Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  “You know the way?” Kalfinar pressed.

  The Grey Father smiled. “Woakie smiles on you. You fight alongside us, and we will show you the way.”

  Twenty-Four

  Raven Men

  Kalfinar walked alongside Harvind and Broden, newly acquired weapons slung across backs and from belt loops. They stalked across the space between the small rock- and bone-framed houses that surrounded the round open yard of the village.

  “How many defenders have you?” Kalfinar asked of Harvind.

  “Three hundred, counting the women and children. Less than one hundred men, and half again have seen too many winters.”

  “And how many Raven Men?” Broden asked, using the term Kalfinar had learned from the Grey Father the evening before.

  “Depends,” Harvind said, waving at an older man who sat sharpening a short sword outside of his house. “Could be a few hundred, if they’re intent on trouble. Sometimes they’ll come to take only, fish or seal meat.”

  Kalfinar looked about him as they passed the houses and strode towards the inner side of the steep embankment that surrounded the village. “The houses are built too close up to the embankment here. There’s barely a killing zone for archers, should they get over the embankment.”

  “Not really been much of an issue to us these last few years,” Harvind said, his voice flat. “It’s all too often been the way of it that they were just allowed to enter without any resistance. We learned through blood and pain. Most of our young men have been killed, our young women taken away. Every now and then we resist, but it is less and less these days. I think the Grey Father sees your coming as a sign from Woakie that we must fight. He sees that Woakie has brought you to us seeking our aid, and us yours. Truth is, old Crene would probably have brought you to us had the ship not gone down. No one from Grantvik's Bay has ever ventured into Hagra without a Maracost guide. In any case, the Grey Father sees the hand of Woakie in it all, and has decided if the Maracost are to fight, we should start by defending our own home.”

  “Does it please you?” Kalfinar asked, stopping at the foot of the embankment.

  “It pleases me more than if I were to die an old man, having long forgotten the fire of battle in my throat. But don’t mistake my thirst for this fight as recklessness. I know we are doomed, either this night or another. The Raven Men are too many. They have broken the web of our people with their own corruption and left us – their own kin – weak, starving and ragged. The good of this world has fled for us, and we’re left now with the creeping shadow of Balzath. The shadow grows long, and spreads beyond our ways, beyond our world. You’ve seen it, and felt its strength. You know what it can do. And so, yes, it pleases me that we are to fight, and fight the shadow of the Raven Men together, but I am also sorrowful for my death, and the death of my people’s world.”

  “There is always hope. You heard Valus; if we free Dajda, the bind on your people, on Woakie, is lifted,” Broden said.

  “Thanks to Dajda, there has never been hope with for our people.” Harvind said, disbelief in his tone. “Your god sleeps, perhaps forever. This is the winter of our gods. Can’t you feel it?”

  “If we’re going to die, I’d rather it be for the belief that there was a chance,” Broden said.

  Harvind scoffed, and began to walk up the embankment.

  “Easy on with the preaching,” Kalfinar grumbled and followed the Maracost up the steep embankment. The yellow grass was bent back towards the village from endless buffets of wind. The fragile dried stalks broke and blew off, spirited back towards the village on the gusts. Kalfinar caught up with Harvind at the top of the embankment and looked across the river towards the foot of the ragged mountains around them. “Forgive Broden. His faith remains strong. Even in spite of all we’ve seen and heard.”

  “Yet yours is as withered as the summer grasses on this embankment,” Harvind said, turning his odd-coloured eyes on Kalfinar. “Tell me, why do you press so hard for this god you hold no love for?”

  Kalfinar responded as Broden made his way to the top of the embankment. “I’ve seen a lot of killing. Some was for Dajda’s cause, but most was born of want and desire. Want for land, for food, for metals, for – shit, for the lust of the killing. I never understood why this would be allowed in a world and among a people so cherished, so loved by our gods.”

  “All men feel that, and yet there remains faith.” Harvind looked to Broden, then back to Kalfinar. “No, there’s more to your lonely path than that.”

  “I lost my family. That severed my faith.”

  “And yet you strive to restore your god.”

  “I strive to look after that which I love. My people love Dajda, and I fight for them.”

  “There is more.” Harvind held Kalfinar’s gaze.

  “The one who carries Dajda is dear to me. She has been taken. To free Dajda, we must reach her.”

  “And when you do?” Harvind asked, his brows knitting over his mismatched eyes. “What do you intend to do then?”

  Kalfinar looked out over the open land surrounding the village. The approach of the Raven Men could be slowed by the removal of the bridge. The wide-open space before and after the river, and the slowness of passage through the fast-flowing water, would create a killing zone for archers. He turned and looked back to Harvind. “I intend to free her, free Dajda, and then live a life with her.” Hazard held his gaze for a long moment, and a warning rang in Kalfinar’s head. Fool yourself, go ahead.

  Kalfinar grabbed hold of the barrel of arrows handed up from the basement armoury by Jukster. The bald and scarred head of the big man disappeared back down into the lamp-lit hole in the ground. Kalfinar turned the barrel onto its side and began rolling it out of the room and through the Great Hall.

  “Many more?” Ferdus asked as he passed Kalfinar in the direction of the armoury.

  “I think there’s one more for the arrows,” Kalfinar said, kicking the barrel onward. Kalfinar sensed Ferdus had stopped behind him. He let the barrel roll to a stop and turned about to face the Gerloup man. “What’s wrong?” he asked, observing the frown on the man’s face.

  Ferdus shook his head and made to turn away.

  “Soldier,” Kalfinar commanded.

  Ferdus stopped mid-motion and turned to face Kalfinar. His eyes held Kalfinar’s firm for a moment. “Do you think this is the right thing?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This fight. Is it ours?” Ferdus rubbed at the back of his neck. “I mean, this is a village of old, sick men, of women and children. How can we, half drowned and already battle-weary, even be sure of coming out of this? We don’t know how many we’ll face. The whole mission could be in the shitter right here.”

  Kalfinar frowned in thought, his eyes studying the scuffed and dirty toes of his boots. “You know,” he said, eyes still exploring the tired leather about his feet, “all I want in this world is to be quiet. To be surrounded by quiet, and to share that with those I love. I want not this fight. I want not to lift a sword again in all my life.” His eyes flicked up to Ferdus, and he saw battle fatigue in the man’s eyes. He saw a fire, too. Kalfinar knew that look. The man wanted vengeance. “I want peace, like I found in Hardalen, but I know my soul will never rest easy until I have Evelyne.”

  “But this fight that comes, how does that bring you to her?” Ferdus asked, his eyes growing hard as his brows knit above them. “How does this fight bring me vengeance for the blood of my nephew? We’re being pulled away.”

  “Are we?” Kalfinar asked. “We’ve been broken on the sea, and could’ve all drowned. But we didn’t. We landed here, and have found shelter, and a people who can take us to Hagra Iolach. Valus said it herself: she has a sense of it, but she couldn’t find it, not with any certainty.”

  Ferdus avoided Kalfinar’s gaze, and ran a thumb over the scarred and dirty palm of one hand. “If we can take them, and see another morning.”

  Kalfinar’s eyes narrowed. “If I have to crawl, then so b
e it.”

  “Your devotion to Dajda is so strong?”

  “You mistake me.” Kalfinar’s voice lowered. “My devotion is not to Dajda, but to Evelyne, and to finding that peaceful life.” And I would bleed the world to have it. He shook the thought from his head. “We just need to do all we can this night,” Kalfinar said, stepping up towards Ferdus and placing a hand on his shoulder. “For every one of these raiders you take down, you’re a step closer to vengeance for Arrlun, and I am a step closer to Evelyne. Let those who fight for Dajda do so, but for you and I, let our fury drive us to what’s ours.”

  “Ho!” A shout sounded from within the armoury. “A little bastarding help here? Fuck's sake.” Jukster’s mangled voice boomed out into the great hall.

  “Better go,” Ferdus said, his mouth tightening. “Don’t want meathead hurting himself.”

  “You’re good?” Kalfinar asked.

  “Aye. You know I’ll fight. I’m with you.”

  “Good man.” Kalfinar turned and rolled the barrel in the direction of the main door to the Great Hall. His mind turned to Evelyne, and those blue eyes. He thought of her feeling fear, and fury burned thick in his throat. His fists clenched and he found himself wanting to break something, or someone. I’m good for this fight.

  “What kept you?” Broden asked as Kalfinar exited the Great Hall and into the cold light of the late afternoon.

  “Was picking some fluff out from my belly button,” Kalfinar said without a hint of humour.

  “Hate it when it gets right in there,” Broden said as he scratched his belly. “But the worst of it is when it gets stuck right into your–”

  “Have we got all the bows?” Kalfinar interrupted.

  “Aye. Twenty-four bows, plus three or four crossbows.”

  “Well, is it three or four?”

  Broden squinted and pursed his lips for a moment. “Four.”

  “Good number. Have the crossbows positioned facing the gates,” Kalfinar said, turning the barrel of arrows upright beside another. “If we can make the strung weapons count, we’ll have less to contend with up close.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Broden pouted.

  “Plenty of fun to come.”

  “Aye.” Broden leaned in to Kalfinar. “You holding up?”

  Kalfinar looked up at the big man and nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “You know we’ll get to her.”

  “I know.” And then. What then?

  Harvind approached, drawing Kalfinar’s gaze from Broden.

  “We’ve weapons handed out amongst those who can fight. Those of us with some bow skill are ready. Two dozen. Some of your troops will have to work the crossbows. They’re not a weapon my people have much skill with. Not much use in hunting deer. Are you set on how we’ll play this out?”

  “We’re set,” Kalfinar replied, thumb rubbing across the top of his hatchet.

  Ferdus appeared from the entrance of the Great Hall rolling a third and final barrel of arrows towards where Kalfinar and Broden stood with Harvind.

  “It’s easy.” Broden smiled. “We thin them out with arrows to start, shut the gates, and take them on the embankment.”

  “And if their numbers are greater?” Harvind asked.

  “As you said,” Kalfinar clapped a hand on Harvind’s shoulder, “at least we won’t die as old men, having long forgotten the fire of battle in our throats.”

  The smell on the air had changed since the sun had set. The wind had dropped, and the night was still. The briny scent that had been on the air during the day had given way to the stink of burning whale oil.

  “Everyone armed?” Harvind asked as he stepped up to the top of the embankment overlooking the single entrance to the village.

  “All armed,” Broden said, turning back from where he stood beside Kalfinar.

  “Final number of those who can fight isn’t great,” Kalfinar grumbled, his eyes continuing to scan the blue darkness of the land before the village. The clouds had spent their fury on the day and had passed on, leaving a night sky full of sparkling stars and a thin crescent of moon. Their light enveloped the land at the foot of the mountains in a fine inky light, and the meandering river ran with silver undulations. It was calm, and beautiful. “I wouldn’t attack on a night like this,” Kalfinar said.

  “They won’t come at us hot,” Harvind said, stepping up beside Kalfinar, their shoulders almost touching. “They don’t expect resistance. More often than not these days, the Raven Men will come half-drunk, and just walk on through, reaving and taking at will.”

  “Gonna be a sore night if that’s the case,” Broden growled. He turned and grinned hungrily at Kalfinar.

  “Our troops spread out between the villagers?” Kalfinar asked, his thumb rubbing absently at the cold metal head of his hatchet as it hung from his belt loop.

  “Aye,” Broden grunted. “Jukster still thinks he’s going to get stuck from behind by the old shaman, or just about anyone else.”

  Harvind snorted a laugh at that, and spat over the embankment.

  Kalfinar afforded himself a chuckle alongside his cousin and Harvind. “That man’s a contrary one. Not convinced his mind is wired right.”

  “My friend,” Harvind said, leaning his head towards Kalfinar and speaking from the side of his mouth, “I’m not convinced any of us are wired right. We stand here, at the top of the Cullanain, in the dead of winter, waiting to do murder on those whose very god bathes in blood and suffering. We’re just as like to offer a prayer to their demon god than advance our own cause here this night, and yet we do it all the same.”

  Harvind’s words tore Kalfinar from his watch, and he met the man's mismatched eyes. “Then let us live what lifetime we may be graced with in a beautiful madness.”

  Broden laughed. “You say that as if it’s only now granted to you. You’ve been living a lifetime in madness since you were a boy!”

  “Aye, well, you always seemed to find a way to bring a red mist down on me.”

  “That’s me,” Broden laughed, “the facilitator of madness.”

  Kalfinar turned back with a smile and observed the blue-lit landscape before him once again. There was movement over to his right, along the eastern foot of the mountainside, where the scree tumbled down to the flat, heathery ground. He focused on it, but the shift in the shadow had passed. He strained to see.

  “Your eyes play no tricks,” Harvind whispered.

  Kalfinar squinted, trying to catch the slightest hint of movement. It shifted again, and there it was. It coalesced into a shape, a snaking line of darker blue against the night-kissed heather. It was coming their way.

  “I’ll get the archers ready,” Broden hissed, and stepped away.

  Kalfinar kept his focus on the line of movement. Before long he could identify the individual shapes of men. They walked in two ranks, the line of troops stretching back and disappearing into the shadows of night. He counted them; there were at least one hundred and twenty troops. “The archers will have to count,” he whispered to Harvind as the two men stepped down from the highest point of the embankment.

  “They’ll count enough,” Harvind replied. “I hope.”

  Movement sounded behind Kalfinar and he turned, his hand resting on the head of his hatchet.

  The Grey Father stepped up, his white teeth glinting in a hungry smile as he knelt down. The old man had a shirt of mail over his robes, and he had donned a pair of knee-high leather boots. Around his waist he had fixed a thick leather belt from which hung a gold-embossed leather scabbard, a lion-headed sword pommel jutting up over his ribs. “So they come at last?” the old man hissed, his eyes searching, and finding, the raiders of the Raven Men in the night. “We’ll start our fight this night, and send them to their sickened god, or us to beloved Woakie.”

  Kalfinar kept his focus ahead. The party of Raven Men advanced towards the village. “Will they expect to be met by anyone?” Kalfinar asked.

  “They would normally just enter, and start
taking,” the Grey Father grumbled.

  “We’ll loose shafts on them when they get within range,” Harvind supplied.

  Kalfinar looked back down the embankment to where the two dozen archers stood waiting, their bows strung over their shoulders, a dozen shafts removed from their quivers and held in their hands.

  Broden nodded at him. They were ready.

  Kalfinar gave the signal, and the archers began to crawl up the embankment on their elbows and knees, arrowheads pointing away from their bodies as they scaled the height of the grassy earthworks at speed.

  The shuffling of the climbing archers grew stronger as they came up alongside Kalfinar. He turned his head and looked across to where Jukster and Ferdus stood at the gate, ready to slam it shut on his signal. Ferdus offered him a nod.

  Kalfinar looked back to the party of Raven Men and saw they were now approaching the bridge across the river towards the village entrance. The first ranks of Raven Men began to cross in silence, their footfalls on the wooden beams of the bridge offering the only eerie noise in the still night.

  “Let them come,” Kalfinar whispered.

  Harvind jabbed arrowheads into the ground before him. The action was replicated along the rank of two dozen archers.

  Kalfinar counted in the blue light. About one-third of the raiders had crossed the bridge and were nearly at the gate now.

  “Almost,” Kalfinar whispered. “Almost.” He looked back to where Jukster and Ferdus had been standing by the gate. He couldn’t see them, which meant they were hiding in the shadows. The first pair of raiders entered through the gate and into the village, followed by another pair, and another. Kalfinar counted three long, deliberate breaths, and waited for his heart to slow. He counted twenty raiders within the village. As he raised his sword high, catching the glint of moonlight, one of the raiders turned back and looked at the embankment. Kalfinar’s sword flashed down as the first sound of an alarm cry issued from the mouth of the Raven Man. A bolt slammed into the side of the raider’s face, and his feet flew up as he slammed backwards onto the ground.