Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  Kalfinar looked down at Evelyne and brushed hair from her face.

  “Olmat and the girls have gone,” she said, looking about the temple. Her eyes scanned the broken bodies strewn about the floor of the temple, and then settled on Broden. She smiled. “Broden.”

  The big man nodded. “Are you all right?” he asked her as he slumped down on the ground beside them, followed by Ferdus and Harvind. All three men nursed wounds.

  “I am,” she replied. She rubbed her belly and looked up at Kalfinar. “I saw her thoughts.”

  “Whose?” Kalfinar asked, frowning.

  “Dajda’s. Before she left me.” Evelyne began to weep. “She will not tolerate a rebellion of the gods. She means to tighten the yoke, not release it. She is full of a terrible wrath.”

  Ruah took her hands from her ears and lifted her head from where she had squeezed it against her knees. The booming horn had stopped, and the flash of hot wind and light had passed. The sounds of dying had faded away, leaving only the crying of the townsfolk.

  She looked up from where she crouched by the side of the door and saw the smouldering of blackened hay. She glanced up at the door, seeing a hole twice as large as her hand smashed through it. Blood framed the ragged hole and ran down the inside. She stood and felt a savage pain birth in her knee and coil its way up her leg, into her back. She nearly collapsed as the hurt of it washed over her. She gripped the bar of the door and hauled herself up. She peered out of the hole ripped in the door, and saw carnage outside in the courtyard of Hagra Iolach. Bodies were strewn all around the long-house. Men, or the remnants of men, lay scattered like some charnel house wreckage, lit blue by the pale moonlight. Snow started to drift in lazy spirals towards the ground, meeting the rising steam of the bodies. The snow lay soft on them, and slowly wreathed the dead.

  “Roo.” Hal’s voice sounded behind her. She turned and saw him limping towards her with his arm around Selby’s shoulder. “What happened?” he asked, sword hanging in his right hand.

  “Don’t know,” she said, looking at Selby’s puffy, tear-streaked face. “They’re all dead.”

  The townsfolk started to come out from where they huddled in the cells. Ruah caught sight of a tall man walking from the rear of the long-house, holding his left shoulder.

  “Bergnon!” she called. “You’re alive!”

  “Aye, Roo.” He coughed. “Just about, I think.” He made his way past the wretched townsfolk of Overn Station and up to the door. “They’re all dead?”

  “See for yourself,” she said, hobbling backwards with a wince.

  “Your leg bad again?” Hal asked.

  She looked up at him from beneath furrowing brows. “What do you think?”

  “Dajda,” Bergnon hissed, turning away from the hole in the door. “Not a soul alive out there.” He lifted the beam across the door, swung it open and stepped out, followed by Ruah.

  “What could’ve done that?” Ruah asked, eyes wide as she beheld the carnage before her.

  “The work of a higher power,” Bergnon said as Hal and Selby came out, followed by a slow stream of townsfolk.

  Ruah watched as some of the Overn Station townsfolk spat at the bodies, others kicking at the torn flesh. Most just stared open-mouthed in horror, or turned away. Some even slunk back inside the long-house. Those poor bastards would always be in that long-house, one way or another, she thought. She turned around and saw Selby weeping into Hal’s chest, and again the sick feeling tore at her. Hal turned and caught her glowering at him.

  “Roo,” he made to speak.

  She turned her back on him.

  “Roo.” A softer voice this time. Selby’s voice.

  Ruah turned and looked at her. She was pretty, still, even through the tears, the hunger, the bruises, and whatever else was behind her sad eyes.

  “Roo,” Selby said again with a small, hoarse voice. “Thank you, Roo.”

  Ruah looked at Selby for a moment, and then to Hal. The feeling tore at her again. “Fuck yourself, Selby.” Ruah spat on the ground between them, and then turned away from the long-house. Her first step saw her slip on some gore and fall to the ground. She grimaced as the pain flared and wound its way about her.

  “Roo,” the voices called after her.

  “Leave me be!” she snapped. Ruah sighed and sucked in a deep, cold breath. She clenched her teeth and hauled herself back up to her feet, steeling herself once more to find the familiar rhythm. Breathe, step, pain, pray. Breathe, step, pain, pray. She walked on, enduring the hurt as the snow drifted down onto her hair and shoulders. She pulled her hood up over her head and found herself back at the gate. She stepped through and walked back into the valley of Hagra Iolach. The fiery light flared amongst the cracks in the surface of the valley, casting an eerie amber glow as the flame burst free in its random pattern. She could understand the pain of her leg. She could find a way to manage it. She always had done. But it was the awful hurt that had swollen up from her belly that she couldn’t understand. It was new to her, and it ached harder than anything she had ever felt from her leg before. “Alone again.” She dashed the tears from her eyes with angry swipes, and saw movement in the flare of light from one of the eruptions. Something moved towards her. Fear raced through her and she reached for her hatchet, but it wasn’t there. It was on the floor of the long-house. The fire burst skyward from another crack in the valley surface, and she swallowed her fear. “Fuck it.”

  She stood still, and let her hands drop to her sides. She closed her eyes, spilling tears as she grimaced and waited for the end. She waited a moment, but nothing. Ruah opened her eyes at the sound of breathing coming towards her in the dark. Another flame was birthed skyward from a rent in the ground, and cast light onto the beast approaching her.

  The creature had red hair and lolloped towards her on three legs. “Tusk!” she cried as the dog bound towards her, pink tongue lolling from his dog-smile mouth. “Tusk!” Ruah crouched, ignoring the pain in her leg, and caught the big dog in a tight embrace. “What happened to you, boy?” she asked, pulling away as the big dog’s tongue washed over her again and again, licking away her tears as they rushed from her. She could see half of his right ear had been torn free, with scabbed-over claw marks scoring down the side of his head and onto his shoulder. She hugged the dog again, and let the tears fall from her face. “It’s just the two of us now, boy. Just you and me.”

  “And me.”

  A voice sounded over her shoulder. It was Bergnon.

  Epilogue

  Kalfinar dragged the body through the blood-stained dirt towards the mound of the dead outside the walls of Hagra Iolach. He glanced down at the headless corpse. Cleaved ribs sprung from the awful rent in the chest. Blackened, dried gore surrounded the white tips of bone. The body had once belonged to Grunnxe, King of Solansia. Though how much of the old man had occupied it at the end was anyone’s guess.

  “Over here.” Broden called Kalfinar over to the mound of bodies. “Got a nice spot picked out for the old bastard.”

  Kalfinar hauled the corpse over and dumped it at the base. “He’s the last of them.” Kalfinar straightened and winced.

  “You dropped this,” Ferdus’ voice called from behind. He approached, holding Grunnxe’s head by the hair. The old man’s mouth sagged open, dried, black eyes shrinking back into their sockets. Ferdus raised it up. “Where do you want it?”

  Kalfinar rubbed sweat from his forehead with the back of his trembling arm. “Just toss the damn thing and be done with it.”

  Ferdus shrugged, and flung the head up onto the heaped dead.

  “Broden,” Kalfinar sighed, “get it burned.”

  Broden hunkered down and pulled out an alloy spark rod. He scraped his knife down its length and set fire to an oil-soaked cloth wrapped about a splintered spear shaft, then tossed the blazing end onto the stomach of Grunnxe’s corpse. Broden stood back as the flames grew, spreading hungrily over the ruined bodies of the Solansians and their Raven Man allies.


  “Doing this a fair amount these days,” Broden said, turning his back on the blaze.

  “Aye.” Kalfinar watched as the black smoke billowed up in a great cloud before being pulled down into the valley by the chill winter wind. “We’ve a fine gift for burning the dead.” He looked across at the smaller pile of bodies. Jukster lay beside Murtagh, her lifeless arm about his shoulder, his head against her pale chin. Harvind’s Maracost lay next to the hollow-cheeked forms of the townsfolk from Overn Station.

  Kalfinar bowed his head and sighed. “Too much killing.” He unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. “No more.” He turned away from the dead, and walked back towards the gate of Hagra Iolach. “Burn them all.”

  “We ration the supplies,” Kalfinar said, appraising the store. “We’re in no position to travel. Evelyne can’t make the journey, nor the townsfolk.” He looked at Broden, Ferdus, Harvind and Hal, then shook his head. “Shit! Just look at us. Not one of us at full strength. We’re half-dead as we stand.”

  “This place is foul,” Harvind growled. “A shadow clings to it.”

  “No.” Kalfinar raised his hand. “We winter here. Come the thaw, when we’re recovered, we’ll return to the Maracost, and then onward to Grantvik’s Bay.” He looked at the scabbing stump where his finger had been severed. “From there, who knows where?”

  “You don’t mean to return to Carte?” Broden asked.

  Kalfinar looked up, holding the big man’s eyes for a moment. “Do you?” Broden said nothing. “You saw those things. The Anulii. You saw what they did to Valus.” Broden winced as Kalfinar pressed. “You heard what Evelyne said. Dajda’s wrath will be terrible. I’ll not return to that. Will you?”

  Footsteps slapped on stone in the hallway outside the store. “Kalfinar?” Selby appeared at the door, heaving for breath.

  Kalfinar started towards the door. “Evelyne?”

  Selby nodded and smiled. “Aye. The babe’s coming!”

  Kalfinar brushed the loose strands of hair from Evelyne’s forehead and kissed her.

  “Hold Deria. Your daughter,” Evelyne said, smiling up at him.

  His heart hammered. Hammered so hard it felt like the rushing blood would choke the life from him. He coughed, and tried to clear his dry throat once more. He reached down with trembling hands towards the tiny babe, wrapped in a soft blanket. His scabbed knuckles stretched as his fingers wrapped about his daughter, and he lifted her from Evelyne’s breast. The tiny infant yawned as he brought her towards him, and held her to his chest. A small hand stretched out, and wrinkled little fingers flexed, tangling weakly in his beard. As he pressed his lips to Deria’s forehead, his hammering heart slowed.

  “We have to protect her.” Evelyne said.

  Kalfinar looked back at her. “I know.” Deria squeaked. “Does she want feeding?”

  Evelyne nodded and reached out for her. “Eventually, they’ll try to find her.”

  “They’ll not find us.” Kalfinar smiled at her, and gently placed the babe into her arms.

  Evelyne began to sing gently as she placed Deria to her breast. The sound of it enveloped Kalfinar, and he let the warmth of it flood him. I promise you, little one, you’ll never know fear. Never. We’ll keep you safe.

  Without the love, and support of my wife, Polly, Too Cold To Bleed would simply not have crossed the line. Thank you for always keeping me positive and pushing forward.

  And for listening to me ramble about the made up shit in my head.

  As TCTB was primarily written ‘on location’ in the Northwest coast of Scotland, I really ought to thank this damn fine country for its often shocking weather and inspirational landscape.

  Thanks to the awesome Laura M. Hughes for all her work in editing TCTB and her words of encouragement!

  (www.lauramhughes.com)

  Thanks also to the incredibly gifted artist and designer responsible for creating the cover of TCTB. I stare endlessly at it when I really should be writing!

  Artwork: John Anthony Di Giovanni, JAD Illustrated (www.jadillustrated.com)

  Design: Shawn King, STK Kreations (www.stkkreations.com)

  Thanks to Alan Burness for the formatting and sorting all the nightmarish fiddly stuff. Here’s to you, Pink Bull. Sorry about Arrlun.

  Thanks also to Hudson, my big, hairy reminder to stop and take a break. Hudson’s my dog, by the way, not some overbearing Canadian man-servant.

  Reviews

  Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Too Cold To Bleed.

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  About the Author

  D.M. Murray was born and raised in Ireland.

  Resident in Scotland, when not writing, he is most likely working in Renewable Energy, or relaxing in the Northwest Highlands with his wife, and dog.

  D.M. Murray can be found on:

  Website: www.dominickmurray.com

  Email: dominickmurraywords@hotmail.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/DominickMurray6

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