Two hours later the strange army arrived. Ragnar had never before seen a force that was entirely cavalry. Were they all nobles, then, and so many? And all bowmen? He marveled at these strange men in their tasseled helmets and their coats blue as a cloudless winter sky. All had swords, and some in the middle of the line wore armor, and in this they were like and yet unlike his own force. (Indeed, some of their horses looked of Kantenjord breed.) The swords were curved, and the armor was unlike either chain or plate, being a cuirass of rectangular metal strips. The saddles were more complex than the Kantenings’ and possessed extensions to anchor the feet.
The Karvaks advanced with impressive discipline, each man keeping true to signalmen waving colored flags. Ragnar wished he could question one of these warriors as to their methods.
After he had slain or routed all that one’s fellows, of course.
The Kantenings took first blood. The hidden longbowmen on Hel’s Tooth loosed their arrows when the Karvaks were within a quarter mile.
Warriors died. A cheer rose up from the Kantenings.
Landwaster held high, Ragnar bellowed, “Hold! Do not advance!” The order was repeated, and his own horsemen kept discipline.
The Karvaks were in confusion for a short time, during which Ragnar wondered if he’d missed an opportunity. Many of them shot arrows in response to Ragnar’s longbowmen. Their smaller bows and lower ground put them at the disadvantage; none of their arrows found the mark.
The confusion did not last, and the Karvaks pulled back and regrouped with admirable unity. Their loss of some twenty men and horses was more symbolic than meaningful, but first blood mattered. Ragnar smiled.
Now. What would I do in their place?
He saw signal flags waving, and answering flags from the distant balloons. The “Orb Dragons” advanced. Of course.
“Runewalkers!” he called out. “It is time!”
Jokull said, “I don’t like using heathen spells. The Church forbids it.”
“You are quite accommodating to heathen worship up in Oxiland.”
“It’s different, what people do in their own homes,” Jokull said. “This is magic.”
Ragnar frowned, watching gray-robed men and women behind his lines, bedecked in gold rings and bird-bone necklaces. They paced out broad designs upon the stone of the pass. Each one cradled under one arm a bladder made from the guts of a pig or goat, each filled with what Ragnar devoutly hoped was animal blood. The Runewalkers left red trails behind them.
“If we don’t use it,” Ragnar said, pointing to the Karvak balloons, “then our foe owns the sky.”
Minutes passed and red runes filled the pass. They were the elder hagalaz rune, associated with hail.
Clouds rolled in, lighting flashed, thunder cracked. The balloons were obscured.
Now came another crackle, this time from the Karvak side of the pass. Ragnar could not see the cause, but smoke filled the gap, turning the enemy horsemen into shadowy ghosts.
The Karvaks again advanced, new crackles accompanying bursts of smoke as they went.
“Magic?” Loftsson said.
“I don’t know,” Ragnar admitted, as a first bit of hail iced his cheek, and then another. “The hail may disperse it.”
“If the timing is right—”
“We can’t rely on the longbowmen,” Ragnar decided. “We will blunt their advance, before they can aim through that smoke. Horsemen!” he shouted, waving Landwaster. “Knights! Men of Soderland! Garmstad! Ostoland! Oxiland! Kantenings all! Men of ice and fire! Heroes of Garmsmaw! This is our moment! A day of hail and steel! All with horse ride forth! We will bloody them and return to our line! Ride!” He gave Landwaster to his herald, readied his spear, and joined the charge.
His instincts were correct. The Karvaks had meant by their smoke to evade his longbowmen and reach a range where their own bows could rain death. But it left them briefly vulnerable to a charge. Ragnar had noted a lack of spears or lances, or even shields.
It seemed that good fortune, the Swan, and even the old powers were with him. For even as the Kantenings rushed upon the foe, hailstones fell, dispersing the smoke. Visibility came too late to help the Karvak archers, but just in time to aid Ragnar’s men. Fighting through hail wasn’t easy, but at least they could see their foes.
Scores of Karvaks fell before that onslaught, and Ragnar’s heart hammered, for his was blood of conquerors, foamreavers, and berserkers.
In what seemed in one sense moments and in another hours, the charge was done. The Karvaks pulled back, galloping down the pass toward the Fjordlanders’ lowlands. Ragnar grinned and raised his sword, and beckoned his herald lift Landwaster high. He was glad Huginn could see all this.
Jokull Loftsson, crying, “Vengeance!” kicked his horse and gave chase, and all the Oxilanders followed. The knights of Saint Fiametta would not be outdone, and in the knights’ wake other horsemen followed too. Battle-fury was upon them all. Ragnar was in danger of being left alone in the pass.
Perhaps it was the hail that cooled his rage, or perhaps it was that a leader instinctively mistrusts the excitement of his people. Something nagged at Ragnar. There were many Karvak dead, but not so many as to constitute a slaughter, not from a force of three thousand. And their retreat had been swift, but had it truly been a rout? Thinking back, it seemed as though the steppe warriors had fled all in one body, like a withdrawing wave.
“Stop!” he called out, ice taking his heart. Riding to his herald he snatched Landwaster and rode after the main body of horsemen. “Do not leave our strongpoint!” He shouted behind him, to any who would listen, “Keep the footmen there! I command it!”
He could not put a name to his fear, but the image of the bear and the falcon stayed with him. Riding as fast as he dared, he still could not see the horsemen up ahead through the hail. They were already dangerously far from their encampment, a mile now, a mile and a quarter . . .
He knew he’d found them by the screams of horses echoing through the pass. A minute later he saw them. He drew up on the reins. Ragnar could not believe what he was witnessing.
Leaping down from the heights on either side were dozens of giant cats, big as horses, with fangs like white, curved swords. Into the body of Kantening horsemen they ran, clawing, raking, biting. Horse-meat was their aim, and in their seeking they spread panic and despair.
Also on the heights were endless Karvak archers. The hail and sabercats made their shots difficult, but they had all the time in the world. The Kantenings had ridden into a killing zone.
“Go back!” he told his herald. “The army must hold.”
“It’s your death if you go on,” said the herald, speaking like a seer.
“It’s my duty. I must rally them if I can. Go!”
He took his horse into the madness, Landwaster in hand. “Kantenings! Retreat! Retreat!”
It was a worthy effort, and it was a shame the battle-madness was long gone. When the sabercat leapt upon him, he wished Huginn was there to see it.
Nine Smilodons might have wished for a better fight. He suspected the Bladelanders might have given them one at close range. But as his commanders had long instructed him, there was no good in anything until the thing was done. Evenly matched fights were for sport. Slaughter was for war.
He was pleased for his liege Steelfox, for this battle had been directed by her, a demonstration to her sister Jewelwolf that Steelfox could command in war. The Kantening weather magic had been a surprise and might have upset the calculations. Nevertheless, the balloons had done their most important work already, placing many hidden, dismounted arbans in the mountains days earlier, awaiting the moment when they could attack the Kantenings’ back ranks while pretending to be a superior force. Even as the islanders’ horsemen rode to their doom, the footmen were panicked by the sudden deaths of their magicians and priests. They lost their cohesion as a force, and soon lost their superior position as well, leaving themselves open to the return of the Karvak riders and, with the
weather magic disrupted, the balloons.
At last Nine Smilodons had this moment to pause and survey the thousands of dead, even as balloon-borne archers slew the Kantening bowmen in their high redoubt. The screams were not pleasant, nor the stench—but victory was.
Many groups of Kantenings still held out behind their shield walls, able to stave off the arrows but not to escape. Given time to regroup they might yet cause trouble. Nine Smilodons, as a special servant of Steelfox, was bound to report his opinion. First he snatched up the many-colored banner the fallen prince had borne, carefully removing it from the dead hands. As he led his horse among the corpses, one proved itself still alive, calling weakly, “Vengeance . . . Torfa . . .”
Nine Smilodons narrowed his eyes and felt a moment of shame. The nearly-dead man was Loftsson, whose wife Nine Smilodons, along with dead Red Mirror, had killed. Nine Smilodons owed the man a word, so he paused. “Yes, I am one of her slayers,” he said in Kantentongue. “It was an error.”
“Kill you . . .” said the man. He was nearly pale as bone, perforated by six arrows, covered with his own blood. Nevertheless he tried to rise, gripping a dagger.
“A Kantening already killed Red Mirror,” Nine Smilodons acknowledged. “Vengeance has been done. It may yet be done to me. But I can’t allow you to kill me.”
“Die . . .” Loftsson crawled to where he might stab Nine Smilodons’ horse.
Nine Smilodons tucked the banner beneath one arm, carefully prepared his bow, and shot four arrows into Loftsson until he was sure the man was dead. He rode on to the war commanders. Soon he was in the presence of General Ironhorn, Lady Jewelwolf, and Lady Steelfox. Among the honor guard was the shaman Northwing, the stump of her lost hand wrapped in ironsilk.
“Why in the Eternal Blue Sky did you bother to kill a dying man?” Jewelwolf asked him.
“He was a noble of the enemy,” said Nine Smilodons, eyes flicking toward Northwing. Jewelwolf was known for capricious violence. The Kantening spy Grundi, who lurked beside her, had even brought her a strange magic sword, which now gleamed at her side. “As I understand it,” Nine Smilodons said, “these people believe it’s possible to achieve victory with dishonor, and defeat with honor. It is an alien idea, but I wished to grant him the latter.”
“I approve of your choice,” Steelfox said. “Is that the emblem of the prince?”
“It is.”
Steelfox said, “Drop it there. It may possess some totemic power, and I would handle it with care. I will order it burned, with respect.”
Nine Smilodons did as she bid. He said, “It seems to me the battle is nearly won, but those Kantenings yet holding out should be slain now. Should we charge?”
General Ironhorn looked to the sky. Blue shone through the gray. “Princesses,” he said, “I would advise conserving soldiers, and using the balloons.”
“Do so,” Jewelwolf said. “Also, insert into our dead men’s eyes the crystals we obtained from the trolls. Grundi, proceed to Svanstad as we discussed, and prepare to spread terror.”
“Sister,” said Steelfox. “Their magic is vile—”
“Excuse me, elder sister,” Jewelwolf said with a laugh, as if she had merely belched at the wrong moment. “This is your battle, of course. And you have done well! Now you can return to your preferred duties and claim you participated in the war.”
Steelfox ignored the taunt, and Nine Smilodons took pride in her. “General, send the balloons,” Steelfox said. “Finish this. Return to the front, Nine Smilodons.”
Nine Smilodons rode back to offer what aid was needed, but there was little to do. The signals went up, and the balloons drifted over the pass. The simple expedient of dropping large rocks upon the clusters of Kantenings was enough to peel many men away from the shield walls. The archers in the air and on the ground finished those quickly.
At last the holdouts’ endurance flagged, and they chose to make their slayers remember them. They charged the horsemen, their armor clinking and their voices echoing war cries through the pass. Arrows took almost all. But it happened that Nine Smilodons was near the point where a few Kantenings reached the horsemen.
The screaming islanders sought to bring melee to their foes. But on horseback evading them was like stepping aside for a blindfolded man.
The Karvak mounts swerved and ran, and Nine Smilodons and his horse joined the encirclement. It was like the end of the hunt, with great beasts of the plains brought down, ferocious, noble, and—in the grasp of the Karvaks—doomed.
Black birds descended in earnest to feast upon the Karvaks’ labor and to return the stuff of fallen comrades to Mother Earth, beneath the approving gaze of Father Sky.
But Steelfox’s light force had its victory, clearing the path for Jewelwolf’s full tumen. The way south lay open.
CHAPTER 27
FOSSEGRIM
Captain Glint wasn’t happy about taking his new longship Leaping Bison to Klarvik, Gaunt knew. After delays in Svanstad and bad weather leaving the city’s fjord, he at last had a following wind and was eager to ride it into the Splintrevej, where he hoped to get more men and information. But Gaunt had other plans. She could wear down even a foamreaver when her mind was set.
Klarvik had mustered. Its nobles had taken most of the grown men north, so the questers were met by women, or else men of great youth or age.
“Are you here to protect us?” demanded the dockmistress, her voice implying Gaunt was responsible for all ills in Klarvik since the days of the Vindir. “Given we’re now vulnerable to anyone who sails by?”
They were not actually at a dock, for a ship of Bison’s ilk—a hundred feet by thirteen, single-sailed, of narrow draft—could be hauled by its sailors onto the sandy shore. There was indeed no way short of combat Klarvik could refuse such a visit.
Erik Glint waded up to greet the dockmistress. “Corinna’s navy still patrols these waters,” he said. “I don’t think it’s the sea you need fear.”
“We’re on a mission for the Crown,” Gaunt added, showing the ring bearing Corinna’s seal. “I require directions to Klarfoss, the great waterfall.”
“A strange mission,” sighed the dockmistress. “But these are strange times. My boy will guide you.”
Gaunt glanced at Malin Jorgensdatter, who was examining the way the waves lapped against Klarvik’s shore. Gaunt said, “Your knowledge may be valuable to us, Malin. Will you come?”
“I will come.”
Katta, the man of the steppe and desert, and Freidar, the aging man who complained of popping joints, each enjoyed a chance to stand upon dry land. Deadfall remained hidden aboard ship. Captain Glint dealt with officialdom. Gaunt, Bone, and Malin bid them good-bye and followed a lad named Peik through snowy lanes. The intricately carved wooden buildings of Klarvik crowded on a headland between the sea and a great cliff topped with a turreted keep. The road inland was rough and winding.
“I can see why you didn’t want Freidar trying to hike up here,” Bone remarked, “but why not Katta?”
Gaunt considered how much to say around Malin. The young woman, though studying the boulders and trees they passed, surely heard all and remembered. “I’m not worried about Katta,” Gaunt said, “but I greatly mistrust Deadfall. Katta seems to have some influence on it, so it’s better for them to stay together. Beyond that . . . I am playing a hunch here, and I don’t think a crowd will help.”
“I hear nothing!” Peik broke in. “You can keep confidences around me, surely as Lord Klarvik could conceal his tryst with Lady Stormhamn, or the abbot his business ties with foamreavers. I am the soul of discretion!”
The terrain hid the waterfall until they were almost upon it. Within a hands-breadth of the path’s tranquil snow, water surged downward to feed a river concealed among the white-dappled pines five hundred feet below.
“Well, here you are,” said Peik. “Klarfoss. I could tell you lots of stories about it and the spirits hereabouts. My cousin Knute said he learned to play the Vestvinden fiddle f
rom a fossegrim of the waters, in order to impress his lady love. But because the spirit songs made him strange, she wed my cousin Kjell instead.”
Malin spoke. “No, that’s a hundred-and-thirty-three-year-old poem written by Henning Ingson:
I met the maestro of the water
He spilled music into my mind
My fiddle lured Lars’ fair daughter
But she became my brother’s bride.
“All right, Ingson, sure,” said Peik, “but it sounds better when it’s about someone you know. You ever feel like nothing ever happens to you and yours? Like boredom is strewing cobwebs through the inside of your skull?”
“No,” Malin said. “I’m never bored.”
“Then you’re lucky. Me, I want something big to happen.”
Gaunt set down her pack, removed the Chart of Tomorrows. Turning to a map of eastern Svardmark, Gaunt said, “Fossegrim! Guardian of this place! I know this is a place of power, for I see it here in the Drakkenskinnen! Come forth!”
And the fossegrim came forth.
At first there was no distinguishing him from the froth, for he was white as the falls’ heart, and his hair and beard were like the cloudy tendrils of water at the deluge’s edge. Gaunt was put in mind of the efrit Haboob, formed of smoke where this entity was shaped by water. Then the fiddle appeared, or rather did not appear, for the suggestion of a musical instrument manifested as a gap, unaccountable, in the flow of the water.
The fossegrim appeared to fiddle, but its instrument was merely air. An eerie music manifested, beckoning them all to wander through the waterfall and onto trackless forest paths.
At last it seemed the shape would fiddle endlessly, so Gaunt called out, “Fossegrim! We mean no harm!”
The words “mean no harm” echoed all around them. The fossegrim appeared to set down its fiddle, for the gap in the waters flicked downward and sideways.
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