At the far end was a fireplace and to the right of a doorway, stairs leading upwards. They curved behind the mantel of the fireplace and into the wooden beams of the ceiling. The whole space of the bottom floor of the tower was the size of a decent roundhouse. It seemed bigger from the inside. Spear wondered whether it was some trick of magic.
"Three or four floors before we reach the roof," said Shield. He stood by the fireplace, hands extended, warming his palms. He bent and sniffed at a stew cooking in a cauldron hanging in the fire.
The shadows of Pullo and Urbidis entering the tower stretched across the floor. Urbidis scanned the room, eyes wide against the darkness. "They should have attacked us. Right as we entered. Not good at all."
"There must be a better spot," said Shield.
"Or else they're done with the fighting," said Little Wolf. "That's a possibility, right? Maybe they've lost all heart."
Pullo laughed. He passed a short thick sword between his fat hands.
"Best you bring up the rear, Little Wolf," said Spear.
The young clansman scowled. "Think I'm scared? Afraid of death? I'm not. I'm not some old washed out warrior."
"I'm watching out for you, boy. When it comes, there can be no hesitation."
"You're the ones who left."
"By the gods," said Urbidis, "are we here to argue or to fight? Is this the legendary bravery that the North was built on?"
Spear took two steps towards Urbidis with fists clenched, but Shield caught his former companion's elbow. "A right time for everything," the leader of the Hounds said in a low voice.
Spear stepped back, lips settling over his bared teeth. "So how do we do this?"
But before he finished those words, Little Wolf dashed forward and leapt up the steps.
Spear lunged, mouth open but it was too late. A moment later, the young clansman tumbled backwards, spears lodged through his chest, hands flailing against the cold dark stones. He was dead before his head cracked against the steps.
"He should have waited," said Spear. He turned to Urbidis. "You goaded him on, you bastard. We're nothing to you, are we? All these years and you don't give a rat's ass, do you?"
"I know my duty," said Urbidis.
"You'll know my sword."
Pullo stepped between the two men and tilted his head at Spear, a frown on his face.
The floor darkened and Eliode stepped in from outside. She looked haggard, aged. "My song has fled. His words will return soon."
Spear looked past her, through the open door, and to the field of corpses. He imagined them, all of them, including Harad, including Little Wolf, rising to the words of power.
The same thought crashed down on the other three men in the tower.
"Up the stairs," yelled Shield. "Now."
THE STEPS
URBIDIS FOLLOWED SHIELD and Spear up the steps, through the torrent of spears that dropped down upon them. One wave, and then another. But then they were past it and on the throats of the three Northmen that had been left at the top of the first landing.
Well, almost there because the defenders shoved a barrel down the stairs. It bounced wildly off the steps and miraculously the two Hounds avoided it, ducking low. Urbidis, big as he was, was not so quick and the barrel hit him, not directly, but a glancing blow that caught his helm and bounced his head against the stone wall.
The edges dissolved in spots of black but the center held so he focused on his breath, sensing his limbs, and gathered the strength back into his limbs. Pullo pushed by, the last one up the steps, not stopping to check on his commander, his legs churning up the stairs.
Urbidis pushed away from the wall and stood, fell to a knee and stood again.
"There are other choices." The witch Eliode stood below him on the steps.
"Not for me," he said. "Not anymore. I will taste blood."
"For how many moons?"
He laughed. "Just long enough to get me back to my wife and daughters and feel the warm sun on my face. After that, who knows?"
He picked up his shield and hurried up the steps. The three Northman who had been lying in wait were dead. Urbidis paused for a moment to look at them. One of them moved. The Dhurman commander pinned the man's hand to the ground with his foot and drove his blade into the man's neck. Blood everywhere, including the blood that dripped along the side of his own face.
Urbidis hurried around the center of the room and up the stairs towards the sound of cursing and the clash of metal.
He found the back of a Painted Man towards him and without hesitating thrust his sword into the man's flesh and as he fell, he kicked into the man to free his sword. Just in time, as another Northman lunged at him with a spear. Urbidis deflected it with his shield and shuffled closer, getting inside the blade of the spear, but not far enough to miss getting rapped on the neck with the shaft. He surged into the other man, using his greater mass to bowl the other one over and then they were on the ground, the other slashing with a quickly drawn knife while Urbidis hammered with his shield. The blade hit his armor then flesh, each blow creeping closer to the commander's neck, but then his shield broke his enemy's upheld arm. One, two, three and the skull crushed. Urbidis dragged his blade across the other's neck just to be sure.
Ahead in the room, the Hounds and Pullo were in the thick of it, outnumbered, backed against a wall. There had to be ten Painted Men coming at the invaders hard. Spear's head had been cracked and half his face was red with blood. Shield held a shattered shield at his side, mangled fingers still caught in the handle, one arm wildly slashing with his sword to buy space. Pullo held his own the best, covered in the blood of others, shield and sword still intact.
Suddenly the commander of the fortress was facing three men by himself but they could not come at him all at once since he was pressed up against both Shield and the wall. With his shield, he was catching the hard slashes from the clansmen in front of him, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before they would beat his timing or smash down his guard just enough so that they could slip a blade in. Another clansman fell at Spear's feet.
"Make for the stairs," said Shield. "If we can make for the stairs, we can funnel them towards us."
"We'll die," said Pullo.
"One way or the other," said Spear and then two Hounds and Pullo surged forward into the bodies. Blades slashed everywhere. Urbidis had no choice but to follow and as he was almost at the stairs, he tripped over one of the dead Northmen and fell to the ground.
The Dhurman spun to his back and lifted his shield to deflect a slashing blade. Stones fragmented near his face and the small sharp pieces bit into the skin of his face. As he swung his blade, it was parried by another blade and pushed across his body, pinning him to his side and exposing his flank to the sudden rush of Painted Men.
This was the end.
Then Shield and Spear blurred above him, leaping over his body and crashing into the mass of Northmen. Men screamed. Bones cracked.
Still on his back, Urbidis swung his sword. A Northman fell, calf sliced open to the bone. Urbidis rolled over onto the man, smothering him and pulling his dagger and driving it into his chest. Then he brought himself to sitting and dragged himself to the stairs. The Hounds and Pullo, steps away, were surrounded, a half dozen clansman leaping in and out with blades, and drawing blood.
Urbidis was ready to spring into the backs of the Painted Men when Eliode glided by him towards the stairs leading upwards. "His words return."
His stomach dropped. The warlock would be able to bring back the dead and then what chance? Through one of the windows he could see the endless bog vanishing into the mists. How far could he get before the dead rose? What would he tell those on the other side of the Black River? How far south could he make it before he was found out?
Urbidis felt the cold air from above. He was close to the warlock and the witch. What did he owe these men? One a deserter and the other more interested in money than loyalty. They would not stand for him so why did he n
eed to stand for them? Pullo, faithful as he was, was still expendable.
Urbidis cast one last glance at his companions, one last glance at the men who were horribly outnumbered. They could die as long as he killed the witch and warlock. The wisp of Eliode's dress vanished around the corner.
Without further thought, he lurched up the steps, one bloody hand marking the wall.
NO WORDS LEFT
SPEAR LAY ON the icy floor of the tower, staring at the old wooden beams wondering who it was that built this tower, and the other abandoned ones that he had encountered in his travels in the North. A people had been here before his people, people who built towers out of stones, a people who seemingly had vanished entirely from the face of the North.
The towers were to be avoided. Old crones spoke of ghosts and spirits of the underworld who inhabited them. Even bands of warriors chose to spend the night under the cold stars and in the bitter rain rather than to sleep within the towers. He had heard of those who had entered and had never left, swallowed by the dead.
Evil did lurk here, thought Spear. But it was an evil very much alive.
Shield prodded Spear's ribs with his foot. "Get up."
"I'm dead."
"Birgid is within reach."
Spear was tired. He did not want to get up. His legs ached. His arms were bruised. He was sure he had broken a rib or two and that damned cut on his head had reopened and he could feel the pulse of his blood.
Shield also looked finished. His face was red with the blood of others. One eye was swollen shut. The fingers of his left had were bloated and twisted. The tip of his sword touched the ground as if he could not lift it anymore.
"Are we in any state to face a warlock?"
Shield's shirt and pants glistened dark. Not with the blood of others. "The only time is now. Last of the Hounds, my brother."
"I'm a Hound again?"
"Can't just be one of us, can there?"
"Help me off my back."
"If I could raise either arm, I would. Up, Spear. Let's finish this business."
Spear rolled to his hands and knees and then unfolded to standing. The room swam for a moment, tilting, the ground evaporating beneath his feet, and then the world solidified again. He picked up his spear from the floor. It was more crutch than weapon. If he were to let go, he would collapse.
"What in the name of the gods have we gotten ourselves into? Fighting warlocks, Dhurmans, our own. For what?"
"Birgid," said Shield. "We come for Birgid."
"You, maybe. Me, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, Scyldmund."
"Worry about that when you're dead."
Spear followed his Hound mate up the steps, hand and spear to either side to balance him. Cold air came at him and then light and in the first moment that they emerged he was blinded. What had been moments of fighting within the tower had felt like a lifetime in darkness.
Shield gasped and stopped suddenly. Spear bumped into him.
Fennewyn stood against the blue sky, his black cloak snapping around his body. In his arms was Birgid, a knife pressed to her throat. A trickle of blood ran against her pale neck.
What had they walked into? Had they come this far to lose her so quickly?
The Dhurman sergeant Pullo lay on the ground trying to get to his knees. His eyes rolled in his head. Then he vomited. Urbidis crouched low as if he were trying to become invisible, his fingers tightening and loosening on his sword. Between them, in the center of the roof, Eliode stood with arms spread wide.
"You stop your words," said Fennewyn. "Or I will kill your mother."
The girl tilted her head. Spear could not see her face but could hear her song, knew that her lips moved, felt her words as one feels the warmth of sunshine on bare skin.
"Keep singing," said Birgid. "He will be content with nothing but death."
"Birgid," said Shield.
"I have been waiting."
"Release her warlock. We'll let you live."
Spear lowered the head of his spear and shifted his grip. He was known for tossing the spear strong and true, but Birgid was too deep into the warlock's embrace. There was not enough space to guarantee that he would not hurt her as well.
"I will kill her." The warlock pulled the blade and the blood spread like a pale red scarf across her neck.
"He will kill so many," said Birgid.
But her words drifted off the tower as if unheard by Eliode. Spear still could not see the young witch's face. The sound of the wind and the distant call of the birds and his own heart pounding against his chest rose in the world.
"No," cried Birgid.
It was too late. Eliode's song ended and Fennewyn filled the space with words that had been welling deep within.
He threw his arms open, sending Birgid tumbling to her knees, and then the words burst from his thin lips. They came suddenly and with them a wind that slammed into the others on the tower like a log in the gut. Spear was lifted off his feet by the wind and smashed into the low wall.
The brunt of the magic wind hit Eliode and she was lifted off her feet and into the air. She flew against the blue sky. Spear reached for her, caught a bit of fabric but it tore in his hands and she sailed past him.
Then the wind slithered away. Shield peered over the wall and from his face Spear knew that Eliode was finished. Without Eliode, they had no defense against the dark magic of the warlock.
Death came for them. But Spear was not ready.
Spear stood and twisted and unleashed the spear from his shoulder. It flew true. A black line cut the blue sky, a tear in the heavens. The spear hit the warlock in the chest with such force that he skidded backwards across the dark stones of the tower.
Spear and Shield hurried to the fallen man, blades in hand. The warlock was dying, words at the edges of his lips, but unable to form. Shield smashed his mouth with his fist to make sure.
"He's as good as dead. No need for that," said Spear.
Shield smashed him again. "For Eliode, you bastard."
Spear wondered who Fennewyn was and how he came to all this. What had possessed him that he would be thirsty for so much blood? Or was it that he was a hero, one of the last true Northmen willing to stand up against the steady trespass of Dhurma and empire? More likely he was a fool. The North was gone, its heroes long dead, the stories of its glories vanishing from lips every day and instead being filled with the history and dreams of Dhurma. The Emperor had won, but the North had been defeated long before that, a dying people. How long before the North would be swallowed and completely forgotten? What use was there in any of this? Life faded from the warlock's eyes.
Then Birgid screamed. Urbidis stood over her, knife clutched, while Birgid held her belly, staring at the blooding pouring between her fingers.
Shield howled. He covered the ground quick and his blade fell quicker. The Dhurman commander had not even raised a hand to defend himself as if he accepted the death that was offered him.
Spear wanted to turn away. He did not want to see this. But he could not. He had to see this through.
Shield fell to his knees and pulled Birgid into his arms. He pressed his hand hard over hers but the blood streamed. "Sing a song. Use the words of old to heal yourself."
"I have enough left for a single song."
"Then sing it."
Her dark eyes softened and then her lips parted. Spear felt the words vibrate through him as if he stood at the edge of a great waterfall, the surge of water propelled through him. These words he knew but he could not reach out and grasp them. They came to him and then disappeared as if they had never existed and as if they would never exist again.
Spear watched and waited but the blood continued to pulse between their fingers.
"You still bleed," said Shield. "Why aren't you stopping it?"
"Did you think I lost faith?" she said.
"I never meant to not come back."
"You would have loved your son."
"There is so much that
I need to tell you."
"There are no words left, Shield," Birgid said. "None at all. Those days are long past."
Then she died, and Spear turned away, turned from the echo of those words, words that would burn with him forever.
LAST OF THE HOUNDS
SPEAR RETURNED.
HE wore the days of travel in the dirt caked on his skin and the aches in his legs and arms. The horse shook its head with reluctance and then plunged into the Black River. The icy water rose to Spear's thighs, something he would have cursed but he was returning to Cullan town. There fire would burn away any wetness and lingering chill. He kicked the horse's flanks urging it up the far side of the Black River and towards the promise of comfort.
He followed the wide river, the dark waters speaking their own language.
Even as he approached the Dhurman fortress, he knew that it remained a town of the North. The legions had not arrived from the south. He wondered if they ever would. Did the Emperor care what happened in the North any more? What use putting down a rebellion in a people long ago defeated, a rebellion even now that was dead. The whispers of the warlock and a witch were lost and their horror gone with them.
He stared across the Black River. There the clans were born and there, if nothing changed, they would fade away.
He was within a quarter mile of the sprawl of huts at the edge of Cullan town when a rider came.
It was Cruhund, the henchman that Spear had left behind to levy the tax from the docks and to keep a heavy hand on those who might have seen the disappearance of Spear as an opportunity to taste power.
"Who?" Cruhund started and then stopped. His eyes turned down. "No blades to shave your stubble?"
"You're looking fine," said Spear.
Cruhund fingered the shiny Dhurman breastplate on his chest. "Just a little gift from the boys who hold the fortress. I helped them with something and they were grateful."
Black River (The Hounds of the North Book 2) Page 28
