Five Bloody Heads (The Hounds of the North Book 3)

by Peter Fugazzotto

  The blow knocked Big Haran onto his back; he tried to sit up only to meet another kick. This time, his head bounced against the ground with a thud and his eyes disappeared behind his lids.

  Cruhund spun around to the other men. He had not expected any of them to come to Big Haran’s aid and none of them had. But he needed to be sure. His lips trembled. “You, none of you, don’t tell me how to handle my business.” Blood and spit leapt from his lips. “I give coin! You follow! Is it that hard?”

  Cruhund yanked his knife from his belt and quickly cut away at Big Haran’s armor and tore off his boots and belt and shirt leaving the unconscious man in his soiled trousers. Big Haran’s belly quivered with an uncertain breath. Thick blood pulsed from his lips.

  Cruhund uncoiled a rope from his saddle, knotted one end around Big Haran’s ankle and then lashed the other end to the saddle of his horse. Big Haran was moving now, feeling with his hands for the sky, reaching out for something to grab hold of. Cruhund stepped into his saddle.

  “We’re going back to the keep, me and my mouthy little friend. Anyone else going to demand to come back with me? Anyone else want to come lay claim to my… little whore?”

  The wind had died down to a mere whisper, gently touching Cruhund’s cheeks, not even lifting the fine ends of his hair.

  The mercenaries eyed the ground.

  Cruhund clicked his horse forward, Big Haran dragged limply on his back, the sharp stones tearing into his flesh. “Wait for Red Tail and Molgi and my bag of coin. Then back to the keep. And if you get lost, I’ll leave a trail for you.”

  With that he slapped his horse into a trot and then a canter and the rope pulled taut and Big Haran followed with a wail as he was dragged behind, blood and skin marking their path.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE EIGHT BANDITS filled half of one of the tables in Grymr’s near empty hall. Laughter and insults flew from their lips as they banged mugs of frothy ale and each painted their version of the story of the first head.

  The other patrons, including a family of pilgrims huddled in a dark corner, sharing a single roasted chicken, and a few wild-bearded men of the border whose elbows sat heavy on the table amidst a pitcher of mead, would glance up occasionally but kept to themselves, not wanting to cross armed men and women deep in their cups.

  Biroc waved a greasy chicken leg in front of his lips. “Was there ever any doubt? When have I ever missed?”

  Little Boy hoisted his mug spilling even more on the table and earning another frown from the serving girl who stood cross-armed in the kitchen doorway. “I was right behind Spear! If the arrow had gone astray, one more step and my axe would have cleaved him from head to foot. More than just a Red Tail, a red trail!”

  “My arrows never go astray,” said Biroc. “They fly as true as my thoughts.”

  Bones belched. “A scary proposition.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You said it. I said nothing. Very scary.”

  “You should have left some of them for us,” said Little Boy slapping a palm on the table. “We were right at your heels.”

  Spear raised his mug to the others. Despite all that his crew said, he knew where they had stood while he had fought for his life. He knew how far away they had been from the bridge and how long it had taken them to follow in his footsteps. They had not hurried. That arrow came from more than two dozen paces and the others were well behind Biroc. They could not have charged to his side even if they had wanted to. They had come after him, but perhaps only to watch him die.

  Bones had turned to one of the traders sitting at the table behind them and was regaling them with the story, somehow putting himself at the side of Spear, somehow having been the one whose sword dropped the second armed man.

  Even Night sat with them, across from Spear, his face almost visible in the shadows of cloak. A hint of a graying beard and sorrowful eyes peered out. He had said nothing but he had not left Spear’s side. For once, he had not vanished into the wilderness.

  Longbeard, of course, was silent, deeper in drink than any of the others. His forehead rested on crossed arms, his mug tipped over next to him, the ale soaking into his hair. He would need to be dragged or carried back to the small room they had let for the night.

  Best of all, Seana sat close to Spear. Her leg pressed against his. The scent of pine needles wafted from her hair.

  Valda had been good to her word; after she had shoved Red Tail's bloody head off her lap and into the creek, she had handed the bright red gem to Spear. The other two men that Spear had killed had not been party to the attack on Valda's family which meant that there were still four more of Cruhund’s men to hunt down. Four more gems to collect. The other bandits, led by Longbeard, had argued to return to Grymr’s Hold right away, to trade the one gem for coin. But, after arriving at the hold, the coin had barely dropped into their palms before they returned it back to Grymr to buy food, drink, and beds of his finest straw. Spear thought of arguing to continue after the next head, but his crew needed to savor the victory – even if they had done nothing to achieve it. As he looked down the table at the smiling faces, he sensed they were his crew once again. It was worth spending the coin to have them united behind them.

  Despite this small victory, he had unfinished business with Longbeard. One day they would have to face each other. The crew still wavered. Longbeard had made his intentions clear and would continue to chip away at Spear’s control until another opportunity presented itself. The next time blood would be spilled.

  “Where’s Valda?” Spear asked Seana.

  She shrugged, her shoulder bumping into Spear, a long loose strand of her hair clinging to his arm.

  “Maybe after seeing that head, she’s done with us,” said Spear.

  Seana shook her head. “I know that look in her eyes. If anything, she’s more determined. She sees now that you can give her what she wants.”

  “Four more gems.”

  “Maybe one gem is enough. You’ve won them back.” She nodded to the rest of the bandits who smashed together their mugs in another toast.

  “Grymr didn’t give us that much coin in exchange. At this pace of drinking, in a few more days we’ll be paupers again.”

  “One gem, two gems, what’s the difference? Doesn’t matter how many, Spear, you’ll still be right back where you started. Don't you see that? We should leave all this behind. Cross the border. Return to the North. We're wasting away here. This is not who we were meant to be. The North needs us.”

  “Us? It’s us now? I thought you were done with me.”

  She turned away. “Not in that way.”

  “I still think about that first day I saw you on that field of green. Your damned shield painted with roses. That day I knew I was yours.”

  “That day was long ago.”

  “Why’s it have to be any different now?” he asked.

  “It just is. What am I to you?”

  “I’ve shared my bed with you. I’ve held you in my arms. We've walked these wild lands.”

  “Spear, you see no end. I need to see a future.”

  “I see a roof over our head. I see men who will do the dirty work I do now. I see the future much more brightly than you do. What do you really see? Return to the North? Fight for some vague cause for a people who would never have us anyway.”

  “Why are you scared of returning to our own people?”

  “And why do you think a life among them would be anything but hardship and suffering? Sleeping in flea-infested beds, hanging on at the edges of the campfires, outsiders, outcasts. Your entire clan was slaughtered. What do you have to return to?”

  She squeezed his hands. “I believe in the clans. There we can find home.”

  “My guilt has already been spoken by the fires. There is no going back.”

  “Do you have so little faith in our own?”

  Spear scoffed. “Don’t you see that if we return, we will never be equals. Murderers will never sit in the ci
rcles with the elders. Murderers will be the last to be handed the mugs, the last to taste the meat, the last to claim the spoils earned with the sword. Begging for scraps like village dogs, tails tucked between our legs for the sins they cast on us. That’s not the life for me; if that's your dream, I want no part of it.”

  She pulled away from his hands. “You’re impossible. All you care about is yourself! You’ll get what you want in the end. You’ll be a great man, sword in hand, and a bag of coin at your feet. But you’ll die alone, not belonging to anything. No one will mourn your death. Your life will end with you.”

  Then, Seana was gone, off the bench and through the door of the hall. The space next to him on the bench was suddenly wide, cold air rushing in. If the others saw what happened between the two of them, they gave no indication. They were lost in a bubble of laughter and tears. They banged fists on the table.

  Spear clawed his fingers in the wood planks. He was not going to get up. He was not going to chase after her. She would come around and see that he was right. She would see he offered her a better future than returning to the broken North.

  Cold fingers touched his arm and he turned.

  Valda, one eye still grossly swollen, sucked her chapped lips through her teeth. Her hair hung dark and greasy at her shoulders.

  “The river trail,” she said.

  “What?”

  “One of the other fiends. One of the four you promised me. He's following the river trail and the longer you sit here getting drunk, the farther away he's getting. A pilgrim said he saw him at a farm house not three hours distant. He's another half day from the keep and then what? How will you ever get him then? One head’s not enough. You have a promise to keep.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SPEAR CURSED THE cold, unrelenting rain as they trudged beneath the trees.

  Worse than the rain was Bones’ grousing. “Can’t even get a single night with a roof over our heads.” He walked right behind Spear, matching pace, the sour press of his breath swarming Spear’s neck. “All that fine straw for the rats now”

  “We need to catch them before they reach the keep,” said Spear. He waved his hand at the old man’s foul breath.

  In the mead hall, Spear had given in to the complaints of Valda. The thought of losing those four gems was too much, so he had stood up at the table, shoved aside his mug and told the others they were to be at the front gate within the half hour, ready to hunt down the remaining men.

  Now, in the middle of a fierce storm, they were an hour or two along the river trail, moving east towards the direction of the keep. At this point they have traveled maybe halfway to the farmhouse where a pilgrim had spotted one of Red Tail’s companions. But he had been spotted hours ago and Spear wondered whether he would still be there. If not, at least the bandits would have a roof over their heads for the night, even if only a barn or stable. Unless, of course, the farmer refused.

  “All this trouble for a few gems,” griped Bones.

  “All this trouble?” Spear snorted. “You were cringing back at the footbridge.”

  “I was charging to your side! The others stood there slack-jawed blocking me.”

  “How you’ve survived this long, I’ll never know.” Spear ducked under an over hanging branch. He wondered how he was stuck with such a sorry bunch of cowards, deserters, and back-stabbers. Maybe he had gotten what he deserved. It wasn’t like he was much better.

  “Doesn’t matter how I survived, just matters that I did,” said Bones. He stumbled and then caught his feet again. “The bloody sands of Hopht. The windy plains of Sassara. Bones still standing. I even survived Tryr on that day of treachery long ago. Before that day, we clan brothers held the line. Small Bears, Iron Oars, the chosen ones from Lake’s End, the Painted Men. All the clans united under the Warlock King. Twenty-five years ago if a day. It was a most glorious time in the history of the clans. Maybe the greatest time ever in the North. Truly. The day before we had come upon a patrol, Dhurmans bright in their shiny armor, giving themselves away, no clue how much they stood out against the muck, and they had no chance. They wallowed in the mud. We led the charge and cut through them like a hot knife.”

  “Old Bones did something more than hide behind the shields of others?”

  “Course I did!” snapped Bones.

  “You lie!” Spear wheeled about for a moment. He scoffed and turned back to the trail.

  “Lies or not I survived.” Bones was right behind him again, his breath sour and hot. “How many men my age even walk this miserable world? I was there that day. In Tryr. I saw the traitor Scyldmund, your friend, leave the tent of the Warlock King, a knife in hand, blood-soaked elbows, and behind him flames cut through the sky. That was the day the North died. At the hands of your running dog! But I still survived! It’s what I do!”

  “Enough! If you keep jabbering at me with your pickled fish breath, I can guarantee you won’t survive the day!” Spear slammed his shield into Bones and knocked him to the ground, not stopping to see if the old man came after him with a blade, only concerned with getting away from him and his foul mouth.

  Half an hour later when the rains had finally receded, Spear and the others crouched behind heather and sage up on a ridge overlooking a small clan holding. They had been drawn away from the river trail by screams and the clash of metal.

  “Are we just going to sit here and do nothing?” asked Seana.

  Black smoke billowed into the sky. Down the long grassy slope, chaos erupted around clan roundhouses. Children screamed for their mothers. Shield maidens and clansmen thrust spears and slashed with swords but they were hopelessly outnumbered.

  A Dhurman patrol flooded through the small clan holding. The first Dhurman patrol Spear had seen in months.

  “We need to do something,” said Seana. “These are Dhurmans.”

  Spear scoffed. “Outnumbered four to one. You really expect me to lead you down there?”

  “It’s a slaughter. How can we not do something? Hard to believe that you’re the one who burnt down the fortress at Cullantown. Hard to believe that the words hero and Spear Spyrchylde were ever muttered in the same sentence.”

  “I’ve never called myself a hero, and I am no fool. What good could we do down there? We already know there’s no coin in that.”

  Flames engulfed the main roundhouse, orange and blue licking towards the muddy sky. A man sheltered in the roundhouse, his shape near lost in the black smoke. He held the door, axe and shield in hand, slashing and hacking at the half dozen men that kept him at bay with the press of their spears. Then, the rear of the roundhouse collapsed. Sparks swirled into the air.

  “He should just give up,” said Spear. “Live another day.”

  Seana shook her head. “The days of the North are long gone. Are we even alive still? After all we’ve been through, and what we did to Val’s family, we need to give something back to the North. We go in there hard, we can scatter those murderers.”

  “And have you no head? Why risk our lives for nothing? We’ve got four more gems just waiting for us. Why waste our time on these men and hopeless odds?”

  “Not just men, but women and children.”

  “Not my women and children.”

  “Woman and children of the North,” said Seana. “Are you really so lost?”

  “No, Seana. I know exactly what I want and it doesn’t lie on the muddy patch of a clan holding. It lies in a farmhouse an hour ahead.”

  Night squatted at Spear’s side. “She speaks the truth. They are our brothers and they are in need. Maybe we could wave a sword or two. Just scare them off.”

  “No business of ours.”

  The trapped man bellowed and then charged his attackers. Unarmored and outnumbered he had no chance. The lone clansman did not deflect the spears and break the line. No horsemen came riding out of the hills for him. He just crumpled, a bloody mess, as the fiends piled on him, spears working like pistons, thrusting long after the man had ceased moving.

>   “Bloody fucking fool,” said Spear as he signaled his crew to retreat. “Let’s go collect our gems.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE CROWS CHIDED Cruhund without end as he climbed the scree slope.

  He had hoped that the dark clouds would unleash a cold biting rain that would drive them away, but no god answered his prayers. The heavens just mulled and swirled, an annoyingly cold mist filling the air, never releasing their fury, never giving Cruhund what he wanted.

  The birds squatted, always just ahead of him, screaming and cawing; their black eyes glistened, as the crows leapt from boulder to boulder, forever out of reach. An escort of harping cries to welcome him back to his keep. A few times he had bent to pick stones to hurl. The birds, one step ahead of him, unfurled laughter and in a flurry of feathers scattered just beyond his throws, their screams chasing the scuttling of the stones.

  So Cruhund trudged up the hill. The sharp stones slipped beneath his feet. The whole of the hillside at times threatened as if to slide out and send him in an avalanche to the sparse woods below, bloodied and broken.

  When he was more than halfway up the hill, he stopped to rest a hand on his knee and catch his breath. Near the top of the slope, the gray walls of the once-abandoned keep rose sheer, the granite punctured by arrow slits and kill holes. Through the tooth-like crenelations, an attackers standing in Cruhund’s boots would have had a hint of the structure and cliff behind. A fine fortress for a warlord. And it was his. His own stronghold. The beginning of his empire.

  His horse snorted behind him. She shifted uncomfortably on the scree slope. They had lost a few horses on the climb to the keep when his men had pressed too hard. The animals had tumbled, gaining speed as they fell, their screams echoing in the wide mountain valley. Sometimes when the wind tore through the peaks, he heard the ghosts of their screams. But it was a price he could accept.