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

by Peter Fugazzotto

  Within seconds, chaos swallowed him and all was lost to the clash of swords, the panting of the horses, and the curses of the men. It was all he could do to avoid the flurry of blades.

  The breaths of the horses quickened about him. He could taste the sweet smell of turf freshly torn by their hooves.

  He lashed low with his spear at the horses’ exposed legs, the rapid whipping of his weapon eliciting a storm of footwork.

  The mercenaries, infantry soldiers more comfortable on their feet, slid off their screaming horses, their boots thudding hard on the trail.

  This leveled the field for Spear. He drove his spear through the chest of the first one who jumped off his horse, the sharp metal point tearing through leather and ribs alike. But the spear lodged deep. No time to stomp it out of the dead man before the next blow came.

  A sword arced from the left and, without thinking, Spear lifted his shield. He deflected the strike but his own fist cracked into his face. He stumbled but still managed to keep the shield up. Another blow hammered against the wood, the edge of a blade splintering the shield. Then a kick exploded beneath the remains of his shield and Spear tumbled backwards.

  The craggy-faced mercenary, the third head, howled and he charged forward with his sword cocked overhead. Spear, on his back, lifted his shield and sword, waiting for the death blow to drop.

  Instead Longbeard had rushed into the space between Spear and the craggy-faced man. Longbeard stood wide-legged, metal vambraces flashing on his forearms, no shield in hand but his massive axe clutched in both. Death met the end of his weapon. Arcing sprays of blood, fingers flipping end over end into the trees, intestines spilling over the trail.

  Spear pulled himself to his feet.

  Longbeard was not the only bandit leaving corpses in his wake. Seana’s braids of pale hair flew at her sides as she spun and duck and slashed. Always, they came at her high – a frail blonde maiden, but her painted shield was reinforced with extra bands of scavenged metal and leather at the top, and as they struck high to no avail, she crouched low, her sword licking out underneath to sever tendons, to lop off toes or thrust up between her attackers’ legs.

  Little Boy had his axe in both hands and was looping wildly. A mercenary dropped with a crack, but then another filled the space in front of Little Boy. The mercenary’s sword almost too quick to keep track of.

  Bones kept to the rear, ready to shove his knife underneath ribs or over the collarbone of any who stumbled near him.

  Spear hacked and slashed with blade, crashed with shield, and stomped with feet, headlong into Cruhund’s men, not caring about defense, only wanting to consume space, his howls filling the air.

  Then an expected quiet engulfed the trail as the few mercenaries left standing retreated into the bushes away from the bandits.

  The trail glistened with blood. Descending crows filled the air. The sky darkened, the silver edges of the clouds swallowed as they smashed together. A cold breeze, an icy breath, kissed Spear’s cheeks. The first drop pinged on his helmet, and then a patter, as hard icy drops poured out of the sky.

  Bodies tangled on the ground. Longbeard stood with the severed head of the craggy-faced man in his hand. “My head, my gem.”

  But the moment of victory did not last.

  “Run!” Biroc, bow in hand, ran, fell and then rolled down the slope. Kiara stumbled through the bushes beside him. Behind them, feet pounded on the planks of the bridge, the roar of men rising. Cruhund’s men had crossed the bridge.

  “They’re coming!”

  “On the horses!” Spear stepped on the corpse of the first man he killed. Ribs crunched beneath his feet as he yanked his spear free, his hands finding comfort on the worn, ancient runes his ancestors had carved into the wood. “On the horses and ride.”

  He was the last to turn his horse. The others were fleeing down the trail, bent to the necks of their horses, the mercenaries’ empty steeds racing beside them.

  Spear waited until the first of the mercenaries reached over the top of the hill. Blackened teeth, bloody gums revealed in a grimace. It was Cruhund.

  Spear hesitated wondering if this was his moment at last, his moment to return to power, but then another dozen helmeted men appeared alongside Cruhund and the routed mercenaries emerged from the trees, swords lifted, so Spear turned his horse and rode hard.

  When Spear was sure Cruhund’s men were not coming after him, he peeled off the main trail, careful to not leave too obvious a sign of his passing. He caught up with the others in the meadow where they had camped earlier in the day.

  “We got our third head,” said Bones hooting as he slapped the flanks of his panting horse. “This ain’t so bad. I could get used to this.”

  “You weren’t the one trying to hold back those fiends on the bridge,” warned Biroc shaking his head. “We got lucky.”

  Laughter filled the air.

  Spear found Seana’s eyes. He could sense her longing. He wanted to lie down in the grasses with her again. Maybe he could be content with what they had taken so far.

  “Where is he?” asked Kiara.

  “We lost them back there,” said Spear. “They won’t find us here. Not right away.”

  “No. Where’s Little Boy?” she asked.

  Little Boy was not with them. Spear tried to remember when he had last seen him. He remembered Little Boy knocking down the mercenary and the other coming at him with his blinding blade. After that, he did not remember seeing Little Boy. He did not see that axe swinging. He did not remember his leaping to a horse. All he could remember as he turned to flee the coming of Cruhund was a trail filled with corpses. He had left Little Boy behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CRUHUND PEERED AROUND the footing of the bridge. The light was failing. The rain made it even harder to see. One of his men, a clansmen who had been born in the Iron Oars before his soldiering in Dhurma, lay dead in the middle of the bridge, an arrow in his neck. Damned lucky shot or a really good archer. On either side of Cruhund, half a dozen of his men crouched behind shields, too afraid to move for fear of another flurry of arrows.

  Cruhund’s rolled his lips over his teeth. Even that hurt.

  On the other side of the bridge through the thicket of trees came the sharp, screeching clash of metal. He had expected shouts or the terror of the horses but that was not what he heard. He only heard the scream of steel. He and the others had been expecting Three Finger’s patrol to have returned and now it sounded like they walked into an ambush while archers had kept Cruhund and his lads pinned down at the bridge.

  “Can’t be more than two of them,” said Berin Lightfoot through the tangle of his knotted and grimy beard.

  Cruhund stared through the rain at the arrows, still quivering where they stuck into the planks of the bridge. Five of them plus the one that had struck the Iron Oar clansman. They did seem clustered as if shot from two locations like Berin suggested. But, it could also mean as many as six archers. That many would be enough to hold his entire force back.

  At least long enough so that whoever was on the other side could finish off Three Finger’s patrol.

  He wondered if One Eye and his thugs with their red plaid were finally coming for him. But, no, One Eye would have come with more men. He had an army. They would have been swarming over the bridge by now, chasing Cruhund and his men back towards the keep.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Yriel huddled in one of the shelters by the fire. He had not meant to get caught here with her. Just spend the night and then be on their way to the witch. He had only stayed at the bridge so he could pass on the watch to the men that he trusted. But who remained now but Berin? The others, his closest men, had not returned.

  A wave of panic rippled up his body. Was someone hunting him down? Who the hell would be doing that?

  “We should charge them,” said Berin Lightfoot. “Fucking hiding like children behind our shields. Cowering from archers. We may lose a few more but we’ll be on them. Crush their hea
ds like bugs if we catch them, and catch them we will.”

  The others, the hardened mercenaries, were looking at Berin. Not a single one looked to Cruhund. He silently cursed himself for getting so lost in his thoughts.

  Without a word in response, he stood, rising to his full height, chest wide and shoulders back, and banged the side of his axe against his shield. It cracked against the storm, a hammering rising above the hiss of rain. As all eyes turned to him, he let out of a high-pitched howl and charged over the bridge, over the body of his fallen companion, the planks shaking beneath his feet and then thundering as his men streamed behind him.

  He ran, eyes wide, rain pouring into his gaping mouth. Any moment he expected to see the blur of an arrow cutting from the trees. He almost craved it. The whirr of the feathers through the air. The thunk of the head against his leather. The sharp piercing as the arrow wedged between his ribs to touch his heart with cold metal.

  But nothing came from the trees. Instead, he ran and his men came at his heels, a burgeoning roar piling out of their lips. He led the charge, up the hillside. Whoever had been shooting the arrows was gone.

  He was the first over the hill. A lone man wheeled his horse about the bodies. Cruhund stared out at those crumpled in the mud. His men. All of them killed. The entire patrol sent out and ambushed. Then, before Cruhund noticed, the rider was gone, the only sign of him the distant flashing of his horse’s hooves through the underbrush.

  Berin Lightfoot skidded down the slope, losing his footing but rising quickly. His palms were covered in slick mud. He wiped them hard against his pants.

  “Fools rode blindly into this,” said Berin. “Stupid, stupid Three Finger.”

  Cruhund walked among the dead. He kicked one of the corpse’s legs out of his way.

  “That’s our own,” said Berin.

  “He’s no one’s,” snarled Cruhund. “Stupidly walking into a trap. Should’ve known better. Supposed to be experienced veterans and this.”

  He could see the others holding back a sudden darkening in their eyes.

  Berin pulled Cruhund’s arm and dragged him further down the trail. “Can’t speak like that. Not in front of that lot. And kicking Agorn was a bad idea.”

  “Who?”

  Berin shook his head. “You really don’t even know any of their names, do you? Just bodies for you.”

  “I know you, Berin Lightfoot. I’ve known you ever since we sunk corpses off the docks in Cullantown. Three Finger gone, and I can just sense that Molgi and Red Tail are not returning.” He angled his head towards the others. “I don’t do this for them. They’re not one of us. You know that.”

  “You gotta show them something they’d be willing to follow,” said Berin as he looked at the grumbling mercenaries.

  “I show them coin,” said Cruhund. “And I show them the end of my blade. No loyalty among thieves. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Better that way.”

  “Might not be.”

  One of the men called out to Cruhund. “Found Three Finger. I think.”

  “What do you mean you think?” asked Cruhund as he moved towards where the man crouched over a body half in the bushes. “He got three fingers?”

  The man nodded.

  “Then what’s the question?”

  “Have a look for yourself.” The man backed away to join the others in looting the corpses of their companions.

  Three Fingers’s legs crossed the trail, his feet in the path and his torso buried in a wall of ferns. The man’s severed hand lay in the mud. Familiar. Little finger and ring finger long ago cut at the root. Cruhund never asked so he never knew how it happened and Three Finger never offered. In fact, hardly ever spoke of anything but what he wanted to do to women.

  Cruhund separated the ferns.

  “They chopped off his head.”

  Berin muttered prayers beneath his breath.

  “Find his head!” Cruhund shouted to the others.

  The mercenaries did not find his head but they found one of the men who had ambushed his crew. The man was big, not much into manhood yet. He had been cut deep on his inner thigh and was pale with the loss of blood. Berin drew his sword and pressed the tip between jaw and shoulder.

  “Wait,” said Cruhund. “Drag him back to the camp. I want to know who’s behind this.”

  “Think it’s One Eye?” asked Berin. He slipped his meaty hands under the man’s arms and began to pull him. The wounded man’s heels furrowed through the mud and leaves.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Cruhund walked at Berin’s side, sword drawn, casting glances to the branches bending in the wind. “What kind of savage takes a man’s head?”

  Berin Lightfoot laughed.

  “What are you laughing about?” asked Cruhund. He didn’t like him laughing and it was all he could do not to swat the smile off his face.

  “What kind of savages?” repeated Berin. “What do you think we are? Our path is marked with a swath of blood. You forget what we did to those pilgrims? That’s why I’m laughing. You and I are monsters if men can be them.

  “We’re different! We’re not like that! We’re survivors!” said Cruhund. “We feed our dreams.”

  “More like we feed crows and kill dreams.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A TORRENT BURST from the sky by the time Spear returned to the scene of the skirmish. He took a few steps along the edge of the forest, keeping to the safety of the trees and shadows off the trail, and then stopped, listening for breathing or the rustling of branches or the crunching of leaves. But the rain hammered, and it was hard to hear anything beneath its incessant crack and splatter. On top of that the wind ripped through the lands and every bush moved and shook, every movement a rush of adrenalin at the thought of Cruhund’s men springing out.

  Slowly, Spear moved forward, borrowed shield shouldered, sword in fist. He stopped again and listened. Nothing.

  Behind him, Bones followed. He held his cloak bunched tight in one hand and a drawn short blade in the other. The old man had started out cursing Spear and his ancestors, but since they had left their horses back up the trail and set to foot, Bones had not said a word. Longbeard had wanted to come along but Spear had insisted on stealth and who was more stealthy than the old clansman, the one who could sneak up behind you with a knife when you were not looking?

  They came upon the section of trail beneath the crest where the fight with Cruhund’s patrol had unfolded.

  “You can still see the blood,” said Bones, squatting to the torn up ground. He lifted his red-tipped fingers. “Even all this damned rain’s not going to wash it away, is it?”

  “The story of my fucking life,” growled Spear. “Never enough blood for the hungry gods.”

  Bones tilted his head as if he heard something. “Too late now for the life of a goat herder. Might as well just keep plunging ahead. Like you have any choice in the matter.”

  Spear stared at the ground where the rains had not yet reduced the blood into a red-tinged mud. “Do we not really have any choice?”

  “Only a choice of how you want to spill the blood you owe.”

  Spear shook his head. “I could turn back at any moment.”

  “A dog doesn’t walk away from a piece of bloody meat. We’re shaped the moment we come screaming into this world. You know where you’re headed.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Believe what you want.” Bones skirted the edge of the trail and kicked at the bushes. “Not a single body left. They cleaned up their dead.” He laughed. “But looks like they might have missed a few fingers.”

  “Where’s Little Boy’s body?”

  “Maybe he’s not dead. Not yet. Might be hoping to squeeze a few coins out of us for his return.”

  “They wouldn’t expect us to pay,” said Spear. “We’re not farmers or merchants. We don’t pay ransoms.”

  “Maybe they want to lure us in.” The rain battered at Bones’s eyes forcing him to squint. “Rescue a companion. Get caught in
a circle of spears. Any way you look at it, it’s bad.” He sighed heavily. “We should turn back. We should. Tell Kiara Little Boy’s dead. Even if we find him, I doubt he’ll be in one piece. Does she really need to see that? We can spare her.”

  “We owe her. We owe him.”

  Bones scoffed. The rain surged over them obscuring his voice but Spear could still make out the end of what he said. “Don’t owe anyone. Not how you survive as long as I have.”

  Spear could not imagine Little Boy having gone quietly to the mercenaries. Perhaps he had been killed and they dragged him back with their companions to bury beneath a pile of rocks. No, that made no sense. They would have just left him to the crows.

  But why would they take Little Boy unless he lived and they held him as a prisoner? That had to be it.

  “Let’s take a look at their camp,” said Spear. “Maybe we’ll see him.”

  “Maybe we’ll get an arrow in the eye. We should go back.”

  “Fine! You tell Kiara we were too scared to look for Little Boy!”

  Bones cursed.

  They crossed the trail and returned to the cover of the forest, moving cautiously up the hillside that he and the others had stormed down just hours before. The ground was waterlogged and Spear’s feet threatened to slide out with each step. Soggy earth sloughed down the hillside. The fronds of ferns bent low. Water streamed from the branches overhead. He struggled to reach the crest. Bones was not doing any better and was even further down the slope. Spear wondered if he purposely lagged, knowing that if they were surprised it would be Spear who would take the brunt of the attack.

  Spear froze to a sudden thrashing in the bushes to the left. But no one else was out here. Just the wind and the rain.

  When he reached the crest of the hill, he pressed himself low even though he knew that in the rain and darkening sky there was little chance he would be spotted. But he knew it best not to take any chances. Someone could be hiding. Someone could be waiting for Spear and his bandits to return for Little Boy.