Then, blackness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SPEAR WOKE TO the song of the stream.
Sparrows cut across the blue sky, black silhouettes looping and weaving; behind them, a rainbow formed in a spray of mist thrown up by a small waterfall. The sun penetrated the gorge, burning the water-worn boulders and stones white, and almost too bright to look at directly.
Spear lay on his back in the stream. One of his hands bobbed in the cold water, while his other hand touched soft, wet moss, an impossibly bright green. On the cliff from which he had tumbled, drops of water on fern fronds sparkled like jewels.
His ribs ached. Wincing, he pushed himself to his side and then sitting. He gingerly touched the lump on the back of his head. He inhaled deeply. Bruised but not broken. He was lucky.
Birds, black hooded, half the size of his fist, hopped in the bushes on the far bank, scratching at leaves, chirping and trilling. Nature did not care about the follies of men.
Spear would need to find a way out. Not towards the bridge though. In that direction the walls rose more steeply and the waters returned to shadow. But more than that, that direction would lead to his pursuers. He did not want to be caught, not by them, not by Cruhund. Not after all this.
But what did it matter anymore?
He brought his fingers to his purse touching the shape of the ruby bulging against the leather. The gem was valuable enough to buy him something in the end, but what at this point? He could not start his life over and really had nowhere to go. What could he buy that he would not lose again?
He turned downstream. Maybe if he followed it to where it fed into the Black River things would make sense to him again. How long had it been since he returned to the lands he once lorded over? He was familiar with those wide fields of heather and stretches of fen, the song of the river as it surged along the banks. If he returned, would all the broken pieces somehow be mended together again? He doubted it. But he knew he could not stay here. He needed to keep moving. If only to survive.
He had been scrambling and hopping along the stones, at a slow and painful pace, for about fifteen minutes before he saw Val.
At first he thought it was a tangle of clothing caught where stone and fallen branches clogged the stream.
Then he saw the pale hand with small thin fingers so delicate that they looked as if to be made of ceramic. The hand perched over the water. It rose from a sleeved arm, bent at the wrist so that only the tips of fingers furrowed the surface of the water, and where they touched, the water eddied, paused in its relentless coursing.
Her black hair plastered across her face. He almost swept the hair from her brow but he saw bone, teeth, raw flesh, and skin flapping in the water. What lay beneath the surface had begun to swell. Better to leave her covered.
Spear would have turned and run but she stared at him with dead eyes. He stumbled over unseen stones, closed her eyes and then cradled her in his arms. She was heavier than he ever would have thought, as if she had been filled with cold rocks.
He held her close, and imagined how in a different world she would have heard the pounding of his heart through the armor that covered his chest. A world he had never inhabited.
He walked the stream with her in his arms, resting when he could no longer support her small bones. He walked until he came upon a section where the gorge walls had slid from the banks. Broken and uneven steps led him up. When he reached the trail, he saw that the other side was only a steep hill, one that he managed, slipping a half a dozen times until he crested the hill and descended into a forest.
The light was unfettered by the clouds. Despite that, he could not see clearly. The world was smudged, blurry at the edges, and the only thing sharp in his sight was the face of Valda. The trees smeared black and green and the sky was masked as if behind a fine gauze.
He eventually reached another stream. It was the one by which he and the others had camped the day before. Had it been only a day? The memory felt like it came from another life. He remembered the warmth of Seana’s bare flesh but this memory was consumed by the cold weight that burdened his arms.
He wandered along the stream, keeping to the shore, skirting trees and stones. If he could recover his horse, he could set Val on it. His arms would be free of her heaviness.
He took a moment to rest, with the body curled beside him. The sun reflecting blindingly off the waters. Then he heard the pawing of hooves in the soft earth and the nickering of a horse. He could not stand.
Spear touched the handle of his sword with his hand. His arms ached and he felt no strength in them. He could barely close his hand around the leather. Would he even be able to swing it?
“Spear.”
He turned to the voice. Seana slid off her horse and walked towards him. Behind her Kiara, Bones and Biroc, the last of his crew, climbed off their horses.
“We’ve been looking for you. We thought…”
“Dead,” he said. “She’s dead! He killed her!”
“Maybe it’s better this way…after all she had suffered.” Biroc’s face was haggard, eyes puffy and red as if he had not slept.
The others had the same look and Spear realized that they, too, had spent the night running from Cruhund’s men. Kiara kept glancing over her shoulder where the forest ended in grasses. Her head turned as if from a nervous habit.
“I wasn’t sure,” Spear said.
“I was not going to leave you to Cruhund.” Seana’s finger tips were warm on his arm. “Worse comes to worse, Biroc would have picked a shot from a distance. After Little Boy, we knew we could not let him get you.”
“I found her.”
“We need to ride,” said Seana. “It’s not safe here.”
“She deserves more than this.”
Seana’s laugh was little more than a broken breath. “We all do. But the world has another thing for you and me.”
“They’re coming,” said Kiara. “I know they are.”
Biroc bent his head. “Maybe, but not now. Not with horses. They don’t know where to find us.”
“We can’t take her back,” argued Seana.
“Never should have left home,” said Spear. The sun warmed his face. Even as strong as it was he knew that it would not last. Nothing ever did. “I want to bury her. At least that.”
They lay her at the foot of giant pine. Biroc scraped out a narrow trench with a tree limb. It was not as deep as it should have been but they all realized they did not have the luxury of time. Kiara wrapped her in one of Little Boy’s cloaks mumbling it was nothing that would ever be used again. Spear was relieved he did not have to shroud her.
He was the first to begin the pile of river stones over her. He lay that first stone over her belly and the whole of her bent with the weight. While each stone was laid tenderly and with care, he could only imagine the growing weight of the stones on her small body. He shuddered at the thought that her bones might crack with each stone he set.
After less than an hour, they stood – the five remaining companions – slack armed in a semi-circle facing the mound of stones.
Spear knew the others wanted him to say something. But what does one say when a child has been murdered? What does one say when one is no better than the man who did the killing? How could his words not expose the lie that was his life?
Their shadows stretched over the grave, five long unmoving shadows. The tips of the pines needles waved in a gentle breeze. In the grasses, crickets chirruped and beyond them the stream hummed with the steady passage of the water.
Spear was ready to turn when Seana began to sing.
It was an old song, one sung around the campfires of the clans, one sung by the old timers and rumored to have come from the time before the clans. He could not remember the first time he had heard the song, but it was always sung towards the darkest part of the night. It was not a song of warriors or of rollicking lovers or even of lost kings, but of a man wandering the heather and stone alone, searching, looking to return t
o his clan. The song ended with the man walking just as it had begun and Spear never knew whether the man ever found his people again.
After Seana finished, they all left the grave and sat by the stream staring at the constant waters.
“The afternoon fades,” said Bones. “They’ll have given up. As long as we don’t go back to that bridge. We can be back at Grymr’s Hold in a day.”
“Is the hold even safe for us anymore?” asked Biroc. “We might need to just keep riding.”
“I want to get as far away from here as possible,” said Kiara. “I need to go.”
“We should return together to the clans,” said Seana. “Enough of this life. You and me together. We need a life of meaning now.”
“I can’t go back. I made a promise,” said Spear.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to the bridge.”
“There’s no more rubies,” said Bones. “She lied to us. What’s in it for us but death?”
“The price has already been paid. Little Boy. Valda. Two more heads she’s owed. We’ll take those heads. What’s in it? A chance to live again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BERIN LIGHTFOOT CROSSED the bridge. His shadow and those of the other riders stretched on the planks in the afternoon light.
“Took them long enough,” said Cruhund. He stood on the keep side of the chasm with half his remaining mercenaries, shields to shoulders standing behind him. They had been ready in case Berin did not return.
“He’s got something there,” said Yriel. Even in the warmth of the day, she trembled beneath her cloak.
Three round sacks bounced against the flank of Berin’s horse. The bottoms of the sacks were stained red.
“With Spear dead, we can be on our way.”
A feeling of lightness came over the border lord and he suppressed a titter that tried to escape through his bloody teeth. The entire time Berin had been gone Cruhund kept replaying the thought of Berin and the other mercenaries being ambushed by Spear and his small band. Cruhund knew it was impossible but the fear hung heavy with him. Why did he have such fear of the man he had supplanted?
“You come bearing gifts, no doubt,” Cruhund called to his approaching companions. He jabbed a finger into the chest of Longbeard, the traitor. “I’m sure you’re relieved by all this.”
The young Northman shrugged. “He wasn’t all that. I could have taken his head at any point.”
“Bluster and swagger. We’ll see how things shape up back in the keep.”
“I’ll expect my ruby.”
Cruhund laughed. “Berin comes bearing heads, not you. You’ll need to take it up with him.”
Berin had said nothing as he approached and his men looked worn though not a single one was bloodied. Cruhund wondered where their swagger was.
Berin stopped his horse in front of Cruhund and loosened the sacks from his saddle. They rolled to a stop at Cruhund’s feet.
He rubbed his hands together. “More heads for my bridge. Enough to make even One Eye think twice about crossing into Cruhund’s land.”
He grabbed the ends of two of the sacks and lifted high. Heads rolled. Three Finger and Molgi.
He did not need lift the remaining sack to know that the third head belonged to Red Tail.
Cruhund screamed. “Where’s his head? Where are any of their heads? Gone all night and half the day and this is what you bring me?”
Berin’s gaze never left Cruhund’s. “We could have used a few more men. They scattered fast. And with the rain and the dark…”
“Excuses!”
“Reality.”
Cruhund realized he was clenching his jaw and sending splintering pain through his decaying teeth. Warm blood filled his mouth. As he relaxed his jaw, a bone shard fell onto his tongue. He spit a mouthful of blood into the air.
The heads were sallow-cheeked, the skin already a waxy sheen, and the stench of rot filled his nostrils. The heads of three of those closest to him, and a sneering Berin, one who he thought would never speak against him.
“They weren’t to be found,” said Berin.
Cruhund nodded. He could not bring his gaze back to Berin or even any of the other men. He certainly could not look at Yriel. He would see their disappointment. Spear was supposed to be dead at his feet and now this.
Flies had already found the heads. Only a few but they unsettled him. He swatted them away but they circled back.
He picked up what was left of Molgi and Three Finger, grabbing them by their greasy hair, and carried them, arms far from his sides, to the edge of the bridge.
He held them only a moment before he dropped them. But in that moment, he saw three heads. Molgi’s, Three Finger’s and his own. Three heads side by side. Three heads reflected in the water, floating on the surface, three heads without bodies.
The heads bounced on rocks just beneath the surface. Molgi’s bobbed before being swept away, but Three Finger’s had landed in a small pool between boulders and floated there, revolving in the swirl of the water.
Cruhund did not remove Red Tail from the sack but just tossed his head, sack and all, off the bridge.
“They did this to them,” he said.
Most of the others had ridden or walked past him towards food and fire. Berin remained on his horse.
“We might have gotten carried away a bit,” said Berin.
“The pilgrims?”
“Yeah, that and everything.”
“Everything?” asked Cruhund. “We were nothing before! Now I am the lord of a mountain keep!”
“Can’t help but thinking we’re next. Our heads in a sack.”
“He’s a man, just like any other! What can he do against a score of blades?”
Berin shrugged. “We should have been able to track him down, and these three should not have fallen to an old man like that. Who walks with him? Not a single name of repute. He might as well as have walked alone.”
“The girl’s dead. No more gems. He’s smart enough to know when there is no point to it all. I know Spear, and if there’s no bag of coin at the end of the road, he won’t walk it.”
“What if he comes for the keep? We’ve a bag of coins there, and then some. He must know that.”
“We’ll kill him at the walls. Pour burning oil on him. Crush his head with stones. Piss on his corpse, and then we’ll stick his head above the gate. Let any who think they could unseat Cruhund know that their heads will hang.”
“Spear knows you have coin,” said the traitorous Longbeard, fingers combing through his shiny beard. “I know him. He’s coming for you. Coming for all of us. We should hurry back to the keep. Night is falling. Do we want to be here when night falls?”
“You think I’m scared of him?” said Cruhund. “You know nothing. Not a thing.” He lunged forward, catching Longbeard beneath the chin with one hand while at the same time kicking out his retreating feet. As soon as Longbeard hit the ground Cruhund was on top of him, one hand at his throat, the other having drawn his knife, and his knee digging heavy into the man’s belly. “Let him come. Let him try to steal what is mine. He never will.”
No one moved to pull Cruhund off. No one encouraged him to push the blade in the newcomer’s eye. The men did not even form a loose agitated circle. Mostly they just sat around their fires, looking up from their cups with dull eyes. Berin kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and led him deeper into the camp, a few men raising their cups to him on his return.
Only Yriel looked at Cruhund, but her eyes were not focused.
Cruhund let Longbeard up. “What did you expect? Sitting at my end of the table.” Cruhund kicked after the big man as he hurried off towards the others. “Yes, you might have made a mistake. Now, we’ll see if you can survive it.”
At the opposite side of the bridge, on a barren tree branch a half dozen crows huddled, hunched-shouldered, beady-eyed. He threw a hurrah at them but they did not as much as hop.
“Blasted demon bird
s.”
Beyond them, the shadows deepened as the sun fell behind the wooded hill.
“Did you see something move there, in the trees?”
Yriel shook her head.
“He’s coming for me. The crows are his servants.”
“You’re mad!”
“You don’t see them moving in the bushes, dark shapes? In among the trees?”
She laid a hand on his arm. Her fingers felt as if they were made of ice. “There’s nothing there. Spear is long gone. He’s run like he always does. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Those birds have been at me since we killed those pilgrims.”
“They’re crows! They eat corpses. They are all over these lands. We’ve been seeing them for years.”
“Not these ones! Same ones – on the road, back at the keep and now here again. Hurrah!” He ran forward and threw a small stone that he plucked from the ground. It cracked against a nearby tree trunk and wings ruffled by the birds did not move from their roost.
“Tonight, we go,” he said.
“We can go in the morning. I’m in no condition to be on the road. We can spend the night here.”
“No, back to the keep!”
“But She Who Has Risen?” asked Yriel.
“He’s lying in wait! There! Across the bridge! We go back to the keep.” He laughed. “Let him come for us. Let him try to take my head. Let him walk into my trap.”
“He’s not coming for you.”
He grabbed both her arms and pulled her close. “Spyrchylde is out there. He’s coming for me, my gold, you! We must…get…back” The blood and spittle from his lips spotted her skin. He reached out to thumb it off but she leaned back, bent as if falling were preferable to his touch.
“You’re losing it,” she said.
“They’re all coming for me!” His hand swept towards his own crew.
“These are your men. They serve you.”
“Everyone one of them will stab me in the back. All wanting to steal what is mine.”
“It’s not like that. You are not seeing things straight. You are confused.”
Five Bloody Heads (The Hounds of the North Book 3) Page 15
