“Even Berin. Look at him! Gathering them to his laughter. He comes for me.”
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?”
“It’s everything, is what it is. Spear’s coming for me. My nightmare. To take my head. One by one, he’s hunting us down. The things I have done.”
“You are crazy with guilt.”
“Back to the keep, you and me! We leave the rest here. Only bring the new one with us. He had more secrets and I will get them out of him. Back we go. There are enough men there to hold the gates. We won’t let a soul in, not a soul! They are all trying to steal what is mine and I’ll die before I let them do that!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SPEAR WAS INVISIBLE in the mists. He could not see beyond his hands. He could barely see the stones in the stream bed. But, as difficult as it was, the morning fog was to his advantage.
If he could not see the men who guarded the bridge above, then would not be able to see him.
He walked carefully, picking his way among the rocks. He had to be cautious. He did not want twist an ankle or fall and give himself away to the men above.
In the hours preceding dawn, the clear night sky had been swallowed by a ground-hugging fog, mists that seeped out of the acidic soil, rising to knee, hip, shoulder and then consuming even the sky. Bones had cursed the sudden fog, but Spear had known it would be to their advantage.
Before dawn broke, Spear had left the others hidden on the small hill on the far side of the bridge in that same spot where they had looked down and seen the head of Little Boy and the death of Val. While they waited for his signal, he had tied a length of rope to a pine and lowered himself into the chasm.
It has been easy to descend and now he searched for a way to climb out the other side.
The bridge cut a dark shape through the mists. He was directly below it now and the voices of the men who kept watch broke above the sound of the water. The words were not clear, lost to the whispering of the stream, but they were complaining.
He ran his hands across the chasm wall. The stone was smooth, carved by centuries of water. He found a hand hold and a foot hold and pulled himself up. He perched, fingers scraping over the stone for another hold. But there was nothing so he lowered himself and moved further beneath the bridge.
The sky was beginning to lighten. He needed to find a way up before the fog burned off. Soon the men above would be able to spot him if they looked over the edge.
He was about to step up on another foothold when a shadow moved in the corner of his eye. He turned quickly drawing his knife. On the opposite bank, stone and shadow. He waited. He could have sworn he saw something move. The distant wall was less grainy now.
He waited, staring at the far wall. Nothing but shadows.
The sun was now a bright orb in the mists.
He needed to move. He returned to the wall. A dark slash run up the face. It was a natural chimney, a vertical opening into which he could squeeze and work his way to the top. He stood in front of the opening. The walls were slick with moisture, as smooth as glass. Too easy to slip.
Footsteps suddenly shook the planks and Spear had no choice, nowhere to turn, so he pressed himself into the shadows of the wide crack.
He could see the man through the narrow slits between the boards. The mercenary hocked into the waters, emptied his bladder and then after what seemed like an unimaginably long time returned to his post.
Something knocked against Spear’s leg. He looked down. It was a head, the head of the last man that his crew had killed. It bobbed in the water, mouth open, skin puckered and swollen. Spear suppressed a chill rising in his spine.
He stared up. It was twenty or twenty five feet to the top. The walls of the chimney were uneven, sometimes pressing together as close as two hand widths and other times spreading out to nearly half of Spear’s height. Could he even climb this? Maybe he should find another way? But with each breath, the mists dissolved. He could not hide here all day and if he tried to flee now, he would be spotted by the men on the bridge and if their arrows did not get him, he would be pursued until they caught him.
He had no choice but to climb.
He pressed his back against one side and then lifted one leg pushing with his sole hard enough against the opposite wall that he could lift the other leg and sit suspended. Moving was easy at first. Step one foot up, then the other, and wiggle his back up. Keep the soles of his feet firm against the stone. Use his palms to help him stick. His thighs began to burn but it was tolerable. Then he hit an area where the chimney narrowed.
He was midway up. The crack in the stone narrowed, too tight for him to continue to use his leg pressing technique to climb. But he could see small hand holds in the rock face, flakes and indentations. He reached up. Rivulets of water trickled down the rock. He stretched for the hold, found a grip and then shifted his weight. But as he did so, he legs slipped and if not for the sudden flinging out his hands he would have fallen to the stones below. The dead man’s head floated in the dark waters, its eyes milky.
He hung there for a moment, forearms wedged against the walls, his feet flailing. He could not hold this position long. His arms would give out. He kicked a foot against the wall but he found nothing and it slipped away as if he walked on ice. His breath rose in his chest. His forearms and back burned with the exertion of holding up his weight. He kicked with his other foot. Empty air. If he did not break his legs when he fell, he was sure the noise of his sword clattering would give him away. He kicked again. This time his foot found a little ledge and he angled his foot into just enough that he was able to hop off it and drive himself further up the chimney. He tucked in one knee and slammed his back against the far wall. He held there, suspended.
He pushed himself up higher. Then he saw handhold after handhold, and beyond them the light of the surface. Without thinking, he grabbed the handholds and scrambled up the rock face and pulled himself onto the ground above.
He had no time to rest.
The two watchmen stood within a few feet of him. The first one did not have time to turn; Spear was on his back before he knew it, one hand cupping his mouth and pulling his head back. Spear drove his dagger down behind his collar bone.
His companion had time to shout, time to draw his sword. Spear held up the dying mercenary by the scruff, using him as a human shield. Spewing blood, the dying man flailed against his sword brother, giving Spear time to free his own blade. The mercenary tried to fight through the human shield but each blow only further hacked at his fellow mercenary. On the third try, Spear struck back: he lopped off the mercenary’s hand at mid-forearm.
Spear dropped his now-dead shield and wheeled toward the camp. Ten men raced at him, swords drawn. A few came with spears. The men charged hard and he was ready to wade into their swords when a sharp word froze them in their steps.
In their midst was Berin Lightfoot, old companion to Spear, fellow thug of Cullantown, one of those who decided they would rather see cold metal poking out of his ribs than follow him.
“Don’t rush in. He’s dangerous. Surround him,” said Berin. He had not aged well, eyes haggard and pillowy, a long scar down one side of his nose, his beard showing strands of gray. He wore armor of black leather, the wolf head stitched in blood-stained white thread. He must have been one of the killers on the road, one of the heads that Spear had promised Val. “Shield wall first and then spear him. Cut his legs down and we finish this animal off.”
“Single combat,” called Spear. “You owe me that much, Berin.”
“Owe you nothing. Hand me that spear.”
Spyrchylde glanced once behind himself. Three of the mercenaries including one with a spear had circled to the bridge. They blocked his escape. He might be able to run them down but they would slow him… and then the others would be on him, like rabid dogs, blades hamstringing him. Maybe reach the bridge and leap, but he remembered the broken body of Valda. He would not survive the fall. He laughed. Better to die sword in hand.
/> He would go after Berin. Get his head. Keep his word to the girl. Then he would succumb to the blades.
“The spear,” repeated Berin his hand beckoning to one of the other mercenaries.
Berin never got the spear.
A black arrow whistled over Spear’s head. It hit the man with the spear in the eye. Then several more arrows came, a few finding their targets but most glancing of shield or armor.
Spear knew that Biroc and the others had his back, but he was not sure if he had enough time to survive the circle of blades before his companions arrived. He needed their blades at his side. Arrows shot from a distance were not enough.
But then he could hear them coming, the hooves of their horses on the dirt before they hit the wood of the planks. Still he did not know if they would arrive in time before the swords fell.
“On him now,” hissed Berin.
Spear faced the circle of blades. Nine against one. Could he hold them off until the others came or was this the end?
Berin was the first to charge. Spear was tempted to engage but his only strategy for survival against so many swords was movement – he feinted at Berin, then darted off his attacker’s line towards one of the other mercenaries. This one was young, not yet bearded, and stood with the tip of his sword touching the ground. Spear caught him heavy-handed and was able to sweep up over the man’s late lifting blade. A quick turn of his sword and the edge sliced across the young man’s neck. Blood sprayed.
Eight left.
Spear grabbed the man before he could fall and spun him round as a spear jabbed forward. The iron spearhead grated as it punched through the young man’s body. Spear hurled the body, the corpse, aside; the spear was yanked out of his attacker’s hand.
Spear screamed and slashed wildly clearing out space between him and the others.
“Patience,” said Berin.
“Horses come,” said another.
“Hold them at the bridge. Buy us a few moments. Once they see Spear fall they will turn.”
“Close the circle. He can’t keep his back to us all.”
Spear slashed with a wide arc, spinning to keep the others back, but he could sense them trying to time him and already they had launched quick jabs and slashes to beat the timing of his swings. He was faster but that would not last long. His arms and legs were already tired from the climb up from the stream. He did not hold the advantage.
It was only five that he faced, with the three others holding the bridge with planted spears. But five were more than enough.
A blade hissed. He swung his sword behind him. The tip of another blade licked out, glancing off his vambraces. Too close. He ducked as a blade cut through the air over his head. He charged one direction and then the other to create space but they moved with him, barely giving him the time to block. He was no longer the one striking but the one defending. It was only a matter of seconds before cold steel would find its way through.
That was when he saw the shadow. Only it was not a shadow. It was Night, his litter mate, Hound of the North, returned. His black cloak seeped through the air like oil on water, shimmering, a mirage in the shadows. Night floated behind the three that held the bridge. Twin blades flashed in the morning light and the three fell.
Then the horses of his four companions were through and the circle around Spear broke, turning to face the attack, one running. Berin Lightfoot did not run.
Spear’s lips curled in a slight smile as he closed the distance with his old sword mate.
The time for taunts was over.
Spear inched forward with his sword held low, inviting Berin to slash at his head. Slowly, he crept, eating the space between them. Berin lunged, then retreated; he feinted with his sword, slashed wildly but from a distance; he barked at Spear.
But the old swordsman slid forward, blade low, eyes sharp.
Berin gave in to temptation and attacked first leaping forward with a mighty downward-arcing slash. Spear raised his sword, and deflected the blow. Then Spear reversed his swing. Berin nearly jumped out of the way, but Spear skipped forward and the very tip of the blade caught Berin under the chin. Bone split.
Berin raised a hand. His eyes rolled. His legs quivered. Spear threw a backhand slash. Berin bent over. Spear loaded his blade on his shoulder, and with a wild scream, chopped down on Berin’s head.
Spear spun, the ground tilting beneath him.
The fight was over. A man hung limp in the folds of Night’s cloak then dropped to the ground. Biroc was riding to recover his arrows from the body of the one who had tried to run. Kiara and Seana sat on their horses, bloody blades across their laps. Bones was already in among the corpses, unlacing and plucking, tossing booty into a growing pile of jeweled daggers and jingling purses and ringed fingers.
Spear returned to body of Berin. He sawed off his head with his own knife, and then holding it by the hair, took three giant spinning steps and flung it. The head sailed, blood spraying against the pale sky, before disappearing into the chasm.
“One left,” he said.
Later they found Little Boy’s body and put it and his head in one of the wooden shelters. Biroc and Bones tore apart the planks and branches and piled them on the body. Kiara scooped up hot coals into a cooking pot from one of the fires and dropped them into the pyre.
Black smoke twisted towards the sky.
“He’ll see the fire,” said Night.
“Let him know we’re coming,” said Spear. “Let Cruhund know! I am coming to chop off his head and take his keep!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CRUHUND BLINKED AT the black smoke. A thin line twisted into the sky before spreading into a fading blotch. His clutched one of the cold stone merlons of the gate tower but could barely contain the trembling in his hands.
“He comes for me.”
“You don’t know that,” said Griope looking out from the keep. “Could be anything. Maybe the boys caught a buck.”
Cruhund squinted at the distant line of trees at the bottom of the scree slope for signs of movement, for swordsmen. The morning mists had just begun to burn off. The day would bring sun. But Cruhund knew sunny days never lasted and that dark clouds would again fill the sky. “We’ll see them coming, won’t we?”
Griope shook his head. A blanket covered his twisted limbs against the cold. He had been the lone mercenary to greet Cruhund as he, Yriel and Longbeard had trudged back up the slope. The others had been drinking in the shadows of the great hall. “What’s wrong with you? He’s just one man.”
Cruhund dug his fingers into his mouth, rooting around, twisting, and then pulled out a bloody tooth, rotten to black. He flicked it over the wall. “He’s a monster is what he is!”
“We can hold the wall. Empty piss buckets on his head.”
“How many are we now? How many are left?”
“Do I count you in the number? Not sure that I can. A few more than a score. And not the finest.”
“I saw my head alongside theirs! My head floating in those waters!”
“All these years and suddenly afraid of dying?”
Cruhund rubbed the heels of his hands against his jaw. “She slipped through my hands as if she had wanted to be dropped. Why would she give up her life for something that she could never have? I should have let her be free and taken the gems. How could she not fight for her life?”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re no philosopher. You’re a killer. Stick with that,” said Griope.
“Is that what I am?”
“If you’re not, don’t expect a pack of killers to follow you.”
“The tunnels,” said Cruhund.
“What about them?”
“We can take our coin, as much as we can carry, and escape through the tunnels.”
“We outnumber them. We hold the wall. Rest of us are not ready to give up this keep. You can’t be thinking about fleeing through the tunnels.”
“We can be free before he comes for us. For my head.”
Griope sh
ook his head. “Others hear you and this is the end of us. Get yourself together. You’re like a sobbing little child. Even the stable boy could push you over right now.”
“We should flee. We should run.”
“There’s nowhere else to go, Cruhund. We find ourselves here in the border lands because we’re outcasts. Don’t you see that? This is our last place of refuge. Return to the North and the old hags will spit on us. Dogs will piss on our legs. Venture into Dhurma and they’ll hang you in cages in honor of their old gods. East? Those savages will eat your guts while you’re still alive. This is the only place where misfits like us can make our way.”
The smoke in the sky was thinning now as if whatever had been burning had run its course. The black cloud veiled over the lands beyond.
Cruhund knew Griope was right. He had nowhere else to go. His clan had cast him out long ago. Too much blood on his axe and sword even when his beard was fuzz. Too many of the shield maidens whispering to their fathers of his transgressions. He could return to another clan, one not his own, but as what? An outsider, never to fit in? An outside sword would never rise to rule. The market town of Cullan was not an option. After Spear had burnt it, a full Dhurman legion had marched onto its ruins. Cruhund and Yriel had escaped that night as they came with torches and swords. He knew to run. If he had stayed, he would have been killed or, worse yet, yoked into servitude. He had watched the rebuilding of the garrison from the safety of the other side of the Black River. His own people were shackled as they moved stone and timber to raise the monstrosity. Here in the border lands he had found his own way. His sword kept him with a full purse. Men gathered to him to win their second chance. The keep his castle after all these years.
But what had ever lasted?
Seeing the heads of the three men who had ridden with him for so many years had unsettled him. That and the eroding illness of Yriel. Death came for him. He could sense it. He had always walked on the edge of death. That was the way of the North. Every man knew it from cradle to grave. No kindness would be given. No second chances. No life after this living hell on earth. That was why he had pursued the things he had wanted in life: the riches, Yriel, the following of men, the keep. These were the things he had dreamed of, but now that he had them, and now that death stared at him, he realized these things did not matter. What mattered was to live. He did not want to die. He was not ready for it. There was so much more living to be done.
Five Bloody Heads (The Hounds of the North Book 3) Page 16
