Laughter echoed off the walls. “Seana,” he called to himself, “no need to return to the North now. Everything we could ever want lies here.”
But as he made to return towards the keep, his gaze caught the pyramid of skulls. Heads, hundreds of golden heads, stacked in a pile. They stared with empty eye sockets, their mouths wide. With laughter or horror he could not tell. He wanted to turn from the skulls but he was transfixed. A pyramid not yet complete. One head was missing from the top.
He could not return to the others, yet. He could not bathe in the piles of coin. He had made a promise to Valda. A promise to get that last head.
A small statue lay half-buried in the coins at the foot of the pyramid. Valda had been submerged in the stream, broken against the branches and stones. Implicit in his promise to take the five heads was that he would protect her and he had failed. He could almost feel her cold body in his arms again, the stain of water against his chest, his own heart beating deep in his chest.
“One more fucking head,” he said as he picked up an old wooden shield from the floor. “One more bloody head and then Valda will be able to rest in peace. And all of this will be mine.”
He plunged back into the tunnel.
Eventually a blur of light emerged and he saw the end of the tunnel, cold skies. Cruhund waited for him there. They would finally meet. He was sure of that, and longed for the moment he stepped free of the heart of the mountain.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE LIGHT NEARLY blinded Spear. He tossed his torch to the ground and raised a hand to block out of the sun. It was not only the sun that was blinding but also its reflection on the ice-draped cliffs and snow-capped peaks.
He stood on a wide, boulder-and-rubble-filled ledge that clung to the edge of the backside of the mountain. Before him the lands spread far to the north. He stared through the mist of his breath at the cliffs and mountains. They stretched as far as he could see before vanishing where one giant mountain joined the clouds. The lands beyond were the stuff of legend, the lonely ranges where the warriors of old retreated when they could kill no more and when the gods beckoned them to their great mead halls. These were the forgotten lands beyond the North, the same lands to where Shield Scyldmund had set out after the killing of the warlock Fennewyn, and the death of his beloved Birgid Wordswallow.
The chalky white boulders and stones littering the ledge reminded Spear of broken bones.
“Just you,” said a voice from his right.
At the edge of the ledge, more than two dozen steps away, Cruhund emerged from behind a large boulder. His sword was drawn. Ragged lines of blood seeped on either side of his neck. His beard was webbed with blood and saliva. He looked worn down, not the border lord that had stood at the bridge. Dark rings painted his eyes.
“I’ve come for you. The end of the journey,” said Spear. He unstrapped the shield from his back and slipped his left arm into its grip.
“Did you see her?”
“Yriel does not wait for you.”
Cruhund laughed, exposing his bloody, gap-toothed mouth. “Why would I worry about her? The girl? Did you see her in the cave?”
Spear shook his head.
“The one who fell from my hand.”
“You dropped her. You killed Val, and you will pay for it.”
“Dead, you say.” Cruhund looked past Spear and into the tunnel. “You didn’t hear her footsteps, the laughter? You didn’t see her in the tunnel.”
“You’re the last one. Five gems for five bloody heads.”
“My head?” Cruhund’s eyes rolled towards the bright sky. “I’ve seen it – in the water, the mirror, on top of the others. But I’m not going to let her have it. I’m leaving. I’m going away. She can have the tunnels. She can have the keep. Let her ghost wander for an eternity. But I wash my hands of it.” He pointed to the distant north. “I’ll go there with my sacks of coin. The lands of the gods. The lands of the giants. You hold her off. You let me go. The keep is yours. Yriel, too. I don’t care. I just want to go away. I want to live. I want another chance.”
“There’s nowhere to go.”
“I’ll find a path down.”
“I’ve come to take your head. You are the last one. I will not break my promise to Val.”
Cruhund’s gaze drifted from the tunnel to Spear. He looked past him at the edge of the cliff and then back to his old leader. “So be it. One more head, but it won’t be mine. Enough with the talking.”
The giant Northman squeezed his sword in his hands. It was long and the edge shimmered with light as Cruhund stepped fully out from the stones and began to close the distance with Spear.
Spear was armed with a single sword and a shield along with his assorted knives and choke cords. The shield he had found in the treasure room was oak, banded with iron and heavy. The wood was thick and the whole of it well-constructed.
The big sword floated in Cruhund’s hands, its length unexpected, and the first swing caught Spear by surprise and he jumped back almost too late. The strike just missed. Cruhund was taking his time, trying to get a read on the way Spear moved.
Spear mixed up his footwork and feinted with the sword, jabbing and throwing looping circles to see if his blade could take a bite out of Cruhund’s gloved hands. It was a game of distances and Spear quickly realized he could not get close enough to even ring his sword against the guard on Cruhund’s blade. Spear would never be able to strike Cruhund’s body without being able to close.
He circled left, leapt in with a wild swipe and then sprung back out. He tried several more check and swing combinations but the longer sword kept him at bay. He cursed silently. He needed to figure a way in. Otherwise, given time, the longer sword would find a target.
Cruhund pressed the pace. Before, he had been content with letting Spear take the initiative; now, Cruhund angled and swung more aggressively, and it paid off.
His sword raced in and Spear thrust up his shield just in time. That was when things turned. Spear was on the defensive, forced on his heels, backpedalling; his feet slipped on the gravel and stones as blow after blow landed.
The shield was not as strong as it looked. Either that or the two-handed sword was a finer weapon than it appeared. Pieces of wood flew. The shield splintered and cracked. An overhead slash finished the shield, taking off a third of it; the blow came down with such force that the iron nails holding the hand-grip snapped, wrenching the shield out of Spear’s grasp.
He slashed back wildly and his sword, meeting the strong metal of Cruhund’s blade, nearly bounced out of his hand. His single blade was no match for the two-handed sword. Not at this distance. This was the killing range for the larger sword. He needed to close the distance.
He was gathering his feet to time a sudden crash into Cruhund’s guard, when Spear’s ankle twisted on a stone.
Cruhund struck as Spear was falling. He lifted his sword and braced the flat of it with his left forearm, creating a shielding frame. Cruhund’s sword smashed and the bones in Spear’s forearm snapped.
Despite the shock of pain, Spear rolled, avoiding the next swing. Cruhund’s blade screamed on the stones. Spear pulled himself to his feet, the pain of his broken arm nearly taking his breath away. Tears gathered at his eyes and he felt warm piss soaking between his legs.
Cruhund’s next swipe knocked the sword from Spear’s hand and send it skittering back towards the tunnel.
The pain began to grip his entire left side. The blood lust of the fight waned. Agony swallowed his will.
As Spear dodged to his left, his ankle gave out again and he collapsed to the ground. And, yet, this sudden fall was not the end. Cruhund overcompensated with his swing; his blade clipped a rock by Spear’s head and skipped over him, the whistle of steel inches from his face.
This was the opportunity Spear needed. As Cruhund’s blade passed by harmlessly, Spear, ignoring the jabbing pain in his ankle, sprang forward. He launched into Cruhund’s belly with his shoulder and wrapped one arm
around his legs. Cruhund, caught rigid, fell.
His head cracked against a stone.
His eyes rolled and his arms shot up straight, hands grasping at an invisible attacker. Spear stumbled to his knees, drew his dagger and ripped it across Cruhund’s belly. Blood and half-digested food bubbled out. Cruhund’s arms flung wide and his sword sailed over the edge of the cliff.
Spear crawled away until he found his sword then hobbled over to Cruhund.
He was on his side, wiping vomit and blood from his mouth. His other hand clutched at his belly. But it did not matter. The blood pulsed between his fingers.
“Mercy.”
“You gave her none.”
“She didn’t matter.”
“She mattered to me.”
“Behind the rocks, four bags of gold coins. Take them. But let me go. Take the coin and spare my life. I beg you. Once we were brothers.”
Cruhund began to scream but Spear heard nothing. He did not hear the incessant howling of the wind. Nor the final words of the rotten-mouthed man. Nor the cawing laughter of the crows perched on the cliff above as the fifth head rolled.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SPEAR WOKE ON a bed of gold coins. As he shifted, the coins jangled beneath him. He allowed his good hand to furrow a handful.
His smiled was short-lived as the surging pain from his broken arm almost made him pass out. The coals from the brazier in the center of the room were still lit so he assumed he had not been sleeping long. But he had slept hard. He had needed it after the fight with Cruhund. He was lucky the rotten-toothed bastard had not killed him; lucky to only limp away with a broken arm and a twisted ankle. By all rights, that two-handed sword should have cleaved him from shoulder to groin.
He tried to sit but even that made his head swim. He laughed just above his breath. Was this his fate? To lie on a bed of treasure but never able to spend the coin? He had lost too much blood and had not eaten in as long as he could remember. Water dripped from the walls in the tunnel but he doubted he had the energy to even crawl over to wet his lips.
He slowly rolled to sitting. The room spun, shadows stretching and turning across the ceiling, the walls dipping. He fell face forward, then picked himself up again. He leaned hard on his good hand. Spear glanced at the ruby and diamond crusted necklace he had shoved beneath the top of his armor upon his return to the room.
He imagined the necklace hanging around Seana’s pale neck, the large set ruby nestled above her breasts. Maybe he should have found a necklace with blue stones to better match her eyes. His purse was stuffed with rings. One of them, the one with a braid of rubies, he would use to encircle her finger with his promise. She would be his queen forever, master and mistress of the keep, a fortune at their back and their lands unfolding as far as their eyes could see. They would command an army. They would have children, many children, and begin a clan of their own, children that would give them hope for the future, children that would turn their turbulent past fruitful. If the first child were a girl he would call her Valda, or, if Seana protested, Ruby, a sparkling gem of brightness to transform this dark world.
His ankle was swollen, the flesh black and blue. He thought of pulling his boot off but he doubted he would be able to get it back on. Let them pull it off when he returned to the keep.
The room rippled with darkness. The coals burned in the brazier. He would need to relight the torch to find his way out of the darkness. He would return triumphant: the last head taken, his promise to Val kept, and a fortune in hand with which to build an army. Everything had turned out better than he had ever imagined.
The light in the room rippled again and he realized it was not the brazier failing but weariness seizing him. He wanted to pull himself to his feet so he might begin the long walk back but he could not keep his eyes open.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
SPEAR WOKE TO distant voices. The treasure room was nearly dark, the edges of the coals in the brazier pulsing thin lines of orange. Soon the fire would be completely cold and he would not be able to light the torch. How would he find his way back?
His bigger concern was the voices. They came down the hall, voices held low. With them came footsteps. More than a single person. He could not tell from which direction the voices came.
Then silence and the light of a torch through the doorway. Whoever they were must have seen the door. Sudden whispers. Blades scraped from scabbards. The light grew brighter. He strained to hear exchanged words or footsteps but whoever it was approached stealthily.
He reached for his sword. Where was it? He only found a fistful of gold coins. Useless. Then he laughed, his voice cracked and hollow. No sword, a broken arm, a swollen ankle. The room tilted again. He would probably pass out before he could even beg for mercy.
Then he caught the faint scent of pines, of bright flowers in a heady meadow of grass.
The torch light grew brighter.
“Seana?” He wanted his voice to be stronger but it was lost behind the cascade of coins beneath his elbow.
A torch and face peered through the door. A craggy, white-bearded face, one that he recognized.
“By the gods, it’s him,” said Bones.
Biroc stood at his shoulder. “We came looking for you. You should have let us come with you.”
“Is this real?” asked Bones. He bent to pick up a handful of gold coins and let them rain through to his fingers.
“I am king of this now,” Spear said. They were standing over him. How had they moved so fast?
“Yours. Fine. But don’t forget your comrades.”
Then he was in between them propped beneath their shoulders.
“Where’s Cruhund?” asked Bones.
Spear lifted his hand, his finger pointing to the pyramid of skulls. A bearded bloody head capped the stack.
The gold swirled into blackness.
He saw the torch light against the rivulets on the walls. Distant laughter. He smelled freshly baked bread. Beneath him the table was tacky with old spilled mead. Men knelt on his legs. The cook’s smile showed a gap tooth and then she rebroke his arm. He returned to blackness.
He woke in a bed of feathers, his body beneath thick blankets. Someone had bound his arm in linen and braced it with a frame of sticks. White curtains fluttered against a sky heavy with gray clouds. In the distance, a single egret flew with the wind.
Yriel sat in a chair next him, wrapped in a heavy cloak. She looked as if she might disappear in it. Her face was fuller and color touched her cheeks.
“You came back,” she said.
She poured him a cup of water and helped him drink it.
“We’ll have them bring broth for you. And meat so you can regain your strength. I have spoken to them. They are ready to follow you. All that you dreamed of can finally be yours. We can have what slipped away from us in Cullan. You can be the lord of all this, and I will stand by your side.”
Later, Bones brought a stew of lamb and carrots. Spear was able to feed himself but had the old man help him to his feet.
“Where is she?” Spear asked.
“Back down in the hall. Acting like the lord of this place. She was once your woman?”
“Not her. Not Yriel. Seana? Where is she? Why has she not come to visit me?”
The old man winced. “She left. Long ago. Right as you went into that tunnel, she left. Down the stairs and out of the keep. She always intended to go back to the North. You knew that better than anyone.”
“But I have everything now.” Spear limped over to the balcony. The world stretched out beneath him, all within his sight.
“You’re alive. That I’ll give you.”
After Bones left, Spear stood on the balcony for a long while. The clouds rolled across the sky. Rains came and went. The crows loitered on the walls.
Spear saw the whole world beneath him. He saw a roomful of coins and an empty bed. He saw a broken man standing on a balcony of an abandoned keep.
“After all this,” he sai
d to the silent crows, “I am the king of nothing.”
Acknowledgements
This book would not be possible without the support and guidance of a number of people.
I would like to thank Scott Oden for a wonderful edit of the manuscript. He helped elevate the prose and iron out a number of wrinkles with character and plot.
I would like to thank a number of early readers of the work including Nathaniel Mellen, Alex Gurevich, Joel Eis and Daniel Madar. The combination of early encouragement and criticism helped me get more quickly to the heart of the story.
Finally, I want to thank Evangeline for her support of this dream of mine as well as a comment on the final draft that confirmed the shape of the work.
Want to read the first book in the Hounds of the North series for free?
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Five Bloody Heads (The Hounds of the North Book 3) Page 22
