“Please!” he called at Thorsa's back, struggling not to stumble as he hurried to catch up. “You must go back!”
“My uncle deserves no aid, mortal,” the she-dwarf replied without turning or slowing. “You too should abandon him.”
“What of Ulfrun?” Ingelbert pressed.
“The giantess is nothing to me.”
His strength waning, Ingelbert had no more breath for further protestations. He continued to pursue the savage dwarrow, not knowing what else to do. He caught up with them when Kàlfr called a halt in the remains of the dell camp to retrieve the headless corpse of the porter Fafnir had cut down. The sight of the bald dwarf shamelessly loading the body onto the back of a wolf filled Ingelbert with disgust.
“Why do you do this?” he asked weakly from the edge of the dell. “Why do you debase yourself so?”
“Hold your tongue,” Thorsa warned, her voice cold, her countenance afire.
Ingelbert looked at her and his disgust increased. “And you,” he said, heedless. “You are the greatest mystery. Why come back for your husband when you flagrantly rut with another like a farm animal?”
The tree next to Ingelbert's head shuddered with a resounding crack and his face was stung with flying wood chips. Thorsa's axe, flung from Kàlfr's hand, was buried deeply in the trunk.
“Enough,” the Roundhouse said, his voice dangerously calm. “There is your answer, man child. Power. We do not quail from what we must do to regain the strength that was once ours. The Corpse Eater cursed us, but that same curse offered us an end to the affliction our huldu cousins bestowed when they fled to Airlann. Magic dubbed them faithful and lifted them on high, the true elves, while we were named the svartálfar, black elves, and left stunted, withered and frail. Kàlfr the Roundhouse will not be weak. But neither will I abandon Middangeard and walk the Tin Isles to bask in the Magic of the huldu as Fafnir does. No doubt you have seen him there, hale and strong, color in his flesh and fire in his beard. Such is as we dwarrow should be. But not skulking there in Airlann, standing proud here in Middangeard.”
“You do not wish the Corpse Eater slain,” Ingelbert realized aloud. “If she dies, the curse of the vættir ends and you are denied your wretched source of power. That is why you will not help Fafnir. You do not want his quest to succeed.”
“His quest will not succeed,” Kàlfr snorted with assurance, turning his back once more to leave the dell.
Ingelbert felt his mouth fill with sour spit. He stared at the back of the dwarf's bald scalp. This half-clad barbarian and his arrogance was offensive. So confident in his prowess, his crude strength, all gained from consuming the cold, dead flesh of his own kind. Thorsa too was crossing the dell, on Kàlfr’s heels, the doting mate. They were animals. Worse, they were scavengers. Carrion. Vile and proud.
The storulvir followed the dwarrow, padding along dutifully. There were near thirty of them with the Roundhouse, all large and fearless, comfortable in this frozen wilderness. But for all their storied cunning, they too, like the dwarf they followed, were nothing but up jumped animals. And animals needed to be mastered.
Ingelbert reached into the mind of one of the giant wolves. The animal brain was a red miasma of heat and hunger, but there was something more, a light anchored in the fires of instinct. It was the effulgence of thought, the knowledge of loyalty. Within that light Ingelbert could see the exceptional intelligence of the storulvir that raised them out of the mere primal. They possessed language, understanding, free will, even compassion. All of these were housed and fed by a single, glorious flame.
Ingelbert snuffed it out.
The first wolf yelped, its steps made clumsy by the spasm that ran through its body as its affinity died. The rest of the pack halted at the sound, turning to face their stricken sister. Ingelbert took the rest of their minds in one swoop, stamping out their lights and reducing them to beasts. The storulvir began to growl, low rumblings coming from deep in their broad chests. Their fangs were bared, their hackles raised. The Bone Chewers paused, confusion spreading across their faces.
“Kàlfr? What is—?”
Three of the storulvir barreled into Thorsa, cutting off her words as they drug her to the ground. The Roundhouse screamed at the wolves, trying to call them off, but they paid him no mind, their bodies shaking as they savaged the fallen she-dwarf. Thorsa's cries were shrill and terrified. Kàlfr raised his axe, preparing to strike, still yelling at the wolves to cease. Before he could bring the blade down, the pack attacked him.
The dwarf was fast, and dodged the first pouncing animal, his face a motley of confusion and rage. The next two wolves gave him no choice and Kàlfr brought his axe around in a vicious swipe, severing the head from the first and caving in the skull of the second in a single blow. Kàlfr cried out with anguish as the pair died. The others approached more carefully, spreading out to encircle the dwarf, their heads low. The three who brought Thorsa down left their prey to join the others, muzzles covered in fresh blood. Kàlfr pleaded with the wolves as they drew closer, but on the storulvir came, relentless. It was not for his own life that the dwarf begged.
It was for theirs.
The storulvir rushed in and Kàlfr's axe swung. The Bone Chewer was fast, fueled by vættir flesh, and his blade became a whirl of steel, scattering blood and the broken bodies of wolves. And Kàlfr the Roundhouse sobbed as he butchered the pack. When it was over, the dwarf fell to his knees in the center of the slaughter, his axe falling from his hands.
Ingelbert approached him slowly, ignoring the intense pain in his shoulder. Kàlfr held one of the dead wolves, embracing its large head as he wept.
“Power?” Ingelbert asked as he stood over the dwarf. “You have none, savage.”
The Bone Chewer looked up at him, overcome with grief, though not yet broken. There was naked wrath in his streaming eyes.
“You have a choice,” Ingelbert told him. “Live with what you have done, if you can. Or test me further with an attempt at vengeance. Choose the first and you may leave this dell, though I wonder, with so much of their blood upon you, will the storulvir ever again accept you? Choose the second, and it will be the end of you, Kàlfr the Roundhouse.”
The dwarf's eyes flitted over to where Thorsa fell. Ingelbert followed his gaze. The she-dwarf had already risen, but the storulvir had mauled her so viciously, she could not stand. The wight which had been Thorsa crawled through the snow, one arm pulling while the other reached out for Kàlfr.
“Make your choice,” Ingelbert said.
Kàlfr tore his eyes away from Thorsa and, gently laying the head of the great wolf on the ground, he rose. Picking up his axe, he fled the dell.
The wight continued to crawl towards Ingelbert, craning her neck upward to keep him within her empty sight. He watched her slow, pitiful progress for a while, fascinated and repulsed. When she finally reached him, he allowed her to grip his ankle briefly, feeling the strength given to dwarrow in death in her curling fingers. With a disdainful kick, he released himself, walking over to retrieve the axe that Kàlfr had thrown into the tree. Ingelbert wrenched it free then strode back to Thorsa and, placing his foot on the back of her head, forced it down into the snow. He chopped down with the axe, severing the neck through with a single cut.
A crash of branches caused Ingelbert to look around.
Bantam Flyn came rushing into the dell, sword drawn. The knight was breathing heavily and the sight of the carnage in the ruined camp brought him to a halt. He stared wordlessly for a moment, taking in all the bodies, then looked at Ingelbert.
“Inkstain? What happened?”
“The storulvir turned on the Bone Chewers,” Ingelbert told him.
“Why?”
“I know not,” Ingelbert lied. “But there is no time for questions. Fafnir and Ulfrun need your aid. They fight the fjordmen.” He pointed. “Go. Through the trees eastward and you shall find them. Hurry!”
The coburn nodded and ran off. Ingelbert hoped he would not be too late.
The agony in his shoulder was dreadful and he looked to see what could be done, surprised to find the arrow was not the only thing causing his pain. Gasten perched upon him, though Ingelbert had no recollection of him landing. The owl's head revolved lazily, looking across the horror of the dell. His talons were sunk deep into Ingelbert, piercing his flesh and drawing blood.
Flyn knelt in a pile of bodies.
He had hoped at least one of the fjordmen would yield, but the warriors of Middangeard fought to the death. His charge had taken them by surprise, shattering their ranks. Their mail was as silk beneath Coalspur's blade and many fell before they knew what attacked them. Flyn's entry into the battle had given Ulfrun a moment to rally. And a moment was all the giantess needed. She waded back into the fray, breaking limbs and smashing skulls, tossing broken men aside. Moving with a brutal grace, Ulfrun won through to stand at Flyn's side and together they came to Fafnir's aid. No longer surrounded, the Chain Maker and his dwarrow went on the offensive. Once again, Fafnir sang as he fought. The Lay of the Sword-Dale, that is what Hengest named it. This time, the dwarf was not present to translate, but Flyn remembered what the dworgmál words meant and he felt them provide strength to his sword. The remaining three porters were even more bolstered by the music and not one of them was laid low. Unlike Flyn, they gave the fjordmen no chance to surrender.
Breathing heavy, eyes fixed on the ugly pink slush surrounding the fallen, Flyn shook his head. These men might have given voice to where Deglan had been taken, but they all lay lifeless upon the ground. The crunch of snow signaled Fafnir's approach.
“I feared you lost,” the Chain Maker said.
Flyn did not bother to look up when he answered. “Hakeswaith took Deglan. I followed. But the fjordmen got to them before I did. They have been taken. I know not where.”
“To Arngrim Crow Shoulders' fortress at Bólmr, no doubt,” Fafnir replied.
Flyn stood and faced the wizard. “Then that is where we must go.”
“We have not the numbers, Bantam Flyn,” Fafnir said, then gestured to the warriors littering the snow. “These were just a portion of Crow Shoulders' strength. To attack him at his stronghold would be folly.”
“You said you would do battle with this man when the wights were destroyed!” Flyn proclaimed.
“Now is not the time.”
“I cannot simply leave Deglan behind!”
“You must.”
The two words punched Flyn in the gut. It was not the bluntness which affected him, nor the placid expression on Fafnir's face when he uttered them. It was the truth that struck hard.
Flyn had wanted Deglan gone, even if only in a moment of anger. But fate had taken that moment and stretched it until his friend was now beyond his reach. He had feared it when the riders escaped him, a fear which solidified when he found the storulvir slain, ridding him of any hope of tracking the horses. It mattered not that Fafnir knew whither they were bound, the dwarf was right, they could not hope to assault a position of strength. A part of Flyn wanted to throw curses in the Chain Maker's face, damn his caution and his quest. He could rescue Deglan alone or die in the attempt. That was the old Flyn, the reckless Flyn, the very Flyn that Deglan had so often chastised him for being. The old mushroom would not respect him for throwing his life away in a vain display of pointless pride. Flyn had to remedy his mistake, not feed it with more foolhardy impulse. He had to trust that the old stoat could keep himself alive.
“I pledged you my aid,” Flyn told Fafnir. “And you have it. But when this is done and the Corpse Eater lies dead, I ask you to return that aid and help me rescue Deglan Loamtoes.”
Fafnir met his gaze firmly. “I swear it.”
Fighting a sickening in his gut as he came to terms with his choice, Flyn slung Coalspur over his shoulder. “There is something you must see.”
Without a backward glance, Flyn led Fafnir back to the dell. Ulfrun must have followed, for he heard the giantess mutter a curse at the sight of the butchered storulvir. They picked their way through the carnage, towards the only living things remaining in the dell.
Hengest had regained consciousness, but awoke to a living nightmare. Weeping, he clutched Thorsa's severed head between his hands, his forehead pressed into hers. Inkstain stood precisely where Flyn had left him, staring vacantly at the grieving dwarf. The owl upon his shoulder swiveled its head to look at Flyn and the others as they approached.
Fafnir's face was unreadable, but he went straight to Hengest and gripped the beardless dwarf's shoulder, standing patiently until he composed himself. Setting the head of his wife gently on the snow, Hengest wiped his eyes and stood, then turned to face Fafnir.
“I offer gratitude for my life, Chain Maker,” Hengest said, his voice still thick with tears. “I know it was your craft which delivered me from death.”
Fafnir accepted this wordlessly, then glanced at Thorsa's ravaged corpse.
“Kàlfr the Roundhouse will pay for this,” he said gravely.
“Vengeance is wasted on him,” Hengest pronounced. “He chose to walk a cursed path. As did Thorsa. I was bound to her by marriage and stood with her as loyalty demanded. She entwined us with Kàlfr and I suffered it, but death has sundered our bond and I am free. A road of revenge would only fetter my life to the Roundhouse once more, and that I will not do.”
“Then which road will you now take, Hengest Half-Rune?” Fafnir asked.
“The one which leads to the end of the vættir, Chain Maker,” Hengest answered, his voice hardening. “You once entreated me to walk it with you. If my past abjurations could be forgiven, I would join you now.”
“Ever was your fate linked to this quest,” Fafnir said. “I saw it centuries ago and ensured you became my apprentice. Gladly do I accept your return. Now, join your craft with mine and let us see to the hurts of our companions.”
Flyn was uninjured and rested against a tree while the two runecasters turned their healing arts on Inkstain and Ulfrun. Both had suffered arrow wounds and the giantess was covered in a tapestry of weals from the battering she had endured at the hands of the fjordmen. Inkstain did not so much as wince when the arrow was removed from his shoulder and Flyn found himself watching the man with growing disquiet.
Deglan had warned him that Crane had become dangerous. Certainly, he had changed, toughened, but in the harshness of Middangeard such qualities were needed to survive. Indeed, Flyn would have found it a wonder if Crane had remained unaffected by the travails they had all endured. Still, there was a coldness to the man not born from journeying through the hoary wastes, a distance that went beyond his usual propensity for solitude. Fafnir had claimed Crane was a burgeoning wizard and even with Flyn's almost complete ignorance of Magic he could sense the sorcery surrounding the man. That bloody big owl was only the most obvious manifestation of Inkstain's power. Flyn felt it a small betrayal to be suspicious of one he counted as a member of the Order, but he was not certain the chronicler would lay claim to similar affection. Best to trust Deglan's word and count the man as dangerous, but Flyn would also trust his own instincts and continue to count him a friend as well. On a quest such as this, dangerous companions were an asset, especially when dangerous enemies abounded.
“Fafnir,” Flyn said. “We need to reach a place of safety. Somewhere we can rest. Regroup.”
The Chain Maker glanced up from tending Inkstain just long enough to signal he had heard, but did not answer until the chronicler's bleeding had ebbed.
“There is such a place,” the wizard said at last. “Indeed, it has been our destination since we landed on the shores of Middangeard. A few more days journey and we shall enter the Downward Fields.”
Flyn noticed Hengest stiffen slightly, his attention briefly diverted from Ulfrun's wounds. The giantess too looked up sharply at Fafnir's words.
“Your people will suffer the presence of outsiders there, Chain Maker?” she asked.
When Fafnir answered, his voice, like his countenance, was ti
nged with darkness. “They will have no choice.”
TWENTY THREE
“So. People do live here,” Deglan muttered to himself.
He lurched forward, his spine bending as the fjordman's fist struck his kidney.
The blow did not require much effort on the warrior's part, as Deglan was riding in front of the man, wedged uncomfortably between him and the pommel of the saddle. The punch was a welcome distraction from the ache of his crushed balls. Now he could look forward to pissing blood out of his already swollen genitals.
He said no more, but through watery eyes surveyed the tiny thorpe which the horsemen now approached. It was the first settlement Deglan had seen since arriving in Middangeard. The frozen land was sparsely populated, he knew, but Fafnir had taken special pains to avoid all contact with other folk, traversing only the deepest wilderness. The riders keeping Deglan company had no such designs. They had ridden through the cold night and now, not long after dawn, came upon a miserable cluster of buildings skulking in the snowy plains.
The thorpe consisted of maybe a dozen huts scattered around a long, low hall. In the early, weak light Deglan spotted several of the inhabitants from a distance, mostly women and children, but they quickly vanished into their mean houses as the column of horses drew closer. A few men watched them with wary eyes. Their willingness to remain in the open bespoke no courage. They had the look of small game animals, fearful that running would only entice the predators. Like most Middangearders, the men of the thorpe were tall, fair of hair and beard, but they had the drawn, thin look of the slowly starving. One of the warriors barked something as he reined up, causing several of the men to scurry into their huts. They returned almost immediately with bread and sloshing horns, handing them up to the horsemen with deference.
Deglan heard the man behind him take a noisy pull from his filched horn, and felt liquid spill down his back as the lout dribbled. Deglan hissed involuntarily as the brew chilled his skin. The smell of mead rose in the air and the warrior laughed at his discomfort, tossing the horn carelessly away before dismounting. A villager waited nearby, nervously offering a half loaf of dark bread. The warrior snatched the bread with one hand and used the other to drag Deglan unceremoniously from the saddle. For once, he was grateful for the snow. He tumbled from the horse's back and would likely have broken a bone were it not for the drift that broke his fall. The rough laughter of the other warriors echoed through the pale morning as they got down off their horses and began ungraciously seizing all that was offered by the groveling peasants. Struggling to stand, Deglan grimaced. He had often heard the fjordmen were as ruthless raiding their own people as they were the shores of the Tin Isles. Now he believed it. One loaf of bread was likely an entire day's food for any one of these poor families.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 42
