Gard did not hesitate. His natural instinct, Kern knew, to accept any challenge.
And no large surprise, their individual wagers. Brig would be anxious to return to Murrogh, and hoped any misstep would bring them closer to their goal. Gard, once Clan Cruaidh’s protector and the right hand of Sláine Longtooth, had grown more pessimistic since his brush with blindness and abandonment by his chieftain. The poisoned welts raised on his face by Ymirish sorceries had healed over into a dozen small white scars. The white cast had all but faded from his eyes. But still, there was an emptiness to him that Kern wasn’t certain anyone could fill.
Valerus looked askance at Kern, who nodded toward Daol. “Right where he says we are supposed to be.”
Kern did not wager against his men. Ever.
Ehmish had started back down, dropping from one branch to the next, hands gripping at the rough, scalelike bark. At a few places, where the branches were too thin for his weight or stretched out too far from each other, he hugged the tree and shinnied down with practiced skill. No worries the young man might slip, or fall. All Cimmerians climbed from a young, young age. They scaled sheer cliff faces for war, or a contest of wagers, and, at times, just to show it could be done.
Another part of Crom’s legacy. The Cimmerians’ creator had blessed them with strength, and the will to stand up under any burden. Life was therefore a series of challenges to be overcome, and they would prove it to themselves if nothing else.
Ehmish hung from the final branch, dangling at least two good lengths above the ground, then let go. It was a short fall, which he absorbed in a half crouch and easy roll off to one side, coming back to his feet with ease. Seeing the young man returned, the others gathered up their own gear and readied themselves for the march while Ehmish slid his broadsword’s belt over one shoulder, found his buckler and bow, and slung his bedroll as well.
Daol and Nahud’r and Wallach Graybeard joined Kern’s small group just as Ehmish approached, wanting to hear firsthand.
“Half a league,” the young man promised. He pointed in a south-by-west direction. “The lake is straight by. Right where Daol said.”
Daol shrugged and ambled away to take a lead on the morning’s run. And was brought up short when Kern asked, “But?”
He’d caught something else in Ehmish’s voice, his face. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t their direction.
“Smoke. Thin, like a single cooking fire, but there.” There was no doubting Ehmish, who had sharp eyes and was learning the skills of tracking from Daol. And if there was a better hunter or tracker than Daol that Kern had ever seen, it was Daol’s father, Hydallan.
The boy—the young man—had veteran teachers.
“Take Brig,” Kern told Daol now. “Take Aodh and Ehmish. Scout our approach to the lake.”
Three of the four were present, nodded, and set off together. Ehmish called Aodh in with a boisterous shout and a wave. Glad, obviously, to be included so easily. Before Kern lost sight of them, they had already stepped up into an easy run. The kind of pace any of his men could hold for a day and half a night without much need for rest.
Reave and Ossian were not far behind. Then Kern and most of the others.
Valerus dropped back, content to guard their rear, knowing his mount could have him at the forefront of any battle almost in less time than it took to call for him.
Kern’s warriors worked along always with one eye on the man in front, the man behind. It was more than battlefield caution. More than Daol’s getting turned around the once. It was simply the not knowing. A new land, with its secret dangers and more than a few known ones.
Not this time, however.
“Ho! Kern!”
Daol’s ringing call, slipping back through the forest’s natural palisade of trees, had no sense of urgency. No fear or thrill of danger. Whatever waited ahead—whoever—Kern felt certain it did not involve another Vanir war host.
He found out a few moments later, pushing his way through a small grove of young saplings to step out onto the northeastern shore of a large lake. Gray waters reflected an overcast sky, while gusting winds whipped up plenty of white chop on the lake’s surface. A trio of horses had been tethered among nearby trees, able to graze on the lower branches and tall grasses at their feet. Two warriors guarded them. More men and women milled about inside the campsite spread nearby. Some with swords out and ready, most sitting back casually. Unafraid in the territory they knew and controlled.
Kern saw the spear, with its golden, cougar pelt dangling from near the head, before he saw the young stalwart standing next to Daol. Shorter than Daol, but built more like Reave, with wide, stocky shoulders and legs as thick as tree trunks. A square, strong jaw that could have been carved from granite, and the same brown eyes shared by most clans who lived near Murrogh Forest and often took wives from out of the Border Kingdoms.
The warrior propped the butt of his warhammer against the ground, arms resting easily over the maul’s head. “Well met, Kern Wolf-Eye.”
Better than meeting a Vanir raiding party, or one of the marauding hosts from the upper lake country. But not by a great deal. “Well met,” Kern returned the greeting. “Jaryyd Morag’s-son.”
It was the first mistake Kern had made after meeting with the chieftain of Murrogh Forest’s strongest clan. Even Cul had warned him against involving himself. But he had. He had. In a time when Murrogh and Lacheish fought each other in a raging feud and the Vanir invasion threatened all, it had seemed the height of folly for Morag Chieftain to hold his eldest son at such a distance. Not quite outcast, but hardly welcome inside of Clan Murrogh’s walls either, with Morag instead so infatuated with his youngest child.
That a good few dozen men and women chose to keep the chieftain’s son company on his patrols of the forest and lakeshores, rather than remain in the safety of the clan’s stronghold, had seemed to rankle with Cul as much as the father. Shades of Kern’s return among the Gaudic funeral procession—those several months before—causing a smaller but no less damaging split.
Jaryyd settled Kern and a few of the new arrivals around their small, smoldering cookfire. A couple of camp dogs barked at Kern. One, hackles up, took an aggressive stance and growled, deep and threatening, when Kern stepped too close. Jaryyd kicked at the mutt, sending it fleeing for the far side of camp.
“Smells the wolf, he does. So. Still running errands for the Murrogh?”
There were no introductions and no time wasted in further pleasantries. Each man knew exactly what the other was about.
Kern watched his people spread out in a loose circle around him. Most pretending to relax—rest even. Every one with an eye on him and Reave, Ossian, Hydallan, and Nahud’r. Those guesting among Jaryyd’s advisors.
“Returning from Gorram Village,” Kern said. “You?”
“Hunting. It’s good, this side of the lake. Eight trophies in the last handful of days.”
Eight heads, the other warrior meant. And for him, it would not matter, Vanir or Clan Lacheish. No difference; not among his men.
Perhaps there was no difference. Not anymore. On more than one recent occasion, Vanir and Lacheish warriors had fought side by side. And a prisoner had bought his life back with the telling of a Ymirish advisor to Cailt Stonefist. Kern had not wanted to believe it. But then a merchant had come the day before he’d left for Gorram, straight from the Lacheish lodge hall and with the same story.
The Lacheish, it seemed, would rather seek aid from Vanir raiders than look to Cimmeria’s defense. They were pointing their blades in the wrong direction!
One of Jaryyd’s men produced a leather flask, taking a drink and smacking his lips loudly. Capping it, he then tossed the container to Kern, who swigged back a small mouthful of souring mead and passed it on to Ossian, who accepted the container with relish. The drink was warm, and hardly refreshing. But sharing drink was a way to show at least a basic trust.
He did not worry overmuch. Poison was hardly a Cimmerian tool, man or
woman. It was a coward’s battle. A “civilized” way. More than anything, it meant he was not afraid to lower his guard among Jaryyd’s small force. And he wasn’t. Much.
He waited while the flask was passed down the line. “It is good that you stay on your guard,” he said, stepping carefully. “No one knows these woods better.”
“I should hope not.” Jaryyd took the flask when it came by him, sipped, and made a face as he passed it on. “Tastes like dog’s water. Haven’t had fresh mead in a month.”
He brightened. “Some half-decent wine last night, though. A trio of your Vanir raiders all but tripped over our path yestermorn. Slogged their way out of Hanging Tree Marsh. Covered in muck and one of them infested by digger wasps. Did that one a favor, running them down. Those larvae would have eaten him from the insides out when they hatched.” Jaryyd and a few of his men laughed. A rough sound, without much humor. “Good sport. I think you would have enjoyed it.”
“It sport when you have ten to their one,” Nahud’r said calmly, grinning one of his wide, calming smiles. The man’s teeth were bright, bright, against so much dark skin. “At Gorram, we have no time for play.”
One of the reasons Kern usually included Nahud’r in such meetings was for his outlook. The Shemite’s way of looking at things that Kern might not have seen. Kern had discovered this about the dark-skinned man soon after rescuing him from the same Vanir slave line as Daol and Maev and the others who had been taken in winter. He’d come to rely on the man’s counsel as well as his friendship in the last few months.
It also did not hurt that Nahud’r’s dark skin and desert tales were certain to distract, letting Kern blend in among his adopted countrymen so much as that might be possible.
“What?” Jaryyd asked. “What is your man saying?”
Nahud’r usually shied away from talking up the exploits of Kern and the other warriors. Except in a distant method, as if telling a story that happened among other people—and often as if one of the legendary tales of Conan. In this case, he had intentionally drawn Jaryyd’s attention, Kern felt certain, to limit the irritation the Murroghan were bound to feel.
“Twenty men, maybe more, came at us at Gorram.” Kern shrugged. “Six or seven men made it away. Your three, they were likely from among them.”
“Twenty men?” Jaryyd looked around, taking a silent count. “With what losses?”
“None.”
“Nay losses?”
Kern shrugged. “It was a good battle. We held every advantage. And the Gorram honored us with song and a pledge.”
That got Jaryyd’s complete and full attention. “They are coming off their mountainside? The Gorram?”
Kern had let Ossian carry it, keeping it wrapped away within a blanket. Now the Taurin handed over the bundle. Kern untied the leather cord and unwrapped their token. What they’d taken from the battlefield over Conarch had been carried to most clans of northwest Cimmeria, and had finally made the trip from Mount Crom, through Conall Valley, and over the Pass of Noose to Murrogh Forest.
The bloodied, broken shaft of a Cimmerian spear.
Jaryyd might be at odds with his father, but he had some appreciation for the weight behind the token. A bloody spear, carried among the clans, was a call to war. To set aside all feuds, all petty differences, and join in the face of a common enemy.
Grimnir and his Vanir hordes were just such an enemy. But it had taken Kern’s warriors nearly the entire breadth of Cimmeria before finding a chieftain willing to take on the responsibility, and clans willing to listen, and honor, that tradition.
“Such a small thing,” Jaryyd said. He reached out, and Kern let him take the broken weapon up. The spearhead was blue iron, some of the best metal crafted in Cimmeria and a true rarity this far to the east. It looked rusted, coated with a dull brown that might have been Cimmerian blood, might have been the blood of their enemies. Didn’t matter.
Behind the blood-encrusted head, leather thongs had been tied into place. First was a strap burned with the paw print of a forest cougar. Clan Murrogh’s well-known sigil. Then the opossum’s tale of Borat Village, the braided cords common to the mountain tribes who lied and fought between Murrogh and Azkel’s Fortress in the Border Kingdoms, and leather ties to represent two more small clans as well.
Finally, the pale, leather strap that Gorram’s chieftain had tied on the previous morning. Burned into the tag was the outline of a mountain ram’s hooves. Gorram’s pledge.
“Come back with us,” Kern said, treading once again onto dangerous ground. “Bring your men back to Murrogh. Meet with your father.”
“My father has a new family. A new son. And nay need of me underfoot.” Jaryyd glanced up sharply. “Leave off, Wolf-Eye. This is not for you.”
Mayhap not. In fact, he often wondered if Clan Murrogh and Morag Chieftain were for him at all. Did they share his purpose? And even if they did, without a united clan would the Murroghan ever raise their war banner? Kern thought not. “What you hold in your hand is the start of something. Or perhaps the end. If there was ever a time to see an end to your argument with Morag Chieftain, certainly this heralds it.”
The other man shrugged. “One more,” Jaryyd said, offering back the spear. “Only one more since last I see you. It is not so impressive, perhaps, as you would think.”
Kern accepted back the bloody spear. Handed it off to Ossian, who wrapped the token once more in its woolen shroud. “One at a time,” he said, agreeing in part. “That is the way alliances are forged.”
“An alliance. A massive war host.” Jaryyd shook his head. “If they ever see battle against these Vanir you fear so greatly, it will only be when Grimnir hisself finishes with the valley, and on the Hoath Plateau, and finally works his way into the east.”
Kern shrugged uneasily, then picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his kilt. Such an outcome, he knew, was what he most feared. “You think so little of the Vanir threat because you have not seen the northerners tear apart village after village. The valley was not ready, protected too long between mountains and so many strong clans. Now most of our strength is spent, and the Vanir are here, building in number. They are.”
“So say you. But the Lacheishi are the threat I know now. Not the threat that may come tomorrow. And my father, if he ever moves, will move in their direction first.”
Yea, he might. And then Kern would be trapped in a bind, caught between old enmities and new loyalties. To whom could he then turn? What would Cimmeria have left but a dirge for the dead and the destroyed?
He called men to him with a glance, and gave Jaryyd one final shrug.
“If it comes to that, chieftain’s son, then we have already lost.”
5
T’HULE CHIEFTAIN’S RUNNER caught up with Ros-Crana and her combined war host before she quit the Broken Leg Lands and the northwest territories. Barely.
She stood at the damp-slick edge of a wide ledge, to one side of the weathered arch being crossed by a nonstop line of warriors. Flanked by two of her strongest “seconds,” she looked back over the wide, deep ravine and the raging whitewater crashing through far, far below. Waiting. Feet spread wide, and flat. One hand on the hilt of her war sword, the other holding a spear with its butt end planted firmly against the ground. A gusting wind tugged at the damp strands of her dark, ragged-cut hair, whipping them to one side.
Always, always look the part of a leader. Her brother’s advice. Let them see you, ready and unafraid.
As Clan Callaugh’s war leader, she had never worried overmuch for the sake of appearances. A strong arm. A heavy blade. It was all she needed. When Narach said to kill, she killed. When he stayed her at the last moment, she obeyed. She had not questioned why he made the choices he did. Nor had she understood, then, that choosing whom to destroy and whom to spare often came down to appearance. The need to appear strong, or merciful, as benefited the clan.
And so, coming onto the ravine, with the stone arch serving as a natural bridge, she had not h
esitated to cross first without the weakness of safety rope or sand.
Knowing that should she fall, the quest died with her.
Two arm lengths wide, the weathered stone was plenty wide enough. On the face of things, at least. But several thin waterfalls chattered down the opposite cliffside, feeding the raging stream below, and spray from their frothy cascades slicked the stone a dark, dangerous color. Gusting winds made it even more treacherous, whipping some of that icy spray into her eyes and setting an unsteady hand on her shoulder to give her a slight nudge now and again.
Look strong.
The advice helped. Though not so much as one other fact she would not let herself forget. Kern had come this way, into the Broken Leg Lands. And he’d crossed this arch in the icy grip of winter. She recalled his speaking of it.
Crom curse the arrogant bastard for his exploits and tales, anyway.
And again, for having the right of it.
After crossing, Ros-Crana planted herself at the bridgehead to wait for every man and woman behind her. Letting each see her, as they came astride. Letting them feel judged, and hoping they felt the stronger for it, worthy to be a part of her war host. Now almost two hundred strong, called and bullied from several clan villages in the northwest territories, it was a Cimmerian war host stronger than any she’d ever seen in her lifetime. And it was hers.
So long as she held the allegiance or fear of such men as the two who’d joined her on the ledge.
Dahr was chieftain and war leader of Clan Mak. A long-standing “ally” of the Callaughnan, he was the “second leader” she trusted most. Which was not much. His was a face pitted by the pox and scarred by several blades over his run of forty-odd summers. And she knew his obedience came only on the point of the knife Callaugh had forever held at Mak’s throat. That his small village needed the protection of a larger clan such as hers, or T’hule Chieftain’s.
Carrak was both less and more of a mystery. He was present on the direct threat Ros-Crana had leveraged over Clan Corag, promising to tear down the village palisade and put their homes to the torch if Wellem Chieftain did not heed her summons. She’d been forced to step heavily on Wellem’s pride, always dangerous footing, until he’d broken, promising her a war leader and twenty strong warriors. But it was Carrak who thrust in and twisted the final dagger, stepping forward to name himself as that war leader. Taking the choice from his chieftain and certainly setting himself to challenge Wellem on a victorious return from the campaign.
Age of Conan: Songs of Victory: Legends of Kern, Volume IIl Page 5
