“He left no other message?”
“Sure and he did.” Reave took a bite. Chewed. “Said to tell you that he had it.”
Both of them obviously expected her to ask what “it” was. The desire was written on Desa’s face. Reave didn’t take as much delight in his terse report. In fact, it was as if he’d delivered a specific message and now was content to be done with her.
Ros-Crana nodded, understanding them better than they likely thought, and turned her back on the two, gaze set on the gates to her palisade. She already knew the only thing “it” could be. And after seeing Reave, cleaned up after several weeks hard travel, there were only a handful of places she was likely to find Kern Wolf-Eye as well.
She would save her words for him.
But when she found him in the first place she looked, inside the palisade, bathing in the hot springs runoff Callaugh collected in deep, stone pools, Ros-Crana had yet to decide which words she’d have with him. Or, at least, in what order.
Standing between two tall ferns of the kind that flourished so well in the damp, sweaty mists, she watched him. He rested in the deepest pool, shoulders barely out of the water and head bowed forward as if asleep. Steam rose all around him, curling up into his lowered face, drifting in thick wisps to saturate that frost ivory hair, matting it down at the sides of his head. Kern’s skin was usually frost white. Under the hot waters, they flushed barely to the edge of pink. But still he looked pale. And unmoving. Like a snow sculpture ready to melt away into the Callaugh springwater.
He bathed alone. His appearance would have hastened any bathers from the pools ahead of him. His solitary nature would have deterred others from joining him.
Most others.
“You are wasting time,” he said. Strong and clear, though he never moved from being bent over the pool.
She stepped from the green foliage, trading their strong mulch scent for the more sulfurous touch of the hot springs. Already she felt beads of moisture tickling in the short hairs behind her temples, her ears. Her tunic stuck uncomfortably to her body.
“I never waste time, Kern Wolf-Eye.”
“You’ve wasted my time. Weeks. A month. And nothing to show for it. More promises and excuses. You sound like a ‘civilized’ man, talking on both sides of a conversation. Tell me what you think, Ros-Crana.”
That she would not do. Neither would she lie. “Civilized” men lied because they could hide behind cheap words and their backward laws. In Cimmeria, Crom listened only to the truth. You were man—or woman— enough to stand up for your words. Or you kept your mouth closed.
Not that she had ever been known for a guarded tongue. Not as war chief, any way. But as chieftain . . . There were many things she must be wary of, and Kern was one of them.
Men were difficult beasts in the best of times, she reminded herself. Other times, they were simply beasts. Of course, people said that often about the wolf-eyed one. That he was more beast than man, like the Ymirish. And the monster Grimnir. But she did not believe that. She’d seem Kern bleed. Fight, and kill. And fall.
She walked around the edge of the pool, standing across only a short reach of steaming waters. “I can tell you what I am, Kern. I am not your enemy.”
This got his attention. Finally. He raised his face away from the steam and caught her in that blazing, lupine gaze. “You stand against Grimnir, or you stand with him. There is no other way with me.”
For an instant, Ros-Crana feared, as Kern let slip his own guard and showed her a measure of the rage simmering so close to his placid, cold surface. Her bodyguards had taken up a station at the gates, waiting for her. She could bring them with a shout if needed.
But Ros-Crana knew how to take care of herself. She did not back away from a fight.
“Is that what you will challenge me with at my own council?” she asked.
He did not answer. Sitting back, he stared. Challenging her there.
She laid her spear on the ground and folded arms across her chest. Unafraid. Then, before she challenged her own decision, she unclasped her cloak and dropped it into an untidy pile around her feat. Her tunic was harder to strip away, already clinging as the steaming water soaked it down, but her kilt and damp shift were simple enough. Modesty was not a large issue among most clans, where kin and kine often shared close quarters, and community bathing, on warmer days, was normal. And standing clothed in the baths, sticky and uncomfortable while trying to impress upon a naked man her authority as chieftain . . . it felt too awkward.
She would meet him on his own terms, then.
A cask sat on softer ground nearby, always filled with fresh rainwater. Ros-Crana stepped over toward it, picked up a ladle, and dippered a large bowl of water from the reservoir, pouring it over her head in a brisk, cleansing sluice. A second wash, for the sweat and grime of the day. And a third time for nothing more than the pleasant tightness it raised over her skin.
It was then she noticed the bloody, broken spear Kern had taken back from her. Driven point down into the soft earth next to the cask. It was there, for her to mention or take. She did neither.
She moved to the pool and slid into the hot waters with hardly a problem, directly across from him, finding a seat on one of the submerged stone benches.
He nodded. Brought up a handful of water and scrubbed it over his face, letting his weeks of travel and hard fighting seep from every pore. She watched him, and moved closer. Determined to know his mind and mettle once and for all.
“You will challenge me,” she said. “And you will be cast out again, Kern Wolf-Eye. I will not accept any voice against me here in Callaugh.”
“As it should be. But Grimnir challenges all of Cimmeria, and yet you do nothing. You and T’hule Chieftain.” He leaned back, closing his eyes. “The other clans look to you for leadership,” he whispered, “and you do nothing.”
She leaned forward, the top swell of her breasts just breaking the surface. “Is that what you think? Kern, do you understand what the western clans have suffered these last few years? You’ve known Grimnir’s hand for a single winter. We’ve lived under it for far longer. Raiders fly down at us from the north, and we have held. Picts attack from the west. Still, we survive. And now the valley takes notice and thinks to dictate terms? Do you wonder that T’hule Chieftain sent Clan Cruaidh off with strong words and a small war host at their backs to hurry their retreat?”
She was angry. She felt it in the strength of her heartbeat and the tightness in her shoulders. But angry at Kern? Or herself? Because she knew the words should sway her. Did! Did sway her. Crom’s curses on all men! She did not deny that Kern had a strong heart. And he knew how to lead, which was rare, rare. But he was of northern blood, and valley-raised. To come into her home and speak to her so . . . she’d not have taken that from any simple man.
“Except that you aren’t,” she said. Grinding out each word as if the admission hurt. It didn’t.
“Aren’t?” he asked. He did not open his eyes.
“A simple man.” No. It did not hurt to admit it. She licked her lips, tasting fresh sweat and the light sulfur taste of the waters.
“A simple man would have died after being cast out of his village. A simple man never would have gone hunting Vanir, chased Ymirish over the Pass of Blood, or challenged Grimnir. Grimnir! Of all things, by Crom.” She shook her head, uncertain if she was praising him or trying to wound him. “You are a dangerous man, Kern Wolf-Eye. But I still do not know if you are dangerous to me and mine. No one is sure who you are. What you are.”
And she reached through the water. Uncertain. Of her own desires as well as of him. And then she found him. Brushing across his chest with her fingertips. Pressing her hand against him—
—jerked it away as if stung.
“You are . . . cold.”
Kern’s eyes opened into narrow slits. Banking that golden fire. Studying her carefully, as if expecting . . . wondering . . . “All my life,” he said. And waited.
“Even here?” She stood up and back, chest rising out of the waters. Steam rose off her, just as it did from his face, his hair. “How can that be?”
“Because it is,” he said, harshly. Anger had returned to his eyes, and they stared her down across the waters. “The waters tease me with warmth, Ros-Crana. But that is all. They will never warm me down deep. Nothing ever has. And that is what I am. A creature of winter. Still.”
There was a swirl and a splash as Kern rose, naked, and climbed over the side. He dripped his way over to a wooden stool where he’d thrown his kilt and cloak. Rubbing himself down with his old tunic, he dried himself enough to dress.
She waited. Watching as he wrapped a rough, travel-stained brown kilt around his waist, covering up his manhood and an ivory thatch of hair. Buckling a wide leather belt around his middle, and dropping a simple, gray wolf cloak over his shoulders. Leaving his chest bared to the air.
She waited until he had grabbed the broken spear, just to let him know that she hadn’t forgotten it, or what he might try to do with it at lodge council. “Nothing warms you, Kern? Ever?”
It gave him a heartbeat’s pause. Standing near the bath’s entrance, where the path slipped between the two large ferns. He stared back at her, where she stood halfway out of the pool. Stared through her.
“Nothing,” he said. And ducked down the path.
And Ros-Crana could not say for certain why she thought Kern had actually lied.
4
CALLAUGH’S LODGE HALL dominated the center of the tightly packed village. Doors twice as tall as a man, and wide enough that Kern could not have touched both sides even if he’d added short sword and bloody spear to his reach. Thick, heavy slabs, banded with blue iron and hung on metal pivots. Ready to be backed by a large, metal-reinforced crossbar, he saw, in case the Callaughnan ever needed to barricade their children and cattle inside.
The wealth of any clan.
This night the kits and kine sheltered elsewhere. The fortress doors stood open. Hard-beaten floors had been swept out and freshened with a layer of dry rushes. Torches hung from wall sconces and burned unnaturally bright. The grand lodge was packed with a thick swarm of clansmen and guests—men and women arguing in corners or trading war stories around one of three, large fire pits. Some shouted conversations across the hall. Two men crouched at a low table to arm wrestle, with a line behind each shouting encouragement, swapping bets, and waiting for their turn. Everyone ate and drank.
Windows had been thrown open for the night breeze, which helped. The air was smoke-filled and thick with so many scents: dung fires, stoked up with piles of fresh wood; cooking venison; and the black, nonburning tar the Callaughnan used to treat wood.
And bodies. Sweat and leather and horse. The smell of people who had traveled hard or worked harder. Except for very few who had made time for a bath, as Kern had. And the fewer women who had bothered to rub themselves down with fresh, spring wildflowers. Looking for husbands. Replacing ones they had lost during the long, bloody winter, or taking advantage of the gathering for the first time since coming of age.
One woman, hardly more than a youth, brushed close as Kern and a double handful of his best shouldered their way through the crowd at the door.
She glanced up, confident and curious, then startled at seeing his pale, ivory color and his feral, golden eyes burning by the light of a nearby flaming brand.
“Ymirish!” she shouted, jumping back.
That snapped around several heads and set hands to sword hilts, truce-bonded or no. The raucous conversations in half the lodge fell quiet, though the other half did their best to fill the sudden void. Angry—even frightened—glares shot their way. Turning to confusion, for several ragged heartbeats, until a craggy-browed Callaughnan scoffed and shook his head, and rehomed the war sword he had half drawn from its sheath.
“Wolf-Eye,” he said loudly.
There were a few bitter laughs. One warrior raised a metal tankard in Kern’s direction, in silent salute. Only one. Most flinched away to their previous conversations.
An older veteran slapped the young woman on her backside and gave her a rude clench. Already embarrassed over her provoked outburst, face crawling with color, she spun about and struck at him with a close-handed slap. Then stood there, chest heaving, as the warrior wiped a spot of blood away from the corner of his mouth, grinning.
“Worth every bit,” the man said. His companions laughed.
She stormed away to the other side of the lodge hall.
But not every glare had turned aside, Kern noticed. He saw suspicious gazes and not a few hate-twisted scowls. His ears warmed, and he had few doubts that several conversations just beyond his hearing were now centered on him and his warriors as they spread throughout the lodge. Reave and Desagrena moved off first, spearheading a drive toward where a small knot of clansmen boisterously worked at emptying a large ale cask, not seeing or not caring about the dark, glowering faces that greeted them. With a glance and a nod, Kern sent Daol to watch after them. Ossian stepped over to one of the fire pits. Wallach Graybeard and Hydallan joined a pack of veteran warriors. Ashul, the only other woman in Kern’s pack, grabbed Brig Tall-Wood and Aodh, dragging them over toward food.
Nahud’r and dour-faced Mogh stayed with Kern, the trio working their way through the crowd. Nahud’r followed Cimmerian custom, wearing kilt and a leather jerkin. He rarely found use for a cloak. He did use a long, thin scarf of fine wool to wrap his head in Shemite fashion. Often he covered his face as well, though tonight the last few coils draped loosely around his neck instead. The black-skinned man moved with a graceful strength, and the whites of his eyes shown brightly in the well-lit lodge.
Mogh, like Kern, had shown respect for Ros-Crana by wearing a fine-stitched kilt, dyed woad, with golden needlework. Kern had wrapped himself in a red kilt with tribal sworls stitched through it, trimmed in the shaggy fur of mountain ram. His frost blond hair was tied back with a leather cord, and his cheeks were freshly scraped by the edge of a sharpened blade. Kern had also polished his bracers, one clamped around each wrist, and the silver armlet he wore on his left, until they gleamed.
He also carried the broken spear he’d retrieved earlier that day. It was the only weapon among his entire band not truce-bonded, missing a leather cover tied over its head. His short sword was fastened into its sheath by a leather cord, as was his dagger. But not this. Because it was no longer a weapon.
It was a message. And he did not want that message confused in any way.
From the number of downward glances he counted, he didn’t think it would be.
Third fire. The one farthest from the main lodge doors. That was where Ros-Crana perched on a wide stool draped with fawn-colored deerskins, surrounded by her strongest and most able warriors as well as several guests of Clan Callaugh. Clansmen who had come up from the south. A few leftovers from Sláine Longtooth’s scattered war host. And a trio of Aquilonian soldiers who remained from a horse troop sent to Conarch by King Conan, who had also fought against Grimnir in the recent struggle.
He also spotted the clan’s shaman nearby, taking a slow circuit around the room to attend to the torches. Rail thin and long, with wispy white hair, but a still-strong stride. His liver-spotted skin looked worse by torchlight; mottled and stained, like moldy leather. The cast smearing his right eye reflected back the flickering orange flames.
Stepping up to each torch, the shaman dug into a tiny sack for a pinch of gritty powder, which he sprinkled over the flames.
Dull flames licked up suddenly bright and savage, throwing off a cleaner, yellow-flame light.
Nodding to Mogh and the black-skinned Shemite ahead of him, Kern stepped toward the wall to intercept the shaman. He waited between a pair of the hanging brands, wanting no part of the suspicious powder. After facing the dark, unnatural powers of a Ymirish sorcerer, he preferred to keep his distance.
The shaman seemed to understand that. The elderly man pulled the drawstrings on his small ba
g and tucked it away into a pouch on the front of his kilt as he walked up to Kern, then waited.
“You saved the boy’s life,” Kern said without preamble. Though it wasn’t fair to call him a boy anymore. Not when he had several kills. “Ehmish. You helped Wallach, and Old Finn.”
“It surprises you?” The shaman’s voice was paper thin. A harsh whisper. But it carried. “That I look after yours as well as ours?”
Kern felt lesser for admitting it, but he nodded. “It is nay what I expected.” As close as he’d come to an apology, and at the same time, thanking the venerable clansman.
“That can be said about many things, Kern Wolf-Eye. And many men.”
It gave him something more to think about, at least. He nodded again at the elder, stepped back, and turned away for Ros-Crana and her rough court.
The newly made chieftain watched him with wary eyes, fathomless blue depths like a twilight summer sky. She sat like a leader; the only warrior at this fire with a seat, back straight and hands resting easily on her thighs. Everyone else crouched, sat, or sprawled upon the rush-strewn floor. Only her two guards stood—above and behind her, their hands never far from truce-bonded swords tied with cords so thin they could break them with a simple draw.
For all of their leader’s calm presence, however, this part of the grand hall was no more or less serious—and certainly no less raucous—than the rest of the lodge. Men and women pulled each other aside for quick tests of strength or to share a quick but boisterous tale from the winter-of-no-end. In one corner, a head-butting competition looked to be about to end with both men staggering, ready to fall. Kern also saw Mogh, hovering just outside of the circle, tugging on the long hairs of his wispy moustache and talking with an older woman wearing a widow’s braid—tied down the right side of her head, leaving her left ear bared as an invitation for whispered conversation. She seemed interested.
The fireside was not much for quiet talk, though. It was loud and confident, with half of the rough-made circle listening to a not-half-bad tale from the adventures of Conan. Kern stepped up behind a man with a bandage wrapped around his head and covering half of his face as well, and crouched. Closer to the crackling fire, he shrugged back the edges of his gray wolf cloak, letting the warmth play against his bared chest. A reddish-orange flicker glowed deep down inside the silver bracers he wore on each muscular arm.
Age of Conan: Cimmerian Rage: Legends of Kern, Volume 2 Page 4
