“Let the Isir speak!” shouted Althyof, glaring at the heckler. “Let him speak so we can get out of this damn room. Hear his plan so we can get to the ale!” The Tverkar in the hall laughed and cheered, and Meuhlnir’s blush deepened. Althyof felt a twinge at that, but if he didn’t couch his words in a nest of scorn, the Tverkar would ignore him and continue interrupting, and the damn meeting would take forever. For his own part, curiosity burned foremost in Althyof’s mind.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your ale, so let me get through this quickly. If any want to stay after I’m done and discuss tactics, I welcome it.” He glanced around the room, his gaze resting on Alfar and Isir for a moment, but never on a Tverkr, Althyof noticed.
“Get on with it,” snapped Althyof to the cheers of his fellows.
“We have discovered where Suel is.” Meuhlnir smiled at his woman, the one they called Yowrnsaxa, and she blushed prettily. “Suel lies camped near the pass through the Dragon Spine Mountains and has but a small force with her. She’s committed the majority of her forces to the west, lying in ambush in the pass itself. Thanks to Veethar’s skills with flora and fauna of the Great Wood of Suel, she believes we have marched toward the pass and are preparing to attack Suelhaym itself. She—”
“What would make her believe tripe such as that?” shouted someone in the back of the hall.
“Veethar created a false trail—one big enough to account for our entire force. The trail begins outside the gates of this fortress and treks northeast toward the pass. Sufficient?” Meuhlnir’s tone sounded harried, annoyed. When no one else spoke, he gave a curt nod. “Suel believes she is safe, with the largest part of her army between her and us. Instead, she is horribly exposed. If we act with haste, we can flank her small force and capture the queen before she can alert her main army.”
“What’s to keep her sitting there, waiting for us?”
Meuhlnir’s smile was grim, yet fierce. “I’ve offered her something she wants.”
“And what could that be?” asked Althyof.
Meuhlnir’s gaze found his own. “Me.”
Althyof shook his head.
“Well, of course, not the real me. I put a glamor on a thrall volunteer and sent him north into the wood. He’s an experienced woodsman, and Veethar has enchanted his boots to make the path I spoke of a moment ago. He’s already halfway to the pass.”
“How can you know where he is?” asked an Alf.
“I have marked him so that Yowrnsaxa can keep track of him via the syown.”
“Reckless,” snapped Althyof. “If she can see him, so can Suel! She will see the deceit!”
“If she knew what to look for, maybe,” said Meuhlnir, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“No. Suel’s more than a vefari, Meuhlnir. What she does is—”
“Oh, come now. You say that as if being a vefari is some small task. As if there are other ways of accessing power that eclipse what a vefari can do. We all know you Tverkar have a vested interest in perpetuating such a myth, but we all access the same strenkir af krafti. What I can do, an Alf can do. What an Alf can do, you can do. Everyone knows this.”
Althyof shook his head and caught the eye of a pale Alf standing across the room. He put out his hand, palm up, and shoved the air toward Meuhlnir. Tell him, the gesture said. The Alf shook his head and closed his eyes. “If I can find this thrall, will you believe me then?”
Meuhlnir laughed, shaking his head. “That would be cheating, no? I already gave you the key to finding him.” He put his hand on the small of Yowrnsaxa’s back and smiled down at her.
“Fool,” Althyof muttered.
“Now, if I can continue?” Meuhlnir scanned the room and nodded to himself. “Suel will not be able to resist the lure of ambushing me. She will think me unaware of the mass of troops hidden in the pass. She will think I’m easy prey.”
“Get on with it!” yelled another Tverkr near Althyof.
“Yes. Veethar and I have been working in secret to amass a set of preer, adjusting their endpoints and situating them to facilitate transporting the entire army in short order. We will attack tomorrow at dawn.”
“Do you not think Suel can sense the preer being moved?” asked Althyof.
“Could you, Tverkr? Even with your ‘superior’ skills?” Meuhlnir dismissed his argument with a wave of his hand. “Any other objections to the plan?”
“What do we do when we have her?” asked an Alf.
“What do you mean?”
“Do we kill her?” asked Althyof. “She’s earned it.”
Meuhlnir blanched and blinked. “No. No, we can’t kill her. She must be…contained somehow. Shown the error of her ways…rehabilitated.”
“Lunacy,” muttered Althyof. “What makes you think you can—”
“The matter is closed,” snapped Meuhlnir. “She will not be killed. Her punishment is for the Isir to decide.” He cleared his throat. “That is the essence of the plan. Go drink your ale, Tverkar.” As he climbed down from the table, Frikka approached him and spoke, her expression and gestures animated. She gestured at Althyof and spoke with passion, but Meuhlnir waved her away.
Althyof tried to catch Frikka as she strode away, anger burning in her wake, but her lovely legs were too long, and he wouldn’t degrade himself by running after a woman. He intended to have a word with her before they trapped Queen Suel. Maybe, between the two of them, they could arrange for an accident to befall the blighted queen. When he lost sight of Frikka as she turned the corner into the wing the Isir had taken over for themselves, he sighed and turned away. After all, there was ale to be drunk and songs to be sung among his own kind.
The next morning, annoyance, and a booted foot, forced Althyof into consciousness. His head pounded like a giant drum, and each sound like a mallet striking that drum. He groaned and forced his eyes open. An Alf stood above him. “What?” demanded Althyof.
“The battle?” The Alf quirked an eyebrow, somehow making the expression appear both amused and condescending.
“It’s still dark!”
“Yes, very astute of you. Recall that we are to attack at dawn, not noon.”
Althyof grimaced and swirled his tongue around the cesspit that had replaced his mouth while he slept. “Something wrong with that ale,” he mumbled.
“Indeed,” said the Alf. “The problem with the ale is that you drank too much of it.”
“Bah,” grunted Althyof. “You are now speaking nonsense.”
The Alf sighed. “Will you stay awake this time?”
“This time? This is the first time you’ve awakened me.”
“No, it isn’t.” The Alf narrowed his eyes and scowled. “This is the third time we’ve had this conversation. I’d prefer to get on with my preparations, so this time, I will wait until you are on your feet.”
Althyof smirked. “When I need an Alf babysitter, I’ll be sure to call on you. Now, leave me alone, or I’ll show you how I bested Fowrpauti in single combat.”
“Ha! A great runeskowld performed that task, not some drunken wretch.”
Althyof squeezed his lips together, squinting up at the pale-skinned Alf. “Your name, Alf?”
“I am Fyuhlnir, Tverkr.”
Althyof nodded, committing the name to memory. “Good, good. I’ll find you, Fyuhlnir, after the battle. We can discuss your errors and assumptions at that time.”
“As you will. What is your name, so I can be sure to find you if your courage doesn’t have the same legs to it as your bravado?”
Althyof smiled a nasty smile. “I am Althyof. You know…Binder of Friner…Slayer of Fowrpauti. Oh, and master runeskowld.” He didn’t think the Alf could be any paler, but his pasty face blenched even more. Althyof winked at him. “Heard of me, eh? Well, after today, you’ll know my capabilities from experience—first-hand experience. Now, run away.”
To his credit, the Alf nodded. “Until this afternoon.” Neither of them knew it, but the Nornir had already clipped Fyuhln
ir‘s thread.
Althyof looked around for his cup from the night before but couldn’t find it. He shrugged and grabbed the nearest cup that still had liquid in it and tipped it back. The dreg of ale at the bottom of the cup tasted sour and warm, but it was wet, and it helped wash the cesspit taste off his tongue. Whatever that foolish Alf thought, Althyof was no novice when it came to drink or battle.
The army assembled in the vast square outside the main keep. Isir stood in neat groups, skyuldur vidnukona standing next to their companions, looking pretty as if out for a picnic rather than a battle. Alfar stood in precise squares of one hundred, each equipped with a longsword and a dagger. Althyof looked at the rag-tag group of Tverkar, standing or slouching in small knots of men, in various states of undress, and smiled. Only the Tverkar knew how to hold a war. Who needs all this pomp? All this discipline and order? Our enemies end up just as dead.
Meuhlnir bustled out of the keep, flanked by Yowrnsaxa on one side and Veethar and Frikka on the other. He glanced at the Tverkar contingent, and a scowl skittered across his face. Althyof spat on the cobbles at his feet. Self-importance rarely amounted to much in his opinion.
“Men and women!” Meuhlnir yelled. “We go to do battle with the queen. We go to put a stop to this depravity that has come to grip our fair homeland by the throat. Today, this ends!” He beamed a smile at the amassed army, his gaze lingering on a tall Isir, then moving on.
Meuhlnir moved through the troops, patting shoulders, shaking hands, murmuring encouragements—as if any of that was worth a tinker’s damn. Althyof sidled closer, interested in the Isir man standing apart.
“Pratyi,” said Meuhlnir. “Where is your fair companion?”
Pratyi’s face darkened, and he looked away. “Gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean? Gone where?” asked Meuhlnir.
“As if you don’t know,” mumbled Pratyi.
Meuhlnir’s face colored. “And you let her?”
Pratyi flashed a look of exasperation at the Isir leader. “No, I didn’t let her go. I didn’t encourage her to go. I forbade her to go.”
Meuhlnir spread his arms wide. “So, where is she?”
“You know where she is!” snapped Pratyi. “She lulled me to sleep and slipped out during the night.”
“This puts the entire plan in jeopardy, Pratyi! Why didn’t you tell me the moment you realized she’d gone? Why didn’t you sound the alarm?”
“Stop wasting time, Meuhlnir,” snapped Pratyi. “Open the preer! Let’s salvage what we can of this.”
Shaking his head, Meuhlnir motioned to Veethar, and they began the work of opening preer and anchoring them in the courtyard. It was a matter of minutes before they had them all ready. “Through your assigned proo!” Meuhlnir shouted. “Be ready for anything; the plan may be compromised!” Meuhlnir glared at Pratyi and popped through one of the proo. His two female companions followed him through, and then everyone was moving, loosening weapons, double checking straps of armor and shields, reaching for the silvery preer, and disappearing with a pop.
Althyof passed through with a knot of runeskowlds, each dressed in enchanted leather robes, each wielding daggers or maces. He appeared on the other side into the middle of a raging battle and launched into the trowba he’d prepared, his daggers glowing cadmium red and growing to three times their normal size. The Tverkr spun into the fray, slicing and hacking at the enemy as he whirled, dodging blows, leaping over kicks. He heard other trowba and automatically adjusted his tempo to match, lending additional strength to the kaltrar and stretching the range of the effects.
He danced through the enemy lines, untouchable by enemy blades. Thralls! Poorly armed thralls! he thought. It was a delaying tactic—it had to be. These thralls were not warriors, they had little training, if any, and their arms and armor were pitiful. Those that didn’t have farm implements bore rusty, age-dulled swords and axes. Althyof cut through them like a hot knife through butter, never pausing, never taking a wrong step. In his peripheral vision, he saw other leather-robed figures doing the same thing, guided by the trowba and their own dancing.
Runeskowlds didn’t fight in organized clumps as did the Isir or the Alfar. Each runeskowld stood apart, and other warriors stood between and behind them, following their progress across the battlefield. They were best suited as shock troops and could turn the tide of a battle by confusing the enemy alone.
Althyof paused a moment, then turned his dance to the side, knowing his companions would follow his lead, not because he commanded them, but because it was a wise move. They created a boundary of sorts—circling the proo they’d come from about thirty yards out, allowing troops to come through and amass without being attacked.
When the space filled up with Tverkr warriors, Althyof spun toward the enemy again, letting the warriors fill in the spaces between him and his neighboring runeskowlds. They slammed into the enemy line like a sterk task and shattered it, a number of thralls throwing down their weapons and running away.
Althyof danced farther and farther away from the proo he’d travelled through, stretching the circle, deforming it into a lopsided oval, heading for the knot of fighting at the next closest proo. The other runeskowlds sussed out his plan and let him break away, taking a contingent of Tverkr warriors with him, while they continued to guard the proo and let more and more Tverkar come across in safety.
Althyof danced toward the proo, which was surrounded by a force much more dangerous than the thralls the Tverkar had faced. Tall humanoids with knobby joints and thick skin, dressed in the skins of strange animals, wielded stone and wood weapons, but with massive strength. Althyof grimaced, altered his trowba to account for the massive strength of the trolls, and led his force into the fray.
Trolls were large, strong, and bred and raised to fight, but they weren’t all that bright. The Tverkar slammed into their flank, inflicting massive damage before fading away. The intent was to draw a small contingent of trolls away from the larger force, deal with them while the Tverkar had superior numbers, and once the first batch was dead, reel in another small group.
It worked, again and again. Althyof’s trowba lent the Tverkar strength and endurance and sapped the will of the big, dumb brutes at the same time. Althyof danced around them, feinting, cutting, stabbing, kicking, never missing a beat in his song or dance. Trolls fell before him, and the ground ran blue with their blood.
When the troll ranks were sufficiently weakened, Althyof circled, rounding up his warriors, and together, they punched through the troll lines to come to the aid of whoever was inside the circle. They burst through, and the Alfar defending the proo parted to let them in. The Alfar fought with courage and dedication, not to mention great skill at arms, but their techniques didn’t fare well against the brutish strength of the trolls.
Dead and injured Alfar littered the ground, their dainty longswords and daggers lay beside them, ignored by the trolls. Without stopping his trowba, Althyof set his men to bolster weak parts of the Alfar line and struck out in search of the Alf who was giving the orders.
An Alf knelt on the ground next to another prone figure. The prone Alf’s head was crushed on the right side, clear fluid running from his ears and blood filling his eyes. His good eye rolled in its socket, flitting from place to place, from Alf to Alf. It finally came to rest on Althyof.
It was Fyuhlnir, and he was dying.
Althyof knelt on his other side, abandoning his trowba for long enough to take the Alf’s pain away. “Some men will do almost anything to get out of a friendly fistfight,” he said.
Fyuhlnir tried to smile, and it was ghastly. Half of his face had frozen in a terrible rictus, his eyelid on that side gaping, letting blood trickle down his cheek. His lips failed to respond to the command to smile, twitching uselessly. “I saw you with the trolls,” he croaked. “My apologies, Althyof, master runeskowld.”
“Accepted. Now, what are we to do with you?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.” Fyuhlnir shi
fted his gaze to the Alf on his other side. “I put you in Althyof’s command until you rejoin the others. Follow his lead, follow his orders.” His eyes rolled toward the sky, and he died.
“I don’t give orders,” said Althyof. “Follow me, follow my men—they know what to do. I won’t interrupt my trowba once I start it, so if you have questions, ask them now.” The Alf looked at him, his face slack, eyes empty. “Right, then,” murmured Althyof. “Alfar, hear me!” he shouted, standing straight. “Fyuhlnir has died at the hands of these damn trolls. Before he did, he entrusted your lives to my care. You’ve not fought with us before, so I will explain this once. I sing a trowba. I do not give orders. My men know how to fight with me and know what I want from them. What I want from you is that you stay with my men, doing what they do, when they do it. Questions?”
There were none, so Althyof glanced at his Tverkar and began his trowba again, picking it up in the exact spot where he’d left it. He began his whirling dance, darting through the Alfar line to gut a troll here, slice the throat of another there. Once the Alfar picked up on the nature of the Tverkar method of battle, they adapted to it with grace and improvised to fit Althyof’s needs as if born to it.
They killed every troll encircling them, the trolls being too battle-hungry—or too stupid—to fall back when they lost the numerical advantage. The other runeskowlds and their warriors came jogging over, and the two forces merged into a larger unit.
Again, the trowba of the runeskowlds overlapped and combined to create a stronger and farther-reaching effect. Sounds of battle came to them on the wind and Althyof moved in that direction, the rhythm and pacing of his trowba increasing to accommodate faster travel.
The group crested a small rise and poured down the other side toward the flats where a battle between Isir raged. Althyof led his sprinting warriors and dancing runeskowlds into the fray, never hesitating. They smashed into the flanks of the queen’s forces to devastating effect.
The runeskowlds’ songs reached a crescendo and fell on the Isir enemy like a tidal wave obliterating a beach. Melodies and lyrics mixed and wove together to create a blanket of fear and hopelessness for the Isir—friendly and enemy alike, but that couldn’t be helped. The joined forces of the Tverkar and Alfar made short work of the Isir enemy, and Althyof steered the trowba into a stanza of recovery.
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 70
