The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (16 page)

Timon had stopped wailing and sat up in a cross-legged position. He hunched forward and looked at Alahan, before mumbling out some words. ‘You are thain?’ he asked, spitting less than before.

‘I am... though my hall is currently in the hands of a traitor,’ responded Alahan, starting to remove his weapons and to make himself as comfortable as he could.

‘Not looking for me?’ Timon’s face was expressive and he seemed relieved.

‘No,’ Alahan shook his head. ‘I think I may have stumbled upon your lodge. I’m a wanted man in my own lands, it would seem.’ He extended his arms and rubbed his hands together in front of the fire.

‘You are tired,’ mumbled Timon. ‘Sleep... I will think clearer when you wake.’ The berserker was wrestling with an inner turmoil and still shuffled violently as he sat.

Alahan reclined as best he could and felt his eyes become heavy. ‘I think I may have to do as you say, friend Timon. But yes, I would like to talk when your mind is clearer.’

* * *

Alahan Teardrop Algesson slept fitfully. His dreams had been vivid and disturbing ever since he left Fredericksand and his sleep in the hunting lodge was no less interrupted. He enjoyed the images of his father, standing proudly in front of the Ranen assembly in his black bear-skin cloak, his axe near at hand and his glare fierce. Alahan gained comfort from remembering Algenon Teardrop’s face, but he knew that his dreams would progress and that he would soon be turning violently in his sleep.

His father slowly disappeared, his face difficult to recall, as the dark woman intruded upon the young thain’s mind. Her face was never distinct and the writhing tentacles that sprang from her mouth gave her a terrifying visage of chaos. Alahan had never dreamt her name, or who she was, but he knew, somehow, that she was his enemy. The terror he felt at seeing her and the dark shadows that loomed behind her were mitigated only by the presence of his uncle. Father Magnus Forkbeard always appeared when Alahan was at his most terrified. When the tentacles extended, writhing in his mind, from the mouth of the dark woman, Magnus always swept in and brought Alahan back to Rowanoco.

Alahan had never been a pious man, leaving questions of faith to the priests, but he found that the presence of the Ice Giant within his mind had grown stronger since the death of his father. On some level, deep within his mind, Alahan heard his uncle saying something. He had heard it each night since he had fled his home, and each night he had tried to make sense of the words. Magnus’s voice always seemed to have to travel a great distance to reach him, but within his dream Alahan Teardrop heard that he was the exemplar of Rowanoco. He did not know what it meant; he only knew that it meant everything.

* * *

He woke abruptly and felt warmth against his face. The fire was blazing brightly in front of him, the hunting lodge was quiet, and the air was still. He yawned several times and flexed his sore limbs. His legs were tense and didn’t like being moved. His arms were more cooperative, but on the whole the young warrior felt terrible. He wasn’t sure of the time or how long he’d slept, and Timon the Butcher was nowhere within sight. Alahan hoped that the berserker of Varorg was still in the lodge because he was genuinely interested in the man’s story. That it was a distraction from his current predicament was undeniable, but he could do little anyway, tired and sore, hidden in an unknown corner of his realm.

‘Do you need food, friend Alahan?’ Timon’s voice made Alahan jump. The berserker was stealthier than he appeared.

‘I think...’ Alahan interrupted himself with a loud cough, realizing how dry his throat was. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologized. ‘Yes, I think I could do with some food.’

‘I have meat and roots,’ said Timon. A huge hand reached round the door and offered a fistful of dried meat and raw vegetables. ‘Eat. I have had my fill.’

Alahan took the food from the berserker’s hand, taken aback by its size. He inspected the food and decided that he was hungry enough to eat it. The meat was tough and overly salty, the vegetables were hard and with little flavour, but Alahan found the food comforting and ate gratefully.

‘You seem calmer today,’ he said, with a mouth full of unidentified meat.

Timon the Butcher, berserker of the Low Kast, stepped quietly round the door frame and stood before Alahan. The man was less intimidating now. His face was no longer a mask of suppressed rage, and he stood in a relaxed fashion, warming his hands before the blazing fire. Whatever inner turmoil he had been undergoing before had passed for the time being.

Alahan was confused by the man and was trying to remember the things he had been told about the followers of Varorg. All he could think of were the condescending words of his uncle – words that painted the berserkers as a necessary evil, left alone only because of tradition.

‘Who pursues you?’ asked Timon.

Alahan sat up and immediately winced at a sharp pain in his back. Sleeping on a wooden floor was stupid, no matter how tired you might be. ‘A lordling of Jarvik. Kalag Ursa.’ Alahan growled the lordling’s name and a vengeful sneer appeared on his face. ‘He has a small army and I seem to be out of options.’

Timon nodded. ‘And you are the rightful high thain?’ the berserker enquired in a strangely gentle tone of voice.

Alahan nodded. ‘My father was Algenon Teardrop.’

‘I have heard of this man. Honourable, from what I’ve heard. But you are far from Fredericksand.’

‘I am trying to reach Tiergarten. I have friends there.’ Alahan knew the family of Summer Wolf were allies of Teardrop and, if he could reach the city, he would at least have stone walls between himself and his enemies. ‘If the snow has cleared I might be able to get my bearings. Last night I could have wandered into a family of trolls as easily as I wandered into your lodge.’

The Butcher turned to face Alahan and attempted a smile. The berserker’s mouth was oversized and his lips slightly swollen, giving a comical edge to the expression. ‘Family of trolls...’ he repeated to himself, as if Alahan had inadvertently made a joke.

‘I’m glad I amuse you,’ Alahan responded with a straight face.

Timon chuckled to himself. Evidently there was humour in the mere idea of a family of trolls.

‘What brings you so far west, friend Timon?’

The berserker stopped chuckling and sat down opposite Alahan. Both men were large, but Timon made Alahan feel small.

‘Aleph Summer Wolf,’ was the simple response from the man of the Low Kast.

‘What about him?’

Timon shrugged. ‘He is thain of Tiergarten, yes?’

Alahan shook his head. ‘Not any more. He died in Fredericksand a few months ago. His daughter is technically heir, but she’s missing as well.’

Timon pursed his lips and his brow furrowed in an exaggerated display of thinking. ‘This is unwelcome news,’ he said, looking at the wooden floor.

‘Indeed,’ said Alahan. ‘The list of thains grows small in the lands of Fjorlan. The lords of Jarvik claim responsibility for many of them but...’ Alahan considered whether or not to inform Timon of the circumstances of Aleph’s death and concluded that nothing would be served by deceiving him. ‘The thain of Tiergarten was killed in the Ranen assembly. An axe was cast by my father.’

The berserker knew what this meant and did not look as if he were about to erupt into violence at the news.

‘Aleph was your friend?’ Alahan asked.

The berserker considered the question as if its answer was a complicated one. After a few moments, he shook his head. ‘I have never had friends... Aleph... was once kind to me and I sought to repay him.’

‘I’m afraid that will have to wait until you are side by side in the ice halls beyond the world, friend Timon.’

‘His daughter is grown?’ the Butcher asked.

‘She is.’ He nodded. ‘She’s an axe-maiden of Rowanoco and, by all accounts, as fearsome a warrior as Fjorlan has produced.’

Timon again seemed to be wrestling with something. ‘Then I will seek out the Daughter of the Wolf,’ he said, standing sharply.

Alahan raised his eyebrows. ‘She may well be at the bottom of the Kraken Sea, and Aleph had no other heirs.’

This news did not concern the berserker. ‘If she is dead, I will find another to seek out. Until then, I have a goal.’ The berserker was noticeably happier now and the young thain found the man’s strange sense of conviction refreshing.

‘Is there also a story attached to why you looked as if you wanted to skin me alive when you first saw me?’ Alahan probed gently.

Timon showed a slight embarrassment and looked guiltily down at a small woven pouch attached to his rope belt. ‘I am... not myself sometimes. The rage of Varorg passes only reluctantly.’ He spoke clearly and with more awareness and intelligence than Alahan had expected.

‘Then perhaps we should travel to Tiergarten together. I know a priest there who will help us. I can’t promise the journey will be uneventful, but I’ll swear to guard you when you are... not yourself.’

A childlike grin appeared on Timon’s face and he eagerly leant forward. ‘Will you help me find Summer Wolf?’ he asked.

Before Alahan could answer, a sound came to his ears. The berserker raised his head, showing that he, too, had heard the noise, and both of them rose quickly from the wooden floor of the hunting lodge.

‘A dog?’ asked Timon.

‘More than one, I’d say.’ Alahan had heard a distant cacophony of barks and the sound was growing louder. ‘Sled dogs,’ he said through gritted teeth, glancing around the room. ‘Do you have an axe... or a hammer, maybe?’

The berserker gripped the sides of his head and shook it rapidly from side to side. The suggestion bothered him greatly, and Alahan began to think Timon was not going to be much use in combat.

‘Okay, well, let’s hope it’s just a scouting party ahead of the main army. Come with me.’ Alahan picked up his two throwing-axes and holstered them on his belt. He hefted his battleaxe several times to get the blood flowing through his arms and strode towards the front door of the lodge.

Light was coming through the front windows and the wooden building was bathed in sun. No wind could be heard and the snow had stopped. Alahan hugged the wall and edged next to a window. He rubbed away the condensation and peered outside to see two sledges approaching from what he believed to be the west. The visibility was good and the hunting lodge must have stood out against the featureless white of the realm of Teardrop.

‘Maybe eight men,’ he said to Timon, who was standing behind him, looking nervously at the floor. ‘They got lucky. They were probably sent off the main path when they lost my trail.’

‘Friend Alahan,’ Timon said tentatively. ‘I... cannot shed blood.’

The young thain raised his eyebrows and turned back to the window, checking that he’d counted correctly. Each sledge was pulled by a team of black and grey dogs and held four men. As they drew closer, Alahan could make out tough, bearded faces and a variety of glaives and axes. They wore thick bear-skin cloaks and leather armour. Unfortunately he had not miscounted – there were definitely eight of them.

‘Well,’ said Alahan wearily, ‘I suppose they won’t be Kalag’s best if he’s sending them out here.’

Eight men was a push, even for a warrior as skilled as Alahan Teardrop. He could probably fell two of them quickly with his hand-axes, and staying in the doorway would increase his odds of survival, but he would still rather have the berserker of Varorg watching his back.

The warriors pulled back on the dogs’ reins and stopped their sledges in front of the lodge. They wore the tabard of Jarvik – a black bear’s claw on a red background – and each hefted a two-handed weapon as they carefully stepped from their transports. Most held axes, but Alahan also saw two glaives and a massive war-hammer. The glaive was the signature weapon of Rulag Ursa, a vicious-looking blade attached to a long spear, designed to keep an opponent at a distance. None of the men was young and most looked decidedly overweight. Alahan thought he could win, but that was more optimism than strategic thinking.

He shot a look at Timon and placed a finger to his lips to indicate silence, as he stowed his battleaxe and stepped towards the door. He breathed in deeply and drew his throwing-axes. He could now hear the gruff voices of the men as they approached the lodge and he tried to slow his breathing and concentrate. His axes had lacquered wooden handles and had been sharpened less than a week ago, making them deadly at close range.

‘I hope you don’t die,’ whispered Timon the Butcher.

Alahan spared him a smile and turned, flinging the door inwards. The men outside were taken completely by surprise at the presence of an armed warrior and for a moment they didn’t move as Alahan lunged forwards, putting as much power as he could into his first throw. The axe whistled quickly towards the closest man, striking him on the chin and shattering his jaw. He cartwheeled back, his head split down the middle. Alahan then spun round and threw his second axe.

The warriors of Jarvik reacted slowly and by the time the second throwing-axe had lodged itself in another man’s chest, they were all shouting unintelligible words of alarm. Weapons were drawn, but two had died quickly and the remaining six looked panic-stricken.

Alahan turned back into the lodge and stood rigid against the inner wall, pulling the door closed behind him. He breathed out deeply and locked eyes with Timon. ‘You can’t shed blood, but can you break necks?’

The berserker looked confused for a moment until a broad smile appeared on his face. ‘That is funny, but alas... no, I cannot kill.’

Alahan returned the smile. ‘Okay, well stand there and look mean while I go and kill six men.’ He drew his battleaxe with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘In the name of High Thain Rulag Ursa and his son Kalag, you will surrender,’ shouted a voice from outside.

‘In the name of Teardrop, you can go and fuck yourself,’ was Alahan’s roared response.

He heard shouted commands and then men approached the door. The young thain held his breath and felt his knuckles tighten on the haft of his axe. He had never named his favourite weapon and wondered if a battle against eight men was significant enough to warrant a title.