CHAPTER THIRTEEN ORKA

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ORKA

O rka stared at the sack carried between Brák and one of his crew. Brák limped towards them, frost-spiders scuttling either side, skraeling and dragon-cultists falling in around them, escorting them towards Rotta. For Orka the world faded, everything blurred and muted apart from the sack, which heaved and bunched.

She refused to name him, or even think the name, refused to give voice to her greatest fear. Despite the venom of the frost-spiders having cleared her body days ago – she felt ice in her veins.

Rotta used his god-voice to bellow for the warband to halt and it came to a stuttering stop. Riders cantered back from the head of the column, snow falling more heavily now, Myrk leading a handful of her dragon-born kin.

"What is it?" she said as she dismounted.

"Brák returns to us," Rotta said, his grin still wide, "and it appears he is bringing us a gift."

He looked at Orka with smug satisfaction.

Warriors and vaesen parted to let Brák through. He came limping towards Rotta, blood-stained bandages wrapped around his head and one thigh. His remaining crew members looked like they had fared worse.

Brák turned the spear and stabbed it into the ground before Rotta, drew a seax from his belt and sliced the sack open, spilling its contents onto the ground.

It was Spert.

Warriors and vaesen ringed the spertus.

"Mistress Orka," the vaesen said, looking up at Orka. His face was bleeding black blood, and there were wounds in his dark carapace that leaked ichor-like fluid.

"Spert," Orka breathed, both relieved that it was not Breca in the sack and horrified that it was Spert.

"Ah, the traitor," Rotta said.

"Spert no traitor," Spert hissed, looking up at Rotta with his battered, melted-candle face. "Spert loyal." His sting twitched and Rotta took a step back. Spears, axes and swords were levelled at the vaesen.

"You are a traitor," Rotta said. "Your Mother-Maker called you, and you did not come. Worse, you fought against her. Fought against all of us." Rotta gestured, taking in the multitude of vaesen all around.

"Spert make promise, Spert keep promise," Spert rasped.

"What promise?" Rotta asked.

"To mistress Orka. To protect master Breca."

"Well, Breca is gone, only Orka here now, so why are you still fighting for her?" Rotta said, frowning.

"You would not understand," Spert wheezed, coughed up a glob of black blood.

"I am a god," Rotta sneered. "My understanding of all things is far greater than your pathetic comprehension, you miserable slug with legs, so please indulge me. Tell me."

Spert looked from Rotta to Orka, met her gaze.

"Friendship," Spert said quietly. "Mistress Orka been good to Spert."

Rotta frowned, a ripple passing through his face, then laughed. "Ha, well, let us hope that the feeling is mutual." He gripped the spear Brák had stabbed into the ground and pulled it free, held it over Spert's body, then looked slowly to Orka.

"So, friend of vaesen, tell me where my brother is."

Orka looked from the spear to Rotta to Spert.

Fractured memories of life before Thorkel was slain, before Breca was taken. Of life at their steading. She had always thought of it as just the three of them, but really it had been four. Spert had been part of their life. Always there. Always protecting them. Like family.

"Tell nasty rat nothing," Spert said viciously.

Rotta raised the spear higher.

"Last chance," he said.

Orka felt her lips pull back in a snarl, the wolf within her straining to be set free, to rend and tear and kill.

The spear fell.

"Snakavik," Orka shouted, and the spear stopped. The gods were nothing to her. Ulfrir, Rotta, they could fight each other to the death, and she did not care. But Spert. He was family.

"Snakavik?" Rotta said, holding the spear quivering above Spert's body. "Where this Jarl St?rr rules?"

"Yes, lord," Biórr said.

"And why is my brother in Snakavik?" Rotta asked.

"I do not know," Orka shrugged.

"Tell me what you do know, or this nasty little vaesen dies."

Orka sucked in a long breath, aware that her knowledge had been keeping her alive, had given her time. And now that time had run out. She looked at Spert.

But now my knowledge is keeping him alive.

"Ulfrir travels with the Battle-Grim and their chief, Elvar Troll-Slayer," Orka said. "It was her wish to go to Snakavik, I do not know why."

A sharp inhaled breath close to her and Orka saw Biórr frowning.

"Elvar is chief!" he said.

Myrk looked at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Elvar is daughter to Jarl St?rr," Myrk said slowly, her eyes still on Biórr, "perhaps she wished to enlist her father's aid in the fight against us. Jarl St?rr is powerful and has many Berserkir thralls."

"Hmm," Rotta breathed. "And where exactly is this Snakavik?"

"West, lord," Biórr said. "It is a fortress and town built within and upon the skull of your dead father."

"A dark lair for my wolf-brother to hide within, I imagine he thinks," Rotta murmured. He blinked and looked back at Orka.

"Is there anything else?" he asked her.

"No," Orka said. She tensed, waiting for the spear thrust that would inevitably come towards her.

"Good, well, my thanks," Rotta said. He wiped a snowflake from his cheek, then stabbed the spear down, into Spert's back, punctured his carapace, on through his body, the spear blade plunging deep into the cold earth, pinning Spert. The vaesen screamed and spasmed, head and tail arching, sting stabbing at the spear shaft, legs scratching at the ground. Rotta twisted the blade and left the shaft quivering and with a long, stuttering breath Spert sagged and was still.

"No," Orka screamed and launched herself at Rotta. She reached him so fast that even Rotta was taken by surprise. He stumbled back as Orka tore at him, the wolf in her blood surging through her, claws and teeth ripping and tearing. He screamed, blood spraying as she gouged his face and bit into his arm, crushing mail links and piercing flesh. A blow across her shoulders that she distantly felt but ignored, another across her lower back, more raining down upon her as Rotta fell and she rolled on top of him, then hands were grabbing her and heaving her from him, pulling her snarling away. She spun in their grip, ripped her arms free and raked a face with her claws, smashed the chain between her wrists into a nose and a woman was falling away, screaming. A crunch on the back of her head, stars bursting, and she was falling to her hands and knees in the snow, tried to roll but a boot caught her in the belly and she was sagging and coughing bile, the wind knocked from her. Hands grabbed her and heaved her upright, spears and axes levelled at her.

Rotta stood and brushed himself down, wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek.

"Well, perhaps friendship does count for something," he said, breathing hard. "Not that it did him much good," he added looking at Spert's corpse. "And now you have outlived your usefulness." He took a step towards Orka.

"Let me kill her," Myrk pleaded, stepping between Rotta and Orka. "I owe her." She put a finger to her cheek, pointing at the ruined scar where her eye had been.

Rotta sucked in a long, quivering breath.

"Very well," he said. "But make it painful."

"I intend to," Myrk smiled. "Stand aside," she said to the warriors and vaesen circling Orka and they moved back, forming a wider ring. Myrk stepped within it, drawing the two seaxes hanging from her weapons belt.

"Only fitting that I kill you with the blades that slew your husband," Myrk said with a smirk.

Orka crouched and snarled, raising her bound hands, the chain dangling between them.

"Come and meet your death," she growled.

Myrk smiled, shifted her weight and moved forwards, one seax held high, the other low. A red glow kindled in her eyes and her teeth grew to razored points, setting the hairs on Orka's neck standing on end, like the hackles on a wolf.

Orka moved left, Myrk stepping to her right, inching closer, then she was lunging forwards in a burst of speed almost too fast to follow. Orka raised her hands, caught one seax on her chain as it chopped down at her, twisted her hips and the other seax stabbed through empty air. Sparks flew as the first seax grated against Orka's chain and she twisted her wrists, wrapped the chain around the seax blade and wrenched as she pivoted away, heard Myrk gasp with pain as the blade was ripped from her grip, at the same time felt a hot line across her ribs. Orka caught the falling seax by the hilt as it spun through the air, crouched and gave Myrk her wolf-grin.

Myrk nodded to Orka's ribs and Orka put a hand there, fingertips coming away red where Myrk's other seax had sliced her as she had spun away.

Myrk smiled.

"The wolf is blooded," she said.

"Hold," Rotta barked, stepping between them, and Orka became aware of those around her staring towards the treeline. She took a few steps away from Myrk and followed their gaze. The sun was sinking into the mountains, a pale, diffuse glow behind bloated clouds, snow falling in swirling gusts. The wooded slopes of the valley were a dense, impenetrable darkness.

Boughs shook, a hissing scream echoed from them, cut short. A wolf howled. The hint of movement, shadows within shadows.

Orka focused the wolf within her, heard sounds from the edge of the treeline. Growling, but not from one creature, more like many, spread throughout the trees. The shaking of boughs and the hissing screeches she had come to recognise as the screams of frost-spiders rang out. A silence followed, the branches settling. Orka saw movement within the gloom, creatures stalking them. The glitter of eyes.

A high, eerie horn call rang out from the trees, filling the glade, slowly died away, and a roaring and howling rose up, growing in volume, shaking the trees. People around Orka put their hands to their ears.

A cluster of tennúr burst from the trees, speeding towards Rotta.

"WARE THE WOODS," they wailed as they flew overhead.

A lone warrior stepped from the treeline. A woman, dark hair braided, clothed in mail and fur, twin axes gripped in her fists. An iron collar about her neck. She was snorting and growling, stalked a few paces along the treeline. Orka saw the muscles of her neck and shoulders were bunched, thick as knotted rope, and her eyes flickered green.

She glared at Rotta and the warband, opened her mouth and roared, spittle spraying, broke into a lumbering run towards them.

And then figures were bursting from the treeline behind her, hurtling through the snow towards them, men and women clad in mail and fur, sharp iron in their fists, snarls upon their faces, eyes glowing amber and green, iron collars around their necks.