CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR BIÓRR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BIóRR

B iórr rode into Darl from the east, Rotta leading the warband through streets that followed straight canals and curving rivers that fed into the River Drammur. The streets were unusually clear, pale faces peering from shuttered windows and cracks in doorways while other figures scuttled down gloom-filled side alleys.

"Hardly the triumphant homecoming of the conquering heroes," Rotta said.

"No," Biórr agreed, though it was hardly surprising. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Red Fain sitting on a wagon bench, one leg wrapped with a blood-soaked bandage. Harek sat beside him, a score or more wagons behind them. Dragon-born rode alongside the column, and warriors marched, Brák striding there with his shrunken crew. That was normal enough, but behind them all trolls lumbered through the streets, the bull trolls pausing periodically to urinate on walls or defecate in steaming mounds, marking their territory, and there were clumps of skraeling about them, spertus scuttling on the ground, tennúr flying in swirling knots above them, and behind them all came the frost-spiders and night-hags, a dark river of them flowing through the streets of Darl.

If I saw this marching into my home, I would be hiding, too.

They began to climb a hill, passing through what Biórr remembered as the markets and traders' ring. It should have been filled with a crush of people, the scents of all manner of food cooking, a cacophony of voices shouting and haggling, goods from across all Vigrie for sale, but it was empty.

Looks like a dragon living in your town is not good for trade. But it will get better. It has to.

They passed through the eerily quiet streets, the Galdur tower of Darl looming ahead of them, beyond it an empty space where Helka's fortress had been built around the skeleton of Orna, the eagle-god. Now there were just a few shattered timbers poking up into the sky, like the desiccated bones of a giant's grasping fingers.

"I must be … tactful , when I tell my sister of the events of our journey," Rotta said to Biórr. "I cannot lie to her, she would disapprove of that most strenuously." He grimaced, which Biórr took to mean that Lik-Rifa would probably eat Rotta. "But she does not like bad news, either, so I must be careful how I phrase the events of our journey. Whatever you do, do not mention how many we lost in the raid from that nieing Orlyg."

"No, lord. But we must tell her of Myrk, though. She is Ilska and Drekr's sister." Biórr looked back over his shoulder, at Myrk's corpse wrapped in linen and slung across his horse's back.

"Of course," Rotta said. "We should do that as soon as we can, get it out of the way. Just do not mention the numbers we lost." He looked at Biórr. "She will not like it."

You mean, she will eat us.

"Yes, lord, my lips are sealed," Biórr said.

"Good boy," Rotta said with a nervous grin. "It is good to know we understand each other."

Noise drifted down to them, a rhythmic pounding, and Rotta led them into a street that reeked of charcoal and iron. Clouds of steam hissed from open doorways and shadowed figures stood silhouetted by the red glow of forge fires.

"The Blacksmithing district," Biórr said to Rotta.

"The business of war is keeping them at work, no doubt," Rotta said.

They passed through the street, the hill steadily climbing then levelling out and Biórr saw the wall that surrounded Darl's Galdur tower. A huge gate stood closed, warriors in mail guarding it. They saw Rotta and thumped on the gates, others blowing horns, and the oak gates opened.

Hooves clattered on stone and thudded on hard-packed earth as they rode into the tower's courtyard, a wide space ringed with barracks, stables, pens, a dairy and a brewhouse, the Galdur tower rearing over them, black-stoned and looming like a brooding crow. Its doors opened and Lik-Rifa stood there in her human form, tall and regal, flanked by Ilska, Drekr and a handful of skraeling.

"Sister, my dear sister," Rotta cried out as he slipped from his saddle and hurried to Lik-Rifa. He dropped to one knee before her and took her hand, pressing his lips to it.

"I have missed you," he said.

Lik-Rifa stood there, regarding him. Her lips twitched in a smile.

"Stand," she said, gesturing to him.

"I have accomplished the task you gave me. Svelgarth has fallen," Rotta said triumphantly, "as I see Darl has." He looked around. "Though I never doubted you. Two of the supposed powers of Vigrie defeated already. It is almost too easy. This war will be over before it has begun, and Vigrie will be yours, my sister."

"It will not be over until Ulfrir is a corpse at my feet, and until then we are still in danger," Lik-Rifa snarled. She shivered, composing herself. "Come, eat and drink with me, we have much to talk on."

"Of course," Rotta said. He looked over his shoulder and waved for Biórr to follow him. "But, before we do that, I have news for Ilska and Drekr. Unfortunate news, I'm afraid." He gestured to Biórr and the horse that he led by the reins. Biórr stopped and moved back to Myrk's corpse, untied her and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to Ilska and Drekr. He laid her down gently at their feet, knelt and cut the rope that tied the linen sheet, pulled it back to show her face. He took care not to reveal her shredded, wolf-torn wound of a throat.

Ilska looked down at Myrk, her face draining of colour, her body stiff, muscles twitching. Drekr dropped to one knee and swept Myrk up into his arms, squeezed her to him. Biórr was surprised to see tears spilling down his cheeks.

He looked up at Biórr, his face twisted and contorted, the scars on his face white and livid, eyes burning red.

"Who did this?" he snarled.

"Come," Lik-Rifa said, turning and walking into the Galdur tower, ignoring Ilska and Drekr. Rotta looked down at Drekr, then followed his sister.

"Biórr, with me," Rotta said. Biórr hesitated.

"I am sorry," Biórr said, looking down at Myrk, a tightness in his chest, then he started to follow Rotta. Ilska grabbed his wrist, her grip like iron.

"Who?" she hissed.

"Orka," Biórr said.

Ilska frowned.

"The one who tracked Drekr to Darl. The mother of the Tainted child Breca."

Drekr let out a strangled sound, part growl, part sob.

Biórr left them to their grief and walked into the entrance hall of the Galdur tower and saw that it had been turned into a feasting chamber. A fire pit sat at its centre, tables and benches about it, but as he stepped deeper into the room he paused. The ground was … moving. Then he saw them, serpents, some still, others slithering and hissing across the stone-flagged floor.

Rotta paused, too.

"Don't be afraid of my beauties," Lik-Rifa said. "You are perfectly safe, as long as you mean me no harm."

"Oh, well, that's a relief," Rotta said, grimacing as he took a hesitant step among the writhing mass. Serpents slithered away from him, clearing a path as he walked. He looked back at Biórr and beckoned him on. The rat in Biórr's blood screamed at him to leave, to flee. Rats are not the friend of serpents. He sucked in a breath and told his beast to be calm. From the beating of his heart his advice did not seem to be working.

Biórr reached a table, filled a cup full of ale, drank it and filled another, then loaded a plate full of carved mutton, cheese, onion and dark bread and sat, took another large gulp of his ale.

Rotta sat with a cup in his hand and took a sip.

"Sister, did all go here as planned?" he asked.

"It did," Lik-Rifa said. "That worm … Guthlaf? Guthrum? I cannot remember," she said with a wave of her hand. "Anyway, it was as he said. Helka's Galdurman, the arrogant little maggot, attempted to resurrect Orna. Well, he succeeded. She was alive as I fell on Darl from the sky." Lik-Rifa leaned back in her chair and smiled, her grin unnaturally large, long teeth protruding over her lips. "But not for long. I slew her. Killed our sister, that spiteful, conceited bitch. After all this time, hundreds of years I have imagined meeting her. Hurting her." A ripple of pleasure passed through Lik-Rifa, from head to toes.

"That must have been … satisfying," Rotta said. He looked relieved, and Biórr remembered that the skálds told of Rotta having killed Orna's daughter, draining her blood and skinning her, using her blood to write his infamous Galdrabok, the Raudskinna , upon her flayed skin.

If Orna had lived that would be one more god with a blood feud against Rotta. Now that Orna is dead it just leaves her husband, Ulfrir.

"And where is her heart?" Rotta asked.

"Ah," Lik-Rifa said. "In the heat of the battle, and my victory, I forgot about our plan." She waved a hand, as if it were of no importance.

For a moment Rotta's face twisted in anger, a spasm through his face, but it passed so quickly that Biórr could not be sure that it had happened.

"That is a … great shame," Rotta said slowly. "So, what happened to her heart?"

Lik-Rifa shrugged. "There is nothing left of her. I eviscerated her, destroyed her, turned her to nothing but mist with my jaws and talons." She put a finger to her lips, as if remembering the taste. Then she giggled.

"Nothing left of Orna's heart, not even the smallest part?" Rotta pressed. "You know the power we would both gain from eating it, or even a fragment of it. We needed that power, to tip the scales in our favour when we meet Ulfrir."

"No, nothing left," Lik-Rifa said, "not even a bone. Perhaps a feather or two," she sniffed. "I do not need Orna's power, I slew her, obviously I am the more powerful."

"Yes, of course you are," Rotta said slowly, carefully. "But we still have Ulfrir to think about. Orna's heart would have ensured our victory against Ulfrir. He was always the more dangerous of the two."

"Yes, I know that," Lik-Rifa said. "Which is why I have been waiting for you. We must plan our next move, must strike at him together."

A twist of unease across Rotta's face.

"There is another," Rotta said. "Their heart would give us power beyond imagining." His eyes locked with Lik-Rifa's. "But the risk to us would be great."

"Too great, brother," Lik-Rifa said. A hint of fear shivered across her features. She was silent, thoughtful. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No. Let us concentrate on finding where our mange-ridden brother is lurking. I am sure he is plotting against me."

"Of course he is," Rotta said. "You have killed his wife, twice."

Lik-Rifa grinned, then frowned.

"We must find him," she said. "I have sent out all my tennúr, all my hyrndur, to seek him out, but I have heard nothing," she snarled, a mixture of fear and rage leaking into her voice.

"You need look no longer," Rotta said, leaning back in his chair, a smug look on his face. "I know where Ulfrir is."

"Where?" Lik-Rifa hissed, leaning forwards.

"Snakavik. He is hiding within the skull of our dear departed father," Rotta said.

"How do you know?"

"A captured úlfhéenar ," Rotta said. "Orka, the woman who slew Myrk," he waved a hand towards the tower's entrance, although Ilska and Drekr were no longer there. "I smelled Ulfrir's stink upon her. She had seen him, spoken with him."

Lik-Rifa leaned back, grinning. "Rotta, you have done exceedingly well. I am well pleased with you."

Rotta grinned and raised his cup to her, took a deep drink.

"This wolf-child, did she tell you anything else?" Lik-Rifa asked, leaning forwards.

"Aye, she did," Rotta said. "Ulfrir is in the company of one called Elvar Troll-Slayer and the Battle-Grim. A mercenary band that Biórr happens to know better than his own kin."

Lik-Rifa fixed her eyes upon Biórr.

"How … useful," she purred. "Tell me about them."

Biórr gulped.