CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR GUÐVARR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GUDVARR

W ill this journey ever end? Guevarr thought as he rode through the gloom of the Iron Wood. Here and there beams of light broke through the canopy high above, mote-filled pillars of gold that dappled the path ahead of him. He rode beside his aunt, who continued to lead their column into the Jarnvidr, Skapti riding in between them. Behind them the faunir prisoner was awake and spouting a constant string of abuse at all who dared look at it. Krúsa had attempted to bind the faunir's mouth, but somehow within a short time the creature had shredded the gag, regardless of whether Krúsa had used linen or leather. Eventually she had given up trying and just slipped further back down the column, so that she did not have to listen to the constant spouting of insults.

No such luck for me , Guevarr thought as he looked at the faunir.

"What are you looking at, you filthy nieing Maeur goat-humping pile of maggot-festering steaming troll shite," the faunir spat at him in its rasping, leaf-rustling voice.

Guevarr sighed and looked away, sitting straighter in his saddle.

"Járn," Guevarr said to one of his aunt's drengrs , a patchy bearded man with ears too big for his head sticking out from his iron cap helm, "I will pay you if you skewer that vermin with your spear."

"Guevarr, stop," Jarl Sigrún said.

The path before them widened, the trees clearing a little, and Guevarr rode into a glade.

I have come to dislike glades within woodland , he thought. They always contain some unpleasant surprise. Froa-spirits. Skapti.

More light filtered through from above, glittering on a stream that flowed diagonally across the glade before them. A fallen tree lay beyond the stream, desiccated roots grasping at the air like the skeletal fingers of a long-dead giant. As Guevarr stared he realised that figures sat upon or leaned against the trunk and branches. One of them gripped a long staff in his fist. A fire burned in a scratched-out pit, an iron pot hanging from a hook over it. Behind the tree horses were tied to branches at the glade's edge, the road beyond disappearing into darkness.

"Skalk," Guevarr hissed, though it came out mostly as a squeak, a spike of fear rising like bile from Guevarr's belly and choking his voice. He snatched at his reins and reached for his sword.

Jarl Sigrún rode on calmly, Skapti, Járn and a handful of her drengrs with her. After a moment Guevarr cursed under his breath and urged his horse on, taking his hand from his sword and trying to sit nonchalantly in his saddle. He caught up with them as Krúsa and her skraeling entered the glade. Behind him he heard the rustle and scuttle of frost-spiders spreading through the undergrowth around them.

Hooves splashed as Sigrún's horse crossed the stream, Guevarr's horse shouldering through others so that he rode just behind her.

Skalk the Galdurman stepped away from the tree and stood leaning on his staff, the puckered scar where one eye had been torn from his head just a deeper shadow. A dark-haired woman rose from where she was sitting upon a stump, stirring the pot over the fire. She was dressed in a travel-stained cloak, beneath it what had once been a blue-dyed tunic edged with silver. Now it was mud-spattered and torn. She wore a fine sword at her hip, the gold on the hilt glittering in the sun.

Estrid. Not looking so regal and haughty as the last time I saw you. How wonderful to see that your journey has caused you some discomfort.

"Sigrún," Estrid said to Guevarr's aunt as she reined her horse in, no more than ten paces between them.

"Estrid," Sigrún said with a nod. " Skalk," she added, looking to the Galdurman. She made no move to dismount. Behind her drengrs dismounted, fanned to either side of Sigrún, shrugging shields into their fists, forming a loose line, two rows thick. Skraeling moved to the edges of the drengrs' formation, gathered in menacing knots. Krúsa pushed forwards to stand at Sigrún's side, and tennúr whirred in the air above the glade.

Guevarr saw shadows shift along the glade's edges, glints of mail in dappled light, tattooed heads and iron collars.

Estrid's úlfhéenar . He gulped.

One of them stepped out of the shadows, lean and wire-muscled, tattoos coiling on the sides of his shaved head, long hair braided across the top and tied at his crown. He wore an axe and seax at his weapons belt, walked graceful and silent to Estrid's side. Guevarr recognised him.

Frek the úlfhéenar sent with me into the far north, when I searched for Lik-Rifa's hall, Nastrandir, on Skalk's bidding. Fear and anger swelled in him. Fear at the memories of being trapped like a fly in a frost-spider's web, bitten, bound and dragged into Lik-Rifa's hall. The bowel-churning terror when Lik-Rifa had burst through the great doors in her dragon form. Anger that Skalk had compelled him to go through that.

I hate that man.

Other figures moved away from the fallen tree, two women. One a warrior, fair and cold as winter's frost, dressed in a fine brynja , sword and seax at her belt, a white scar across her forehead. The other with crow-dark hair and milk-pale skin.

Yrsa and Sturla. I hate those bitches as well.

Yrsa looked at him and sneered.

A whirring of wings above them and Munni the tennúr flew around the glade, circling and alighting upon Krúsa's shoulder, who stood beside Sigrún. The vaesen leaned close to her ear and whispered.

"Fifteen úlfhéenar in the shadows, twenty-two drengrs ," Krúsa said. She gave Estrid her fang-toothed smile.

Estrid scowled at Munni, but the expression was swiftly chased from her face, replaced with a blank fjord-cliff. Guevarr repressed a smug smile, knowing now that they outnumbered Skalk and Estrid.

"Estrid, Skalk," Sigrún said again. "You asked for a meeting."

Estrid and Skalk walked a few steps closer to Sigrún, Frek the úlfhéenar shadowing Estrid, Yrsa and Sturla moving to Skalk's shoulder.

"Aye," Estrid said.

"What do you wish to speak about?"

"Options. A negotiation," Estrid said.

"Mother-Maker does not negotiate," Krúsa growled.

"She means Lik-Rifa," Sigrún said. "Lik-Rifa does not negotiate."

"Aye, perhaps so," Estrid said, "but even Lik-Rifa needs allies, if she wishes to win this war."

"You, allies !" Guevarr blurted, unable to keep his lips together. "Lik-Rifa and her servants have slain your mother, your brother, destroyed your hall, taken your realm. And you expect us to believe you wish to become our allies!"

"The world is changing," Skalk said, "and allegiances can change with it. Look at you, Guevarr. You were allied to me, once, and to Helka, did us good service, and look at you now."

"I was not allied, I was enslaved ," Guevarr spat.

"Guevarr's question is a good one," Sigrún said. "Why would you ally yourself to Lik-Rifa, after the destruction she has brought down upon you?"

"Survival," Estrid said bitterly. "I wish to survive. When you are attacked, and you lose, you have the choice of fighting to the death, or fleeing, to live, to survive. That is what we have done." She waved a hand at Skalk, and her warriors scattered in the shadows behind her. "We fled, to survive. At first that was our only thought. But then we had more choices. To continue fleeing, which meant leaving Vigrie, or to fight. I will not flee to Iskidan to become Kirill's pet. No, Vigrie is my home, so I thought to fight. And who is left in Vigrie who could challenge Lik-Rifa? Jarl Orlyg and Jarl St?rr. Orlyg was at Darl and is most likely dead, so St?rr was the only choice left to me."

"Aye, that is much as we thought," Sigrún said with a shrug. " So, why the change of heart?"

"Are we negotiating now?" Skalk said with a fox-sleek smile. "Knowledge is power, especially in a war. We have information that we would use as a jarl uses silver."

Sigrún looked from Estrid to Skalk.

"If your information is useful, I shall speak for you to Lik-Rifa. And to Ilska the Cruel, who is her captain." Sigrún shrugged, looking down at Krúsa. "I cannot make a blood-binding oath to you, as who knows the mind of a dragon."

Estrid looked to Skalk, who gave a curt nod. "That is fair," she said.

"So, my question; why the change of heart?"

Estrid sucked in a deep breath.

"Jarl St?rr is dead." she said.

Excellent. One less enemy to fight.

"That would be of interest to Ilska, I am sure," Sigrún said. "To Lik-Rifa …" She looked at Krúsa.

"Perhaps," the skraeling shrugged.

"How did Jarl St?rr die?" Sigrún asked.

A flickered glance between Estrid and Skalk.

"He was eaten by a wolf-god," Skalk said.

"And the wolf-god is thralled to St?rr's daughter, Elvar," Estrid said.

To have a god as your thrall! That thought was intoxicating to Guevarr.

He heard Krúsa gasp, and Skalk heard her, too. He gave a thin-lipped smile.

"Perhaps that information will be of more interest to your dragon-queen?"

"Yes," Krúsa said. "Mother-Maker hunts the wolf. Where is he?" She leaned eagerly forwards.

"We know where he is," Skalk said, "which we are willing to tell you, and I suspect that the one to give this news to your dragon will be well rewarded. But there is more that we can offer. More we can do. We wish to be useful to your Lik-Rifa in the coming war." He looked at Guevarr. "If we are not useful, we are dead."

I know that feeling well.

"It is the way of the world," Frek the úlfhéenar muttered.

Sigrún dismounted from her horse.

"I think we have much to talk on," she said.

Guevarr stood at Sigrún's shoulder as she sat on a stump and listened to Skalk and Estrid. Part of him liked what they were saying and proposing to his aunt. It sounded like something that he would think of, or hoped that he would think of in these circumstances, sounded like deep-cunning, but his strongest feeling at the moment was hatred. To be honest, he wished them both dead. Especially Skalk. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, it caused a rage to bubble within him.

"This information that you wish to trade with us," Sigrún said. "Where have you come by it? We are far from Snakavik."

"We have met travellers upon the road. Many who have fled the slaying of Jarl St?rr. Apparently, his mead hall was destroyed by the wolf."

Guevarr could imagine that, after seeing the ruin of Helka's hall.

"And how do you know these travellers were telling the truth."

"I had Frek question them," Estrid said, gesturing to the úlfhéenar . "He was … thorough."

That I fully believe , Guevarr thought.

Sigrún nodded thoughtfully, while Krúsa stared unblinking at Estrid.

"So, you would choose the dragon and the rat over the wolf in this new war of gods," Sigrún said. "Why?"

"We have seen the power of the dragon," Estrid said. "She destroyed the eagle-god, destroyed Darl. A wolf pack is strong." She looked to her úlfhéenar . "The lone wolf, though, the lone wolf often dies."

I beg to differ , thought Guevarr, a surge of unpleasant memories of Orka at the Grimholt, the dead piled at her feet, blood on her lips. He shifted uncomfortably and looked around, saw that Yrsa was staring at him.

You nieing , he thought, attempting to return her dead-eyed gaze, but found he had to look away. She snorted. He rubbed at one eye, pretended some insect had flown into it.

Sigrún sat back and blew out a long breath.

"I am thinking this is something that will please Lik-Rifa and Ilska both," she said, looking at Krúsa.

"Agreed," Krúsa said. "We will take your news, and your offer, to Mother-Maker. She will be pleased." Krúsa grinned. "Munni or his people will find you. He will be our voice to you."

"Agreed," Estrid said, and Skalk nodded.

Guevarr looked to the trees, a faint sound drawing his attention. A hissing through branches, like a distant wind. Then stronger, the rasp of boughs scraping, leaves rustling.

The captive faunir grunted and shifted in its bonds.

"They are coming," it said, then smiled.

Krúsa stood, looked from the faunir to the darkness beyond the glade. She drew her blade of thick steel.

"We must go," she said, her other hand grabbing Sigrún's shoulder and hauling her to her feet. " Now ."

The sound in the trees grew louder with each heartbeat, like an approaching storm, and Guevarr heard other noises within the maelstrom. Voices, screams, hissing.

Tennúr burst into the glade, whirring above their heads.

"FAUNIR," they shrieked.

"Go," Krúsa shouted, shoving Sigrún towards her horse. Guevarr stumbled backwards, one fist wrapping around his sword hilt, collided with his horse and half turned, grabbing for the reins, got a foot in the stirrup and half jumped, half hauled himself into the saddle. His horse was dancing on the spot, wide-eyed, and he turned it in a tight circle, bringing it back under control.

Figures exploded from the wall of trees and foliage into the glade, small figures as if carved from animated wood with snarling faces and twisted, grasping thorns for hands. Frost-spiders dropped from the boughs above, suspended by threads of blue-tinged web. They snatched at the tide of faunir, long legs grasping, ice-webs spurting. Some scuttled back up their threads, hauling a screaming faunir in a net of ice, some leaped into the swarm, fangs biting, and others fell or were dragged and disappeared into the mass as it seethed across the glade and crashed into a knot of Krúsa's skraeling. The vaesen snarled and swung their crude weapons of iron, hacking and chopping at the tide of faunir, Guevarr seeing splinters of wood spraying and hearing strange ululating cries and high-pitched shrieks, but in heartbeats the skraeling were engulfed, overwhelmed as the faunir swept on. Guevarr saw úlfhéenar leaping from the shadows with their amber-flecked eyes, fighting with axe and seax, tooth and claw, with more success than the skraeling. They were faster, fiercer and more savage, though some fell with faunir swarming over them like ants.

"TO HORSE," Sigrún bellowed as she ran and leaped into her saddle.

Something whipped past Guevarr's ear, a ripple of impacts up his arm, like gravel hurled at him, something pinging from his mail half-sleeve. A sharp pain in his forearm and he looked down to see a cluster of splinters stabbing into his forearm, blood staining his tunic.

What? How? he thought through the pain that spiked abruptly. Then he saw faunir snarling incomprehensible words and flinging their arms as if they were hurling stones, fistfuls of sharp wood, like splinters or stakes, aimed at him like knives or nails. He swayed and ducked, a handful of splintered spikes hissing through the air where his face had been, heard a gurgled scream and, turning, saw one of Sigrún's drengrs clutching at his throat, plucking at splinters, dark blood spurting.

The faunir were close now, falling upon a handful of Sigrún's drengrs too late to their horses and attempting to form a shield wall. They slammed their shields together and stabbed over the rims with spear and sword, chopped with axes, the faunir crashing into the linden wood like a wave upon a rock. The drengrs fought well, did not break, Guevarr feeling a fleeting respect for their stand, but there were too many of the faunir, who scrambled up and over shield rims, slithered beneath them, more swirling around the edge of the wall.

"RIDE," Sigrún yelled, dragging on her reins. Guevarr heard Skalk's and Sturla's voices raised, glimpsed the crackle of rune-magic flickering to life, heard the hiss and sizzle and those high-pitched screams again, smelled the reek of burning sap and wood.

Small hands grasped at Guevarr's leg and he kicked, dragging his sword free, chopping down, his blow hacking into a faunir's arm. A jarring impact that shuddered through Guevarr's wrist and the faunir shrieked, Guevarr's blow carving deep, splinters flying. He wrenched his blade free and booted the faunir in the face, sent it stumbling away, spitting and cursing a torrent of insults. He kicked at his horse and sent it moving, back towards the path where they had entered the glade. Sigrún was surrounded by faunir and Guevarr heaved on his reins, sent his horse ploughing into them with a crunch, saw a handful of the nasty creatures fly through the air like bundles of wheat. Sigrún's horse reared, hooves lashing out and smashed the remaining faunir out of her way and then she was moving, slicing either side of her with her sword as she rode.

Krúsa was retreating, a handful of skraeling with her, faunir surging around them. One leaped onto Krúsa's shoulders and started ripping into her with its long-taloned fingers, Krúsa bellowing. Sigrún rode past the skraeling and lashed out, hacked the faunir from Krúsa's shoulders in a spray of splintered wood, Krúsa taking the opportunity and turning, running with those around her for the road out of the glade.

Sigrún reached the road and reined in, turned, urging her drengrs and skraeling on, hacking at any faunir that followed. Guevarr galloped past her, out of the glade and into the gloom of the path, looked back over his shoulder and saw Sigrún finally following, beyond her Skalk and his party retreating to the road on their side of the glade. Near the centre of the clearing a knot of faunir were gathered, bending over something. Guevarr saw they were sawing at the bonds of the captured faunir, saw it stand and shriek an ululating war cry, and then he was turning a curve in the path and the glade was disappearing behind him.