CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN GUÐVARR

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

GUDVARR

G uevarr looked around wildly for his aunt, all about him black smoke and red flames, cries eddying on the wind, the clash of steel, grunts and screams, figures swirling in and out of his vision. He held his shield ready, sword half raised, shuffled in a half-circle, searching, stumbled over a dead body. In the chaos and confusion it was difficult to make out friend from foe. The clash of iron and snarl of voices close to him and he saw two figures silhouetted by flame, both wielding long-axes, fighting amidst the carnage as if nothing else existed. Guevarr watched, open-mouthed, his shield and sword dropping, awed by the savagery and skill he was witnessing.

The long-axes whirled and cracked, the two warriors standing, feet set, axes held like staffs, wood clacking, iron blades grating, sparks flying. Grunts and thuds, the two figures moving now, swirling in and out, around each other, axes swinging, and Guevarr glimpsed black hair and a raven-feather, realised one of the warriors was Drekr, then the other one stepped into flame-kissed light and Guevarr took an involuntary step backwards with a whimper.

It was Orka, the úlfhéenar , just as he remembered her from the Grimholt. Snarling, blood spattered, amber eyes blazing. He stared at her, felt a rush of fear, felt his feet start to take him away.

No. All feel fear , he heard his aunt's voice. It is what we do with it that matters.

He stopped his unconscious retreat, began to stalk towards Orka.

Perhaps I could stab her, while she's fighting Drekr. Chop her leg while she's distracted, maybe. In and out, let Drekr do the hard work.

He picked his pace up, his shield and sword rising. Then something hurtled out of the smoke at him, a man, dark-haired, in mail and helm, a short beard, shield and spear, eyes hate filled, lips a twist of rage. Something familiar about him, but there was no time. He had a moment to pivot on one foot, raise his shield, then the warrior was upon him, spear stabbing at Guevarr's face. He shuffled backwards, clumsily jerking his shield rim up to knock the spear away, swinging his sword at the spearman's waist, but the spearman pushed the sword-blow wide with his own shield, a twist of his wrist and punched the iron boss into Guevarr's jaw, sent him reeling backwards, biting his tongue, white stars bursting in his skull, crunching into a tree. The spear-point came at him, and he ducked, threw himself to the side, felt a hot-burning line along his cheek and ear where it caught him, stumbled away and put his shield-hand to his face, felt something sticky, looked at his hand to see blood.

The spearman tugged at his spear, which was buried in the tree. Guevarr saw his opening, snarled and lunged at the man, stabbing, his sword grating on mail, rings tearing as the warrior ripped his spear free and twisted away, took a few steps back and set his feet, raised his shield, spun the spear in his grip into an underhand grip. He looked at the cut on Guevarr's cheek.

"That is for Mord," the warrior said, and Guevarr blinked, looked again at this warrior in front of him, recognition sparking.

"Lif? Lif! No, it cannot be," he said, then, slowly, he smiled.

"Shield, spear and mail do not make you a drengr ," he said with a smirk. "You are nothing but a nieing fisherman pretending to be a warrior," and he walked forwards.

Lif waited for him and Guevarr darted in, stabbing low with his sword, aiming for Lif's shins beneath his shield rim. He had seen many a drengr felled by such a blow.

A flick of Lif's wrist and a sidestep, his shield rim dropping, knocking Guevarr's sword into the soft earth, stepping right around Guevarr's shield and stabbing, a sharp pain in Guevarr's shoulder and he hissed, took a hasty step backwards, out of range, but Lif was coming at him, the spear stabbing at him again, at his eyes, Guevarr raising his shield, losing sight of Lif, then another hot pain along his calf, a snatched glance and he saw his winnigas leg-wrap torn, blood seeping into the fabric, running down his leg. The pain followed and he limped backwards.

No, this cannot be happening. How did he learn this weapons craft? I fear úlfhéenar and Froa-spirits and dragons, not fishermen! The indignity of it surged within him, turned into a red rage and without thinking he roared, hurling himself at Lif, saw the surprise flare in the fisherman's eyes, and then he was smashing into him, both of them tumbling to the ground, rolling, shields tangled, Guevarr trying to get his sword free to stab, Lif losing his grip on his spear. They came to a stop, Lif flailing at Guevarr with weak punches. Guevarr let go of his shield and sword, twisted and grabbed Lif around the throat with one hand, pinned Lif's spear hand with his knee and heaved himself on top of the thrashing fisherman, wrapping his other fist around Lif's throat and squeezed. Dimly he was aware of battle raging all around him, people screaming, fighting, dying.

Lif struggled and writhed beneath him, eyes bulging, frothing foam on his lips as he spat and snarled and gasped, and Guevarr felt the strength begin to leak from him. He smiled and squeezed harder, putting all his weight into his grip.

"Tell your nieing brother hello from me when you see him," he grunted as he squeezed. Lif gave one last panicked heave, then there was a crunch in the side of Guevarr's head, the world spinning, an impact and Guevarr realised he was lying on the ground, leaves and earth in his face. He groaned, rolled, tried to push himself up, one side of his face throbbing, saw that Lif was gasping, flopping, his shield still in his fist, realised that was what had hit him.

He climbed to one knee, found his shield and clambered unsteadily to his feet, the world spinning, heard a voice and focused on Lif, saw a woman standing over the fisherman, tall and slender, short-haired, a spear in one hand. She was gripping Lif's arm and dragging him to his feet. Then Lif and the woman were turning, lifting their weapons and moving at him.

He raised his shield, swayed, his other hand grasping for the seax at his belt.

A huge roar shook the world, all three of them freezing in their tracks, then stumbling as the ground shook, trees trembling. Another roar, louder and closer than the first.

Lik-Rifa , Guevarr realised.

The sound of wood cracking and a great rent of light ripped through the sky above them, branches falling, splintered wood raining down around them, then the light was blotted out and Lik-Rifa was crashing through the canopy, wings beating, sending flames and smoke and leaves swirling, feeling like a storm raged around them. Lik-Rifa hit the ground like an avalanche, trees torn from their roots, people, skraeling, trolls, hurled through the air. Guevarr was knocked from his feet. An eruption of dust filled the world, Guevarr coughing and rolling, losing his shield, saw Lik-Rifa standing with her wings spread, rearing onto her back feet, jaws opening wide, teeth long as spears.

"ULFRIR," she roared and crashed back to the ground, the impact hurling Guevarr into the air again, crunching down on soft ground and lying there, groaning. He rose, grit in his eyes. He rubbed at them, eyes watering and risking a glimpse, saw the dust cloud was slowly settling, people around him staggering to their feet. He looked about for Lif and the woman but could not see them. Heard a horn calling, off in the forest, saw shadowed figures flitting away from the camp and retreating into the night-dark murk of the forest. Heard a woman snarling and screaming, looked to see Orka thirty or forty paces away, a bald warrior one side of her, a giant red-haired man on the other, both of them gripping her arms and dragging her away from the road, back into the forest while she spat and snarled and raged.

Then he saw Ilska, a handful of dragon-born around her, red rune-shields glowing in their fists. She was crouched on one knee, looking at something or someone on the ground, then a figure rose to one knee, Drekr, Ilska helping him to his feet. A brief exchange of words.

"After them," Ilska yelled, and she was moving.

Guevarr looked around, saw a shield and snatched it up and drew the seax from his belt.

"Guevarr!" a voice cried, and he reeled around, saw Sigrún emerge from the smoke and gloom, a dozen of her drengrs around her. The relief he felt at seeing her was as a wave sweeping over him.

"Are you injured?" she asked him.

"Well," he said, putting one hand to his cheek, looking down at his blood-soaked calf, pain pulsing from both wounds. They were agony, he felt sick and weak and just wanted to drop to the ground and curl into a ball. "It's nothing, just scratches," he said, stifling his honest reaction.

"Thank the dead gods," she breathed, then looked to Ilska, who was still bellowing commands, leading warriors into the trees after those who had attacked them.

They are fleeing, is there any real need to chase after them?

"With me," Sigrún said and strode towards the treeline.

Guevarr sighed and followed.

Sunlight broke through the canopy where Lik-Rifa had smashed through it in great pillars of dust-moted gold as Guevarr threaded through the battle-torn camp. Bodies were strewn everywhere, fires burning, black clouds of smoke billowing, and then Sigrún was leading him between the trees, shadow falling about them like a curtain. Nearby Lik-Rifa thundered into the forest, tearing trees up by their roots as she raged, Guevarr wincing as splinters of wood flew through the air about him.

"There," Sigrún said and broke into a run, Guevarr seeing figures ahead of them, silhouetted by a flare of blue light that pulsed in the darkness. He ran limping after his aunt, the undergrowth flattened by the battle, glimpsed bodies lying in the undergrowth, people, frost-spiders. A knot of skraeling overtook him and Sigrún, crashing through the undergrowth and Guevarr heard the hiss and twang of bowstrings, heard grunts and yells, saw a handful of the skraeling stumble and fall and he raised his shield, felt an arrow thump into it, stumbled on blindly.

Ilska's voice shouting unknown words from ahead of him and a burst of rolling red runes sailed into the air, hovered high above them, just below the canopy, then exploded in a shower of sparks, illuminating the area around him.

He saw a woman standing in the forest, Seier-runes flickering and pulsing around her, people running past her and disappearing. She shouted something, the runes flaring to incandescence and exploding, searing Guevarr's eyes so that he cried out and covered his eyes, and when he could see again, the woman and all the warriors were gone.

Ilska and Drekr ran forward, stopping roughly where the woman had been standing, Sigrún, Guevarr and her drengrs following. The ground was trampled and churned, and then … nothing.

"Where are they?" Drekr snarled, turning in a circle. He was bleeding from a cut across one cheek, a flap of skin hanging.

Guevarr peered into the gloom, wary of another attack from the darkness, saw a flicker of movement and squawked a warning, raised his shield, then saw it was a night-hag floating like mist between two trunks. He heard movement up above him in the branches, looked up at the frost-spiders moving in the boughs.

More figures approached them from the road, Lik-Rifa leading them. She had returned to her human form, her face all strained lines and twitching muscles. Tennúr swirled above her, flitting among the trees and branches, dragon-born and skraeling spread behind her.

"Where are they?" Lik-Rifa said as she neared them.

"Gone," Ilska said.

"Tannbursta, find them," Lik-Rifa snapped, giving a sharp flick of fingers and the tennúr were speeding away, disappearing into the forest.

"There are tracks," Drekr said, pointing his long-axe at the ground, "many tracks, and then," he looked up and shook his head. "They are gone."

There was a crashing in the distance, growing swiftly louder, Guevarr seeing the bulk of a huge shadow through the trees. Ilska, Drekr and the dragon-born were moving, spreading into a half-circle before Lik-Rifa, voices shouting in their strange rune-tongue, shields of fire crackling to life, and Lik-Rifa began to twitch and shudder.

The shadow among the trees sped at them, branches straining, cracking, a tremor in the ground and Guevarr hurried to stand beside Sigrún, her drengrs moving close, forming a loose shield wall.

The wolf is coming, the wolf is coming. He felt fear flood through him, then, gut-churning, bowel-loosening fear and fought with every ounce of strength to remain standing, to not turn and run wailing into the safety of the darkness. He gripped his shield, knuckles white, raised his seax, gritted his teeth, part snarl, part grimace.

The shadow passed through a column of light from the canopy above and Guevarr saw a tapering snout, black eyes, a long, hairless tail, and Rotta was skidding to a halt before them, his body shimmering and shrinking, bones crackling and popping, and in heartbeats Rotta the man was standing before them.

"Ulfrir?" he asked.

"He is not here," Lik-Rifa said, her transformation reversing, "with you?"

"No. We were attacked along the line, Berserkir and úlfhéenar , some others, but no Ulfrir."

Tennúr flitted back out of the gloom, one of them circling Lik-Rifa and alighting upon her shoulder.

"No one out there," the tennúr squeaked.

"Those that attacked us, they have disappeared," Ilska said.

Rotta looked at the ground, saw the downtrodden foliage and tracks, then nothing. He crouched, brushed the ground, nose twitching, then looked up at Lik-Rifa.

"Tunnels," he said.