CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE GUÐVARR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

GUDVARR

G uevarr heard the horns blowing and reined his horse in. Followed Sigrún and her drengrs as they found a space to tie their mounts and make camp. Dawn was bleeding into the world, the shadows parting and separating into shades of grey. Tennúr whirred through the camp, calling Lik-Rifa's captains to her.

"Guevarr, with me," Sigrún said as she slung her shield across her back, checked her weapons, took her helm from a saddle-hook and buckled it onto her belt. He felt a glow of pride as he walked behind her, and of love, for she had picked him, always raised him up. He felt a ripple of fear, too, as they threaded through this new camp.

Not just a new camp. Our final camp. We are at Wolfdales. At the site of our great battle. The fate of Vigrie shall be decided here. The wolf or the dragon. Fear and excitement shivered through him. To be part of this momentous moment, to become part of the greatest saga, to be a part of skáld-songs that would surely be sung throughout the ages. It was every warrior's dream.

Yet there is also the very real possibility of death, and not a kind one in my sleep, or a pleasant one with a whore bouncing on top of me, but an extremely painful one at the end of a sharp blade, or on the tips of some úlfhéenar's sharp teeth or claws.

He gulped and adjusted the shield on his back.

Sigrún led him on and he saw daylight filtering through the canopy, coming now in great columns and swathes of light as the branches thinned. They walked upon an old stone road, stepping out from beneath the trees into a strip of green land that spread either side of him, the sky a pale blue, a cold wind cutting into him. There was a wide river before him, and a towering hill beyond it. But it was not the river or hill that drew his eyes. The stone road led to a bridge that arched across the river, and at its far end was a tall timber gate and wall, gate towers rearing at either end. And on the far riverbank, spreading either way beyond the bridge gate, he saw a deep ditch had been dug, leading up to a steep-sloped earth embankment, upon which a timber palisade ran. Upon the gate and embankment palisades were warriors. Many warriors in gleaming helms and brynjas , spear-tips glinting in the first light of dawn like a forest of diamonds. All still, all silent, seeming as if they all stared at Guevarr. The sight of it made him stop, and stare, and swallow nervously again.

"Guevarr," Sigrún called to him, and he hurried to catch up with her.

Lik-Rifa stood with Rotta, a score of her captains about her.

"We shall carve a ram to break those gates," Drekr said, glowering at the gate on the bridge.

"No rams," Rotta said. "The gates are Seier-bound, there will be no smashing them down. The walls on the embankments are protected, too. We can, however, still climb over them."

"Ladders, then," Drekr said.

"Aye, lots of ladders," Rotta said.

"And rafts to cross the river," Ilska added.

We have a dragon, why can she not just fly over there and destroy them all? Guevarr thought, though speaking that aloud in Lik-Rifa's earshot did not seem like deep-thinking to him.

Lik-Rifa just stood and glared at the hill behind the gates.

"He is in there, brother," she said to Rotta.

"Aye, sister, and we shall dig him out."

"What does he plan?" Lik-Rifa snarled. "He is wolf-cunning, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," Rotta said. "He chained me to a rock and dripped snake venom upon me."

"You did skin his daughter alive," Lik-Rifa said, looking at Rotta, and she sniggered.

Rotta looked around at the captains gathered around them, as if he had forgotten they were there.

"Ladders and rafts," he said, clapping his hands, and they all turned and walked back to the forest.

Sigrún led Guevarr back to her drengrs and they went to the supply wagons, where wood-axes were being handed out, along with great rolls of rope and twine. As they made their way off the road into the forest the rhythmic sounds of axes hewing wood began to ring out, the war-host spreading through the forest. Guevarr saw skraeling climbing trunks and hewing at branches, saw warriors hacking at trunks, wood splintering.

"Here," Sigrún said, leading Guevarr and her drengrs to a thick-limbed elm tree. Járn clambered up the trunk and used a hand-axe to chop at branches, dropping them down to other drengrs who trimmed the branches of leaves and chopped them to size, set about tying them together with twine, making ladders. Guevarr and another drengr hefted long-shafted wood-axes and set about chopping into the base of the trunk, the thicker timber needed for raft-building.

A sound behind Guevarr, and he turned to see a dozen dragon-cultists stripped to the waist and hacking at a tree, their dragon-tattoos swirling across their bodies, glistening with sweat despite the cold wind that soughed through the forest.

The branches of the tree were quivering, began to shake violently.

Oh no.

"You dare ," a voice said from somewhere above, ancient as time, sounding like the scrape and scratch of branches in the breeze, the rustle and crackle of leaves, and then Guevarr saw a figure drop to the ground, one knee and fist on the ground, slowly rising. A woman, carved from wood, hair trailing and shifting like vines, her face sharp-carved lines, contorted with rage.

"YOU DARE," she cried, raising her hands, and the dragon-cultists fell back before her.

" R?tur skapara míns, binda og snara, rífa og rífa, " the Froa called out and the ground shook, began to buck and heave, and roots burst from the earth, snaking around the ankles and legs of the dragon-cultists, snaring them, dragging them to the ground. Guevarr saw three, four, five of them caught and pulled to the ground, others turning and running, roots whipping after them, lashing at them. Those on the ground twisted and struggled but the roots wrapped tighter around them, pinning them, and still the roots flexed tighter. Screams pierced the air, terror-filled, and Guevarr stared in fixated horror as flesh began to rip and tear, blood welling, spurting, cracking sounds as bones broke and shattered, the screams rising in pitch, and one of the warriors who had evaded the roots ran back in, began chopping with an axe at the roots that snared a woman.

" Vínvieur af safa-blóei mínu, stinga og stinga, drepa og slátra, " the Froa screamed, rage- and malice-filled, and the vines that were her hair snaked out, each one thorn-barbed, piercing her attacker, stabbing into his limbs and body, blood spurting. She raised him up into the air, threw him screaming into a tree with a bone-splintering crunch. He dropped to the ground, whimpering, blood staining the forest litter.

Guevarr heard more screaming, more branch-scraping voices crying their Seier-words. He turned in a slow circle, saw the forest shaking all around him, saw people running, screaming, saw vines and roots whipping, snaring, impaling, blood spraying. He held his axe, backed away until he bumped into the tree at his back.

Sigrún was shouting orders, her drengrs moving to her, forming a circle, axes and weapons ready, but Guevarr could only stare at the savagery all around him. There was a greater roaring, drowning out the sounds around him, a shadow above the forest canopy, a great wind from beating wings and Lik-Rifa was crashing through the canopy above, splintered branches and leaves raining down, the dragon descending, her jaws wrapping around the trunk of an ash tree close to Guevarr. The dragon's feet hit the ground and the world trembled as Lik-Rifa heaved, straining. The Froa-spirit turned and shrieked, whipped at Lik-Rifa's hide with her roots and vines, tore red wheals along the dragon's skin, blood welling in long streaks, but Lik-Rifa ignored the Froa, and pulled. There was a ripping, tearing sound and the ash tree tore loose from the ground, an explosion of earth, roots flailing in the air like grasping fingers, and Lik-Rifa spat the tree from her mouth, threw it to the ground with a crash, a cloud of dust. The Froa-spirit screeched and stumbled, fell to one knee, gasping and sucking at air, her hands rising to her throat. She toppled to her side, chest heaving, limbs and vines thrashing, her breath wheezing, mouth open wide, choking. A spasm wrenched through her, a lingering shudder and she was still, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a rictus scream.

Lik-Rifa stood over the fallen ash tree and Froa, opened her jaws and roared, Guevarr falling to his knees and clasping his hands over his ears. Then Lik-Rifa was crashing through the forest, jaws snapping and crunching about the next ash tree.