CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN GUÐVARR

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

GUDVARR

G uevarr starred in horrified fascination.

He was standing with his aunt and her drengrs a few paces beyond the treeline, close to a stream that fed into the river. His shield was slung across his back and he held his spear in a white-knuckled fist. Warriors stretched to left and right, all waiting their turn to march into the steel-storm that was raging before them.

Just the sound of the battle made him want to cover his ears, made him want to take a few quiet steps backwards, into the treeline, then turn and slip away. The din of war filled the forest. Screams drifted on the cold wind, battle cries, death shrieks, the clash of steel and iron, the drum of feet.

No. Face your fear, find your courage.

As Guevarr watched he saw a fresh wave of rafts rowing across the river, saw warriors and skraeling leap from them onto the far bank, disappearing as they descended into the ditch, then reappear as they scrambled up the far side. Arrows, spears, rocks, all came hurtling down at those warriors and Guevarr marvelled at their courage, how they kept climbing, despite the death raining down upon them, despite seeing their comrades' corpses tumbling or sliding back down into the ditch.

How can they do that? Keep on going in the face of such death? He swallowed, feeling scared and then ashamed.

He saw a warrior reach the embankment wall and heave himself over, saw him set upon by foes to either side, saw him fall. A handful of others reached the wall, another wave from the rafts scrambling and slithering up the ditch behind them.

A new roar drew his eyes to the bridge, where he saw a knot of skraeling were gathered, preparing to assault the gates. They were snarling and growling, thumping their chests, ripping at their tattered mail shirts, the sound of them rising to a frenzied roar, and then they were running in great leaps and bounds, warriors moving from their way. They reached the press at the gates, where warriors stood with shields raised and locked, protecting those carrying new ladders. The skraeling leaped onto the tops of the shields and leaped again, reaching the top of the wall with long-armed, grasping hands, hauling themselves over the palisade and onto the walkway beyond. Guevarr saw snatched glimpses of furious combat, spears and swords stabbing, skraeling swinging their crude iron weapons, a huge, black-skinned man lifting a skraeling over his head and hurling the vaesen back over the wall at those carrying ladders at the gates, smashing a knot of warriors to the ground.

He swallowed again, a fresh wave of fear swiftly followed by shame.

To Guevarr's right there was a splash and a ripple of movement in the stream, and he looked closer, saw a glimpse of a black-shining, chitinous body, antennae, a curving tail and sting. A spertus, swimming down the stream towards the river. Then more movement, another spertus, and another, and another, until the stream looked crammed with them as salmon in breeding season.

The rustle of movement behind him and he twisted, saw that Rotta was passing within the shadows of the forest, the warrior Biórr and a dozen others behind him.

"Where are we going?" he heard Biórr say.

"I told you, if you need a job done properly, you must do it yourself," Rotta said, and then they were gone, merging with the gloom of the forest.

An impact on his arm and he jumped, wild-eyed.

It was his aunt. She was slapping his arm with the back of her hand.

"Guevarr, make ready," she said.

"What?" Guevarr squeaked.

"Make ready," Sigrún said to him as she buckled her helm tighter, nodding towards where her drengrs were lifting two rafts. "Time to earn our place in this skáld-song," she said to him.

The drengrs began to carry the rafts down the bank towards the river, Sigrún yelling for her drengrs to follow her.

Guevarr swallowed and took a slow step after her.