CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE GUÐVARR

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

GUDVARR

G uevarr leaped from the raft towards the riverbank, splashed into ice-cold water that soaked his legs to the knees and snatched at his breath, waded through water and reeds and onto the riverbank. Looking around for Sigrún, he saw her to his right and made for her as she surged on, her shield held high, sword drawn in her other fist. On, up a gentle slope. A flicker of movement and an arrow hissed past him, and he twisted, saw the arrow slam into a warrior's throat, saw them tumble backwards into the shallows, grasping at the shaft, blood spreading like oil in the water. Guevarr stumbled on, using his spear as a staff to keep his footing on the slippery ground, lost sight of Sigrún, found her again and then the ditch was before him. A steep slope down and Guevarr hesitated, death's reek wafting up to him, of blood and voided bowels, a sight of nightmares before him.

The ditch was piled thick with corpses, limbs tangled in a macabre embrace, mouths open, flies already crawling in them, empty, lifeless eyes staring. Guevarr took a step backwards, then another. Someone slammed into his back, shoved him forwards and he was stumbling down the ditch, lost his footing in the slick mud and falling, tumbling, losing his grip on his spear and slamming into something, his head crunching into his shield. He tried to move, turned his head into a skraeling's dead face. Opened his mouth to shout for help but sucked in a mouthful of hair instead. There was a foot on his back, a weight pressing him down and panic filled him, struggling and flailing, he grabbed hold of the top rim of his shield and dragged himself to his knees. Stayed there, gasping in great lungfuls of air. The twang of bows and arrows hissed, a woman falling back down the slope, crashing to the ground beside him, an arrow through her eye.

The only way out was up, was forwards. He staggered up the mud-churned slope, dragging himself with his shield, slid back a step, climbed two more. Slid back another step. Shouts and screams filtered down to him. A body rolled down the embankment towards him and he tried to avoid it, fell, dug his fingers into the mud to stop himself slithering back down into the ditch, and dragged himself up, slamming the shield rim into the soft earth, his arms burning with the effort. He began crawling up the slope, fist in the earth, then shield, fist in the earth, then shield. A shadow before him and he looked up, saw the wall. Clambering to his feet, the wall reared before him up to chest height. There were no warriors facing him, which he thanked the dead gods for, though he saw blurred figures on the walkway, heard the clash of weapons, saw black clouds of spertus poison hovering in the air, and the rapid scuttle of their segmented bodies. Hoping they'd know he was on their side, he heaved his shield up and over the wall, anchored it, grabbed the wall with his other hand and, with a gargantuan effort, hauled himself up and flopped over onto the walkway. Lay there, his chest heaving.

The dead were all about him, men and women in mail, some with black veins threading their faces, mouths open, black tongues swollen, skraeling with great rents in their flesh, spertus leaking pools of black blood. He saw feet and legs moving in shuffling, juddering dances, heard steel striking shields, clanging on metal, heard the sound of blades hewing flesh.

I have no strength left, am too weak to stand, let alone fight. Death, take me if you will.

A spertus scuttled towards him, its black sting twitching and Guevarr found new strength, flopped onto his front and pushed himself up, staggered away, hefted his shield.

"Friend," he cried to the spertus, holding his shield before him. "I am on your side."

The spertus regarded him a moment, its antennae twitching, a ball of fluid glistening at the tip of its sting. A hand grabbed Guevarr's shoulder and dragged him around. His aunt, shield and blood-slick sword in her hands, and he felt a wave of relief to see her. The spertus scuttled away.

"With me," Sigrún said to him, "and draw your sword," she grunted, then she was moving, drengrs falling in behind her. Guevarr thumped down a handful of timber steps off the walkway, drawing his sword and they were on a wide track that skirted the steep slope of the hill. He saw that all along this embankment warriors and skraeling were clambering over the wall, the defenders retreating down the path before them.

Jarl Sigrún led them around a black cloud of spertus poison that hovered in the air, people lying dead within it, beneath it, bodies twisted and black-veined. Guevarr saw a knot of combat raging on the path before them, skraeling and dragon-cultists hurling themselves against a small shield wall, wolf-heads painted on the shields. Guevarr seeing a white-haired, barrel-chested warrior with a braided beard shouting and bellowing insults. They were retreating slowly, swords and spears stabbing out at the skraeling and dragon-cultists who hurled themselves at the linden wall, axes chopping, leaving a tide of the dead behind them.

"Come," Sigrún said to Guevarr, and she was lifting her shield, locking it with Guevarr's. "Warriors of Fellur, to me," she yelled and drengrs ran to her, shields slamming together, a wall ten men wide forming, other warriors stepping into a second line. Sigrún punched her sword hilt into her shield, setting a rhythm and her warriors echoed her, marching in time to her beat.

Guevarr's heart slammed in his chest, beat in his mouth. Skraeling saw them coming, made way. Guevarr and Sigrún were ten paces from the enemy shield wall, five paces, then with a roar they were crashing together. Shields scraped, Guevarr pressing his shoulder into his, feeling the weight of the enemy against it.

I am in the battle-fray, the storm of steel , he realised.

He gritted his teeth, peering over the rim of his shield, saw a snarling growler of a man, all black beard, frothing lips and blood-crusted axe. Guevarr stabbed his blade over his shield rim, slithering out to ping off black-beard's helm. The man hooked his axe over Guevarr's rim and dragged it down, Guevarr seeing a spearman in the second row, the spear snaking towards him.

He felt a moment of gut-churning, bowel-loosening fear and opened his mouth to scream.

A spertus dropped out of nowhere, its tail flicking out, and the spearman was gasping, black veins spreading from a swelling lump on his cheek, the spear falling from his grip as his hands went to his throat and he was reeling away, choking, gasping, collapsing to his knees.

Then other spertus were flying over the wall of shields and dropping low. Screams rang out, warriors dropping shields and weapons, black veins spreading through them, and the shield wall was breaking apart, splintering in a dozen places. The white-haired warrior yelled, and then the warriors were turning and running in a knot around him.

Guevarr felt a wave of relief as he saw the backs of his enemy, then a flush of elation.

I have stood in the shield wall and my enemy have broken and fled before me.

He glanced at the spertus.

Before us.

"On," Sigrún said, and they moved forwards, maintaining their wall of shields. His enemy ran before him, merging with more warriors who were retreating from the embankment walls. Guevarr saw archers stopping to nock and loose arrows, then running on again, other warriors slowing to lock shields and retreat in a more orderly fashion. Other warriors lagged behind, some locked in combat as skraeling ran around Sigrún and her small shield wall, leaping at the straggling warriors, and the spertus scuttled after them, spreading the pestilence from their mouths, stabbing with their stings.

Sigrún led Guevarr on, more of her drengrs finding her, other warriors joining them.

He could see the bridge and gates now, heard horns blowing. Saw warriors streaming down the stairwells above the gates, forming a thick wall of shields and retreating slowly, the warriors retreating from this embankment joining them, slipping into the wall and locking their shields. They retreated backwards, moving out of Guevarr's sight, hidden by a promontory of the hill. Other figures were swarming over the gate wall now, skraeling and other warriors, the skraeling leaping from the walkway and clustering at the gates, heaving great bars up and casting them down with a resounding crash. Then the gates were swinging open on their iron hinges.

A wave of warriors poured through the gates, Ilska and Drekr were there, marching through the open gates at the head of the Raven-Feeders, Drekr with his long-axe in his fists and shield slung across his back, Ilska with her sword and shield in her hands. A host followed behind them, and as Guevarr drew nearer he saw that the other embankment must have fallen, too, for there were more of Lik-Rifa's war-host surging along the path that shadowed the hill.

Sigrún led her warriors towards Ilska and the Raven-Feeders and, as they moved into the area behind the gates Guevarr saw that the bridge road continued on, flanked by two steep-sloped spurs of the hill, towards a huge-arched doorway set into the hillside. It towered above them, large enough for Lik-Rifa to walk through in her dragon form.

And before it stood Elvar and her war-host, a wall of shields spread across the road like a great dam before a river.