CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE GUÐVARR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

GUDVARR

G uevarr stood just inside the open doors of Ulfrir's chamber, the first grey light of dawn seeping into the world, his mouth open in shock as he stared at Lik-Rifa. She bucked, heaving and writhing, roaring loud as a storm, snared by a multitude of vines, each one thick as a tree. Flames were spreading across the chamber, licking at the ash tree, black smoke billowing, the Froa-spirit roaring, one of its long arms aflame.

"Forward," Sigrún shouted, leading her drengrs away from the stone doors and deeper into the chamber, Guevarr slipping and almost falling in the blue-touched ichor of a dismembered frost-spider. It was chaos everywhere, battle raging wherever Guevarr looked. Frost-spiders were scuttling, leaping and biting, people lying on the ground frozen, blue ice crusted around their lips, night-hags swirled throughout, throttling the life from warriors with their mist-wraith hands, trolls were clubbing and stabbing indiscriminately, squashing people into gruel, and jarls like Sigrún and chieftains were leading their small warbands and shield walls deeper into the chamber. The noise was overwhelming, Lik-Rifa roaring, the giant Froa-spirit sounding like a storm raging in the boughs of a forest, Ulfrir growling and snarling, a group of mounted warriors galloping and clattering around the chamber, yelling and loosing arrows at any target they could find, Berserkir and úlfhéenar slavering and snarling, ripping and tearing, and everywhere warriors shouting, screaming, dying, the clash of steel ringing louder than a thousand blacksmiths hammering in a thousand forges. But the worst thing for Guevarr, despite the numbers of Lik-Rifa's horde, was his growing suspicion that they were losing.

Everywhere he looked he saw the fallen, whether they be human or vaesen, and it looked like the dead of Lik-Rifa's war-host outnumbered by far the dead of Elvar's war-host.

And our illustrious leader, the supposedly indestructible dragon, is wrapped like a goose for the winter blot feast, while the giant wolf runs free. And where is the rat? Maybe he's had the right idea and fled this chaos …

He looked back over his shoulder at the grey light beyond the doors, getting further and further away as Sigrún led them into the torch-lit chamber.

Why can we not just stay close to the open doors? Then, if things do go wrong, we won't have as far to run.

They moved alongside another shield wall, thirty- or forty-strong, three rows deep, Guevarr seeing the eagle of Darl upon their shields, and another emblem, two black ravens. He knew the eagle, recognised Estrid in the front row. Sigrún led her smaller band to them and joined them, shields slotting together.

Well, strength in numbers, I suppose, Guevarr thought.

"SHIELDS," Sigrún and Estrid yelled together, and Guevarr looked over the top of his shield to glimpse two or three warriors running towards them, one with skin as black as raven-feathers, a coat of mail that was stretched tight over thick slabs of muscle. He was much closer than the others.

There must be sixty of us, why do they sound so panicked? Guevarr thought, then, as he focused on the warriors charging at him, like a stone dropped in his belly, he understood. The warriors charging at him were Berserkir , and the black-skinned one was not closer, he was running in line with the other two Berserkir : he was just much, much bigger than them.

And Berserkir are not exactly small. No, never small.

"Guevarr," Sigrún grunted at him, and he blinked, felt a rush of fear, raised his shield and slotted it tight to Sigrún's, made sure his shield rim was tight to Sigrún's boss, the warrior to his left doing the same to his shield. Felt a pressure behind him as the warriors in the second row set their feet and put their shields to his back.

"READY," Sigrún yelled and Guevarr set his feet and tucked his left shoulder tight into his shield, bracing it. He heard the thumping footsteps of the Berserkir , heard a wild-bull snorting, heard frothing, savage-bear growling roars growing louder. He gripped his sword tight, ready to stab over the top of his shield as soon as the Berserkir hit the line and were checked by the weight of the shield wall.

A crunch, an impact, and he was weightless, flying through the air. Spinning, the ground rushing up at him. A crunching, bone-rattling impact and he lost his shield, rolled, slammed into something and lay there, dazed, looking up at branches high above. Heard battle cries, the sound of flesh being cleaved and torn, screams, warriors crying out. He groaned, heaved himself over and used his sword like a staff, wedging the tip into the ground and hauling himself up by the hilt. Thirty or forty paces away the black bull-man and Berserkir were tearing warriors apart, hacking at them, biting, the bull-man ripping an arm from one of Sigrún's drengrs and beating him to the ground with it.

Is that Járn? he thought.

The shield wall was gone, broken and smashed like a splintered dam, bodies lying strewn and sprawled all around Guevarr. Some were trying to climb back to their feet.

Then the bull-man and the two Berserkir were moving on, running at a cluster of frost-spiders who were scuttling towards the mounted warriors, who were loosing their arrows at Lik-Rifa.

A groan and Guevarr saw Estrid lying on the ground close to him. She was moving, blood seeping from a cut on her forehead, eyes flickering.

Not so regal and haughty, now, are you? And you thought to fight me at Darl. He remembered the flush of fear and shame when she had bested him with her weapons craft, knocked him on his arse. Looking around, he saw that all her warriors were down, and he stepped closer and pressed his sword against her throat. Leaned on it as if he was using his sword for balance. Her eyes snapped open as the blade slid into the soft flesh at the base of her neck, and she jerked and spasmed. Guevarr slipped the sword free, a gush of dark blood and he dropped the sword and fell to his knees, cradled Estrid's head in his hands while pinning one of her arms with his knee.

She gasped and spluttered, coughing up gouts of blood, tried to grasp and claw at his face, but he held her hand and gripped it as if giving her comfort, pretended to stroke her brow, while holding her down. Her eyes fluttered, rolling white, her strength failing. A cough of blood and a spasm through her legs and she was gone.

That'll teach you, you nieing, Guevarr thought.

He wiped his bloodied hands on Estrid's breeches, reached for his sword and stood. Smiled. Felt a wash of heat and saw that flames were spreading through the chamber. They were thick around and upon the base of the great tree now, and the Froa-spirit was shrieking and flailing her arms, one of them ablaze, the flames crackling onto her torso. Guevarr saw people fighting on the stairwell that wound around the tree, the flames forcing them higher as they spread hungrily up the trunk. Lik-Rifa was half bound, many of the roots that had held her charred and splintered. She was beating her wings frantically, trying to rise while the stone wolves tore at her. Dragon-born and trolls were spread around Lik-Rifa, trying to hold Ulfrir at bay, dragon-born casting flickering rune-spells at the wolf and the trolls were hurling themselves at him, smashing and stabbing with clubs and spears while he swiped at them with his claws, eviscerating flesh and cracking bone.

Guevarr saw the bull-man and a Berserkir standing at the side of two women, one lean and short-haired, the other fair-haired and tattooed, both with their arms raised, fists glistening with ice-crusted Seier. The bull-man and Berserkir hacked with axes at any who came near the women. They were crying out, hurling frost-crackling Seier-spells at the flames that were consuming the Froa, clouds hissing where ice and fire met, but the flames were engulfing the frost, melting and evaporating it in greats gouts of steam.

A rasping, branch-shaking shriek echoed through the chamber and the Froa-spirit toppled to her knees. Flames were engulfing her now, spreading through the vines of her hair, across her torso and up her head. Sap hissed and bubbled, smoke billowing, and with another roar she crashed to the ground, sparks exploding.

The roots binding Lik-Rifa fell away, and the dragon winged into the air, roaring, blood falling from her like rain. Ulfrir swept half a dozen trolls away with the swipe of a paw and leaped at her, claws gouging into her, jaws fastening on her chest. The dragon screamed, slewed in the air, wings batting frantically, and she turned, smashed into the burning tree and Ulfrir fell into the flames, howled and rolled free, fur singed and smoking.

Rotta appeared in his rat form, scurrying out from between the flames.

"SISTER," he bellowed, and Lik-Rifa hovered in the air, saw him and dived down, swept him up in both her huge-taloned claws, and then she was beating her wings again, the two of them rising, spiralling up into the chamber, around the burning tree, higher and higher.