CHAPTER EIGHTY BIÓRR

CHAPTER EIGHTY

BIóRR

B iórr trembled as he knelt before Snaka, his knees crunching through the ice-ream crusting on the snow. He could feel Snaka's presence within him, like mead in the blood. All else except Snaka was blurred, all sound except Snaka's voice a dim, muted whisper. He looked up at the maker of the world. Snaka was tall, towering over Biórr, looking down at him with a sharp-boned face, his dark hair pulled back tight, the points of teeth protruding from beneath dark, bluish-black lips. Biórr took his hand and pressed his lips to the pale-mottled flesh. The smell of something long dead wafted around him.

"You are descended from Rotta," Snaka said, his voice a sibilant, rasping hiss.

"Yes, my king," Biórr said, his voice cracking.

I created Rotta. I created you , Snaka's voice slithered inside his head. You are mine.

"Yes, my king," Biórr repeated. A flick of Snaka's hand, long-fingered with nails black as blood spilled in the night, and Biórr was dismissed, rising and moving away, another warrior moving forward to drop on the ground before Snaka.

Biórr looked for Fain and saw him standing with the Tainted children, walked over to him. His legs felt like lead weights were strapped to them, every step an effort, and every muscle and sinew in his body ached. The climb to the summit of Wolfdales, sneaking into the hall's dark corridors, the fight against Elvar and all that happened after. Exhaustion was his constant companion now, and alongside it the weight of Snaka's presence, a sibilant voice whispering indiscernible words inside his head, a pressure within and without, as if the very air had changed. He blinked, his eyes stinging, and in his head he saw a fractured image of Elvar, standing over him, her sword point at his throat. Shook his head, tried to scatter the memory as a horse scatters flies.

He reached Red Fain and smiled at the old warrior.

"Snaka stands among us," Fain said, awe and fear in his voice.

"Aye," Biórr nodded. He knew the battle had hovered on the brink of ruin before Snaka's arrival, knew that Snaka had changed everything, but still he felt a deep foreboding in his gut. The rat in his blood was whispering for him to flee, though he knew not why.

"I am glad to see you still breathing," Fain said to him, clapping a big hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

"So am I," Biórr said, managing a smile, through the fear and heaviness in his heart.

I should be rejoicing. We have almost won. Though there is still a wolf to slay, out there somewhere. If he survived the fall of his hall.

"I wish I had been there, wish I had fought in the greatest battle of our time."

"Of any time, I think," Biórr said, remembering the din of the battle-storm, the warriors and vaesen screaming, the Froa, the dragon, the wolf. The oceans of blood.

"You are injured, Fain, there is no shame in that. And you have had perhaps the most important task, looking after these." He gestured to Harek and the Tainted children.

"Aye," Fain said. "They are the ones we are fighting for. They are the ones who will live in a world made free by our sacrifice."

Biórr said nothing, but frowned, Elvar's words echoing in his head.

Footsteps and Rotta appeared. His face was bruised, dried blood streaking it, and Biórr saw that he walked with his left arm tucked tight to his side, blooms of blood on his wool tunic. He remembered Grend hurling himself at Rotta and stabbing him in a frenzy of blows.

"You are injured, my lord," Biórr said to him.

Rotta scowled at Biórr. "That is the understatement of the year," he said. "And no thanks to you. You chopped off my tail, if I recall correctly."

"I did, to save you," Biórr said. His hand brushed the top of Elvar's axe, thrust through his belt.

"Fair comment, I admit," Rotta said. "The wolf had me pinned and was likely to have eaten me, so, it would seem I owe you my thanks for saving my life." He dipped his head to Biórr, gave his charming smile, then looked at him more intently.

"What is it?" he asked.

Biórr heard Elvar's voice in his head.

Has Rotta not told you? I have set the Tainted free. Heard Ulfrir's words before Lik-Rifa and Broeir. Elvar set me free , the wolf-god had said.

"You knew," Biórr said.

"Knew what?" Rotta asked him.

"That Elvar had set Ulfrir and the Tainted free."

"What?" Fain said, a gasped splutter.

Rotta shrugged. "She did tell me," he said, "but I did not believe her. I was as surprised as you when Ulfrir did not bow to Broeir's command."

"She told you?" Biórr said, echoing Rotta's words.

"Aye, when I spoke to her on the bridge, before the battle began. But you know the lies and bluster people talk at moments like that. All threats and insults." He shrugged again, looked at Biórr.

"Regret is a luxury we cannot afford," Rotta said quietly. "Put it from your head, else it will eat at you. It is pointless, will change nothing."

Biórr nodded, though Elvar's face still swirled through his head, her words echoing. I set them free, set them free, free, free. He scowled at Rotta but saw that the rat-god was staring at Snaka.

"What have we done," he heard Rotta breathe.

"Rotta, Lik-Rifa," Snaka's voice rang out, soft and sibilant, yet filling the whole camp. Biórr looked to see that the entire war-host had finished in their obeisance to their risen maker and king.

"Come, my son, my daughter, we will talk of wayward Ulfrir," Snaka said. "And I am hungry. Three hundred years of death has given me quite an appetite."

"Of course, Father," Rotta said. "Sit, and we shall serve you."

Lik-Rifa ushered Snaka to a table set at the centre of the camp, chairs arranged before it, platters of steaming vegetables and fried potatoes, cups, eating knives and jugs already laid there, and he sat in Lik-Rifa's tall-backed chair.

"Yes, Father, we should talk of Ulfrir," Lik-Rifa said. "We must find him and kill him."

Snaka turned his black-eyed gaze upon Lik-Rifa.

"Mussst?" he said, voice soft, tongue flickering. "You do not say must to me."

"No, Father," Lik-Rifa said, her voice shaking, "no, no, I am sorry. Forgive me, please," and she dropped to her knees beside him, lowered her head.

Snaka stared at her for long moments, a dread silence filling the camp, then he placed a hand upon her head.

"You have tried to slay the wolf, and you could not," Snaka said. "Do not think me a fool. I know why you have raised me, wrapped my bones with flesh, put blood pulsing through my veins." Biórr saw Snaka's grip tightening around Lik-Rifa's head, saw rivulets of blood run from where his black fingernails dug into her scalp. "It is not love for a father that has driven you, it is fear of defeat. Fear of death. You need me to turn the balance, to save your scaly skin. Is this not true?"

His nails dug deeper into Lik-Rifa's head.

"Yes," she whimpered.

"But I am not your pawn to be used. I am your father, your king . And this is my world, not yours. Everything in it belongs to me, all that breathes, all that grows, including you and your brothers," he hissed. "You belong to me."

"Y … y … yes, Father," Lik-Rifa groaned.

Snaka stared at her with his baleful eyes, a tremor running through the muscle and tendon of his wrist and into his hand.

"Rise," he said contemptuously and gave a flick of his wrist, sending Lik-Rifa falling onto her back. She stood shakily.

"Father, you must be hungry," Rotta said, hurrying forwards with a trencher full of carved meat, steam rising from it. He set it down on the table, drew a knife from his belt and skewered a slice of meat, setting it on the plate before Snaka.

"And thirsty, too, I do not doubt," Rotta said, setting down a silver cup before Snaka, mead spilling from it.

"Sister, sit, and we shall all eat and drink together," Rotta said, skewering another slice of meat and putting it on a plate set before an empty chair.

"Y … yes, brother," Lik-Rifa said. She sat in the empty seat beside Snaka and picked up her long-bladed eating knife. Thin lines of blood trickled from her scalp and down her face.

Rotta poured mead from a jug for Lik-Rifa, and another cup for himself, then moved around the table to sit in the other empty chair at Snaka's side. He lifted his cup.

"To the return of our king. To father, son and daughter, a family reunited," he said and drank from his cup.

Snaka and Lik-Rifa raised their cups and drank deep, Lik-Rifa's hand shaking, drinking so fast that mead ran down her chin. She emptied her cup and refilled it, drank some more as Rotta skewered slices of meat and set them on her plate.

"Come, Rotta," she said, "be quick, I am so hungry I can hardly wait." She licked her lips with her thick, blue-black tongue and Biórr saw her jaw shimmer for a moment, saw the hint of her dragon teeth and elongated muzzle.

"Yes," Snaka rasped as he set his cup down. He looked down at the meat on his plate.

"What is for our meal?" he asked.

Rotta looked at Snaka, a sly smile spreading across his face.

"You are, Father," he said.

Snaka's face twisted, and Biórr saw a tremor run through him, a grimace twisting his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a rasping grunt came out. His body began to shake.

"What—" he gasped, prickles of sweat beading his forehead. Black lines appeared across his face, as if his veins were filling with ink. His fingers clawed at the table, nails gouging splinters of wood.

"You are right, Father," Rotta said, standing, "there was no fatherly love involved in our raising of you. Quite the opposite, in fact. We despise you. Of course we raised you to help us win this fight. But not in the way you think. Not by asking you to defeat Ulfrir for us." He tutted. "No, you are far too unreliable to trust that task to. And in truth we do not need all of you to complete the task ourselves. We just need your heart."

Tremors were spasming through Snaka's body now, sweat running down his face, staining his tunic, black veins threading down his forearms and across the backs of his hands. He fell from his chair onto his knees, white-knuckled hands and black nails clawing into the table, keeping him from toppling into the snow.

Lik-Rifa stood and smiled.

"Who is the one on their knees now?" she snarled at him.

Snaka's whole body was shuddering, rasping breath and spit leaking and foaming on his lips, a string of saliva hanging from his mouth, pooling on the table. Biórr heard the echo of words on Snaka's breath, and slowly the convulsions began to subside. The black ink in Snaka's veins stopped spreading, began slowly to retreat, climbing back up his arms, as if someone were sucking the poison from him.

Rotta and Lik-Rifa stared in frozen, horrified terror.

Snaka coughed and retched, his body heaving, a convulsion rippling through him, another wracking cough and he spat something black onto the table. A viscous mass, sticky and malleable. The table hissed and blackened where it landed. Snaka looked up, eyes fixing Rotta, and he began to stand, still coughing, his stomach contracting, spitting out more black mucus onto the table.

"NO," Lik-Rifa screamed and stabbed her eating knife into one of Snaka's hands, slicing through meat and tendon, passing between bones to sink deep into the timber of the table, pinning him there.

Snaka let out a hissing scream and half rose, his face rippling, juddering, body shimmering, and then Rotta was moving, his paralysis broken, grabbing a fistful of Snaka's hair and plunging his knife into one side of Snaka's neck, the tip bursting out the other side, Rotta sawing the blade away from him, carving through the meat and gristle of Snaka's windpipe. A jet of black blood exploded onto the table, Snaka slamming himself back into Rotta, his head crunching into Rotta's face as he coughed great gouts of blood, Lik-Rifa hanging onto the blade in Snaka's hand, her other hand gripping his arm, long-taloned fingers sinking into his flesh, holding him tight. And slowly Snaka slumped back into his chair, blood pulsing from the great wound in his throat, then toppled face down onto the table, blood spreading in a pool. A thunderclap of sound, a ripping, tearing and the ground shuddered, a fissure tremoring through the earth, zigzagging out from Snaka's feet.

A silence settled, filled the whole camp, Biórr staring, mouth open, all staring in stunned shock and horror, snow gently falling about them.

Lik-Rifa ripped the knife free of Snaka's hand and Rotta grabbed him beneath the arms, heaved him up, turning him over and slammed him down onto the table, ripped Snaka's tunic open and put his knife to his chest. Stabbed hard, punching through the breastbone and began to saw. Lik-Rifa leaned over her father's body, slavering, saliva dripping from her lips, dipping her fingers into the pool of Snaka's blood and licking them.

"His heart, Rotta, we must feast on his heart," she said.

Rotta grunted, cutting and sawing, Biórr hearing bones snapping, flesh tearing, and then Rotta was reaching into Snaka's chest. Heaving at bone, snapping it, forcing his hand deeper into the cavity. A wet tearing sound and Rotta ripped Snaka's heart free, held it up in his fist.

"Give it to me," Lik-Rifa snarled at Rotta.

Rotta smiled at Lik-Rifa and opened his mouth wide, his jawline shifting, teeth growing.

A shape flew down from out of the white blur, a tennúr, arms grasping, snatching Snaka's heart and winging away, speeding back up into the gloom.

Rotta and Lik-Rifa roared and bellowed, their bodies juddering, the air about them shimmering as they began to change.

A flicker of wings whirred above Biórr, another tennúr flying out of the forest, more of them appearing.

"WARE," they were shouting, "WARE THE WOLF", and behind Biórr a wolf howled, the sound filling the forest, filling the world, ringing out, echoing. Biórr spun around and saw figures charging from the gloom, roaring and howling as they came.