CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE VARG

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

VARG

V arg ran howling from the cover of the trees. He had no shield, had lost it in the chaos of Ulfrir's hall, had his hand-axe and seax in his fists. His mind was still reeling from what he had just witnessed: the murder of Snaka the god-king, maker of the world, his heart carved from his chest and held aloft for all to see.

Varg had been standing close to Ulfrir, and the wolf-god had been transfixed, staring in frozen, horrified shock as Rotta had held his blood-drenched fist aloft.

"No," Ulfrir had snarled, "they cannot eat his heart, the power it will give them," and he was transforming from man to wolf in a series of cracks and spasms and judders.

The connotations of Ulfrir's words burst like bright lights in Varg's thought-cage.

They did not resurrect Snaka to win the battle for them, they brought him back so that they could eat his heart and steal his power.

Ulfrir had already shifted into his wolf-form and burst howling from the trees, his two stone wolves loping at his side, hackles raised and snarling, Skuld winging overhead. All followed him, warriors exploding from the ragged treeline in a roar, no organised shield wall here, half of the Bloodsworn were without shields now, just a savage charge to the blood-soaked end of this conflict, Glornir and Orka leading them. Even Orlyg ran at the head of his warriors, Jarl Logur with him, Sighvat lumbering at the head of the Battle-Grim, Grend charging with Gytha and Elvar's oathsworn drengrs , Berserkir and úlfhéenar frothing and snarling and growling alongside them. The pulsing thunder of hooves and Sulich led his mounted warriors from the trees, their hooves hammering in time, the drumbeat of war. A few arrows flickered from bows but most of them had spent their arrows, held their spears high, lowered them as they approached the first ranks of their enemy. Screams rang out as they skewered skraeling and warriors, the thud and crunch of horses colliding with flesh, breaking bones as they thundered through the unprepared camp, leaving their spears in the bodies of their enemy, blood splattering the snow, a glitter as they drew their sabres.

And then Varg was among them, chopped and stabbed with axe and seax at a skraeling, ducked the sword-swing of a Raven-Feeder, twisted around their shield and hacked into the woman's hamstring, dropping her to her knee, R?kia finishing her with a thrust of her sword into the woman's throat, and they were moving on.

A deafening roar as Ulfrir reached Lik-Rifa and Rotta, both of them shifting into their dragon and rat forms, people running, jumping to escape the destruction of their transformations, Ulfrir leaping, slamming into Lik-Rifa, jaws snapping, ripping, both of them crashing to the ground. Rotta bit at Ulfrir's haunches, raked one claw through fur. Skuld came hurtling screeching from the sky, hurling a spear that punched into Rotta's back. He squealed and reared up onto his hind legs as the two stone wolves hit him. They fell together, snapping at Rotta as he rolled on the ground, tearing out chunks of flesh and fur. Trolls came roaring out of the darkness, rushing to Lik-Rifa and Rotta's defence, clubs swinging, spears stabbing, and Ulfrir's úlfhéenar surged around them like surf washing around boulders on the shore.

Varg moved with R?kia and Svik, Edel and ?sa, trying to keep Glornir in his view, staying tight with the Bloodsworn, but even as he fought and killed his eyes were ever searching, seeking a weasel-sharp face with weathered skin and a necklace of troll tusks.

A knot of Lik-Rifa's warriors were rallying against the first rush, Varg seeing shields with wings upon them, the emblem of Darl, a fair-haired warrior barking orders at them, sword and shield in hand. An image in Varg's head, of the same warrior standing over him and Torvik, back in Rotta's chamber. Of her sword stabbing almost casually into Torvik's throat.

Torvik, the first person who ever called me friend.

Varg touched R?kia's arm with his seax, pointed.

"Yrsa, Skalk's drengr ," he said.

Without words they were both moving, weaving across the battleground, Svik and Edel and ?sa following them.

Yrsa must have glimpsed them because she set her feet, raised her shield. A warrior stepped in either side of Yrsa, shields slamming together, others looming behind, but R?kia was on them before they had time to lock together, using her shield as a ram, driving a wedge between Yrsa and the warrior on her right, crashing through. R?kia's sword snaked out, slicing across the man's throat, sending him spinning away, gurgling and frothing blood, another handful of warriors coming at R?kia and she was snarling and moving around them.

Varg let the wolf filter through him, felt its strength and speed, snarled at Yrsa and twisted around the spear that darted out at him from behind the shield of the warrior still standing beside her, a dark-haired woman in a nasal helm. Varg hooked his bearded axe over her shield rim, stepped around her, dragging her shield down, pulling her stumbling to her side and buried his seax in her eye. Ripped it out and she fell, dead before she hit the ground.

Other warriors were moving on him, four or five with eagles on their shields. A hound leaped at one, crashed into its shield and hurled them to the ground, Edel stepping in and finishing him with her spear, and then Svik and ?sa were there, sweeping the others away in a tide of steel and linden-wood.

"I remember you," Yrsa snarled at Varg.

"Do you remember my friend? His name was Torvik," he growled back as he chopped at her head, Yrsa blocking the blow with her shield. Then she was coming at him, sword stabbing, shield punching, all short, fast, efficient movements and Varg realised instantly that she knew her weapons craft. Was possibly better than him. But Varg was faster, and stronger, and wolf-cunning. He backed away, let her come at him, feinted a slip in the snow and she was stepping in, sword stabbing at his throat. Varg swept her blade away with his seax and lunged his axe under the rim of her shield, hooked it around her ankle and heaved, dragging her leg into the air, toppling her onto her back. She grunted, raised her shield over her and sliced her sword at Varg's leg. He stepped away, then darted in before she could catch him with her backswing and stamped hard on her sword-wrist. The crack of bone breaking, and she cried out.

"For Torvik, for friendship," Varg snarled, and he chopped his axe down into her face. The crunch of bone breaking, blood spurting, and he ripped the blade free, teeth spraying, Yrsa's limbs flopping.

He stood there, chest heaving, and heard shouted Seier-words, saw the flicker and crackle of Seier in the air, heard the bull-throated roar of Taras and looked, saw Iva locked in Seier-battle with a fair-haired Galdurwoman wielding a red-rune blazing staff. Taras was trying to get to the Galdurwoman, but he was surrounded by a ring of warriors, darting in and out, stabbing at him with spears, Varg recognising this crew in their hunting leathers and furs. And then he saw him. Brák Trolls-Bane, slim sword in his fist, darting in behind Taras.

The wolf in Varg surged hard through his blood, growling and snarling.

"bráK," Varg bellowed.