CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT ORKA

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

ORKA

O rka bent and picked up her hand-axe, slipped it back into her belt. She saw Drekr's long-axe on the ground and swept that up, too. Heard footsteps and turned to see Lif appearing through the snow. His face was grim, the blade of his axe blooded. He looked to Drekr's corpse on the ground, at the two seaxes still buried in his flesh and gave Orka a nod.

"Is it done?" Orka asked him.

"Aye," Lif said, a ripple of emotions chasing across his face.

"Good," Orka grunted, and looked at the battlefield, Breca's presence at Orka's side. Day was bleeding into the land, the snow slowing. Faunir were everywhere, swirling around clusters of frost-spiders and crawling up the legs of trolls. Shield walls still fought on in knots, and Orka saw a handful of mounted warriors riding around a troll, stabbing with spears, hacking with their curved sabres, the clash of battle rising and falling. At the heart of it all the dragon and the wolf still fought. Orka could see the survivors of Lik-Rifa's host making for her, frost-spiders and night-hags, skraeling, trolls, dragon-cultists and Raven-Feeders and oathsworn drengrs , a handful of mercenary bands still clinging to the hope of victory and silver beyond their imaginings.

Without a word shared, Orka and the others followed them, a river of flesh and bone and steel, claw and tooth and fang flowing towards the wolf and dragon.

Ulfrir's voice rang out in Orka's skull.

Now is the time , he said. My strength is failing, it must be done now.

Heya , Orka answered the wolf.

Footsteps drummed and Gunnar joined them.

"The rat-blood is dead," he said to Halja's questioning look.

The roar and snarl and thunder of gods at war led them through the snow, and soon Orka saw the crackle and sizzle of Seier-runes and Galdur-magic. Vol and Uspa appeared, pitted against a cluster of dragon-born, Orka glimpsing Glornir, Berak and a handful of others fighting on their flanks, defending the Seier-witches from dragon-cultists and the last of the dragon-born and Raven-Feeders. And beyond them were Ulfrir and Lik-Rifa pacing before each other. Ulfrir was limping, blood matting his fur, red rents in his flesh. Lik-Rifa stood before Ulfrir, one wing hanging limp, the muscle at the shoulder torn and shredded, red wounds scattered across her thick-scaled hide. She watched Ulfrir with one red-glowing eye, the other a blackened wound, saliva dripping from her teeth.

Warriors and vaesen flowed to them, úlfhéenar , Tainted, ready to defend their god.

Orka broke into a run, the others a heartbeat behind her, and they sped across the field, swerving around great ruts and rents in the ground, around smashed wagons and supplies, and then they were crashing into the flank of dragon-cultists that were assaulting Glornir and his handful of Bloodsworn. They carved through them, blood spurting in great arcs, men and women screaming, turning to rally against Orka and her handful of warriors, but it was like trying to stop the tide from rising. In a dozen heartbeats they were down or fleeing, retreating to the swell of warriors and vaesen gathering before Lik-Rifa.

Glornir touched Orka's arm.

"Is he dead?" Glornir asked her.

"He is," Orka grunted.

"Good, Thorkel is avenged then."

Behind Glornir the dragon roared, all of them turning to see the wolf and dragon separate, standing, blood-drenched, red wounds leaking, scales hanging, fur matted.

Skuld swept down out of the snow-white sky and hovered over Ulfrir, raised a horn to her lips and blew it.

"It is time then," Glornir said.

"Aye," Orka nodded.

"Let's finish this, then," he said.

Ulfrir bunched his legs and leaped at Lik-Rifa.