The scent of crisped flesh rose sharp and rank against the already sulfurous air.
Nahud’r ended the suffering with a scimitar’s edge drawn across the raider’s throat.
Garret and several others spread off the flat, scrambling after one of the many small fights taking place, always staying with at least one ally in order to protect each other and bring the raiders down with overwhelming force. For his part, Kern vaulted over the thrashing animal being guarded by the Gunderman, skirting the fiery stream, and setting off on a lower path after the escaping caravan and their pursuers. Reave and Desagrena moved after him. Then, somehow, Gard Foehammer; who had caught up, having ripped away his bandages, squinting into the fire-cast shadows.
Ahead, between the caravan and Kern, three raiders finished off a struggling Aquilonian, one taking him through the chest with a war sword and the other striking head from shoulders with a pair of brutal, hacking chops. The Vanir seized his trophy by the hair and, slinging it up and around, threw it into the onrushing Cimmerians.
Reave swatted it aside with one meaty fist as if it were nothing more than a pebble flicked in his direction.
The raiders knew their war craft and set a quick line, shoulder to shoulder. Shields formed a defensive wall and swords held overhead or out to one side struck like the stinging tails of a rock scorpion.
Even with four maddened warriors charging down on them, it might have held and inflicted terrible pain on one of Kern’s people.
But with a hitching step he’d seen once before, Kern saw Gard step out ahead of the pack to hurl his pike with incredible force, in a nearly flat arc that flashed through the gloom and the hesitant rain. Spearing through the neck of the middle raider, the pike drove him back and over, leaving him gasping suddenly for breath and hands slapping at the wound, the pike’s shaft, and the ground around him.
Already dead, just not knowing it yet.
Which left the other two Vanir split apart and uncertain. Both of them clasped bloodied war swords in large, rawboned hands. One of the raiders had braided his flame-red beard into long, cordlike tails weighted by silver beads. His shield was crudely painted with the outline of a hulking giant brandishing both hammer and battle-axe. Forked lightning danced between the weapons. Powerful. Terrifying.
Grimnir.
The other raider obviously had Aesir blood flowing through his veins. Golden-blond hair fell in a thick curtain around his shoulders, a thick, drooping moustache made up for a lack of beard. He was a larger man, nearly of a size with Reave. He wore ornate bronze greaves and, on his right arm, a leather vambrace studded with large, bronze or gold buttons.
Kern left the brute blond to Reave and Desa. Batting the other man’s sword point aside with a slashing block, he kicked a foot up and stomped forward right square into the center of the painted shield. The blow staggered the raider back several paces, separating him farther from his comrade. Kern and—quickly—Gard were on him in an instant.
Kern’s short sword rose and fell, thrust and jabbed, raining blows against shield facing and war sword edge, trying to force an opening. He’d thrown caution to the winds, letting a furious, warming rage take him and feeling the heat lend strength to his muscles, his every blow.
His sword actually cut through the shield facing, peeling aside the thin skin of metal to expose the wooden back. He carved away chips and splinters. And one of the backing boards cracked under the onslaught. But the Vanir managed to keep his shield between himself and a violent death.
For another moment, at least.
Having hurled his pike, Gard had only a long dagger ready. But it nicked in and out, stealing the raider’s lifeblood one deep scratch at a time.
Then Gard planted it into the shoulder of the raider’s shield arm, and ducked away as a sideswipe blow nearly took him in the side of the head.
A blood-chilling howl of pain and rage pushed Kern back, setting him back on his guard for a moment. It was the third raider, whom Reave and Desa had pinned between them. Reave’s greatsword was embedded in the side of the Aesir’s shield, fouling the target. Ripping it away. Desagrena’s arming sword had then laid open the man’s belly, spilling a tangle of ropy entrails across his front. Her blade sliced across his again, spilling blood and gore and a latrine scent over the coarse, black rock. A third time, fast as a viper, across his throat.
His cry died off in a wet, choking gurgle. The dead man slumped to his knees, then sprawled forward into his own blood and offal.
Which was enough for the remaining raider. One arm useless, hanging near dead at his side. His two companions dead. He lashed out with his war sword, forcing Kern back another few steps, then turned and fled after his companions, who were still chasing down the caravan’s fleeing remnants.