“And he failed.” T’hule’s voice spoke in a deep roar. He remained seated, facing Ros-Crana down without any need to tower over her.
“Kern lived. Grimnir lived. And now the Great Devil is loosed upon the valley. Good riddance, I say. We have borne up under the invader’s press long enough. What else would you have us do, woman?”
Her breath came in hot gasps as she fought for control. She tasted blood at the back of her throat, and knew how close the Berserker fury was to claiming her. Instead, she swallowed back the dry, metallic taste and bit at T’hule with daggers in her eyes.
“Kern carried a bloody spear to you, to me, to all of us. We each turned him away because he had no standing. Once cast out, always cast out. But what we refused to acknowledge is that he carried it for us, and that has been eating away at me for a fortnight. No longer!”
Leaning over the table, she held T’hule’s gaze as she reached down and yanked the bond-cord free of her blade. She cast it back, throwing the leather tie into the live coals of the nearby cooking fire. A brief spark of flame jumped up at once.
“There is no peace,” she said calmly, as if explaining it to a child. “I am at war with Vanir. We all are. And I say that if you do not claim that Kern carries forth the bloody spear for you, then he does so for Clan Callaugh and any who will join me under that banner. And if you stand in my way, I will count you as my enemy, too.”
With that, she turned her back on the table and stomped away. Hand on her sword’s hilt. Ready to defend herself against anyone who stood in her path.
None did. T’hule Chieftain allowed her to withdraw, salvaging the last of any peace that existed within the lodge hall. Behind her, a few stools scraped against the flagstone stage as others took the moment to abandon the table. For her, or against her, it no longer mattered. Only that she would no longer do nothing. The heat of her rage had finally melted away whatever thin armor of caution she had ever held. And perhaps Kern had been right at that, too.
Perhaps rage was all they had left.
THE RAIN LIGHTENED to a gray drizzle. Trickling through Kern’s hair and running icy fingers down the back of his neck. Soaking into the leather jerkin he wore until it was heavy and stiff with the swelling. But not enough to bathe under. Not even where it ran in a fat drops off the eaves of the lodge hall.
Instead, he found a wide turn in the muddy creek running through Gaud, where the water sluiced alongside the collapsed foundation of a burned-out hovel and pooled behind several of the larger stones. Deep enough to dip his hand in, and come up with a splash of cold rainwater. Gritty to the taste, but mostly clear, and a lot better than wearing a crust of dried blood. Scrubbing each handful over his arms, his face, and into his mane of frost blond hair, Kern washed away the blood of the men, women, and children he had helped lay out in rest. The memories attached to each face, each body, were strong.
After Talbot Tall-Wood, he and Brig had cut down Jocund, the clan’s healer. And then Morne, one of Cul Chieftain’s most stalwart warriors. Not the brightest or most even-tempered man Kern had known, but there was something to be said for blind loyalty. This, he had discovered in the past few months.
By then others had braved the darkness of the lodge, and more bodies slumped to the floor. Ehmish recognized Willem and Gart—two Gaudic youths he had grown up with and Kern remembered for their constant racing around. Always running, those two. Daol found Arland Green-Stalk. The clan’s best farmer. He knew when to plant, how much, and constantly outguessed everyone else on the coming weather.
Cobh. Marta and Kilian. Ruhk.
More names. More memories.
“Nay here,” Reave said from behind him, interrupting his train of thought. The large man splashed through the muddy creek to join Kern. Daol and Hydallan and a few others trailed after, silent, their eyes smoldering. Aodh. Garret.
“Went through the village, we all did. Carried another dozen to the lodge.”
Including Reave’s sister. Ros. And her youngest child. And more than a few strangers, from the word that filtered back to Kern. Taurin. Part of the effort to combine the strength of the two clans in the face of the Vanir attacks. Ossian and Mogh had recognized and put names to several of them.
Reave crouched next to Kern. Thick hair matted down by the rain. A smear of blood crusted on the cheek beneath his left eye. His first splash of water washed it away.
“Kohlitt and the boys aren’t here.” His sister’s husband. And their oldest boys. “Or Cul or Maev. Might be good. Might be bad.”
Very bad. The Vanir often took slaves. When they had the time for sport, or it was worth their trouble to march new bodies north. But that wasn’t part of this.