Aodh was one of those who split from both clan and kin then, at his own choice. He’d felt he owed it to his old chieftain to help rescue Maev. And Garret Blackpatch had followed later, alongside Hydallan, accompanying Daol’s father on the hard march north. Eventually, all had regrouped at Taur—another clan under attack by Vanir raiders, led by one of their Ymirish masters. Breaking the siege, running off the Ymirish warrior and the remnants of his war host, had brought Ossian and three more Taurin warriors to Kern’s small band. Out of gratitude for their village’s rescue.
Nay. He did not need to ask. And he left Frostpaw to trail along or leave as the wolf desired, turning his own step once more toward Callaugh.
Daol and Reave for friendship. Aodh and Garret out of old loyalties. Ossian, for his father, and his kin, and, ultimately, to make his own mark on the world worth leaving behind. Everyone felt responsible for something.
And Kern?
He felt responsible for them all.
THE SULFUROUS SCENT bled off the mammoth cliff overhang in a misting vapor. Steam. Rising from the runoff of several hot springs that trickled down the cliff face, leaving streaks of rust and yellows on the wet, black rocks. A warm rain dripped from the overhang into pools and a wide, calm stream that fell down into Callaugh Glen and slowly meandered its way through the fortified village before running down into the lowland hills.
The scent had surprised Kern with his return to Clan Callaugh, though he would get used to it again soon enough. The villagers did not even notice anymore. Or, if they did, traded the stench for mineral-laden waters and a warm, moist mist, which allowed them to keep some crops year-round and start other plantings weeks ahead of other clans.
More rebuilding had been accomplished in the last few weeks, Kern saw. There were fewer burned-out homes, and a long, low wattle-and-daub construction that filled up what used to be an empty stretch between two outside neighborhoods. Murder ground, where raiders trying to move from one area of the village to another could be attacked and killed.
Behind the new structure still rose Callaugh’s impressive palisade, built from thick timbers banded in metal and spiked together as well. The base of each thick trunk was set into one of the strongest foundations Kern (or anyone) had ever seen attempted. As high as a man and three arm lengths thick, cemented with mud and mill-crushed stone. The palisade protected over half of the village inside its walls, and could squeeze in the other half as well as the herds in times of desperation.
The last few years had been desperate times.
The small knot of warriors walked through the mists, passing near the low structure. “Looks like a fast-built lodge hall,” Aodh said, brushing droplets of moisture from his salt-and-pepper moustache.
Kern thought much the same. “Callaugh has taken the head in contacting other clans,” he pointed out. “The area will be a lot busier, as well, with the raiders lying low. At least until Grimnir surfaces.”
In fact, the general level of activity around the village said a great deal about the relaxed safeguards. Many Callaugh clansfolk worked on homes. And on a fortified watchtower, being erected on top of the bluff. Others tended to early crops and herded cattle outside of the palisade walls.
A few cows were allowed to stray out farther than Kern would have thought prudent, to graze where they wished. Their contented lowing was a sound that reminded him of better days.
There were no alarms when Kern’s men approached. Not this time. But a few still looked twice, and glared when they recognized his frosted mane and golden wolf eyes.
He didn’t blame them for their suspicions or their anger. There had been too much violence too recently, and not all troubles with the raiders were over. If one knew what to look for, some of the early crops looked as if they’d been torn up. And the nearby long building showed signs of damage as well, with the door near split in two by axe strokes and a scorched corner where someone had tried to set it afire.
He pointed out the damage to the others. That was when he saw it.
A bloody spear, stuck point first into the door’s lintel.
Half a spear, actually, with only a good arm’s length of pole behind the iron tip. The wooden haft was stained black along most of its length—by the blood of Vanir or Cimmerian, there had never been any telling. It was the spear Kern had picked up on the battlefield near Broken Leg Glen, after the combined war host of valleymen and western clans had met and defeated Grimnir’s army. The one he had vowed to carry among the clans of Cimmeria, to warn them of the increased northern threat. Because he had known, the moment he learned that both he and Grimnir had survived that final plunge, that the frost-giant warrior would be back. And his vengeance would be terrible.