Not even Kern was immune to such a thought. He winced. Reave did more, flinching hard and nearly cupping himself in sympathy for the stupid men who would try such a thing, and then all four of Nahud’r’s audience were groaning with pained laughter and immediately wrote the entire tale off as one of the Shemite’s most extravagant and blatant lies to date. All except Kern, who caught the dark man’s enigmatic and private smile, which set him to wondering all over again. An engrossing image, which, for a few moments, drove away the pain and the echoes of rage that had plagued Kern for so many days.
It would be the last time in quite a while when Kern would remember feeling normal again. If only for a moment.
23
THE HIGH MOUNTAIN storm had nearly reached its peak. Strong winds swept over the Snowy River country, drawn down from the storm building high above the pass. Thunder crashed and rolled, nearly overpowering the shouts and the clashes of ringing steel that shattered the early-morning darkness as Lodur stalked forward, scenting blood. Nearly tasting it on the back of his tongue.
The violent sensations of battle. Calling to him. Wrapping about him in a new and delightful warmth he never could have known before answering Ymir’s Call. Not even the heat of bloodlust and rage had ever comforted him so well.
It would not be long now, which was fortunate. A shadowed presence loomed at the back of his mind, pressing, held off by his will and his will alone. The Ymirish sorcerer felt its hunger, the raw and painful need that so neatly matched his own.
“Soon,” he promised it.
Promised them both.
He was come late to the battle. Intentionally. Drawing out the suffering being visited on the mountain clansmen who had already led two of Magni’s scouting parties to such painful deaths. Now he let the war host take its fill from their own bloodlust. Let Magni quench his thirst for vengeance.
The piercing shrieks of a hawk, stooping over its prey—clawing and slashing at the backs of necks, pecking at eyes—echoed alongside brutal shouts for blood as Magni, his Ymirish brother, laid about with the heavy broadsword he favored.
Good for the warrior leader to enjoy his life so.
Forgotten was the axe Lodur had once favored in battle. Even the war sword he carried now was left sheathed at his side. As much as he recalled the visceral pleasure of hacking his enemy to pieces, it was nothing compared to what was possible to him. To the lure of Ymir’s magic. The power of the north.
With a dozen strong Vanir arms chasing alongside him, part of his own escort, the sorcerer crested a sharp-edged ridge overlooking the fringe of a dwarf pine forest. Even in the predawn gloom his golden eyes gathered enough light to them to see the shadows running, struggling among the small trees. Like prey driven before a storm, the Galla ran and scattered in every direction. Shouts of pain and curses in the sharp, guttural Cimmerian tongue, men and women, were music to him. He also heard more than a few calls and cries from younger children. Their terror fed him like toothsome meat. Warm and bloody in his mouth.
Of course it had been Lodur who ordered out both scouting bands, knowing they would be attacked and using them to find the mountain people. To lure their warriors into false confidence. A handful of Vanir lives meant nothing in the larger scheme of things. Especially when he knew that Kern had walked among them, talked to them, and had all but certainly encouraged their attacks. Snares and poisoned spikes in small drop holes. Arrows flashing out from darkened woods. Mountain spiders!—tricked from holes, and treetop warrens, lured into their path.
A slow day of travel and death.
But when they later tried such simple tricks on Magni’s larger force, it was the work of a moment to turn the ambush into a trap for the Galla, cutting off their retreat with a second and a third small band, which struck in from both sides, starting a chase across highland ridgelines and icy arroyos. Once, the trail had even led a small group into a spider’s cavern. Tangling them in its webs. Leaving them for food.
But, having taken a scent, the northerners did not leave off easily. Not this battle. Raiders continued to flank and harass the Galla, herding them, driving them right back at their camp where families had waited—they thought—for news of a great victory.
Such a surprise then, when they discovered themselves surrounded, attacked.
Maneuvering forces. Patient battle plans. Lodur let Magni handle that part. His warrior brother knew more about organized battle than he had ever bothered to learn. It would be Lodur, however, who sealed their fate.
Ordering his entire escort down among the dwarf trees, he stood on the ridgeline, watching. Gathering power from the storm’s building energy as it crested within him, over him. Sweeping his rage along with it. The electrical charge of fresh lightning stood up the short, wiry hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.