Cimmerian Rage(98)

Then Mogh slammed out from the tree line to Kern’s right, and Desagrena on the left. Mogh was set upon immediately by one of the sentries, holding his shield up to ward off the frantic, overhead blows. Mogh slipped his broadsword underneath to open up the man’s belly like an overripe fruit. Desa had her shield ready as well, which was a good thing, as an arrow smashed itself into splinters against its facing just a heartbeat later.

“Behind, Reave!”

Reave ducked back, crouching low. The large man could not fight with a shield, not with a Cimmerian greatsword in his hands. Kern’s shield was slung behind his shoulder, protecting his back just now, but he held up the limp body of the Vanir sentry with the sword through his gut and a handful of his oily, red hair.

Nahud’r joined him, adding a bronze-faced shield, and between them they waited out a short volley of arrows that smashed and glanced away from Nahud’r or simply pinned themselves into the dead man’s back.

More arrows slashed out of the dark from east and west as four of Kern’s best archers continued to rake over the camp with silent death. Brig and Ehmish from one side. Hydallan and Aodh the other. Daol, still recovering, had been forbidden to join, and guarded the small team’s gear. He could hardly lift a sword still, much less draw back on a northern-made war bow.

Even without him, the others made their presence felt. A man carrying a mighty battle-axe spun away from his run at Kern, stuck through his left ear. Another raider took an arrow in the lung, then a third and a fourth, staggering back until he collapsed over the fire, dragging the spit and the fawn’s small carcass with him into the flames.

Half a dozen dead. Maybe one or two more. Kern counted them up as best he could, hunkered down behind the corpse, and considered it as good as he was likely to get in those first chaotic moments of the ambush.

Then he rose, kicking the Vanir off his blade and swinging his shield around quickly, getting it set as the first serious threat slammed into them.

Three men, all with heavy blades.

Nahud’r dropped back a pace, creating room for Reave, who stepped into the gap. From the sides, Mogh and Desagrena dodged in their direction. It was a carefully choreographed maneuver, designed to pull the raiders right at their center. And as swords rose and fell and stabbed out in deadly attacks, Kern found himself put on the defensive, keeping his shield and his sword between himself and death as more Vanir rushed up on the line.

Which was just what he had wanted them to do.

They came at him, each Vanir ready to put a blade through his heart. And Kern stepped to the fore, drawing them on, keeping them from putting together a decent line against his flanking positions. He traded sword strokes with two flame-haired men, holding them away, while beside him Reave laid about in great, sweeping arcs to discourage a third.

The tip of one raider’s broadsword snaked in and drew a bloody line along the shoulder of Kern’s sword arm.

The second man battered against Kern’s shield, cutting through the thin metal facing and working at the wood beneath.

And all the while he felt his rage surging, the pressure building, and was all but ready to give it its head at last.

But the remainder of Kern’s careful plan fell apart as Valerus’s mount broke through the tree line at the far, southern edge of camp. Too early. Too early by a good measure. With his sturdy mount carrying himself as well as Ossian and Garret, the Aquilonian spurred forward in an attempt to get at the prisoners, still being held by only a small guard.

A few of the late-charging raiders turned around, heading back.

Then three more of Kern’s warriors each broke cover behind Desa and Mogh, running in to flank the raider charge, to contain the northerners and force them into a ragged, unsteady line.

Cursing fickle luck, Kern ducked a wild slash, turned a second jab aimed for his heart against his shield, and came overhead in a scorpion-stinging thrust to skewer a raider through the throat.

Almost! Almost perfect. If it had worked, the raiders would have been boxed on three sides, with their backside open as Valerus charged up from behind to rescue the prisoners, arm them, and set them as an anvil against which Kern might have smashed the entire raiding host. As it was now, his warriors were slightly overmatched in a series of small engagements, sure to claim lives on both sides. Even working together, Kern knew that several of his pack—his friends—were unlikely to walk away from the encounter.

He set his teeth in a grimace, battered away the shield of the next raider, and hacked down once . . . twice . . . three times . . . wood-chopping blows that bit deep into the Vanir’s arm and struck at the bone, every one. The man screamed in pain, backed away quickly, only to be replaced by a fresh warrior three hands taller than Kern and swinging a large maul.