CHAPTER FORTY

One moment the night was a sea of blackness, the next the shadows had sucked together into dozens of wild figures. There was a yell, high and grating, answered by another, and another, until the forest was a din of inhuman cries.

Beside Erlan, Dani strung an arrow and stabbed a handful of others into the snow. ‘Where the Hel are your bows, lads?’ A fair question.

Dani loosed the first shaft.

‘Too soon!’ Erlan hissed as the thing skittered off, harmless.

‘Big bastards, eh?’ growled Vakur, hefting his shield.

‘Quick too,’ said another named Foldurr.

So these were the Vandrung. The bastard offspring of the demon’s seed. Erlan could see them now, filthy hair jangling, brutish blackened blades, outsized limbs twisted and bulging, clothed in little more than sacking.

A different foe from the pallid Nefelung.

Dani snatched a second arrow and loosed it. This one told, slamming a Vandrung flat, clawing at his throat. To the north, Erlan heard the whoops and war cries of Sviggar’s other men.

The screams grew louder as the first wave approached. ‘Keep firing!’ Another fell and over the tumbling body leaped the foremost Vandrung with a savage shriek. Erlan braced his bad leg, gripping his shield.

‘See you in Valhalla for a cask of Odin’s ale,’ laughed Vakur, and then the Vandrung hit.

There was a shriek and a streak of metal. Erlan raised his shield, the blow shuddering through wood and bone. He knocked it away, lunged for the screaming face, felt Wrathling scythe flesh. The Vandrung fell choking, but there was another at once.

Vakur was bellowing like an ox, axe whirling at the onrushing bodies. Erlan smelled foul flesh, flipped his shield, driving the rim into a snarling face. Another jumped into the gap; he kicked hard, slamming his boot into a Vandrung’s chest.

Sveär voices were baying all around. He heard the twang of Dani’s bow, his yell of triumph as another Vandrung fell. The din was appalling with snarls and screams, the clang of metal and thud of wood. Erlan struck a shadow with pitiless eyes, spattering blood, glimpsed a flash and threw himself against the granite, feeling the wind of the blade and a shower of ice. His shield arm screamed with pain. He turned, smashed away the sword, shoved with his shield, throwing the Vandrung into another.

Dani was there – face a mask of savagery – his long-knife slashing into a Vandrung’s neck. But before he’d turned, another was on him. Erlan yelled a warning, but the blow caught him. Dani screamed, black steel slicing his legs. He fell to his knees. The Vandrung lifted his sword to finish him, but Vakur’s axe was crashing down. The arm fell in the snow, pissing blood.

There were more, surging into the gap. Dani was clawing at the snow, trying to pull clear. Erlan threw his shield behind him, seized Dani, dragged him over two dead Vandrung into the enclosure. The Sami was babbling murderous curses.

‘There’s more coming – look out!’ he yelled. Erlan had already seen them, snatched up a spear and lurched forward. Ahead was a rush of bodies, wild faces and limbs – he slashed his sword, arm jarring against Vandrung iron, then lunged with the spear.

The point found flesh. He screamed, twisting the blade deeper, but the shaft was wrenched away and a body hit him, knocking him down. His vision swam, his ears rang. Soft through the ringing came snarls from the creature on top of him. He butted hard, smashing the Vandrung’s nose. It reared up. Erlan saw its short crude blade. Saw the hate in its eyes – and suddenly he was tired.

Bone weary.

He felt thunder in the ground and thought it strange.

The blade was falling. He lifted his wounded arm – he had nothing else to offer. There was a deafening crash, a shower of snow, a shadow flying over him and the Vandrung was gone. The thunder was all about him.

He lay, dazed, wondering why he wasn’t dead.

Then he realized the thunder was the beat of hooves.

Gakki was dead, his head split in two.

Manulf was dying, guts half-spilled in the snow.

Jovard’s face was a mask of pain, one side slathered in blood. And outside the cut were the bodies of a dozen or more of them.

The Vandrung. . . They were ugly sons of bitches. That hadn’t stopped Finn from killing a heap of them.

‘You sure know how to use that thing,’ said Kai, nodding at Finn’s bow.

‘Not my first time,’ returned Finn, with a rueful grin. ‘Could be the last, though.’

Kai was breathing heavily. He didn’t know why the Vandrung hadn’t pressed home their attack. But he was mighty glad. ‘Where did they go?’

Finn wearily pushed a braid behind his ear. He was sweating, despite the cold. ‘Not far is my guess. Doubtless, they’ll be back.’

‘We’ll never last the night,’ said Beran quietly. He was hunkered, nursing his axe, staring into the darkness.

Finn gave him an encouraging tap on the shoulder. ‘You won’t mind if I give it a try though, eh?’

‘Horn half-full, brother,’ said Jovard, his blood-slicked grimace ghastly in the dim light. ‘You always were a gloomy bastard!’

Kai was regretting his wish for a proper fight. He’d always imagined it different, with him all fired up and brave. Instead he’d shaken with utter terror, start to finish.

At least he hadn’t run. That was a great feat. Still, it wasn’t like there was anywhere to run to.

It had been a mad, arse-loosening tempest of shouts and shrieks and shoving and sticking and slashing and the gods knew what else. By the time the first Vandrung had reached the gap, seven lay dead to Finn’s arrows. But the rest had arrived quick enough, and there ensued hand-to-hand combat the likes of which had never yet disturbed his worst nightmares.

Manulf was groaning.

‘Poor son of a bitch,’ muttered Beran. ‘Someone should finish him.’

‘You gonna do it?’ said his brother, irritably.

Beran only hugged his axe closer.

It made little difference. Manulf wouldn’t groan much longer. Kai had never liked the man, but this was a fate beyond any he would’ve wished him. He wasn’t exactly sure how he wasn’t in the same state. His sword was bloody and his left arm ached like a bastard so he must have taken some blows. But he could have sworn to precisely nothing of what just occurred. Only that when the ugly brutes pulled back, he was still there. Still breathing.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked Finn.

‘We wait.’

He was afraid that’d be the answer. He didn’t fancy sitting all night in the freezing cold, while nauseating fear chewed its way through his innards. He’d rather the thing reached its conclusion. Except there was only one conclusion likely to be reached, and he had to admit. . . it wasn’t that appealing.

He watched Finn count up his arrows and curse.

‘What is it?’

Finn gave a bitter snort. ‘Couple more attacks like that and I’ll be chucking snowballs.’

‘Does no one else have any?’

‘Only Danel, over with your master.’ He winked. ‘Funny thing, luck. Never enough archers around when you need ’em.’

‘Shall I go ask him?’ At least it would give him something to do. Better than this awful waiting.

‘My guess is his need is as great as ours. ’Less he’s dead.’ He turned to gaze out the gap and swore again. ‘Must be fifteen shafts out there.’ He shot Kai a bitter grin. ‘Not a lot of fucking use to us any more.’

Kai followed his gaze. He could just make out the shape of a Vandrung body a few paces down the slope beyond the cut, an arrow jutting out of his chest.

‘How many have you left?’

‘A round dozen.’

Kai grunted. A dozen wouldn’t go far if they came again. Out in the shadows everything was quiet. No whining, no wind. Nothing. And looking at that nearest arrow, a mad idea entered his head. He swallowed hard. ‘I’ll go.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll go out there and fetch you that one. Here, take this.’ He shoved his shield at Finn, stuck his sword in the snow, and before Finn could say a word he was hopping over strewn bodies through the cut. He heard Finn’s fevered whispering, but shut it out. Strangely, it felt better to be doing something.

He snuck to the edge of the cut and stopped, sniffing the air like a fox. He smelled pines. And blood.

He scanned the trees for danger. They must be out there. But they weren’t moving a muscle. The nearest body was a few feet away. Teasingly close.

He skulked over. Hel, the fire must have lit up his silhouette clear as the sun, but he could do nothing about that. Then he was there beside the body.

He dropped to his knees and seized the arrow, half-buried in the Vandrung’s chest. The muscle was hard as oak. But the wound still oozed blood. He tugged. It resisted. He tugged harder and suddenly the barbs gave and the shaft released with a sucking noise.

He nearly whooped with delight. One arrow was a small victory, but it was something. He looked back, ready to scurry to safety, but then his eye caught another shape a few yards down the slope. Another shaft in another motionless hulk.

One more couldn’t hurt. . .

He hesitated, listening for the slightest sound, and hearing nothing, snuck over. In a few moments, he had his second prize. He grinned. With Finn’s sharp shooting, each arrow was another kill. He listened again. Nothing.

Right, my friend. This is when you earn your bread.

A short while later, he pulled the sixth arrow from a Vandrung’s throat. It was grisly work. His hands were sticky with blood. But he had quite the collection now. He’d cursed when he found two arrows beyond repair, but luck had flicked him a scrap – he’d pulled another couple from the same tree.

He glanced back. He was maybe fifty paces out. A bit of a run, now he thought about it. But the last body was only another twenty feet further on, slumped in a shallow gully.

Last one. And he would have it.

When he reached the gully, he found the snow had drifted and his legs sank in deep. He laid his arrows aside and set about freeing the last one. It was lodged tight in the side of the creature’s rib cage. He tugged and twisted, wiggled and wrenched, but the thing stuck fast.

Still, he wasn’t giving up that easy. The reek of the body was overpowering, but he managed to get on top of it to give himself more purchase. He was about to give another tug when he heard a noise that stopped his heart.

A low bellow some way off in the trees, so rasping it sounded like a wood-saw.

He first thought of an ox, albeit one that sounded mighty unhappy and – surely – very lost. Whatever it was, he needed to get out. He yanked again and still it wouldn’t budge.

There was another bellow. This time with a cracking of wood and heavy blowing. He peered down the slope and saw a hulking shadow lumbering through the trees.

‘Kai!’ It was Finn.

The bellow again, angrier this time. ‘Kai! Get back here!’

‘Just a second!’ he shouted, wrestling even harder with the shaft, cursing its damned obstinacy.

‘Leave it!’

This time it was a roar, and for a moment, the shadow detached from the surrounding trees.

What. The. Hel.

A bear. The biggest bloody bear he’d ever dreamed of. And coming his way.

Suddenly, there were other shadows advancing out of the darkness towards him. ‘Time to go,’ he grimaced, with one last desperate tug. All at once, the arrow came away, the force toppling him off the body and into the drift.

‘Seven!’ he cried, and could hear the snarls and yells of the Vandrung over the bear’s bellowing, as he scrabbled about in the powder, clutching his prize. Then, above them all, sounded the howls of wolves.

‘You must be joking,’ he moaned. But he knew that sound better than any other.

‘Kai!’ Finn screamed, as he struggled to extricate his legs. ‘Get back here! They’re coming!’

‘Gods blind me – you don’t say!’ At last he touched solid ground, was out of the gully in a blink, snatched his heap of arrows and ran.

He didn’t look back – mustn’t look back. But he could hear them, closing in, thumping footsteps, and they were a sight faster than his. Only thirty paces to go and he could hear a Vandrung’s panting breath.

Twenty paces and there were the moon faces of Finn and his companions ahead. The arrows rattled in his hand. Fifteen and the raucous breath behind filled his ears. Ten and he could stand it no longer. He glanced back and saw the looming shadow nearly on him, cruel mouth gaping, black blade scything down. He closed his eyes, knowing his last moment had come.

Something whipped past his cheek, the air snapped, there was a grunt and the footsteps behind him ceased.

Half the horses were gone.

But then half the men were dead.

Lilla had listened to the opening onslaught, the clash of steel and iron, the din of Sveär shouts mingled with the bestial wails of the Vandrung. She’d never felt so helpless before something she didn’t understand. If these were the creatures that separated from the scavenging party that carried her to the holes of Niflagard, they had grown in number. Or else her delirium had been worse than she knew.

There were dozens. Her gaze had flicked frantically, north to south, as she tried to relay to her father what was happening. At first, she was sure the north must cave as the Vandrung rabble threw themselves into the wider gap. But it was the south that had faltered. She saw one man fall, then another, and then the horrible creatures pouring into the breach.

Her instinct had been to run and throw her spear into the fight, but her eye had chanced upon the herd of nervous horses pulling at their reins. Without a second thought, she’d untethered the beasts tied to one sapling and with cries and slaps cajoled them down into the southern gap.

The animals had reared in panic, barrelling into the Vandrung at a gallop, sweeping them aside like autumn leaves. It was enough to tip the balance, and next thing she knew the Vandrung were falling back, leaving their dead and soon-to-be-dead companions to the wrath of her father’s men.

She had noticed Erlan picking himself up from the carnage and was surprised at the relief that washed through her. But relief couldn’t live long that night.

Had it been hours? Or only a few snatched moments? She couldn’t have said. Time was bleeding along with the bodies. The night was black as ever. But all at once, the forest was a storm of furious sound and they were back, the shouts of the men at the northern gap more desperate than ever.

‘What can you see?’ cried her father, looking to the north, fists bunched on his knees.

‘More of them, Father. The men are hard pressed.’

In truth, all she could see was a mayhem of limbs and shadows. On one side, Finn shot arrow after arrow in a pitiless rhythm. The others – those still alive – were laying into the Vandrung with desperate blows, though even then, she watched a warrior skewered to the ground. Another dispatched the Vandrung at once, but they could ill afford to lose any man.

Her lips moved in a feverish stream, but even she doubted any magic could work to save them.

Then there was a warning shout, the ragged line of warriors threw themselves aside and into the enclosure ran a bear.

Its hulking frame dwarfed the reeling men around it; its bellow, exposing fangs big as daggers, struck awe in her heart. The bear spun at once, lashing out at a warrior’s shield, sending him flying on his back. In a heartbeat, the animal was on him. Lilla saw the huge skull shake and jerk away, taking the man’s throat with it. The bear kicked him aside, limp as a doll.

Her father was on his feet. ‘I must go.’

‘Father, no – it’s too dangerous.’ She tried to push him back down onto the stone, but he had new strength in him she couldn’t resist. ‘You must live!’

‘Some deaths offer the only way to live,’ he said, touching her face, and drew out Bjarne’s Bane – the sword of his father and of the line of Sveär kings before them. ‘I must go.’ And as he stood, sword raised, face hard as stone, she glimpsed the young warrior king he must have been. The sight silenced her.

Perhaps this is his fate. Who was she to turn him aside from destiny?

He raised his shield and hastened down the slope fast as age and fever would allow. She glanced south. Erlan and his men were sore pressed, cleaving about them like woodsmen. But their little band was few and growing fewer. She wondered what to do, and then grimaced, snatching up her spear.

If she was going to die here, it would be with her own blood. She stumbled after her father.

Ahead King Sviggar’s battle cry sounded fierce over all that noise. The bear turned, perceiving a new threat. So too Finn, hearing his lord’s voice, but there was no time for him to protest. Lilla saw him loose a last arrow and draw his sword.

The bear squared up to her father, its muzzle dripping blood, eyes menacing as winter. The king drew himself to his full height and screamed in its face.

It was pure madness. But then what’s left us but madness now?

The bear’s hackles bristled. It opened its mouth and roared. Yet her father was undaunted, slashed Bjarne’s Bane at the massive head. The animal batted it away and dashed forward to butt him. His shield took the brunt, the force tossing him in the air, landing him on his backside in the snow.

‘Father!’ she cried, fearing for his throat, but Finn was there, driving his point into the beast’s shoulder. The bear reared, lashing out at Finn, sending him tumbling against the rock. Another warrior leaped forward: Beran – face a mask of dread as he beheld the beast. He slashed wildly, caught the animal a glancing blow; there was a fearful ripping sound – the long claws swiping through his head.

Beran fell back, clutching his face, dying. But he had saved his king, if only for an instant: Sviggar was on his feet. Lilla was still behind the bear, her spear weighing heavy as lead. Her father raised his shield, sword ready. Finn was yelling, struggling to untangle himself and get back into the fight.

Full of fear, Lilla went closer, so close she could smell its sour hide. The bear was towering, her father stepping in, his face fey as the dawn. She snatched a breath and then buried the spear with all her strength into the bear’s side.

The animal roared, twisting in agony, tearing the spear from her hands. Its huge haunches loomed over her. She tried to retreat, vision swimming, but the snow dragged at her. She felt herself toppling, heard her father’s yell, saw the hulking beast turning.

And suddenly there was a deadening thud, her head exploded with pain, and she saw nothing but darkness.

‘To the hilltop!’ cried Erlan. ‘Fall back!’ There was no one left to hear but Vakur.

The burly warrior yelled in reply, which Erlan took for understanding. The rest lay broken among the wreckage of Vandrung bodies. Dani’s dead eyes stared from a bloodless face. Foldurr’s throat was leaking blood into the snow like a broken pitcher.

‘Back! Back!’ he screamed again. Every limb burned with fatigue. He lunged, driving Wrathling through the belly of a Vandrung harrying Vakur.

Vakur cried something and took off uphill.

Whatever chance they stood on the summit, it had to be better than here. After that. . . a cripple can’t run.

With the Vandrung gurgling at his feet, he had a few moments. He set off, the pain in his ankle dogged as ever. Vakur was halfway to the summit. Ahead, Erlan saw a huge silhouette in the snow. Beside it was the king, screaming like a man who had lost his mind, his face a demon’s dance of bloodlust, fever and fear.

Erlan suddenly saw the body was an enormous bear. A sword-tip protruded from its spine, and in its side, a long-spear. Sviggar wrenched free the sword, and without another glance, ran to something smaller lying beside the bear.

‘Erlan! You’re alive!’ Erlan turned and saw Kai, hardly recognizable, his tunic a butcher’s bib, face a frenzy.

‘Get to the summit,’ he shouted. ‘All of us – now!’

‘Help me,’ wailed the king. He’d dropped his shield and was pawing at the heap in the snow. Finn was with him.

‘Lord, we must go now!’ cried Erlan. ‘They’re coming from the south.’

‘My daughter, my daughter.’ And Erlan saw her lying there. Her eyes were closed, her honey hair fanned against the snow. Sviggar tugged at her. She flopped over and Erlan saw a dark streak of blood down her face. ‘Help me,’ Sviggar moaned.

‘She’s dead, sire,’ cried Finn. ‘Please – we must fall back.’

‘No!’ The king was still trying to get hold of her. Erlan saw he wasn’t going to leave her, dead or alive. He sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees. ‘Take her legs,’ he yelled at Finn.

The bowman swore, tossed his shield and scooped up her legs. ‘Go – now!’

Erlan needed no second telling. Vakur was already up the gully and atop the stone platform, cursing them to move faster. Jovard was alive, untangling himself from the harvest of bodies. Just ahead of him ran Kai.

Erlan reached the gully. Scrabbling backwards, he could see the others following. The king, full of anguish; Kai, a dozen paces back; then Jovard. Something skittered over the rocks to one side. He looked and saw two shadows scampering down into the enclosure.

‘Wolves!’ he yelled. ‘Kai!’ There was nothing he could do. Only watch the boy turn to face them, and Jovard with him.

He heard Kai laughing madly. ‘You think you can take me now I’ve got me one of these?’ yelled the boy, brandishing his sword. The first wolf never broke stride, hitting the ground and bounding straight at him. But what happened then surprised even Erlan. The wolf leaped for Kai’s throat, but cool as you like, he stepped aside and whipped down his sword. There was a yelp and the wolf landed in a heap, one ear missing, along with half its head.

Jovard was squared up to the second wolf, which, seeing the other’s fate, held back. ‘Leave it,’ screamed Erlan, reaching the summit.

‘Put her down,’ said Finn, and they lay her gently on the rocks. The archer had his bow unslung in a second.

Jovard was edging away from the wolf. Kai was yelling, trying to drag him back faster to the gully. The wolf ran at them. Jovard braced his shield, drew back his axe. The wolf took off. There was a streak of darkness. And then it skidded to their feet, dead – an arrow through its gullet.

‘Nice,’ Erlan muttered.

‘Just lucky, I guess,’ grinned Finn.

‘Reckon we could all use some of that luck.’ The king was bent over the princess, looking for signs of life, finding none. Erlan scanned the enclosure. The first of the Vandrung were through the gaps now, north and south. But they weren’t running. They stalked over the bodies with an inexorability that was far more menacing, coming on like a black tide. The Sveärs had killed dozens, yet still there were dozens more.

‘They’re coming now,’ he said simply, as Kai arrived gasping at the top, his shield gone, and Jovard leaning heavily on his arm. The king traced a finger down his daughter’s face, then stood erect.

‘This is a good place to die,’ said the old man, nodding grimly. ‘A time comes when a man has to look death in the face and say welcome.’

No one said anything. Erlan looked at Kai. The boy returned his gaze but the fear seemed to have gone from his face. He seemed only weary, and old beyond his years. ‘No,’ said Erlan. ‘We’re not dying today.’

Finn had a wan smile. ‘Sad to say it, but he’s right. We might take a few of these handsome bastards with us, but there’s no hope for us but Odin’s reward. Seems he’s come for us after all.’

‘No!’ Erlan shook his head. ‘We are going to live.’ And now, above all, he knew he wanted to.

Kai nodded, his long mouth set with determination.

‘I always thought you were a pair of madmen,’ laughed Finn. ‘Now I know it.’

‘Make ready,’ cried Sviggar. ‘All of you die with honour and the Spear-God’s blessing.’

And much good would it do them, thought Erlan. The fire was burning low, darkness squeezing back the guttering light. Why, he never knew, but his mind flew back to the sunset lookout over that snowbound wilderness. The beauty of that lonely land where silence reigned like a god.

Maybe silence could be his god. A god who does not speak cannot lie. A silent god.

He watched the Vandrung surround the hilltop, watched the circle of monstrous shadows tighten like a noose.

Maybe the silent god would help them now.

She knows that silhouette. The sun is a glimmer through autumn leaves. She calls for him to wait. That she is coming. He turns.

‘Staffen!’

But he turns away at his name and walks on through the trees. She’s running now. Hurrying to him. Closer. Almost with him. A thrill fills her heart to hold her brother’s hand again. To hear his voice.

But when she can almost touch him, he halts. He turns. He shakes his head.

‘Go back.’ His mouth forms the words but there is no sound.

Her heart sinks.

The lips move again. ‘Go back.’

She doesn’t understand. ‘What must I do?’ she asks.

He says nothing. Only raises his horn to his lips, and blows and blows. . .

Lilla’s eyes started open. The darkness was heavier than before, the dawn a long way off. Her body was cold, but her heart was burning.

She sat up. Men surrounded her. Warriors, their faces just visible, hard as idols. She looked again. Recognition began to seep into her mind. That one is Finn. That one, Kai. That one, the stranger.

The night was filled with screaming. But not from these men. They waited silently. All around her, the screams drew closer. She saw her father. Saw his bloodied sword, and there at his belt, his horn.

Suddenly her will was focused, sharp and straight as an arrow.

She got to her knees. Someone shouted. Her father turned. His face changed. He came towards her, reached for her, but she pushed his hand away, intent only on the horn.

Then she had it, wrenched it from his belt.

‘What are you doing?’ she heard him ask. But she didn’t answer. She put the metal to her lips and blew a note that split the night.

At the first blast, they all turned. But she blew again and again and again, so hard her lungs must burst. Till at last she could blow no more.

For just a moment, the Vandrung’s screaming ceased. And in the silence, muffled by the forest and the snow, came a reply.

A sister horn – long and low and steady. And then another.

The men around her stood still as statues, ears cocked. Suddenly, Erlan snatched the horn from her, put it to his lips and fetched a blast loud enough to summon summer.

Then the darkness was a gale of horn-song, sounding ever closer, and with it rose shouts and the thunder of hooves. Fire danced in the forest beyond the circle of rocks. On and on Erlan blew, and it seemed he would never stop. The screams of the Vandrung faltered.

‘Odin’s Hunt!’ cried Finn, laughing.

And all at once through the gaps poured riders bearing fire and steel. The Vandrung quailed and began to fall back. But there was no escape. For the riders came on, lusting for blood and slaughter.