Blood of Wolves (6 page)

And why Kern silently said his good-bye right then, as he had to six others that day. He did not expect to see Old Finn, alive, ever again.

 

THERE WERE MANY things Kern did not expect, in fact. Though when faced with them, there was little he could do but accept. It was a Cimmerian's way, after all. Fall down seven times, get up eight.

Strength. That was Crom's single blessing.

Hauling the sled with Burok's body on it tested Kern's physical strength, certainly. There was room for only two clansmen in the leather harnesses, able to pull without getting in each other's way, and Burok, for all his wasting away toward the end, still was not a small man. Daol worked the trail forward, so only Reave spelled Kern on the one side of the sled though never for too long. Kern knew the feel of the wide leather straps. Was comfortable in them. He took the harness again as soon as he worked out the strain that knotted in his meaty calves or pulled at his back.

The first day remained shrouded in gray clouds, threatening more snow. A few hardy birds flitted about, chirping mournfully for the lack of forage. The funeral party felt much the same, content with stale flat cakes and dried tubers. They sustained a man, but did not help him keep warm. Especially in the face of a southern wind that blew down out of the distant Eighlophian Mountains, carrying the frigid touch of the Nordheim realms, Vanaheim and Asgard.

Grimnir's Breath, a traveling tinker had once called such winds. For Kern, that had been the first time he'd heard of the war chieftain's legendary—and certainly exaggerated—powers, able to call upon the most severe weather to aid his Vanir raiders.

The forest thickened up the farther they traveled from the village, closing in during the second day at places that would never be visited by Kern's axe. There was an old feel to the land, where magnificent oaks spread their limbs so wide they might have sheltered all of Gaud beneath the mighty branches of a single tree, and an occasional sequoia—the rare “watchtower” trees—towered overhead like Crom's own plantings. Kern couldn't help staring at these, with their bases easily five times as thick as he was tall, ice caked inside the deep folds of their bark, and wonder how anyone could think to take an ax to such awe-inspiring titans.

Evidence of small game showed more clearly as well. Kern spotted rabbit tracks and hunting fox, and the shuffling spread of snow that warned of a black bear early out of hibernation. Kern wondered if the long winter confused it, and might drive it toward clan villages.

There were also wolf tracks, but never enough to worry about a hunting pack. Stragglers and rogues, mostly. Outcasts. The party heard only one deep, challenging howl as a dire wolf marked his territory, but never saw sign of the beast. Kern did notice blood flecks trailing along one large set of tracks, guessed that the hunter had found a rabbit or marmot, and wished the animal luck.

Maev saw the tracks and blood spoor as well. Hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her measuring gaze left Kern feeling cold inside. Colder.

The trail meandered east, entering hilly country and taking long turns around the steeper slopes. With no strong sun to guide them, the procession might easily have been lost if not for Daol's unerring sense of direction. For his part, Kern concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in deeply when the harness relaxed, exhaling sharply as he leaned into the strain, calf muscles thrumming.

Downhill was no easier than uphill. He knew better than to let the flat-bottomed sled have its head, running ahead of them to smash itself against a tree or lightly dusted stone. Downhill was when the other hauler relaxed and Kern steered the sled by hauling against the harness leads.

Kern had already removed his winter cloak, folding it away and tucking it with his knife belt and blanket roll under one end of Burok's burial shroud. Head or feet, made no difference to the old chieftain anymore. Exertion flushed Kern's face a healthy pink, rare for him, and soon he shed his tattered poncho as well. While others bundled themselves up, a few pulling on hats or a rare set of gloves against the bite of the gusting wind, Kern struggled forward bare-chested and sweating. Never warm—the chill never left his bones—but his muscles had settled into that almost-pleasant dull ache that came with honest work.

It was almost with a shrug of reluctance, in fact, that he dropped the harness as Cul called for a second stop in the late afternoon.

The procession had just forded a wide creek, most keeping their feet dry by jumping stones. Kern and an older stalwart named Aodh shed their boots and waded over, carrying the sled and its burden between them. Aodh's salt-and-pepper moustache showed a hint of frost in the upper hairs, just below his nose. He huffed out great clouds of frostbitten vapor, more used to running the traplines than such demanding hauling; but he held up his end, never letting Burok come close to slipping off his funeral board.

The icy water numbed their feet, but dried and briskly rubbed, and back into their boots, they could have set off immediately.

Instead, Cul ordered a rest, sent lanky youths up-and downstream looking for Gaudic fishtraps, hoping to bolster their supplies. Morne, one of Cul's faster warriors, was sent running ahead to slow Daol, let him know of the unscheduled break. Then Cul went around the party, checking to see that most everyone was holding up well.

Kern rubbed his chest and arms down with a rough blanket, brushing them dry before the sweat iced up. He stomped around in a small circle, hammering life back into his feet, and glanced toward Reave. “Drink?”

Reave threw Kern a flask of mint-flavored water. The warm-leather taste of the skin was stronger than the crushed leaves, but Kern was in no mind to complain. Better than the raw metallic taste scratching at the back of his throat from gulping down the cold, dry air too fast.

“Think we'll reach Snowy River country by night?” Reave asked. He rarely had cause to travel out this far during the snows. Lacking Daol's natural sense of direction and distance, and Kern's experience in winter treks, it would be hard for him to judge how the party fared.

“Nay. We're actually slow-going with the sled and the pups along.” The village youths held their own in stamina, but they just didn't have a man's stride yet. “Lucky to make it on the morrow.”

“Saw pheasant feathers under branches a ways back. Got to be huddled up in the trees.” Reave frowned at the height of the branches in some nearby elm. “Maybe Daol will catch a shot at some.”

Kern remembered the scent of roasting chucker and the meaty taste of the grease from his fingers. His stomach growled an answer.

“Me, too,” Reave said, as if Kern had spoken aloud. The large man's dry chuckle was good to hear.

Cul's call was not.

“Wolf-Eye. Kern!” He stood near the stream, one foot up on a boulder as he tightened down a boot strap, his war sword slung over his shoulder. Maev paused nearby, picking crumbs out of an oilcloth that had held dry biscuits. She had handed out food to everyone but Reave and Kern.

There were two biscuits sitting on the boulder next to Cul's foot.

Kern refused to be called to the chieftain's side like a dog. He turned toward Cul, though. Gaze steady and muscles tense, feeling the scourge of the other man's eyes rake over him.

“This stream is far enough,” he said.

“'Bout time,” Reave muttered beneath his breath, but Kern knew right away that Cul did not mean to end his nearly continuous hauling of the sled. At least, not in the way his friend thought. A coldness hollowed out his guts.

“Six . . . seven,” he said, remembering Old Finn. “Seven not enough for you?”

“Not about what is enough,” Cul said. “About what makes the clan stronger. Your blood's no good. I said that last night.”

“You said . . .” Kern began in a heated reply, then remembered.

Cul
had
said, hadn't he?
Heading out tomorrow
. . . but not necessarily coming back. Kern might make it, all right.
Outside the clan.

A chill shook him that had nothing to do with the gusting wind. He glanced south, wondering how far he'd have to trek, how fast he'd have to run and for how long, to make the southern lands before winter claimed him forever.

Maev looked torn between what she wanted to say, duty to her father and to her chieftain. “We are burying Burok, Cul. Does this have to be now?”

“I want some distance on him before nightfall. This stream makes a good guide, and a boundary. Cross back over it at the risk of death, Wolf-Eye.”

Maev hesitated, then shook her head and turned away from the men, back toward the stream. She obviously hadn't known.

Since the hands of three warriors were already on their sword hilts, Cul had warned a few of them this was coming. And he had sent Morne ahead to prevent Daol's appearance, leaving Reave—

“Nay!” Kern shouted, bracing one of his thick arms across Reave's chest before the larger man launched himself at the Gaudic chieftain. Reave hadn't thought to reach for the Cimmerian greatsword strapped across his back, fortunately. Though he looked ready to tear Cul apart with his bare hands.

“Don't do it,” Kern whispered, having to lean in to keep Reave from brushing him aside. “Not for me, Reave. He wants this. Wants you to try for him. Then you are banished as well.”

Reave ran his tongue over chapped lips. His pale blue eyes raged with anger. “Never make it, Kern.” His voice was rough, thick with emotion. “Nay food or fire. Three days to Clan Maran, if they'll have you . . . and they won't.”

It was hard, listening to it come from a friend, but Reave was right. No one north of the thaw would want Kern near. His unsettling looks notwithstanding, there simply would not be food enough for an orphan.

“I might,” Kern promised him. “I might. But you need to stay. For Daol and Hydallan. And Ros and her family.”

Mention of his sister calmed Reave, cooling his warrior's blood. The giant man settled, but remained barely on the knife's edge of control. He seemed perfectly ready to leap in at Kern's side at a moment's notice, and fight for him. Cul had three solid backers, and at least one more of the small party who might fall in on his side. Many of the others actually looked torn over the decision. Aodh would not even meet Kern's lupine gaze, and neither would one of the younger warriors.

If Daol had been there, with his aim . . .

Any fantasy of actually standing against the odds, though, ended as Maev returned from the stream with a stoppered flask of water. She brushed by Cul, grabbing the biscuits off the smooth edge of the boulder and deftly tying both into the oilcloth she had cleared out earlier. Cul looked about to say something, but her quick glare silenced the new chieftain, who obviously wanted to keep peace with Burok's daughter and an important voice within the village.

Maev finished, then strode over and thrust the package into Kern's hands.

“Take it. Take it and go.”

Water and food. He couldn't ask for much more. Kern tied the improvised sack onto his kilt's wide belt, then stepped over next to the sled. He considered trying to take one of the small hatchets, but he had no flint for a fire anyway. So he pulled on his poncho and clipped his winter cloak around his thick neck, letting the gray wolf's fur fall back off his shoulders. His knife he cinched below the wide kilt belt and his bedroll, tied with rope, went over his left shoulder.

The entire time he rarely took his eye off the southerly meandering stream, wondering how far he could run its distance.

Three days, he guessed. Maybe four. He'd have to keep running into the nights, if it turned wet. Better than sitting under the weather.

“Give him a weapon.” Maev looked back at Cul.

Cul laughed, looked around the small clearing. Even the men who weren't solidly behind him reached a cautious hand toward their own swords. Cul shrugged. “Give him your own,” he suggested.

Woman or not, no Cimmerian went unarmed by choice. Maev hesitated, and Kern shrugged off her concern. He would have felt more comfortable with an axe handle in his hand than the pommel of a sword anyway.

Maev shoved past him, to the side of her father's body. Drawing a small utility knife strapped to her leg, she bent over and sliced through the skin wrapping Burok Bear-slayer. Reaching inside, she grabbed and pulled free the chieftain's broadsword, the long, wide blade rasping free of its sheath. She threw it to Kern, who caught it awkwardly by the hilt.

With a wary eye on Cul, who glowered darkly at the gift, Kern tucked the blade carefully through his knife belt. He let it catch on the cross guard, holding it at his side without cutting through the thin strap.

He nodded his thanks to Maev, who glared him on his way, and traded arm clasps with Reave. His friend's strength was impressive, certainly bruising Kern's arm. Which was when it truly struck at him: this would be their last moment. Once cast out from the clan, always cast out of the clan.

Not even Conan had tried returning to Clan Conarch.
That
would have been a tale.

“I can make it,” Kern promised again.

“See that you do.” His glacial blue eyes were heavy, holding his anger and his sorrow both. “Don't want your ghost haunting these woods. You're strange enough as is.”

Kern smiled, pulling up one side of his mouth with effort. A longer delay robbed him of precious daylight, and would accomplish little more than a test of Cul's patience. With a final nod to his friend, he turned and jogged from the clearing, keeping a stone's throw from the stream as he headed south.

He let his anger fuel him for a hundred paces, then realizing how quickly it would burn him out, he settled back into an easy pace. If he hadn't, he might have missed the boy.