Dawn of the Ice Bear (19 page)

“We haven't time,” Kral had replied. “If I could tell them that I have the Teeth, perhaps the war could be called off. But I cannot tell them that until the crown is made whole again. What if it turns out that your uncle sold the teeth before he even took the crown to Tarantia? They may still be in the Westermarck, for all we can say.”

A number of arguments came to Alanya's mind, tripping over themselves before she could give words to them. Finally, she didn't bother. Kral had made up his mind. He was satisfied that the fires indicated the location of the Pictish clans and would not take time out of their journey to go to them with only a partial crown.

Instead, they had continued paddling the canoe upriver, against the stream. Alanya had comforted herself with a glance into her magic mirror, summoning the image of Invictus, her father. The last time he had looked into the mirror, it seemed, was when he had presented it to her, telling her that it was a special object she must always take care of. He had patted down his black hair, then moved closer to it, pulling up his eyelid. His mouth moved, and though she couldn't hear it, she remembered that he had said, “Something in my eye.” Then he had touched his eyeball with his finger, apparently retrieving a trespassing eyelash. He'd handed the mirror back to Alanya then. She watched his motions in the mirror a couple of times, vowing to the image there that when this was over, she would do what she could to further the cause of peace, in his name.

Standing by the shore of the lake, she noticed that Tarawa shivered more than the others, even though she also wore the most. “Are you all right?” she asked the Kushite girl.

“Just . . . c-c-cold . . .” Tarawa stammered. “I . . . I had heard that Cimmerians were a h-hardy sort, but . . .”

“They are that,” Donial answered. “Conor, the man we seek, is this tall.” He held his hands up over his head, almost to their full length. Then he moved them out to his sides. “And this wide. He probably never feels the cold.”

“He's still human,” Alanya said, laughing. “He is no doubt more accustomed to it than you, Tarawa. But I'm sure he feels it.”

“Perhaps,” Donial said. “But I fail to understand how anyone who
can
feel cold would willingly return to such a place.”

“It's his home,” Kral suggested. “Everyone feels a special fondness for home, I believe, however wretched the place really is.”

“I suppose,” Tarawa said. She flapped at her arms with her hands and stomped her feet against the chill. “I have no desire to return to Dugalla, though I'd rather be there than here.”

“We'll try to make this as fast as we can,” Kral said. “And then depart for warmer climes, if any such still exist.”

Even at the best of times, Alanya knew, Cimmeria was a cold and forbidding land, seldom visited by outsiders. But Elonius, the one surviving member of Gorian's mercenary crew, had been there, and claimed to know where the village of Taern was. He had drawn them a rough map, indicating that it was not far at all from this point, just a little to the south and east. He had indicated a few landmarks on it as well, the first of which was a peak shaped like a hunched-over woman. Looking in that general direction, they saw the peak, and it did resemble his description. Heartened by this discovery, they gathered their things from the bottom of the canoe, fixed them to their bodies, and started off on foot. Each step, Alanya prayed, would bring them closer to finishing this for good and all.

 

 

SHARZEN DUCKED UNDER the Pict's first blow and threw his shield up to deflect it. The axe glanced off the shield, but still Sharzen could feel its power in his shoulders and chest. He stabbed with the short sword, but the Pict danced away from the thrust. Sharzen backed him up with another couple of stabs, trying to take the measure of his opponent as he did.

The Pict was older than he, but strong, rangy. Light on his feet. He wielded the war axe like it weighed nothing. Scars crisscrossing his torso indicated that he'd been in battle many times before and survived. This would not, the governor knew, be an easy win.

But he was a survivor as well, and it would take more than one old Pict to bring him down. The Pict charged again, bringing his axe up in a swinging motion from lower right to upper left. If it had connected, the blow would have split Sharzen open, groin to shoulder. Sharzen sidestepped it. It was on the wrong side to block with his shield, but he kept his blade up and the axe's handle grazed it. He tried to follow up by slicing at the Pict's axe hand, but the old one yanked it out of the way, and the sword found only air.

He lashed out again toward the Pict's belly. The Pict dropped the head of his axe, parrying the thrust. Sharzen tried again, but his foe stepped away from the attack and reached out for Pulliam's chair, close beside him. Scooping it up in his left hand, he hurled the thing at Sharzen. Sharzen batted it out of the way but the Pict used the moment to come forward again, axe arcing toward him. Sharzen got his shield up just in time to block it.

But the axe did not bounce off the shield, this time. Instead, it plowed through the steel-and-leather construction, carving into Sharzen's upper left arm as it did. Sharzen let out a yelp of pain as he was driven to one knee. With the point of his sword, he held the Pict at bay long enough to force his left leg to straighten beneath him.

He stepped back, gaze locked on the Pict's eyes, waiting for the man's next attack. A table nudged the backs of his legs. He tried to recall the layout of Pulliam's office, but the Pict had moved things around in his search. Moving to his right, he felt with the backs of his thighs for the table's corner. His left arm throbbed; blood spilled down it, making the straps that held the wrecked shield on slippery.

Throwing the chair had been clever. A similar idea occurred to Sharzen. The shield was nearly useless for its original purpose. He shook it down his arm, letting it fall, then catching the second strap in his left fist. As the Pict circled toward him, Sharzen roared with pain and hurled the shield.

The Pict raised his axe and deflected the shield, sending it clanging against a wall. But even as he did, Sharzen was on the move. He threw himself to his knees, sliding along the floor, sword point out. The Pict tried to swing his axe from its raised position to intersect Sharzen's charge, but it sailed harmlessly over the Aquilonian's head. The sword point found the flesh of the Pict's thigh, dug in. Sharzen gave it a last push, then a twist before he wrenched it free and scuttled backward. The Pict's axe slammed into the floor where he had just been.

The Pict grimaced in pain, and blood ran from his thigh wound, splashing onto the floor. Slower on his feet than before, the Pict snarled and advanced again. Sharzen drew a dagger from his belt for his left hand. Teeth clenched, obviously fighting to ignore the agony, the Pict limped forward with his axe raised. Sharzen held both blades close together, waiting for the attack to come. His left arm burned with pain, and he knew he was losing too much blood to keep up the battle for long. The time had come to end it.

When the Pict was off balance, limping toward him, Sharzen struck.

 

 

USAM BIT BACK the pain in his thigh. The Aquilonian had surprised him with that move. He had never expected an opponent to willingly throw himself to the floor. But the move had paid off, drawing blood and slowing Usam down. Bad enough that his legs were still aching from the long drop earlier, but now he thought that his right would give out at any moment. His shoulder still throbbed from the earlier arrow wound, too.

His weight was on his weakened right leg when the Aquilonian charged, his short sword and needlelike dagger both flicking toward him. Usam threw his weight back, onto his stronger left, and swept the axe up before him, creating a barrier of wood and stone that blocked both blades. The Aquilonian expelled his breath rapidly, then muttered an oath that Usam couldn't understand. Usam could see that the man was weakening because of the blood running down his arm. The question was, which of them would outlast the other? He also knew that if either man managed to land another blow, that would likely decide the conflict.

Steeling himself against the torment he knew was coming, he threw his weight forward again, catching himself on his right leg. It nearly buckled beneath him, but held. At the same time he swung the axe in an arc over his right shoulder, bringing it down with all the strength he could command. The Aquilonian, back against a wall with nowhere to move, raised both his blades in an attempt to block the axe's descent.

The weight of his axe shattered the longer blade, and drove the dagger from the Aquilonian's weakened grasp. The man shouted a wordless cry and dove to the side. He hit on his right shoulder, rolled to his feet, and struck at Usam as the Pict was hoisting his axe again. This time, the man threw his arms around Usam and was able to drive the broken blade into Usam's side, behind the ribs. Usam screamed and broke the Aquilonian's grip. The man staggered back, into the wall again. Blinking sweat from his eyes, Usam rushed at his enemy. The man kicked the chair—the same one Usam had used before—into Usam's path. It tangled his legs, and Usam lost his balance. He flailed out, almost losing the axe, and crashed to the floor before the Aquilonian.

The other man still held his broken sword, its four inches of remaining blade slick with Usam's blood. He stabbed down at the fallen Pict. Usam writhed away from the blow and with his free hand caught the Aquilonian's ankle. He tugged, hard. The Aquilonian fought for balance, but his foot found a patch of blood on the floor and slipped out from under him. He collapsed to the floor, landing on his back, wincing in pain. Usam released his axe and threw his arm across his foe's chest, pressing him down. The Aquilonian tried to bring his broken sword into play, but Usam grabbed the man's hand with both of his.

The man struggled to get his sword hand free. Usam had the advantage of position, and in spite of his wounds was able to bring his weight to bear. He muscled the Aquilonian's hand around and got the blade fragment pressed against the man's collarbone. Wedged it there with his own hands, and let his weight push down on it. The Aquilonian hissed between clenched teeth, his eyes wide. He smacked ineffectively at Usam with his other hand.

“Know you where the crown is?” Usam asked him. “This is your last chance to save yourself.”

The man's head twitched from side to side. He kept pressing back with the knife, hitting Usam's shoulder with his other hand. He tried to writhe under the Pict's bulk, to kick out with his legs. His wounds had sapped his strength, however. “I know nothing about any crown,” he managed to gasp.

Hearing this, Usam arched his back, pushed his shoulders up, pressing down with all his weight on the blade fragment. It sliced into the man's neck, cutting down toward his throat. Usam felt hot blood splash his face and arms, and the Aquilonian, with a final burst of strength, jerked almost to a sitting position.

Just as quickly, though, the life flowed from him, and he sank back down. Usam held the hand with the sword hilt in it, sawing with the broken blade, until the Aquilonian was definitely gone. Finally, he released it, slumping over the body and breathing heavily for a few minutes. When he felt ready, he pushed himself to his feet, swayed, staggered, nearly fell again. He was weak, badly injured. He had held out longer than his opponent, but not by much.

The crown was still out there. If this Aquilonian did not know where, then some other one would. Usam would kill as many as he could with his own hands until he found it. His people, meanwhile, would kill the rest, put the torch to their settlements, search every cranny.

The storm outside was all the evidence Usam needed that time was growing short. The Ice Bear neared. Only the crown would turn the beast away.

On unsteady legs, Usam left the building, looking for more Aquilonians to kill.

CIMMERIA WAS NEARLY as empty as the Pictish lands, it seemed. Kral wondered for a moment if the Cimmerians had gone south to give aid to one side or the other in the conflict raging along the border. But that was a foolish thought, he decided immediately. The Cimmerians had no love for either side, or for any people but their own. Nothing could tempt them to throw in with either of those camps, he knew.

Still, it struck him as odd that they saw no riders, no one out hunting or chopping wood. On the way to Taern they passed a small village, a scattering of huts built around a larger lodge building. Smoke wafted up from a few fires, but looking down from the hillside Kral could see no men at all, just a few children wrestling and two women cooking something. There might have been others inside the huts—almost certainly there were. But just as certainly, the village was much emptier than usual. He had been worried about passing this close to a village, but it was obvious that there were no guards about, no warriors who would make them sorry they had happened across it.

Even so, they did not tarry, but kept on their way. Taern, according to the map Elonius had given them, was close by. The next village, just a few hills away. Kral noted with some pleasure that, like the Picts, the Cimmerians chose not to live right on top of one another, but spaced their villages out, and their homes within those villages.

Alanya and Donial had little problem keeping up, even through deep snow and punishing winds. Tarawa was slower, and needed help more often. Before this trip, she admitted, she had never seen snow. She had heard tales about it and always thought it sounded pleasant, white and fluffy, like clouds fallen gently to earth. Now she had learned that it was cold and wet, and slogging through it was exhausting. She tried not to complain, and whenever Kral checked on her she pasted a brave smile to her face, but he could see that it was taking a lot out of her.