Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

“I see something.” Aemon pointed. “Over there.”

Caim had seen them, too. Several points of light bobbed on the plains north of their position. Hurrying across the uneven ground, Caim found a short esker and crouched behind it. The others joined him, their boots gouging footholds in the snow. The lights grew into torches, illuminating bearded faces under bestial helms. Two dozen Northmen on massive, hairy steeds. They rode double-file as they headed-thankfully-west. Caim was content to stay and watch until they were out of sight, the better to be sure they were gone, before he returned to the horses. He decided they would ride all night. If this territory was patrolled, he wanted to be through it as soon as possible.

A shout caught Caim's attention. The lead Northmen riders had pulled up. Their torches waved back and forth as if they were searching for something. Then a horse screamed, and one of the torches fell to the ground and went out. Caim squinted as more horsemen appeared from the west, plunging into the Bear tribesmen. By the dim light he could make out the rise and fall of gleaming steel, hear the angry clash of arms and men.

“What's going on?” Malig asked, rising up for a better view.

Caim yanked him back down. “Quiet! And keep your head down. There's two groups fighting. I can't tell who they are except they're both Northmen.”

Dray snorted. “That's good for us. They keep themselves busy while we slip in there and clean the pick-”

“You three aren't going anywhere,” Caim said. “Stay put while I go for a closer look.”

“Why?” Malig asked. “What's it got to do with us?”

Caim tamped down the urge to strangle him. “We don't know yet. The rest of you-”

“I want to go with you,” Aemon interjected.

“-stay here,” Caim finished. “If you see trouble, get back to get the horses.”

“What about you?”

“I'll be fine. You just keep heading north and I'll find you.”

“This is bullshit,” Dray muttered.

Caim ignored the comment as he made his way over the esker and down the other side. What was he doing? This was an unnecessary risk. Or was it? For better or worse, he was following his instincts. He looked around, but Kit was gone.

The original column of Northmen had broken up into small knots of fighters, but they still had the advantage of numbers. As those numbers began to tell, the attackers suddenly broke off. The defenders gave chase, cutting down those who were too slow in retreat, and it looked as though they had turned the tables on their assailants. Then clods of snow erupted from the ground, and men emerged-warriors wielding great axes and hammers. They hit the Bear tribe column from both sides.

Caim slipped behind a clump of thorny brush and got down on his belly. The Bear tribesmen were all down. Howls and groans carried on the breeze. Caim saw more headpieces, and for a moment he envisioned them as wolves with fangs agleam, but then they resolved into feline heads perched on iron caps.

A Northman pulled up near Caim's position. He was brawny, with a thick, black beard down to his chest. Blood dripped from the blade of his long-hafted axe; a round shield of wood was strapped to his other arm. His helm was topped by a tall headpiece made from the head of a great, white cat. It swiveled back and forth as if searching for more prey. Caim gritted his teeth as tiny voices chittered to him from the darkness. Shadows oozed from underneath the brush and touched him, crawled up his arms. Their icy caresses drew deep shivers from his muscles. Their hunger infected him, making him want to join the violence and feel the power of death in his hands.

Blood on my knives, dripping in the snow.

Caim shunted the longing away as he gathered his legs under him. The fighting was over. The cat-men were gathering the loose horses and picking through the remains. Corpses made bloody heaps in the trampled snow. Caim was trying to decide what he wanted to do when something crunched behind him. He spun around, both knives drawn, to see Dray crouched a dozen paces away with Aemon and Malig following him. Before Caim could motion for the clansmen to get back, torchlight washed over them, and a hoarse voice bellowed. Caim almost bit off the tip of his tongue. The axe-man rode up, his horse snorting steam in the cold night air. Caim considered the distance between him to the Northman. If he could drop this one fast enough, they might still make a clean escape.

Thoughts of a quick kill-and-dash ended when more hoofbeats and crackling ice sounded from behind. Caim didn't have to look to know that more barbarians had ridden up, cutting off their escape.

“What do we do, Caim?” Dray asked. He and the others had drawn their weapons and stood with their backs together.

Caim calculated the outcome if he attacked. He could escape, he had no doubt, but the others would be run down and slaughtered. With a sigh, he slid his knives back into their sheaths and held up his hands. “Put up your weapons,” he said.

“The hell I will!” Malig shouted.

Caim shrugged. “Then you'll die.”

More Northmen arrived. Their voices shot back and forth in the bitter cold air. He didn't know what they said, but he assumed the worst. Then a deep voice spoke in Nimean.

“You are not of the Tribes.”

Caim located the axe-man. It was difficult to make out much of his features under the heavy helm, except for a pitch-black beard and a long puckered scar down the left side of his face. He wore a chainmail hauberk that came down to his knees, rusted in a few places, and over it a cloak of white fur that reminded Caim of the mantles worn by the clan chiefs in Eregoth.

“No, we're not,” Caim replied.

The speaker nudged his steed to approach to within a couple steps. “Who are you?”

Caim said his name, and those of his crew. Behind him, he heard someone muttering. Probably Malig. He's going to get us killed if he isn't careful. One look at the Northmen had been enough to tell Caim that they were the worst kind of deadly. They enjoyed the slaughter. In fact, they reminded him of Soloroth's Northmen.

“We saw the light of the fires,” Caim said. “And came to see what it was.”

The speaker laughed, but his men remained silent. “I am Wulfgrim, son of Grimhild, chief of what is left of the Snow Lions. Our camp is not far. You will come and share our fire.”

There was no question in his invitation, and Caim hadn't expected any. They had two choices: go with them, or try to fight their way out. And not being able to rely on the shadows made that a losing proposition. “We have horses nearby.”

Wulfgrim signaled, and his men prepared to depart.

Caim kept his face neutral as he turned and led the way back to the rocks. Aemon and the others looked to him, but he didn't have anything to tell them. They'd have to play this one as it came.

The walk seemed shorter on the way back. The Northmen rode around them, gibbering in their harsh tongue. Laughing. When they arrived at the spot, their horses were there, huddled together, but Egil was gone.

“Where's-?” Dray started to say, until Caim caught his eye and made a small headshake. “Where's my waterskin?” he finished. “I'm damned parched.”

As they mounted up under the watchful gazes and headed out, Caim peered across the wastes. Egil was well and truly gone.

Caim blew into his cupped hands, but his fingertips felt only the barest warmth. Wulfgrim, the Northman leader, had said their camp was nearby, but they had been riding for more than a candlemark. At least they were heading north, mostly. A little west, too, but he had bigger concerns at the moment. Like staying alive.

“I told you to stay away,” Kit said even before she appeared before him. Worry was etched in her eternally youthful features.