Thrice more she charged and the shield-ring shattered.
A lean Aenir warrior ran forward, ducking under Sigarni’s plunging sword, stabbing his own blade into the horse’s belly. It screamed and fell, rolling across the man who had ended its life, killing him as it died. Sigarni was thrown to the ground in the midst of the Aenir. She came up swinging the double-handed sword, beheading the first warrior to leap to the attack.
The Aenir closed around her. Gaelen and Telor, fighting side by side, saw the Queen go down.
‘No!’ screamed Gaelen. He cut his opponent from him and raced into the mass. Telor followed him, with Agwaine and Onic and a dozen Pallides.
‘Hold on, my Lady!’ yelled Gaelen. Sigarni flashed a glance towards him, momentarily puzzled, then blocked a slashing attack from a longsword. Twisting her wrists and returning the blow, she clove the man from collarbone to belly. But the Aenir were all around her now. She swung and twisted and, too late, saw a blade slashing towards her neck. Gaelen’s sword flashed up, parrying the death blow. ‘I am here, my Lady!’ he shouted above the clash of iron on iron.
Sigarni grinned and returned to the business of death.
Drada, with all hope of victory gone, tried to forge a path to the mouth of the pass. Beside him his carle captain Briga fought on, though a score of minor cuts poured blood from his arms and thighs.
‘I think we are done, Drada,’ shouted Briga. ‘But by Vatan there’s been some blood spilled today.’
Drada did not answer. Ahead of them a woman had climbed to a tall boulder and drawn back her bow. The arrow hissed through the air, thudding into Drada’s throat, and with a look of surprise the Aenir leader fell sideways. Briga tried to catch him, but a sword slid between his ribs and he jerked upright.
He did not know it, nor would he have cared, but he was one of the last Aenir still alive in the Folly. His breath rasped in his throat and he dropped his sword as a great rushing noise filled his ears. Around him the pass was choked with bodies of the fallen, and Briga thought he could see the Valkyrie descending from the sky – the winged horses and the chariots of black. What tales he would tell in the Hall of the Dead….
He toppled from his feet, eyes still fixed on the black mass of crows and buzzards circling in the sky overhead.
Far to the south Asbidag, unaware of the clan victory, entered a thickly-wooded section of hills. He was breathing heavily and tired to the bone. Stopping by a stream, he tore the arrow from his shoulder and stripped his mail-shirt from him. He leaned over the water to drink. Looking down, he saw his reflection and just above it a face out of a nightmare.
Asbidag rolled to his back, scrabbling for his knife, but the werehound’s talons snaked down, ripping his throat to shreds. Blood bubbled from the ruined jugular and the creature’s jaws opened. Asbidag’s eyes widened as the fangs flashed down. The creature backed away from the body and squatted on its haunches, staring down at the ruined face. In its mind vague memories stirred, and a low whine came from its throat.
Pictures danced and flickered. Racing ahead of the pack and the horsemen, leaping at the stag as it turned to face them. Curling up in the day by the stables, warm and comfortable. But other, stranger, images confused it. A young woman with fair hair, smiling, her head resting on a cotton pillow. A child running, laughing, hands stretched towards… towards… it?
Lifting its head, the beast howled its despair at the night sky. Then moving back to the corpse the creature stretched out its taloned claw, pulling the dagger loose from the sheath. Turning the point to its breast, it plunged the blade home.
Pain, terrible pain.. .. Then peace.
Obrin found her hiding behind a boulder. He was tempted to slit her throat and be done with it… sorely tempted. He knew what she was, had always known.
The tall rider dragged her out by her hair. She was strangely quiescent, and her eyes were hooded and distant. ‘I’d like to kill you,’ he hissed.