Caswallon had run forward to meet him, leading him away from the column. There Durk heard the news that clove his heart like an axe-blade. Tesk had died with Cambil and almost eight hundred others. With them was Kareen. Caswallen had seen her in the circle at the last, a hunting-knife in her hand, as the Aenir swept over them.
Durk did not ask why the rest of the clan had not raced back to die with them, although he dearly desired to.
‘Come with us,’ said Caswallon.
‘I don’t think that I will, my friend,’ Durk replied.
Caswallon bowed his head, his green eyes sorrowful. ‘Do what you must, Durk. The gods go with you.’
‘And with you, Caswallon. You are the leader at last.’
‘I didn’t want it.”
‘No, but you are suited to it. You always were.”
Now Durk stood at the timberline, gazing down into the valley, past the gutted homes and the Aenir tents, and on to the mounds of bodies in the centre of the field.
He left the trees and began the long walk to his wife.
Two Aenir warriors watched him come. They stood, discarding their food, and moved to intercept him. He was walking so casually, as if on a morning stroll. Could he be a messenger, seeking peace? Or one of Barsa’s Timber-Wolves, dressed like a clansman.
‘You there!’ called the first, holding up his hand. ‘Wait!’
The hand vanished in a crimson spray as Durk’s sword flashed through the air. The return cut clove the man’s neck. As he crumpled to the grass the second drew his sword and leaped forward. Durk ducked under a whistling sweep to gut the man.
He walked on. Kareen had been no beauty but her eyes were soft and gentle, and her mouth seemed always to be smiling, as if life held some secret enchantment and she alone knew the mystery of it.
In the valley Aenir warriors were moving about, eating, drinking and swapping stories. The invasion had gone well and their losses had been few, save for the night before against the ferocious clan sword-ring. Who would have believed that a few hundred men and women could have put up such a struggle?
Durk moved on.
No one stopped him or even seemed to notice him as he walked to the mound of bodies and began to search for Kareen. He found her at the centre, lying beneath the headless corpse of Cambil. Gently he pulled her clear and tried to wipe the blood from her face, but it was dried hard and did not move.
By now his actions had aroused the interest of five warriors who wandered forward to watch him. Durk felt their eyes upon him and he laid Kareen to the ground. He stood and walked towards them, his face expressionless, his dark eyes scanning them.
They made no move towards their swords until he was almost upon them. It was as if his calm, casual movements cast an eldritch spell.
Durk’s sword whispered from the scabbard …
The spell broke.
The Aenir scrabbled for their blades as Durk’s sword licked into them. The first fell screaming; the second tumbled back, his throat spraying blood into the air. The third died as he knelt staring at the gushing stump of his sword arm. The fourth hammered his sword into Durk’s side, then reeled away dying as the clansman shrugged off the mortal wound and backhanded a return cut to the man’s throat. The fifth backed away, shouting for help.
Durk staggered and gazed down at the wound in his side. Blood flowed there, soaking his leggings and pooling at his feet. More Aenir warriors ran forward, stopping to stare at the dying clansman.
‘Come on then, you woman-killers! Face a man!’ he snarled.
A warrior ran forward with sword raised. Durk contemptuously batted aside his wild slash and reversed his own blade into the man’s belly.
The clansman began to laugh, then suddenly he choked and staggered. Blood welled in his throat and he spat it clear.
‘You miserable whoresons,’ he said. ‘Warriors? You’re like a flock of sheep with fangs.’
Dropping his sword, he turned and staggered back to Kareen’s body, slumping beside her. He lifted her head.