the fallen chieftain. The influx of energy dribbled to a halt, but what had already entered him remained, and he felt strong. Stronger than he had in weeks.
More Northmen gathered outside the longhouse, watching him from under bestial headdresses, but they retreated as Caim stepped through the hole. Fires burned bright under the black sky. Caim walked over to his crew. Aemon held the reins to his steed. Caim sheathed his knives and climbed into the saddle. Dray and Malig fell in beside them as they rode between the burning homes, picking past the bodies of the fallen.
They plunged onto the snowy plains, heading north. Caim looked back as they passed a craggy menhir outside the village. The flaming rooftops lit up the sky. A handful of Northmen watched them with weapons in hand, but no one followed. Then Caim saw lights approaching from beyond the other side of the village. Torches. Lots of them. A shout went up from the settlement. As much as he wanted to see what happened next, he kicked his horse to a swift canter to put some distance between them and the Northmen. As the animal took off, Caim was hit by a strange feeling. Black spots swirled before his eyes while he held tight to the saddle horn and fought to stay upright.
“You all right, Caim?” Aemon asked, riding up close.
“Go on,” Caim grunted. “Ride ahead of us. But no light!”
He bent over his horse's neck until the disorientation passed. The new strength thrummed inside him like it wanted out. It felt foreign, and yet now a part of him. He didn't know if that was a good thing. He sensed the shadows around him. They wanted something. Maybe for him to turn around and revisit the slaughter. But he pushed them away, and to his relief they left him in peace as he followed his comrades into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dray hissed and took another pull from the mead-skin as the needle emerged from his upper arm, dragging a trail of catgut. “You ever heard of being fucking gentle?”
Aemon chuckled. “Hold still. I'm almost done.”
“Well, hurry it up!”
“There.” Aemon cut the gut string with his teeth and tied it off. “Good as new. Caim, you got any wounds that need sewed up while I got the needle out?”
Caim shook his head as he wrapped up the wedge of hard cheese he'd been eating and thrust it back into his satchel. They had ridden all night and into the next day, but he felt good. Rested. Almost like his old self. While they rode, the shadows had come stealing back to him, covering his various injuries with their chilling kisses and taking with them all the pain and all traces of the illness that had plagued him for the last few days. Yet, glad as he was for the assistance, Caim couldn't forget the look on Wulfgrim's face as he lay bleeding on the floor of the longhouse, the expression of horror as the last dregs of his life were drawn out and-for lack of a better word-devoured.
Their camp was set against the lee of a steep hillock. Caim figured they had come about fifteen leagues, but it didn't feel like enough. He imagined the Snow Lions prowling on their trail.
Caim winced at the thought. It wasn't the first time it had occurred to him that this entire endeavor would be easier if he were traveling alone. Like the old days. But it went deeper than that. He didn't like feeling responsible for others, and he had a nasty suspicion that this mission wouldn't end well. For any of them.
Snow crunched beyond the circle of firelight, and the others reached for their weapons, but Caim didn't stir. He'd seen the man coming from three hundred paces off.
“Egil!” Dray barked. “I almost killed you, you dumb shit.”
Malig laughed and lowered his axe. “We thought you ran off, boy. Never to be seen again.”
Egil unslung his rucksack and knelt by the fire. “I got out when I saw them kittens coming across the snow with you.”
Dray sat with his bare sword across his knees. “Kittens?”
“The Snow Lions. That's what we call them. They were a great tribe back in the day.” He pointed up to the murky sky. “Before this happened, they controlled most of the central lands. But they resisted when the dark lord came, and now they are all but gone. Anyway, they won't be bothering you again. They had unexpected company.”
Caim took out his seax knife and a whetstone, and worked on the blade's edge. “The other Northmen approaching the village?”
“Aye. Bear tribe. Near a hundred of them. Old Wulfgrim must've been shitting his breeches. Anyway, the kittens ran off as fast as they could ride, heading west by south.”
Dray spat into the fire. “They were free with their words when they had us all penned up like lambs for a Godsday feast, but they run out at the first sign of real trouble.”
“I don't know,” Aemon said. “That Wulfgrim is a canny one. If he survived what Caim done to him, I'd not want to be within fifty miles of him.”
Dray looked to Egil. “So what tribe are you from?”
“Fox. There aren't too many of us left anymore either.”
“And the Bear people,” Aemon said. “What are they like?”
“They come from up north.” Egil pulled a greenish-yellow bulb from his rucksack and took a bite. “They always had a reputation for being an ornery bunch, but with the coming of the dark lord, it got worse. Now they have their run of the wastes. No tribe will stand against them. Those who dare are crushed and their lands taken.”
“Like the Lion tribe,” Aemon said.
“Aye. Like as not we've seen the last of them.”
Caim held up his knife. The edge gleamed like a ribbon of silver. He slid it back into the sheath. “What can you tell us about this lord?”
Egil finished his fruit, or whatever it was, and threw the stem into the fire. “Hard to say. What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Nah. I don't know of anyone who has. He don't leave his fastness in the north.”
“Never?” Caim asked.
“Not that I've ever heard. His soldiers swing through the villages about once a season, but if you're right with your tithes and make no trouble, they're no worse than other landlords.”
“Does he rule this entire country?” Caim asked.
“Not sure what you mean by country, but he holds all the wastes in his grasp. From ocean to ocean, people say, though I've never been to the great waters, so I couldn't swear to that. They say he rules a fair bit of the Southlands, too.”
“They lie,” Malig growled. “Eregoth is free.”
Egil shrugged. “As you say, but that's what I've heard tell. The dark lord's been in power for most of my life.”
Caim did the figures in his head. By that reckoning, this tyrant had come to power roughly two decades ago. That made for a chilling coincidence, considering his own history. Caim had more questions. How far away was this fastness and what was it like? How many soldiers did the ruler of the wastes employ? But he kept them to himself. Egil was no fool.
Caim stood up. “Aemon, take first watch. I'll be back.”
No one questioned him. Aemon was the only one to look up, and he just nodded and sat cross-legged by the fire.
A bitter wind swept over Caim as he left the tiny circle of light. Without any real plan of where he was going, he let his feet carry him around the base of the hill until he found a gentling of the slope. He began to climb. It got steeper the higher he went, until he was half climbing, half crawling at the end. The top of the hill was relatively flat and covered in icy snow. Below, the wastes spread out in an ocean of white and black shadows. To the north, the darkness was absolute, denying him a glimpse of what lay ahead, but the calling remained, the droning hum in the back of his head, pulling him in that direction.
