Asbidag began to move among the bodies once more, turning over the women and the young girls. Finally he stood up and walked toward the house of Cambil.
“Who are you seeking?” asked Tostig, walking beside him.
“Cambil’s daughter. Hair like gold, and a spirited girl. Unspoiled. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. And I told you to set Cambil’s head on a spear!”
Tostig blanched and fell back. “At once, Father,” he stammered, running back to the bodies and drawing his sword.
Durk of the Farlain was known as a morose, solitary man. He had no friends and had chosen to spend his life in the high country west of the valley, where he built a small house of timber and grey stone and settled down to a life of expected loneliness. Durk had always been a loner, and even as a child had kept himself apart from his fellows. It was not, he knew, that he disliked people, more that he was not good with words. He had never learned how to engage in light conversation. Crowds unnerved him, always had, and he avoided the dance and the feasts. Girls found him surly and uncommunicative, men thought him standoffish and aloof. Year by year the young clansman felt himself to be more and more remote from his fellows. Durk found this hurtful, but knew that the blame lay within his own shy heart.
But that first winter alone had almost starved him out until his neighbor Onic introduced him to Caswallon’s night raids on bordering territories.
In the beginning Durk had disliked Caswallon. It was easy to see why: they were night and day, winter and summer. Where Caswallon smiled easily and joked often, Durk remained sullen with strangers and merely silent with companions.
Yet, for his part, Caswallon seemed to enjoy Durk’s company and little by little his easygoing, friendly nature wore away the crofter’s tough shell.
Through Caswallon Durk met Kareen, the gentle child of the house and, in spite of himself, had fallen in love with her. In the most incredible slice of good fortune ever to befall the dark-bearded Highlander, Kareen had agreed to marry him.
She transformed his dingy house into a comfortable home and made his joy complete by falling pregnant in the first month of their marriage. With her Durk learned to laugh at his own failings, and his shyness retreated. At their marriage he even danced with several of Kareen’s friends. Laughter and joy covered him, drawing him back into the bosom of the clan, filling the empty places in his heart.
Four days ago, in her eighth month, Kareen had returned to the valley to have the babe in the home of Larcia, wife of the councillor Tesk and midwife to the Farlain.
But last night Durk had heard the war horns blaring and he had set out for the valley, filled with apprehension. In the first light of dawn he had met the column of fleeing clansmen.
Tesk was not among them.
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 center 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 center, 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 toward them, his face expressionless, his dark eyes scanning them.
They made no move toward 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.
A spear smashed through his back and he arched upward violently.
His vision swam; his last sight was Kareen’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been here.”
Orsa gazed down at the body, then tore the spear from the clansman’s back.
“He was a madman,” muttered a warrior behind him.
“He was a man, ” said Orsa, turning and pushing his way through the throng.
The Aenir milled around the corpses for a while, then drifted back to their forgotten meals.
“He was a fine swordsman,” said a lean, wolfish warrior, dusting off the chicken leg he’d dropped in the dirt.
“It was stupid,” offered a second man, gathering up a bulging wineskin.
“He was baresark,” said the first.
