Above the noise of battle came the sound of distant horns. Then they felt the ground beneath their feet tremble, and the rolling thunder of galloping hooves echoed in the mountains. For a moment all battle ceased as men craned to see the mouth of the pass. A huge dust cloud swirled there, and out of it rode four thousand fighting men with lances leveled.
At the center was a warrior in silver armor. In her hand was a mighty sword of shimmering steel.
“The Queen comes!” yelled Leofas.
Maggrig could not believe his eyes. Blood streamed from the wound in his side and his injured leg, and he stepped back from the fray, allowing two Pallides warriors to join shields before him. Slowly he climbed to the top of a pitted boulder, narrowing his eyes to see the horsemen.
The Aenir moved back from the clan line, straining to identify the new foe. Drada was stunned. What he was seeing was an impossibility; there were no cavalry forces on this part of the continent. But it was no illusion. The thunder of hooves grew and the Aenir warriors facing the charge scrambled toward the rocky slopes on either side of the pass. Their comrades behind them threw aside their weapons and tried to run.
Other more stout-hearted fighters gripped their swords more tightly and raised their shields. It mattered not whether they ran or stood. The terrible lances bore down upon them, splintering shields and lifting men from their feet, dashing them bloody and broken to the dusty ground. Horses reared, iron-shod hooves thrashing down, crushing skulls and trampling the wounded.
The Aenir broke, streaming up onto the slopes into the flashing shafts of the Haesten women.
Leofas urged the Farlain forward, shearing his sword into the confused mass before him. The battle became a rout. Aenir warriors threw down their weapons, begging for mercy, but there was none. With swords in their hand or without, the Aenir were cut to pieces.
Dunild and Grigor fought side by side now-the remnants of their clans, blood-covered and battle-crazed, hacking and slashing their way forward.
The Aenir struggled to re-form. Drada sounded the war horn and the shield ring grew around him. An arrow punched through Tostig’s helm to skewer his skull. With a bellow of rage and pain he slumped to the ground beside his brother. Drada raised his shield.
Sigarni, her silver-steel blade dripping crimson, wheeled her grey stallion and led her men back down the pass. The Aenir watched them go, sick with horror. At the mouth of the Folly the Queen turned again, and the thunder of charging hooves drowned the despairing cries of the enemy.
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 toward him, momentarily puzzled, then blocked a slashing attack from a long sword. 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 toward 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 toward… toward… 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.
Holding her hair, he led her past the bodies and out to the plain.
Sigarni was seated on a high-backed saddle placed before a small fire. She was drinking wine from a copper goblet and chatting to three of her lancers. She glanced up as Obrin hurled the woman to the ground at her feet.
“A surprise, my lady,” said Obrin. “She was with the Aenir, I’m told.”
Sigarni stood and pulled her gently to her feet. “How are you, Morgase?” she asked.
The raven-haired woman shrugged. “As you see me. Alone.”
“I know how that feels,” said Sigarni. “Accept that the war is over, and you may return with us. I shall restore you to your father’s lands.”
“In return for what? My promise of allegiance? My mother’s soul would scream out against it. You saw my father slain, my mother raped. Kill me, Sigarni-or I will haunt you to your grave!”
Obrin’s sword hissed from its scabbard. “This once I’ll agree with the bitch!” he said. “Give the word, my lady.”
Sigarni shook her head. “Fetch her a horse. Let her ride where she will.”
Two soldiers took hold of Morgase and led her away. Twisting in their grip, she shouted out, “I will find a way back, Sigarni. And then you will pay!”
“Your decision burdens my spirit,” said Obrin. “She is evil, Sigarni. There is no good in her.”
