Part 44 (1/2)

Blaine Strung out in a line, they shambled across the steppes, a shrinking column of weary warriors. For five nights they'd fought the h.e.l.l hounds, a grim battle of attrition, and each morning they ran, needing to get clear of the dead lest the feasting ravens betray them.

Blaine forced himself to keep running. Every breath froze to a ragged plume of white, his boots pounding the ground in a jagged rhythm. Speed bled from his stride, dragged down by the weight of his armor. He fell behind the others, sorely tempted to shuck his chainmail...were it not for the h.e.l.l hounds. The burnished links had saved his life more times than he cared to count...but he paid a price for the added weight. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep running, waging a constant battle against the gnawing ache savaging his side.

Torven raised his hand, signaling a halt.

Gasping, Blaine slowed but he did not stop, needing to know how Kath fared. Bear and Boar carried her litter. Where they found the strength, Blaine did not know.

He found them near the front of the column. ”Is she?”

Bear shook his s.h.a.ggy head.

Nodding, Blaine crumpled to the ground, desperate for sleep. He spread his bedroll and crawled inside, chewing on a piece of dried horsemeat. No one spoke. No one had the strength to spare. The battle with the h.e.l.l hounds had its own unique rhythm. Starting at first dark, the men formed a circle, a bristle of weapons surrounding Kath, waiting for the hounds to come calling. Sometimes they stood for hours, a weary vigil. Just when sleep threatened to claim them, the beasts attacked. Screams and howls filled the night, a series of short battles separated by long stretches of quiet. Nerves grew as taut as bowstrings, always listening for the next ambush. Dawn brought the only relief, revealing the cost of the night. Each morning, they tallied their dead and gathered their wounded. Poison made even minor wounds a deathblow. Anyone who couldn't keep up was given a merciful end. They left the dead behind, food for ravens, and started running, needing to escape the battlefield.

Bone-weary, Blaine stared up at the afternoon sun, wondering how much more they could endure. Eighty men whittled down to forty-three. They waged a valiant fight, but the cursed hounds kept coming. At least they hadn't yet attacked in daylight. Pulling his cloak over his head, he fell dead asleep, expecting another fight at nightfall.

Someone shook him.

Blaine startled awake, reaching for his sword.

”It's all right.”

Confused, he blinked up at Torven. The sun hadn't yet set, too soon to fight. ”What?”

Torven leaned close, his words a low whisper. ”We need to change tactics. We can't keep this up.”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Blaine struggled to wake. He'd puzzled the problem on their long runs, but he'd never found a solution. ”A ring of fire might hold the beasts at bay but it would also signal the enemy.” He scowled, knowing they couldn't afford a fire, trapped by their own need for secrecy. ”We should retreat and wait for the army.”

Torven glared at him, the tattooed eagle fierce on his face. ”The Svala said we should scout the citadel.”

”To what end? Kath's not even awake!”

”We obey the Svala.”

The painted warriors had become fanatical when it came to Kath, as if their common sense was scattered to the four winds. Frustrated, Blaine growled, ”We're losing more men every night.”

”True.” Torven frowned ”I've never seen such a large pack. Unless we defeat them, they'll ruin the Svala's battle plan. Best if we fight them before the others cross the gate.”

”Each night they kill more of us than we kill of them. The night is their element and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds use it to their advantage.”

”That's why we need to change tactics.”

Something about the other man's voice bothered Blaine. ”So what do you have in mind?”

”I've spoken with the other scouts and they all agree, the gore hounds avoid their own dead, as if they can't stand the stench.”

”So?”

”So tonight, seven warriors will wait outside the ring of defense, hiding beneath the skins of dead gore hounds. When the beasts come hunting, the seven will rise up and attack from the rear.”

”I wondered why you had the mangy beasts skinned.”

”A desperate gamble.” Torven's gaze went to the hilt of Blaine's blue sword. ”You've killed more beasts than any other.”

Blaine's mouth went dry. ”And if your scouts are wrong?”

”Then each man will fight on his own.”

A death sentence, a lone warrior outside the ring would not stand a chance, but Blaine refused to s.h.i.+rk a fight. ”I accept.”

Torven clasped his arm, warrior to warrior. ”I knew you'd take the risk. Despite your unmarked face, you have the heart of a painted warrior. You'd make a good eagle.” He raised his voice to the others. ”Grenfir, bring the knight a gore-hound skin.”

Blaine accepted the bundle without a word, appalled by the stench of the uncured hide.

”Best choose your spot before darkness falls.”

Taking only weapons and armor, Blaine moved out into the steppes, choosing an untrammeled stretch of gra.s.s. The raw hide stank of corruption, far worse than rotting flesh, yet he slung it across his shoulders, knotting the forelegs around his neck like a gruesome cape. At least the poisonous claws had been hacked off, too dangerous to handle. Unsheathing his blue sword, he lay in the deep gra.s.s, huddled beneath the skin, waiting for the dark, wondering if this would be his last sunset.

Twilight lingered, the red sun fading to purple. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, promising another dark night, another advantage for the beasts. Lying p.r.o.ne under the gore-hound skin, Blaine scanned the steppes for movement. Night fell like a hammer, the moon a faint smudge hidden by thick clouds.

Darkness prevailed, the time when the beasts held sway.

Blaine gripped his sword, lying in the tall gra.s.s, a knight turned hunter, or was he merely bait? Hairs p.r.i.c.kled at the back of his neck, nothing to protect him but the stink of a dead gore-hound. Cold seeped up from the frozen ground, a threat of another sort. Despite his weariness, despite the freezing cold, Blaine thrummed with tension, straining his senses. Kill or be killed, it seemed the only law of the G.o.d-cursed steppes.

Movement in front of him, but it was only the others. The soft c.h.i.n.k of arms and armor, proved the painted warriors moved into position, preparing for battle. Hidden by the dark, yet he knew they stood in a circle, weapons held at the ready, waiting for the first sign of ambush.

The night proved still as death, not a whisper of wind.

A searing cold seeped up from the ground. Blaine fought not to s.h.i.+ver. Darkness pressed close, making it hard to wait, and harder to lie still. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears, every rustle of gra.s.s a threat. Time held no meaning, an eternity of darkness.

The wind picked up, whispering across the steppes. Blaine cursed the change, knowing the subtle sound would aid the beasts.

And then he heard it, a soft chuffing.

So close, just a few paces to his left.

Blaine froze, not daring to breathe.

A low growl to his right, the beasts were all around him! He lay exposed, the back of his neck unprotected, yet he dared not move. Sweat trickled down his spine. Lying statue still beneath the gore-hound hide, Blaine gripped his sword, praying the beasts would pa.s.s him by.

He felt them circling, snuffing the air. One padded close...close enough to hear its harsh breath. Blaine gripped his sword, frozen beneath the hide. The beast chuffed, a low snorting sound, and was gone, a soft rustle of frozen gra.s.s.

Blaine breathed again, a brief reprieve.

A scream broke the night. The battle was begun.

Blaine stood, his sword held at the ready. He padded forward, searching the dark. Sensing movement, he leaped forward, slas.h.i.+ng with his blade. Steel connected with flesh, a howl of pain. Even wounded, the beast whirled, las.h.i.+ng at Blaine's chest. Claws raked across his surcoat but his chainmail held. He parried the beast, slicing through sinew and bone, severing the paw. The h.e.l.lhound howled, an unearthly sound, but still it came, fangs snarling in hate. Blaine staggered backward and then whirled to the left, trying to flank the creature. Sensing an opening, he put all his strength into an overhand blow. His sword bit deep, crunching into bone, a lethal stroke.