Shadow of the white bear.., p.15
Shadow of the White Bear (Berserker Book 3), page 15
“You’re back already,” she said, catching her breath.
“Asmund and Olof went on ahead.” Bjarni smiled. “It made more sense for one of us to return here, in case you needed help.”
“Thanks,” she said wryly. “But it will take more than your fucking help to deal with what’s coming our way.”
Ivar held the burning branch high above his head. “Almost there,” he told them. Jaran was stooped low beside young Tofei. They’d walked for what seemed like hours through a labyrinthine mass of caverns, which had cut deeper and deeper inside the mountain.
You could hide an army in here, Jaran had thought, as he’d followed Ivar’s flaming brand through the gloom. He guessed it was afternoon by the time they reached a corner where a tube of light showed a crack. Closer inspection revealed a narrow crevice twisting up to daylight high above.
“Ready for a climb?” Ivar grinned at them in the murk.
“After you,” Jaran replied. He grabbed Griner in one hand, else it snag on the rock.
The crack was funneled and angled, the rocks sharp and scraping. Bigger than his companions, Jaran had to force his body up and almost got stuck three times. Tofei climbed behind him, Ivar already nearing the surface above. Jaran was impressed with the older man’s agility and toughness. Ivar Ketilsson was goat-agile—all sinew, wire and gristle.
With a last push, Jaran heaved himself clear of the crevice, his head emerging out into bright sunlight that dazzled him. Jaran rolled free of the crack and allowed his eyes readjust. He sat cross-legged on a broad swathe of flat, lichen-covered rock. Tofei jumped alongside and crouched low. Ivar stood close by looking out.
“Where now?” Jaran asked, stowing Griner back in its loop.
“We wait,” Ivar said. “Svipdag will come to us once he knows we’re here.”
“How will he know we are here?” Tofei asked, but Ivar didn’t reply.
Jaran blinked in the sun. Eyes recovered, he walked over to the edge of the rock and gazed out.
“A fine view,” Jaran said. “We must have journeyed through the heart of the mountain.”
“Gronteyer holds many secrets,” Ivar said. “I discovered the North Seat—as we call this lookout ledge—by accident while caving as a boy.”
“We?” Jaran looked down at the distant woods and what lay beyond. The view was impressive—he could see the entire northern half of the island.
“Svipdag and I.”
“I see the hall.” Jaran pointed and felt a tingle up his spine. He could make out the wooden structure he’d seen with Rune and Savarna, the thin smoke rising. To its right, a lake glittered silver, as though it were covered in ice, unlikely as that was in summer. Beyond that, the island formed a blunt point at its northern tip.
Across the channel of water to the right, he glimpsed the rearing cliffs of Leeth, marching north and fading in the haze. Jaran thought of Sherriff Doggan, who’d perished in Skarness when the witch-men came. The sheriff had helped them and paid the highest price. Another soul to avenge. Doggan’s village was up there somewhere, lost amidst those bluffs. Jaran chewed his lip. The wind stung his face, and his fine hair blew in his eyes. He pushed it away, his mood darkening.
“Finvar is down there.” Jaran looked at Tofei, who nodded. Jaran felt a sudden urge to jump off the ledge, Griner in hands, and run down through those woods. He’d reach that hall by dusk and put an end to this. It took all his willpower to turn away. When he did, he blinked in surprise.
A stranger was watching him in silence, standing beside Ivar and Tofei. Ivar was grinning, but Tofei looked edgy.
“You are the one the eagles speak of.” The stranger’s voice was crackling-rough, as though he hadn’t used it for some time.
“And you must be Svipdag,” Jaran said. He saw Ivar nod slowly, and then returned his gaze to the gaunt looking scarecrow of a man, staring intently at him with cynical blue eyes. “Ivar, here, says that you can help us.”
“Nobody can help you, as long as you wield that.” The wastrel gestured to Griner, looped at Jaran’s waste.
“You fear my axe?”
“I can guess where it came from,” Svipdag said. “Like you, it stinks of Faerie corruption.”
“I thought you said this man would be useful to us.” Jaran glanced at Ivar. “I think your friend has spent too much time on his own. If he keeps jabbering and staring at me, I might have to hit him with the axe he admires so much.” He flashed Svipdag a testing grin.
Svipdag’s eyes remained hostile. The newcomer stared at Jaran without blinking. His face was craggy and pitted, and the long straggle of hair and wispy beard were almost white. Svipdag’s fingers were filthy, the nails broken and black. A miserable wastrel indeed. A scavenger of birds’ eggs and carrion, most likely. Jaran tapped Griner’s steel and winked at him, gauging a reaction.
“This is Jaran Hrelgisson,” Ivar confirmed. Jaran noted how Tofei looked afraid of Svipdag—doubtless believing the wretch cursed by something that could spread to him.
“I know who he is,” Svipdag said. “The silver-furred creeper got inside my head, told me that Hrund’s heir would return on the darkest day.”
“It’s bright and sunny this afternoon,” Jaran said tartly, not liking this Svipdag overmuch.
“You can’t kill her.” Svipdag glared at him.
“I mean to try.”
“Sheega is no worse than the others.”
“What others?” Jaran wondered if they’d been sensible coming up here. Perhaps this woeful creature served Sheega and had tricked Ivar into trusting him. “I know only of the witch called Sheega and her sendings?” Are you one too?
“The vengeful gods who are using you to destroy their ancient enemy.”
“I think we’re wasting our time here,” Jaran said to Ivar. “This wit-starved cretin doesn’t appear the helpful kind.”
The hoarse croak of laugher caught Jaran off guard.
“Helpful?” Svipdag laughed. “Why should I be helpful? I’ve only stayed alive this long because she thinks I’m howling-mad. If you’d seen what I have, boy, you wouldn’t be so fucking judgmental.”
“That may be so,” Jaran said. “And you’d best run and hide again, matey, because I’m here to stir up the shit right across this island.”
“We need the War Arrow,” Ivar said to Svipdag, his eyes on Jaran. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost it.”
Svipdag spat at Jaran’s feet. “The War Arrow,” he said, still looking at Jaran.
“Why we came here,” Jaran said. “Ivar said you’d oblige.”
Svipdag’s lopsided smile returned. He rubbed a grubby ear with a finger. “Follow me,” he said eventually. Jaran glanced questioningly at Ivar, who grinned back as though this was a good sign.
“That young pup can stay here,” Svipdag pointed at Tofei, who still looked on edge.
“That’s fine by me,” Tofei said.
“Keep a lookout,” Jaran told him.
Svipdag hopped off into the rocks behind them without waiting to see if they followed. Ivar sprang after him, and Jaran, scowling, clambered behind. They climbed over and squeezed through a mass of strewn, jagged lichen-covered boulders, leading up to yet another cave, high above. This was a broad windy, scooped-out cavern, hidden from without by a shoulder of rock. On entering, Jaran saw a makeshift camp, the low-burning fire, and the bed made of heather and thatch.
He also saw a sword and shield resting against the cave wall. They were clean, freshly oiled and looked in good repair, which surprised him. Past Svipdag’s makeshift camp, at the rear of the cave, was a mass of clutter and items strewn in a pile, half-visible in that gloom. Svipdag dived into the pile and started rummaging through all manner of gubbins. Jaran was amazed to see artifacts from Shen among the mess of broken pots and pieces.
Svipdag saw his look and smirked a grin. “I wasn’t always as I appear to you, laddie,” he said, his grubby hands poring through the stuff. “I traveled far in my youth, sailed the distant seas before she came here and fucked everything up.”
“You were one of my grandfather’s thanes.”
“I was, in my prime. But a sailor before that. As an adventurer, I ranged far in my longship. I had a crew of twenty men. Hrund wanted me to seek wide for news of our people who had fared to other lands in days gone by. During that voyage, I sailed further than any Northman has since the time of the Whitebear himself.”
Jaran felt a shiver hearing that name mentioned. Svipdag continued talking excitedly, as though he was pleased he still could. Ivar watched from outside, as Jaran listened to the ceaseless reminiscing of Svipdag’s glorious past.
“I traveled as far as Yamondo,” he said. “Met the king of that jungle land. Fine warrior. A descendant of the same King Ulani who was the Whitebear’s friend during the old struggles.”
“You don’t say.” Jaran hoped he’d find the arrow soon. This was beyond tedious.
“I do, and you should bloody well listen and quit being churlish.” Svipdag glared at him for a moment before continuing his rummaging through the heap. “Here it is.”
Svipdag tugged a sharp-looking metal object free of the tangle and tossed it at Jaran. He caught the arrow deftly and examined it. It was made of iron and short in length, no more than a foot. Thick and heavy, almost an inch in diameter, the point and steel feathered end wider. The arrow was stained a deep red, the color of freshly spilled blood.
“The War Arrow,” Ivar said in relief from the cavern entrance. “I thought you’d have it.”
“Of course I kept it,” Svipdag said. “The legends always said it would be needed again.”
“Well, thanks.” Jaran stared at him in the gloom. “You’re welcome to join us back at our camp,” he added reluctantly, trying to be reasonable. “We’ll have food of sorts.”
“I’ll stay put,” Svipdag said. “Don’t want to get involved in your heroics, boy. Might prove hazardous. Besides, the colossal ugliness I saw earlier was making for the south side of the island.”
“What are you talking about?” Jaran wanted to hit him again.
“Gorvaron,” Svipdag chuckled, catching his eye. “He’s Ranning’s new gift to Sheega. Like the others that hell-spawn brought out from the sea. But Gorvaron is bigger.”
“How do you know this?” Ivar said.
“The fucking eagles told me,” Svipdag laughed again, and Jaran barely refrained from braining him. He left the cave without looking back.
“We need to get back to the camp fast,” Jaran said to Ivar outside. They’d left the grinning Svipdag in his lair.
“Do you think he’s lying?” Jaran asked as they clambered back down to the North Seat. He hoped it was so. Jaran couldn’t bear the thought of a giant witch-man like Stoon crashing through the trees and seeing Savarna all alone. Like him, she was worn out by their earlier struggles and needed rest from fighting.
“Svipdag doesn’t lie,” Ivar said. “But often his words are cryptic and have different meanings.”
“I should have brained that stick of bones while I had the chance,” Jaran said, as they joined Tofei. “Don’t ask,” he told Gunard’s son, handing him the War Arrow. “Is there another way back?” Jaran asked Ivar.
“If we climb higher above these rocks and trudge through the snow for an hour, curving west below Gronteyer’s peak. That way, we’ll cross to the south side and drop into the woods. It’s harder on the foot, but shorter as the eagle soars.”
“Don’t mention eagles again.” Jaran glared at him and started making for the round boulders above.
I can smell you.
Gorvaron had sensed the woman’s presence somewhere below. A strange scent, as though she wasn’t wholly human. There was something in that smell he didn’t recognize. Gorvaron detected a smoldering anger in this prey. He grinned. It didn’t matter. He would tear her open, rip out whatever the strangeness was from her belly.
They were close, his prey. Time to devour. Gorvaron licked his lips and felt his nostrils flare wide, as he sniffed for the stink of fear below. Nothing reached him—the woman must have got away. She wouldn’t get far. He jumped down from the flat rock where he’d stopped to survey this part of the island. Below him nestled a pine forest broken by rocks and hills. Gorvaron made for the needle trees with urgent strides, his sinewy massive legs carrying him down there at speed.
As he strode through the woods, Gorvaron swung his heavy iron club lazily, hitting trees and laying them low, crashing noisily and without care through the pines.
He was happy today, alive and free. Unleashed to avenge his weaker, smaller kinfolk who had been killed by these enemies. Ranning had told Gorvaron all about Stoon and the others, how they had been overcome by nefarious spell craft from the warrior shaman and half-human woman lurking below. There was a third one, but the sorceress was dealing with him. Shame—Gorvaron had wanted to destroy them all.
Ranning said this axe warrior, Jaran Hrelgisson, had special powers, and the weapon he carried was stolen from Faerie. That Gorvaron must be wary of tricks. These renegades were more dangerous than the bugs they appeared. But Gorvaron didn’t care. He would use the man’s Faerie axe to cut out a blood eagle on his back, after he had stunned him flat with his club.
“You are my strongest champion,” Ranning had told him, after they’d arrived in Valkador. “You serve the high sorceress Sheega and myself, and stand to gain much by succeeding where your brothers failed.”
Gorvaron didn’t know where he’d come from originally. A vague memory recalled a distant sea-locked rocky land where his people, the Cragga, had ruled from hills and hurled great stones at each other from their lofty crags. He remembered that misty place. Vaguely recalling an invasion and war. The enemy that came out from under the sea. He’d been imprisoned wrongly in Telimantua. For what had seemed an eternity, Gorvaron had been trapped down there in the silence and the dark cold. Forgotten. He’d been a creature of stones. One of the lost Cragga, trapped in deep watery nets where no light ever filtered. Punished for crimes he hadn’t committed. Or if he had, there was no mention of what they had been.
Who was I? Ranning had hinted at the answer.
The water-Faen had stolen inside the Sea God’s halls and freed him with rune codes, shrinking and squeezing Gorvaron’s essence inside the kelp spell-pod that had allowed both Ranning—disguised as a silvery fish—and his freed prisoner to escape the dreary fathomless halls of deepest Telimantua.
“You were of the mighty race of Cragga,” Ranning had explained during that long voyage up to the surface. “A by-blow of legendary Fol. He was one of several giants who dwelt in the misty western promontory named after him, back when Faerie ruled all of green Ansu, long ago.
“You and your lost kin were betrayed, Gorvaron. As we all were back then,” Ranning had explained. “The sly gods tricked us, and the vile maggoty human spawn were awarded our domains, because they were easy to control. Whereas we ancient folk have always been difficult in Their eyes.
“Sensuata killed your kin, though some Cragga escaped to Urdheim. The Sea God slew Fol and punished you wrongly, as He has me, his daughter’s son, ever since that dark time. The High Gods are our enemies, Gorvaron—all save the greatest one who is no more.
“But take heart, for I have saved you and made you even stronger than Fol was back in those glorious days. By fusing your giant bones with my kelp-craft, involving the pods that I used to bring your half-brothers to life.
“You are Gorvaron the Cragga, whose people came from the forgotten kingdom Kernowan, as Fol was called in those days. Only a small part of that region remains as Fol. Most was lost below the rising seas, when greedy Sensuata sent His briny host upon you.”
“Are you not also of Telimantua?” Gorvaron had asked, as they reached Ranning’s rock pool and climbed free, arriving on the empty beach in Valkador. Gorvaron had gazed at the sky and rocks in wonder and joy.
“I was the bastard son of Queen Rann,” His rescuer had said. “She was one of Sensuata’s many daughters. My grandfather has no love for me. I was treated more cruelly by Sensuata than even you can imagine. Again, I blame the mortals.”
“Then I will avenge you, too,” Gorvaron had told him.
All this Gorvaron had processed in his heavy mind, and he learned more still from the needle-eyed sorceress who dwelt with Ranning in the hall.
A great wrong had been committed on both his person and race. Humans were responsible, they had told him. Therefore, humans would pay.
Gorvaron reached a break in the woods. He saw a whisper of smoke rising from below and grinned. Time to kill. Gorvaron swung the tree-thick club into his hairy palms and roared fury out from his lungs before charging headlong down onto the trees surrounding the smoke trail.
Savarna had heard a horrible roar and wasted no time. She’d already sent Bjarni back to meet Gunard and warn them about the giant. She’d left the fire crackling to lure the creature down here, knowing he’d find it anyway. Next, she had to get clear and reach Jaran before he returned. She ran through the trees, heading west toward the sun that was arcing for the distant water beyond the island. Evening was drawing nigh. She heard the roar again, and the sound of wood ripping, trees breaking asunder. He must be in the camp. The fiend would doubtless seek her in the cave, expecting her to be cowering in there.
You’re out of luck, shithead.
Savarna would return with Jaran and the other two, and they would trap the giant inside, set light to the cave with furze and bracken, and somehow block the entrance. Savarna had planned the whole thing. She cleared the tree line and grinned in happy relief hearing a voice she knew and loved call across to her.
Savarna looked up. Jaran was zigzagging toward her down through the mountain heather. The other two were running behind him. Savarna ran to greet them.
She crashed into Jaran’s arms, the wind sighing through the heather all around them. They embraced. He hugged her close. She broke free, wiping her mouth.
