Chapter Nine #2
Hakon emerged from his hiding place and surveyed the area.
The gnomes had made quick and deadly work of their ambush targets, and Gunnar, Ulf, and Breca were moving swiftly among the witchfire-trapped warriors, ending their lives.
Hakon’s orders had been clear: there was no room for mercy when they were so badly outnumbered.
Magnus indicated the lead scout. “If anyone will know, it’ll be this hairy fella.” Hakon nodded and gazed down at the prone figure. “Make any loud noise, and I’ll slit your throat. Understand?”
Eyes wide, the Skraeling nodded. Hakon gestured for the witch who had trapped him to end her spell then reached down and lifted the scout to his feet.
“You have one chance to answer our questions,” said Hakon. “Agree, and we will let you live, tying you to a tree for your companions to find you. Play any games, and it will be your death. Understand me, Skraeling, this is no time for false bravado or bargaining. What say you?”
The far Northern warrior’s lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl.
“I only speak with men, not cowards trapped by cunt-magic.” He took a deep breath, as if to shout.
Gunnar, however, was standing behind him and quickly cut his throat.
Hakon stepped back to avoid the spray of blood as the Skraeling scout fell.
Hakon sighed and looked at Magnus. “Well, they are consistent, aren’t they?”
The gnome shook his head. “Not a word from any of the ones we’ve captured. Their hatred borders on the suicidal. Honestly, Brynnson, it’s worse than badgers and snakes.”
“They hate each other that much?” asked Gunnar curiously.
Magnus shuddered. “You’ve no idea.”
Hakon took a drink of water from his canteen and wiped his beard. “That’s the third scouting party we’ve wiped out. It must be slowing down their main force. It’s certainly making them cautious. I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to set a trap for us soon.”
Gunnar nodded. “Either that or bigger scouting parties.”
A bird cry sounded from the trees. “No time to talk now,” announced Magnus. “More coming. Move fast and follow me!”
***
For the next two days, Hakon’s band played hit-and-run with the Skraelings, picking off those who wandered too far, ambushing scout groups, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
They kept touch with the column of witches through Magnus’ mysterious forest contact system.
The Ironwood witches, both fit and wounded, were making steady progress, but Hakon was worried that the column wasn’t moving fast enough.
He called a rest for the whole group of stealthy fighters at the end of the second day. As the exhausted members of the group rested, Hakon gathered a council of war consisting of his brother, Magnus, and a fierce young Ironwood witch named Uwe, who had emerged as a leader during their fights.
“We’re doing all the right things,” said Hakon, “but it’s not enough.” He looked at the others, who all nodded in agreement.
Magnus poked at the ground with a twig. “We’ve been a pest in their ear, which is what a group of this size and ability does best. But we need to properly set those bastards buzzing.
We need to make them stop, for a day or more.
That will give the column enough separation to get a proper lead on the Skraelings. ”
Gunnar wiped sweat off his face. “Forgive me, but one thing isn’t clear to me. Why are the witches running if the Skraelings are so bent on hunting them down? Wouldn’t it be better for them to fight before they are all exhausted?”
“We just need to get to the Ironwood itself,” said Uwe. “Once we are inside the Wood, our magic is impossibly deep-rooted and powerful. They could search for us for twenty years and never find us.”
“Ah,” said Gunnar, understanding. He looked around. “How close is the column to the Ironwood?”
“Two days, if they can hold their current pace,” said Magnus.
“If we can properly fuck with the Skraeling forces, truly sit them down on their arses, that will give the witches the time they need to get to safety,” said Hakon.
“Do you have a plan for this?” asked Magnus doubtfully.
Hakon sighed. “My ears are open,” he said. “Hopefully, that will make up for an empty head.”
Gunnar’s eyes gleamed, and he leaned forwards. “This is going to sound a little mad…”
***
The watch before dawn was always the hardest. You had just enough time to begin to fall into a deep sleep before being rudely wakened and set to your post in the cold night hours.
The fires had been extinguished, and the sun was not yet up, so there was no warmth or light to be had.
Instead, there was chill, and mist, and tiredness.
And when the watch was done, there would be no more sleep, only the beginning of another long marching day.
Just as annoying was the sheer amount of noise the forest could generate before dawn: all sorts of strange cries, rustling and movement that were alarming and off-putting, making for an unquiet heart even as you dreamt of warmth and soft sleep.
The watch before dawn was for the poor souls who had angered their commanders.
Skulpa of the Crowbone Clan had not meant to be the object of his commander’s wrath.
All he had meant to do was relieve himself during a day’s march.
The fact that Skulpa had pissed into a creek upstream of where Clan Elder Mudi was washing his beard and having a drink was more bad timing than anything else, really.
But still, Mudi carried a grudge, and so Skulpa was on the predawn watch.
If anything, it seemed the forest noises were louder than usual, especially the frogs’ chorus.
Skulpa frowned. It was his experience that the frogs sang their songs just after the sun went down.
Why were they singing in the predawn, and so loudly?
As he turned towards the camp, he could see his fellow Skraelings turning and twisting in their beds, their sleep disturbed by the amphibian chorus.
There was a rustling in the grass, and a frog jumped right onto Skulpa’s boot.
It looked up at him, its throat working as it made booming noises.
The Skraeling muttered an oath and shook the creature off.
Suddenly, there was more and more rustling, and it seemed like the grass and undergrowth was alive with the wretched creatures, all hopping through the camp while making their mating calls.
It was not long before everyone in the camp was awoken, and people cursed as they discovered frogs everywhere from their boots to their backpacks.
“What in the Nine Worlds?” cursed Skulpa’s friend Stapa, shaking his boots free of frogs as he joined the man on watch. “What did you do?”
Skulpa thought this was an unfair accusation. “Nothing!” he protested. “Do you think I sang a song to the frogs, telling them tales of beautiful lady frogs hiding in our camp?”
“Sounds like something you would do,” grumbled Stapa as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Wretched creatures. What are they looking for?”
“Perhaps,” said Skulpa, unexpectedly thoughtful, “the frogs are not so much running to, as from.”
The Skraelings looked at each other, and it was at that moment that disturbingly large rats exploded out of the undergrowth and ran between their feet, heading directly for the camp.
“Gods!” cried Stapa, hopping from one foot to the other. “They’re everywhere!” There were cries and howls from throughout the campsite, as well as the sounds of tents being pulled down, pots and kettles being turned over, and a general cacophony of chaos.
After what seemed like an eternity, the forest floor stilled. Skulpa and Stapa tried to calm their breathing down.
“Were you bitten?” asked Skulpa.
“No,” replied Stapa, still panting heavily. “You?”
“No. I hope that was the last of the—”
It was at this point that clouds of midges and botflies descended onto the Skraeling camp. The midges bit at every inch of exposed flesh they could find, and the botflies dove directly at the faces of the Skraelings, seeking to bury their eggs in the sensitive membranes of their noses and eyes.
Hakon and Gunnar, perched in trees outside of the campsite, watched in awe at the havoc wrought by the forest magic of the Ironwood witches. “If this is what they can do while still outside of the Ironwood itself,” murmured Gunnar, “only a madman would dare set foot in their territory.”
Hakon nodded. “No wonder the Skraelings drive so hard to catch the witches before they reach it. Although I must confess, it is still a mystery to me why the Skraelings want to kill the witches so badly. Surely there was greater wealth among the Visby refugees who travelled north with the Jarl?”
Gunnar shook his head. “We know there are larger forces at work here. Freya has told us as much. This is the evil work of gods as much as men.”
Screams of afflicted men rose up from the Skraeling camp as they battled the clouds of insects. Some sections of the camp were on fire from where insect-blinded men had attempted to use smoke to drive away the tiny pests.
“Isa throkk din hurduu!”
The deep baritone cry seemed to come from everywhere all at once, accompanied by a deep thrumming vibration, as if an enormous giant had just stamped its foot.
Hakon and Gunnar had to struggle to hold on to their perches in the trees.
They looked at each other in fear and confusion, and said at the same time, “What the—”
“Ekkem te skugge!” And with those foreign words, a great blast of air roared through the trees, blasting the clouds of insects far and wide. The gust caught Gunnar full in the chest, and he would have been blown from his branch had Hakon not grabbed him and held on with all his strength.
“What in the depths of Darkalfheim was that?” murmured Hakon in awe, helping his shaken brother descend from the tree.
“Nothing of Midgard, that’s for certain,” muttered Gunnar. “Hakon, we need to leave.”
“I agree, but not before understanding what just happened,” replied Hakon.
“I hate it when you’re right; have I ever told you that?” whispered Gunnar in exasperation.
Hakon laughed softly. “I’ve lost count, beloved brother.” The two warriors crept forwards, careful to avoid being noticed.
They needn’t have bothered. All of the warriors of the Skraeling camp were on their knees, bowing in the direction of a figure in the center of the camp.
The figure was man-shaped but enormous; perhaps half again as large as a full-grown warrior.
He was covered in boar skins and wore an enormous grinning boar skull as a helmet.
In one massive fist, he clutched a thick shafted spear.
Along the deadly leaf shape of the spear’s blade ran vivid orange flames.
“Thor protect us,” murmured Gunnar, grasping the hammer pendant he wore beneath his tunic.
“I think that whatever force has been driving the Skraelings south has grown tired of delay,” said Hakon softly. “We need to get the column moving, and fast. I have no wish to find out what this creature is capable of.”
Unfortunately for Hakon, he was about to find out anyway.
The half giant in the boar skins lifted his great spear up to the sky.
The grey overcast sky turned even darker, and through the trees, Hakon could see black thunderclouds circle overhead.
Short arcs of electrical energy writhed around the spear blade.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop, watch, and wait.
Then the creature slammed the butt of the spear into the ground at his feet.
Instantly, a burst of white-hot lightning shot into the sky, striking the whirling black clouds.
A deafening peal of thunder rolled through the air, and multiple strikes of lightning fell like a cluster of deadly arrows some distance away.
Hakon gasped as his heart lurched. “The column. Sif!” He broke into a run, Gunnar at his heels.