Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(89)

Rust coated the pieces of the draug’s armor that had not yet rotted and fallen away, the gaps revealing twisted flesh and bare yellowing bone beneath. With a rasping scrape, it drew a sword from the frayed scabbard on its hip. Silently, patiently, the monster stood and waited for the humans to move.

Aelfhild quailed at the sight. Not only was the specter itself more terrible to look upon than anything she could possibly have conjured to mind, but its presence shook her understanding of the world to the very center.

Unmoving she stared, helpless, all thoughts of flight or survival scattered in fear. The crude spear fell from her limp fingers but her ears did not even hear the noise it made hitting the sand.

The Thrym were no more used to dealing with such foul aberrations than Aelfhild, but they had at least been tested by battle and years of training. Struck dumb by the sight of what all had thought a mere children’s tale, for a moment they faltered.

But then Eyvind took a deep breath, raised spear to shoulder, and let fly.

At such close range it was impossible to miss. The iron blade broke through the timeworn mail covering the monster’s breast and drove deep.

A scream wracked the draug’s body, rattling through hollow chest and bare jaws, but the creature did not fall. It stepped forth and swung with vicious speed at its attacker.

Kolbrun was ready, and met the falling sword with her shield. The force of the impact sent the shield-maiden careening backwards, and she rolled toward the edge of the room.

“Leifings to me!”

Rolf’s shout split the air as he sprang upon the distracted lich from the side, swinging the great axe in long powerful strokes. Such unholy speed did the wight possess that it parried each blow, hissing as it was driven back.

Eyvind scrabbled about in search of a weapon, while Kolbrun sought an opening for her next assault.

Slowly, Aelfhild gathered her senses. Her wits returned and she shook the blood back into her fingers.

“Eyvind!” she cried, stooping to grab her fallen weapon.

The Thrym turned and caught the spear as she tossed it over.

With a leaping thrust he drove the sharp point deep into the monster’s leg, drawing its attention away from Kolbrun. The woman’s shield lay in splinters on the ground as she crawled away on hands and feet.

Glittering in the light, the great axe swung, but the draug turned aside Rolf’s blows time and again.

“Face me!” the greybeard howled.

Blindingly fast, the beast lashed out with a twisted, reeking leg. It connected with Rolf’s wounded thigh and the warrior stumbled. He had time to raise his axe in defense, but the cursed blade split through the wooden haft and bit down into the man beneath.

A wordless scream tore from Eyvind’s throat. He rushed in and wrenched the spear from the wight’s chest, swinging it away from his wounded friend.

Aelfhild, not realizing she too was howling in rage, ran to the stricken warrior’s side. Blood foamed through Rolf’s grey-streaked beard as he wheezed, and stains spread from the gash in his chest.

There was nothing she could do for him.

She grabbed the upper half of the Thrym’s broken axe and turned to face her nightmare.

The battle-lust rose within her. This time she knew it, coaxed it, called it forth.

Red pulsed inwards from the corners of her eyes.

Kolbrun came from behind and chopped into the lich’s sword arm, wrenching at her trapped axe. Eyvind clutched at the imbedded spear shaft. Unable to strike at the humans with its blade, the draug snapped its jaws behind the rusted faceplate of its helm and scraped at the Thrym with bone claws.

“Strike now!” Kolbrun screamed.

The splinters in the broken handle pricked Aelfhild’s palms as she charged in, swinging for the wight’s neck.

Over and over she struck. She felt flesh and bone give way under each blow, and did not cease until the corpse fell twitching and headless to the floor.

Eyvind was first to Rolf’s side. He cradled the dying man’s head in his arms.

Try as he might, the greybeard could not speak through the blood; he coughed and retched, straining to whisper some word in his captain’s ear. Kolbrun held one of his writhing hands, Aelfhild the other. Both women’s faces were stained with tears.

Bending close, Eyvind strained to hear the dying man’s words, and drops ran down his cheeks to stain Rolf’s brow.

Long after the old warrior had drawn his final breath, the three of them remained, weeping. When their grief was spent, they lifted his body and carried him out the way they had come.





49

Aelfhild’s eyes were red, her cheeks washed in long lines by tears, when she returned to the bloodstained sand of the courtyard. It was dark out now and she carried a torch with her.

They did not have enough wood to build Rolf a fitting pyre. Instead, they had raised a cairn of stones over him. He lay alongside the Jarls of old, clutching his broken axe.

Ceolwen, Onund, and Jarngrim came with them this time, Embla as well, and looked upon the wight. The hound growled and would not approach the carcass; the rest drew back in silent loathing. Eyvind and Kolbrun retrieved weapons scattered during the fight as the crew fanned out to examine the room. None of them, not even wise Onund, could understand the carvings along the wall, though their state of mind was hardly the best for such studies.

The central dais was what held the most interest for them now.