Chapter Fifty-Two (TIBK)

Below, Leif and Isolde were mounted near the rear of the fleeing group. Leif looked back constantly, trying to shield Isolde. Isolde clung to her saddle, posture rigid in fear – too rigid. The posture of nobility trying not to show it.

He saw it a split second before it happened.

A fleeing guard's horse veered, crashing into Isolde's mount. The startled horse reared with a scream. Isolde, taken by surprise, lost her grip. She tumbled sideways into the deep snow with a cry.

"MOTHER!” 

Leif wrenched his horse around, leaping from the saddle before it stopped. He crashed to his knees beside her, grabbing her arm to haul her up.

Damn it. Eirik's calm fractured. They just became prime targets.

High on the ridge, dark figures moved. Three Skarl scouts peeled away from their vantage point. They vanished into a steep gully that fed towards the trail bend where Leif struggled with Isolde.

Flanking maneuver. They'll cut them off from the main retreat.

Eirik calculated distances. The main Talon group – Olaf, Helga, the veterans, and the bulk of the fleeing guards – were disappearing around a curve. 

Too far to help.

Leif was trying to get Isolde back onto her panicked horse, which was dancing away. The three Skarl scouts burst from the gully mouth onto the trail ahead of them, blocking their retreat which was only fifty yards away.

The scouts whooped, cries cutting through the air. Bows appeared in their hands. Not aiming yet. 

They were herding them.

Two spread out. The third scout urged his pony forward. He barked a command.

Leif shoved Isolde behind him, drawing his sword. The Fenrir blade flashed in the sunlight. 

"Stay back!" Leif yelled. Isolde staggered behind him, terrified. All their pretense gone.

The lead Skarl scout chuckled. He pointed at Leif's sword, then at Isolde, barking more commands. His companions nocked arrows, drawing half-tension. 

Surrender, or get shot.

They actually want prisoners. Eirik forced himself to slow his pony. He needs to capitalize this fleeing moment. 

Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three, who had lagged behind, reined in their panting mounts nearby. They saw the trapped nobles.

"Frost!" Seventy-Three gasped. "Skarls! Got the fancy ones!" Seventy-Two hissed, turning his horse. "Forget 'em! Ride!"

"STOP!" Eirik barked. He ripped the bow from his back. "Cover 'em! Shoot the bastards!"

Seventy-Two stared at him like he was insane. 

"Shoot?! Against three? With this?" He waved his spear. "Are you cracked, Seventy-Six? We run!"

"Run where?" Eirik snarled. He fumbled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it. "They see us! They'll hunt us down! Help the nobles! Maybe they pay extra!" 

Seventy-Two hesitated, his eyes darting between the trapped nobles and escape. 

"Damn it! Fine! Shoot!" He dismounted, grabbing his own bow. Seventy-Three followed suit, trembling as he nocked an arrow.

Distraction. That's all I need them for.

Eirik raised his bow. But he wasn’t planning on shooting arrows.

He aimed past the scouts, at a patch of snow-covered stone beneath the pony's hooves. He poured a sliver of Frost Mana down the arrow shaft, willing it not into the arrowhead, but into the fletching – guiding the flight path, infusing the air around it with cold.

[MANA EXPENDED: 1] 

[MANA: 49/50] 

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

He loosed the arrow. It flew, wobbling – right for a panicked recruit's shot. It missed the lead scout by a foot, thudding into the stone patch.

NOW.

The Frost Mana exploded from the arrow's impact point not as ice, but as a slick layer of black ice across the stone and packed snow.

The lead scout, grinning, urged his pony forward to close the distance on Leif. His pony's front hoof landed on the iced stone.

WHUMP-SLIDE!

The pony's leg shot out sideways as if kicked. It gave a scream, crashing onto its side in a tangle of flailing legs. The lead scout roared in surprise, thrown into the snow.

"HAH! Got one!" Seventy-Two yelled, misunderstanding. He loosed his own arrow. It flew high over the heads of the other scouts. Seventy-Three's shot plopped into the snow ten yards short.

But chaos erupted. The two other scouts stared in shock at their fallen leader. Leif seized the moment. He grabbed Isolde's arm. "Run! To the rocks!" He pointed towards a cluster of boulders twenty yards off the trail.

The two mounted scouts recovered, angry now. They turned their bows from Leif towards the unexpected attackers. Two arrows hissed through the air.

One whistled past Eirik's head. The other slammed into Seventy-Three's chest with a thump. The recruit gasped, eyes wide with disbelief, then toppled backwards into the snow. 

Dead.

Seventy-Two screamed, terror. He dropped his bow, scrambled back onto his pony, and kicked it into a gallop back down the trail.

Eirik ducked behind his pony. He’s alone again.

The scouts were distracted by Seventy-Two's flight and Leif dragging Isolde towards the rocks. The downed scout leader was struggling to his feet, cursing, his pony still thrashing.

Eirik nocked another arrow.

[MANA EXPENDED: 2] 

[MANA: 47/50] 

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

He fired low. The arrow struck the snow five yards in front of the charging scouts. The Frost Mana flared – a blue-white flash. A jagged ridge of solid ice erupted from the impact point, spanning the width of the trail.

The scouts' ponies slammed into the barrier. One pony shied, throwing its rider. The other managed to leap over, but stumbled upon landing, its rider clinging.

Eirik didn't wait. He vaulted back onto his pony, kicking it towards Leif and Isolde, who were at the boulders. 

"TO THE ROCKS! MOVE!" 

Leif threw Isolde behind the boulder, then whirled, sword ready, breathing hard. Eirik skidded his pony to a halt behind the rocks, jumping down beside them.

Isolde stared at him, wide-eyed, panting. 

The thrown scout was rising. The one who stumbled was freeing his pony. The leader was back on his feet, furious, drawing his saber.

They abandoned their bows. Close quarters now. They started advancing towards the rocks, spreading out.

Three Skarls. Trained warriors. Against two nobles and a "scarecrow."

Still manageable. If I stay subtle.

Eirik grabbed Leif's arm, pulling him lower behind the rock. "Stay down! Arrows!"

Leif flinched, ducking. "We can't fight them here! They'll flank us!" "Hold… position…"

He peered around the rock. The scouts were thirty yards away, closing, sabers gleaming. He focused on the snow in front of their boots.

[MANA EXPENDED: 1] 

[MANA: 46/50] 

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

He targeted the packed snow crust under the leading scout's boot. He sent a jolt of Frost Mana, not freezing, but shattering the bonds holding the snow crystals together.

The leading scout stepped down. His boot plunged through the snow crust, sinking knee-deep. He stumbled, off-balance.

"NOW! HIM!" Eirik yelled at Leif.

Leif, reacting to the opportunity, lunged from behind the rock. He didn't hesitate. He drove the Fenrir blade forward in a thrust. It punched through the leather chest plate of the stumbling scout. The man grunted, eyes widening, then collapsed.

One down.

The other two scouts roared, charging. Leif yanked his blade free, stumbling back behind the rock. Isolde pressed against the stone, a sob escaping her.

Too close. Eirik's mind raced. He needed to end this.

[MANA EXPENDED: 3] 

[MANA: 43/50] 

He targeted the thin layer of meltwater above the frozen ground beneath the snowpack. He supercooled it. Not to ice, but to a state of frictionless slush.

Both scouts charged the last few yards. Their boots hit the patch Eirik had targeted.

WHOOSH-SLURP!

Their feet shot out from under them as if on oil. Both men went down hard, flat on their backs in the snow, their sabers flying. They gasped, stunned.

"LEIF! NOW!" 

Leif saw the opening. He surged forward again, driven by terror and adrenaline. He plunged his sword into the chest of the nearest prone scout before the man could rise. The scout jerked and went still. Leif whirled towards the last one, raising his blade.

The last scout scrambled backwards. He raised his hands and screamed before Leif drilled the sword down his throat. 

Blood pounded in Eirik's ears after the Skarl scouts' choking gasps faded. 

"Mother!" Leif spun. "Are you hurt?” 

Isolde shook her head, even though her composure was shattered. 

"We need to move!" Eirik hissed. He was already scanning the high ridges. "They heard that. The main force will be coming. Now.” 

Leif looked around frantically. "The horses... where—?” 

Damn. Their small victory now tasted like ashes. 

Panic surged.

"The horses!" Leif whirled, scanning the trampled ground near the rocks. "Where are our damned horses?” 

Panic surged. His pony, Seventy-Six’s brown gelding, Seventy-Three’s mount with its dead rider, Seventy-Two’s fleeing horse – all gone. 

Only the thrashing, wounded pony of the fallen Skarl scout remained nearby, leg twisted, eyes rolling white with terror and pain.

Panic flared on everyone's face. 

On foot, deep in Skarl territory, with the thunder of a war band imminent? Death was a certainty. 

Hoofbeats. 

Hard, fast, approaching from the direction of Frostholme. 

Eirik tensed, hand flying to the crude sword at his belt – a recruit's blade, utterly inadequate. Leif raised the Fenrir steel, bracing.

Olaf and Helga burst around the trail bend, sharing Olaf's powerful warhorse. 

"You mad fools!" Olaf roared as Isolde let out a relieving sigh. "Thought you were dead meat! Where are the others?” 

His eyes darted to the three Skarl corpses, then to the wide-eyed recruits who hadn't made it. 

"Where's your damn mount?!” 

"Bolted!" Leif yelled. "The lady fell, the Skarls jumped us… our horse bolted while we dealt with them…” 

"Frost take it!" Olaf spat. His gaze flicked to the distant ridge where the first scout signal had been seen. No movement yet, but the tension in the air screamed it was coming. 

“Frost take us," Eirik rasped, striding towards Helga. "No time! Mount! Leif, take your mother! RIDE FOR FROSTHOLME! DON'T LOOK BACK! Helga!” 

The brutal math played on their minds. They had one horse for five people. One horse could carry two people at most – three in desperation, but not far or fast enough to outrun Skarl pursuit. 

Olaf's weathered face became grim. 

“Aight. The lady and the boy. That's it. Rest of us stay.” 

"No!" Leif started forward. "I won't leave—“ 

"GO!" Eirik bellowed. "That's an order, damn you! Get your mother to safety! That's your ONLY JOB!"

Isolde scrambled towards Olaf’s warhorse. He hauled her up roughly in front of him with a grunt. 

Leif hesitated. "But you—"

"DO IT!" Eirik bellowed. He threw a desperate glance back up the trail. The distant rumble was growing – not hooves, but a deep vibration through the ground. "Main force is coming! Feel that?! GO!"

Helga shoved the reins into Leif shaking hands. “Lieutenent! NOW!"

Isolde met Eirik's eyes for a heartbeat. She hauled herself into the saddle. Leif vaulted up behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist.

"RIDE!” The three on foot screamed it in unison.

Leif kicked his heels hard. The horses surged forward, tearing down the trail towards Frostholme. 

They didn't look back.

Silence descended again. The ground tremor was unmistakable now. A low, rhythmic drumming that promised annihilation.

"Plan?" Olaf spat.

"Dead men tell no tales," Eirik said. He knelt beside the nearest scout corpse. "Smear their blood. Head wounds. Make it messy. Play dead among them. Eyes shut. Don't breathe deep. Don't move. Not a muscle."

Olaf cursed but saw the grim necessity. Helga moved with swift efficiency, scooping gore from a gaping stomach wound. The stench was overpowering.

Eirik plunged his hands into still-warm blood, coating his jerkin, face, hair. He smeared it over Olaf's weathered features and Helga's stern jaw. They dragged the bodies into a gruesome tangle near the boulders. Then they collapsed into the gory pile, limbs entwined with the dead Skarls.

Eirik positioned himself face-down, an arm flung over a dead scout's back. The cold bit through his jerkin instantly.

"Shut your eyes," Eirik hissed. "Remember. Dead as stone."

He squeezed his eyes shut. The only sound was his own frantic heartbeat and the increasingly deafening vibration through the earth.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.

Hooves. Dozens of them. A rolling thunder that filled the world, vibrating into his bones. The air thickened with the smell of horse sweat, leather, unwashed bodies, and something sharper – the scent of predators on the hunt.

They came like a wave crashing onto a frozen shore. The rhythmic pounding of hooves, the jingle of harnesses, the creak of leather, guttural shouts echoing off the valley walls. 

"Gorrash! Hurz vak! Thrakka!"

The lead riders reached the bend. The ground shook violently beneath Eirik's cheek. Heavy hooves slammed down mere feet away, spraying icy mud onto his neck. A horse snorted, hot breath gusting over him. He didn't flinch. He was stone.

More riders poured in. He heard the wet crunch of hooves on frozen flesh as riders maneuvered over the scattered bodies. A low, satisfied growl came from above, followed by a spatter of liquid hitting snow. Piss. Disdain for the slain.

Horses stamped and circled. Riders dismounted with heavy thuds. The guttural language washed over them.

"Yar? Vok thrak?"

"Na dras! Hurz vak torg!”

A boot nudged one of the scout corpses near Eirik's head.

"Khel… vak?

Anger crackled in the response: "Vok na dras! Thrak vak!”

A sharp kick landed on the dead scout's ribs, jolting the body against Eirik's arm. He held his arm limp.

The Skarls moved among the bodies with chilling efficiency. Metal scraped – looting. 

A rough hand grabbed Eirik's shoulder, rolling him partially onto his back. He kept his limbs utterly slack, head lolling. His eyes remained squeezed shut, lashes sticky with drying blood. 

A grunt. "Drak."

He was dumped back face-down into the freezing muck. The scavenging continued. Olaf, lying nearby, let out the faintest groan as a boot pressed hard on his outstretched hand. Olaf didn't react further. He remained still, a gory, unmoving lump.

Just as the scavenging seemed to wind down, a new sound cut through the low murmurs. A rhythmic, bone-chilling rattle. 

Slow, deliberate footsteps approached through the carnage. Unlike the heavy boots of warriors, these steps were lighter, almost ethereal, yet they carried palpable weight.

Silence fell over the Skarl warriors. The rattle grew louder. It sounded like dried bones clicking together.

The footsteps stopped nearby. Eirik felt a wave of unnatural cold wash over him, penetrating his blood-soaked clothes. It wasn't mountain chill; it was the deep, sucking cold of the grave. A guttural voice, ancient and rasping, spoke.

"Thul drak... na dras... vak ul."

A collective intake of breath from the warriors.

"Thul drak!" the shaman repeated, rattle intensifying. "Na dras! Trul zhog vak!"

The shaman's staff thumped beside his head. The cold intensified, crawling across his skin like icy spiders. He felt a probing tendril of awareness, cold and invasive, skitter over his mind, searching for the spark of life he desperately concealed.

"Vak! Vak! Vak!” The shaman hissed, the rattle now a furious crescendo. A bony finger jabbed Eirik hard between the shoulder blades. "Thrak vak gorrash!"

Rough hands seized him, hauling him violently upright. His eyes flew open. 

He was met with a scene from a nightmare.

Skarl warriors surrounded him – dozens of them, faces hard planes beneath fur-trimmed helms, eyes like chips of flint. They stank of blood, horse, and rancid fat. Beyond them, the slope swarmed with more warriors and shaggy mountain ponies. Hundreds.

Helga and Olaf were similarly dragged to their feet. Olaf snarled, trying to wrench free, but a spear-butt slammed into his ribs. Helga remained terrifyingly still.

The shaman stood before them. He was skeletal, draped in ragged furs crusted with feathers and old blood. His face was sunken, nose a hooked beak, lips drawn back from yellowed teeth. His eyes were milky white, utterly blind, yet they seemed to bore into Eirik's soul.

"Thul drak," he rasped. "Khel vak ul... khel vak zhog gash!"

The shaman leaned closer to Eirik. The stench of decay and old herbs was overwhelming. Those milky eyes seemed to see nothing and everything. A bony, claw-like hand shot out, gripping Eirik's chin, forcing his blood-smeared face upwards.

"Vak... thul vak Skarl," the shaman whispered, his breath like tomb air. "Vak... ul... gorr?" He tilted his head. "Khel vak... gash zhog!"

He released Eirik's chin with a shove and turned to bark orders. "Hur vak gorrash! Torg! Na dras!" He pointed towards the ruined fort. "Zug thak! Gash thrak!"

Warriors grabbed them, binding their wrists brutally tight with rawhide thongs. Hoods made of stinking, greasy leather were yanked over their heads. 

It was darkness again.