Dawn of the Ice Bear (20 page)

With any luck, once they reached Taern they would get the missing teeth back from Conor, then she and the others could rest there for a few days while Kral hurried the crown back to its cave.

When they finally saw Taern ahead, on their second afternoon in the country, the sun had already slipped behind glowering clouds. It was not full dark yet, but the days were not bright to begin with. The skies were as gray as lead, and when the sun did peek through the gloom its light was thin and brought little warmth. A frigid wind blew from the north, gaining in intensity as the sun lowered.

They decided that stealth was neither necessary nor possible, so they simply walked into the town. A couple of children, scampering around on the frozen earth, saw them, stopped, and ran for the nearest hut. A moment later, a woman came out, bent and gray, walking with the aid of a gnarled stick.

“If you've come to steal from us, you're too late,” she said, breaking into a cackling laugh. “We've precious little left to take.”

Kral could see at a glance that she was right. Wood-piles were low. No meat hung alongside the lodge building, nor was there any roasting over the small fires. The children were bundled in furs that looked old, handed down from generation to generation.

“We want nothing from you,” Kral answered. Many Picts from his part of the wilderness spoke at least rudimentary Cimmerian, as there was uneasy trade across the border from time to time. “If this is Taern, we seek one of your men.”

“If it's an old one, you might be in luck,” she said, still laughing. “Or a lazy one—we've a few of those left.”

“His name is Conor,” Kral said. “He was in Aquilonia recently.”

The woman's eyes narrowed, her smile vanishing. “Lazy, then,” she said. She pointed downslope with her stick at a hut with thick smoke roiling from a chimney. “Him, you can have. You'll find him there.”

Kral thanked her and translated the message for the others. “Lazy sounds right,” Donial said, with a chuckle.

“At least he has a fire going,” Tarawa observed. “I would kill to sit inside next to a fire.”

“No killing,” Kral warned. “At least until after I have my teeth.” Realizing what he had said, he put his fingers in his mouth, as if counting. “I mean, the crown's teeth,” he added.

Tarawa laughed in spite of her obvious discomfort. Shivering, she started down the slope toward Conor's hut, and the others joined the march. In a few moments, they stood outside his door. Kral rapped on the frozen planks. In return, they heard a muffled shout. Kral didn't understand it, but it did not sound welcoming.

“Let me,” Donial said. He shoved impatiently past Kral and leaned on the door, forcing it open. “Conor, we know you're in here!” he called.

When Donial had the door wide, Kral could see Conor inside, grabbing at a sword that sat, sheathed and attached to a curled belt, on a nearby table. He wore a woolen vest and leather breeches, but his huge arms and feet were bare.

“You!” he shouted. “What do you want? I did your job for you!”

“Part of it,” Donial acknowledged.

Conor rose from his chair, holding the belt and sword, still scabbarded. “I know not why you're here, but you had better go,” he said. “This is my home, my village. With a word from me, you'd all be torn to shreds.”

“That is not what the woman who told us where to find you said,” Kral pointed out.

Conor scoffed. “She must be one I have not yet pleasured,” he said.

“Maybe if you had started from the oldest and worked down,” Tarawa said with a grin, “you'd have reached her first.”

Conor puffed himself up to his full height, swelling his chest. He really was huge, Kral noted. He didn't want to have to fight the Cimmerian, but he would if it came to that. In the meantime, Conor was doing his best to frighten them off without resorting to actual violence. “I am serious,” he said in a kind of low growl. “I have had my fill of you, and I did not invite you into my home. Now I'm telling you, get out before there's trouble.”

“There's already trouble,” Kral told him. “If you have something that is not yours.”

Conor shrugged. “I have been a thief, among other things. What of it?”

“It's a specific thing we seek,” Alanya said. She gave Tarawa a gentle nudge toward the fire and leaned against the edge of the table from which Conor had taken the sword. Legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded over her chest, her entire manner was relaxed, casual. “Give it to us and we'll gladly leave you alone.”

“Because I'm sure the women of Taern resent the time we're taking up,” Donial added. He tried to hide his smile by looking away from the Cimmerian.

“Some teeth,” Kral put in. “From the Pictish crown. We believe you had your hands on them at some point. I need them back.”

“What if I don't have them?” Conor demanded.

“Then you'll find them and get them back for me,” Kral said. “Or you'll regret it for the rest of your extremely short life.”

Now Conor laughed. “You threaten me?” he asked. “Remember who you address, boy.”

“I address a bloated, half-drunk, frightened barbarian,” Kral challenged. “Who may think he's the better of us, but who will quickly find out he's wrong if I do not get those teeth right now.”

Conor moved faster than Kral had expected, whipping the big blade from its scabbard and throwing the belt to one side. “I'll not stand and listen to the likes of that from you,” he said.

Kral dropped back a step, his hand going to his own sword. It was not a natural weapon for Picts, but he had come to recognize its usefulness and had become more than a little skilled with it. “You have no choice in the matter,” he countered.

“I do if I split you from gullet to stern.”

“Think you that you can defeat us all, Conor?” Donial asked. He had also filled his hand with steel. Kral saw Conor's gaze flit across the room, realizing as it did that Alanya and Tarawa had spaced themselves out around him. Each of them held a sword now.

“Four against one?” Conor said with a laugh. “And you children? Go find a few more friends so the odds will be more even.”

“These odds are fine,” Kral said. He was suddenly as serious as death. “The teeth, Conor.”

Conor's mood changed to reflect Kral's. Kral could see the Cimmerian's fingers tighten on his grip.
So it starts,
he thought. A close quarters battle in a small space, with too many combatants for easy movement. Someone would die in the next few minutes. He knew they were all prepared for the possibility. His friends had changed since he'd met them. He supposed he had, too. Alanya and Donial had spent enough time in his company that the veneer of civilization had fallen from them. There had been a time when they would have insisted on a “fair” fight. Now they understood that when people were going to die, it was always better to be on the side that won the battle.

“It is not too late, Conor,” he said. “What good are the teeth to you? Why risk losing everything for them?”

Conor didn't answer. Not with words. Kral caught the slight shift of his eyes that meant he was attacking, and he brought his sword up just in time to block Conor's first blow. But the broadsword was massive, and Conor put all his strength behind it. Kral successfully deflected it, but the effort staggered him. He would not be able to block many of those blows.

Conor's muscles tensed to attack again. His attention was focused on Kral, however, and Donial—speedy Donial, Kral thought with pleasure—darted in as if from nowhere. He didn't manage to sink his blade deep in the Cimmerian's flesh, but grazed his right arm, drawing first blood. Conor clapped a hand over the wound, and it came away sticky. He eyed Donial. “So,” he said, “this is how it's to be?”

“You said we had not evened the odds sufficiently,” Alanya pointed out. “You can always call off the fight by turning over the teeth.”

“What makes you think I even have them?” he asked.

“The Stygians who stole the crown never saw them,” Alanya explained. “But we know you found the thief, spoke to him. He was the likeliest person to have removed them from the crown. And we know what you are like—if there was a way you could take advantage of us, you would.”

Conor made a wounded face. “I am hurt,” he said. “That you would think ill of me.” Before he even finished his sentence, he lashed out at Donial, who had not backed far enough away to avoid the big sword. Tarawa interceded, though, her own blade snaking between them so that Conor's broadsword was knocked harmlessly to one side. Kral took advantage of the moment to strike with his, ripping the fabric of Conor's vest and carving a line up his chest. Blood beaded along the cut.

“I may have . . . underestimated . . . the four of you,” Conor admitted. “You have fangs, after all.”

Alanya held her sword out toward him with a steady hand. “Even if you do defeat us,” she said, “you will have some wounds to explain to the women of Taern when next you see them. Wounds that you'll have to confess were dealt by ‘children,' as you call us. Would it not be easier simply to let Kral have his teeth?”

Conor looked at each one in turn, his gaze finally coming to rest on Kral. Kral understood that the Cimmerian was measuring him up, knowing that, while he was outnumbered, it was the Pict who was the serious threat. Kral measured Conor at the same time. Bigger than he, heavier, greater reach. Much more experience, especially with a sword.

At the same time, he knew he could take the man. Conor didn't have the fire in his eyes, the look of a man who would do anything to win. His cheeks were soft, flabby, and circles under bloodshot eyes spoke of a man who didn't sleep well. Where his vest had come open, Kral saw that his belly was rounded. He was a muscular man who had stopped using those muscles, for the most part. Conor relied on his size and reputation to intimidate his opponents now, Kral speculated. And while the man was still a formidable warrior, he was no longer good enough to beat Kral.

This new certainty gave him confidence. He started to move again, just a step or two in one direction and then the other. Not enough room in here for real maneuvering, but he would be fine. He kept his gaze on Conor and could almost see the Cimmerian wither under its intensity.

Finally, Conor lowered his weapon. “I haven't been able to sell them anyway,” he said. “They do me no good, and obviously have brought me nothing but trouble. You're welcome to them.”

Before Kral could answer, a blast of wind rattled the hut. The door shook as if a giant hand tried to tear it from its hinges. Conor looked up, startled. “Another storm,” he said. “Sounds like a bad one.”

“We have miles to cover yet,” Donial said.

“Not in this weather,” Conor answered. “From the sound of it, you won't make it beyond the village boundaries.” He crossed to the door, heedless now of the weapons the others still held. When he opened it, a bitter wind blew in. Outside, all was white. Kral couldn't even see the nearest hut. “Ice storm,” he said. “You'd all freeze to death in no time.”

“But . . . we can't stay here,” Tarawa said.

“There's nowhere else you can go,” Conor replied, slamming the door against the weather. “You can't see five feet out there. Have you ever been in a Cimmerian ice storm, any of you?”

“No,” Kral admitted. “We have not.”

“You might make a quarter mile—blinded, but trudging into the wind. After that, the ice would cake on your flesh, burning it. Your joints would freeze up. You couldn't catch your breath. Before you were a half mile out, you would be stopped, crouching close to the ground for warmth, which you would not find. Your feet would freeze to the earth, then your hands. In the morning, or whenever the wind died, someone might find you, frozen in place, dead. They could snap your limbs off like dry twigs, crack your skin like frozen water.”

“What is it to you?” Alanya asked. “A minute ago, you wanted to kill us anyway.”

“In fair combat,” Conor said. He went to his fire and put on two more logs, poking the coals with the tip of his sword. In a moment, small blue flames licked at the first of the logs. “But now I've already told you I'll give you the accursed teeth you seek. I've nothing to fight you for, nor do you have reason to want me dead. I would not send you into that storm, knowing it would be the end of you.”

“You would let us wait out the storm in your hut?” Tarawa asked. She looked astonished. Kral realized that he was as well. He guessed that Conor was simply being realistic—that having decided he couldn't beat them all, he might as well be hospitable so they didn't decide to kill him and just take the hut for themselves.

“It would not be my first choice,” Conor admitted. “But it seems to be the only one.” He reached into a rough wooden cupboard near the fire, brought out a heavy black pot and some dried meat. Handing a second pot to Kral, he said, “Get some snow in here that we can boil for water. And be quick about it, boy. I don't want to have to go outside looking for you.”

CONOR SURPRISED THEM all, sharing elk meat with them and brewing a foul-smelling but hot concoction that warmed Kral's innards even as it turned his stomach. As the night wore on, Conor told stories of life in Cimmeria, other storms he had weathered, and his adventures in Aquilonia. In return, the others took turns telling their stories, detailing how Alanya and Kral had met, how they came to be in Tarantia and then Stygia with Donial, and how Tarawa had helped them retrieve the crown from her master.

Finally, as Kral was beginning to grow drowsy, Conor dug into a wooden box near the pallet he slept on and retrieved the missing teeth. He handed them over with only momentary hesitation. Once Kral had them in his hands, he fished the crown from its sack and went to work restoring the teeth to their rightful positions. It was late; Donial and Tarawa were already asleep, and Alanya was beginning to doze. Even Conor turned away after giving Kral the teeth and stretched out on his pallet.