—<SEVEN>—

Portents of Death

 

 

A cold, salty wind blew off the ocean and a bell chimed high on the Tower of Tides. Gulls wheeled over the docks of the lower town, and Count Marius of the Jutones took a moment to savour the smells of his city. Unlike many cities in the Empire, those smells were not shit and refuse and livestock. Jutonsryk smelled of wealth, prosperity and contentment.

The buildings of his city were a haphazard mix of stone and timber, the oldest jutting from the cliffs and spurs of the rock forming the natural bay that made it such a perfect location for a port. Dominating the city was the Namathir, the leaf-shaped promontory of dark rock upon which Marius’ castle was built. Crafted of pale stone with many slender towers and shimmering roofs, the fortress of the Jutone count was a curious mix of power and grace. High walls of stone surrounded the city on its landward side, patched and rebuilt by dwarf masons hired at ruinous expense in the aftermath of Sigmar’s siege.

Always a nautical city, most buildings of Jutonsryk sported some recognition of the sea that had made its fortune. Tall masts with billowing sails jutted from numerous rooftops, while figureheads from wrecked ships, cargo netting and entire forecastles made up frontages, roofs and gables. Effigies of Manann in his aspect of a bulky man with an iron crown were common, as were images of crashing waves and sea creatures. Warehouses and loading bays for the hundreds of ships that berthed here every week crowded the seafront, finely-built structures paid for by the wealthy merchants and traders who had grown fat on Jutonsryk’s prosperity.

Hundreds of ships filled the harbour, a myriad of sails of many colours and different kings. Udose ships sat alongside those of the Endals and ones bearing flags of nations that most people in the Empire had no knowledge of. Ships of all size and shape jostled for space on the quayside and a forest of lifting hoists worked in a never-ending procession of unloading and loading.

Trade was Jutonsryk’s lifeblood, and it had brought undreamed-of wealth to Marius’ city.

Yet only a few years ago, it had come to the edge of destruction at the hands of the man to whom Marius now gave homage as Emperor. Smiling to himself, he knew he should have allied with Sigmar a long time ago, but not for the reasons the Emperor would have liked to hear.

Always independent, the Jutones had stood apart from Sigmar’s burgeoning Empire, but as Marius looked at how his city and people had benefited from that alliance, he knew it had been a worthwhile investment. The streets were clean, part of an initiative proposed by his physicians as a means to alleviate sickness among the poor, as was the building of a new almshouse to care for the ailing and needy. Taxes on incoming trade ships had paid for these institutions, and such was the influx of new trade that followed his Sword Oath with Sigmar, that each year brought more gold than he could spend.

Marius rode past the Tower of Tides on a white stallion, a gift from Sigmar’s warrior friend, and its caparison was of fine blue and green cloth woven by Thuringian women as a tribute from the Berserker King. He leaned back in the saddle as he negotiated the winding, cobbled streets that led down to the old town and the docks. Citizens of Jutonsryk bowed as he passed and he favoured them with his most magnanimous smile.

Yes, it was a good day to take the air, though a smear of darkness on the horizon portended storms to come. He shivered, pulling his exquisite cloak of bearskin tighter about his shoulders. His clothes were finely made, a tasteful mix of eastern silks and hard-wearing Ostogoth tanned leather that gave him the unmistakable appearance of wealth, yet retained the look of a man who knew how to wield the sword buckled at his waist.

A troop of lancers accompanied him, their pale blue cloaks falling tidily over the rumps of their mounts. Spoiling this image of perfection was the wobbling form of Vergoossen, his latest aide, who rode his chestnut gelding about as well as a bale of hay might.

Ever since Bastiaan had stabbed him at Middenheim in the height of the fighting, Marius had forbidden his aides to bear arms. Looking at Vergoossen, it didn’t look like he knew one end of a dagger from another, yet he had a head for numbers and a total lack of ego to be bruised by Marius’ frequent tirades and verbal abuse. All of which made him a perfect aide.

“My lord,” said. “If you’ll just look over these documents…”

Marius sighed, his good mood evaporating in the face of Vergoossen’s pleadings.

“What is so important that you need to spoil a perfectly good day?” he demanded.

Vergoossen held out a sheaf of papers. “My lord, I have petitions from a number of merchants, and—”

“Let me guess, Huyster and Merovec.”

“Amongst others, but yes, the majority of correspondence is from them.”

“So what do they want, as if I can’t guess?”

“Master Huyster wishes to bring to your attention the latest increase in berthing fees and the imposition of the new import tariffs,” said Vergoossen. “And Master Merovec asks if you have had time to consider his request for permission to extend his warehouses along the north shore.”

Marius felt his anger grow at these foolish, greedy merchants. Their coffers were already swollen with gold, yet still they wanted more. It seemed a lust for gold wasn’t simply confined to the mountain folk. What angered Marius most was that he saw a reflection of his old self in their grasping transparent greed. He took a calming breath.

“Tell Huyster that the berthing fees are paying for additional docks to be built along the shoreline, which will allow him to double his revenue within the year. And if he wants it known that he feels aggrieved with the berthing fees, then he is only too welcome to bring that to the attention of the stevedores’ guild. I’m sure they would be happy to hear of his dissatisfaction.”

“Really?” said Vergoossen, missing his sarcastic tone. “I would have thought it a recipe for disaster to say such a thing.”

“Of course it is,” snapped Marius. Vergoossen was efficient and thorough when it came to organising Marius’ affairs, but he had no head for understanding people. “The stevedores’ wages are paid from berthing taxes, and any shipmaster who wants to pay less will find a greater than usual percentage of their cargoes inexplicably lost or accidentally dropped into the sea.”

“But that’s blackmail, my lord,” exclaimed Vergoossen.

“All trade is blackmail of one sort or another,” said Marius. “But that is a lesson for another day.”

“And what shall I tell Master Merovec?”

“Tell him that I know he already owns more quayside frontage than city regulations permit. He may fool others with his straw men, but I was finding new ways to earn gold while he was soiling his swaddling clothes. Tell him that if he really wants me to have you investigate his assets to adjudge his property holdings with a view to his future expansions, then I am more than happy to oblige him.”

“I understand, sir,” said Vergoossen. “He wouldn’t want that.”

“No,” agreed Marius. “He wouldn’t. Now is there anything else that needs my subtle hand of diplomacy, or do you think you can actually do your job and handle the minutiae of running a busy sea port?”

“There is one other matter, my lord,” said Vergoossen.

“Go on then, what is it?”

“Some sailors from Tilean lands are refusing to pay their berthing fees.”

“Typical bloody Tilean,” said Marius with a shake of his head. “Their coin purses are sealed tighter than a Brigundian virgin’s legs. Why are they refusing to pay?”

“They say they don’t have any cargo to unload, so they don’t see why they should pay a berthing fee.”

“No cargo? Then why are they here?”

“They claim they were attacked and had to ditch their cargo to escape.”

“Pirates?”

Vergoossen consulted his notes, as though reluctant to voice the reason the sailors had given.

“Well, in a manner of speaking, my lord,” stammered Vergoossen.

“Oh, just spit it out, man!” ordered Marius.

“Yes, my lord. Sorry. They claim they were attacked by ships crewed by dead men.”

 

“This is the place?” asked Alfgeir. “You’re sure of it?”

Cuthwin gave the Marshall of the Reik a look that said he was sure, and that he’d have liked to see the knights find this place again. Instead he simply nodded. A life lived in the wilderness was a solitary, silent one, and even when in company, Cuthwin found himself limiting his speech to short answers.

“Yes, this is the place,” he said.

“There’s nothing here,” said Orvin, dismounting from his gelding and looking around. “You said there was a fight here.”

“There was,” said Cuthwin. “You’d see that if you looked.”

Orvin stepped towards him. “Are you cheeking me, scout?”

“Leave it,” warned Alfgeir, and Orvin backed off, returning to his horse’s side. Twenty of the Empire’s finest knights stood at the edge of the road, where Cuthwin had forced them to dismount lest they spoil the tracks. It had taken them two days to reach the road, much less than it had taken Cuthwin to reach Reikdorf, but then he’d been on foot and had a wounded dwarf to carry.

He squatted at the edge of the road where he and the dwarfs had fought the goblins and wolves. He could picture the wagons, where he had come out of the forest and how he had moved through the fight. The road was empty now, no sign of any bodies or wagons to indicate that a life and death struggle had played out here.

At least to the untrained eye.

Alfgeir stepped onto the road, moving from smudged track, to discoloured patch of earth and broken branch. He moved well for an old man, kneeling to dust earth from a stone and follow the course of the fight through the telltale marks such a struggle inevitably left behind.

“You killed the first one here,” said Alfgeir, miming the act of drawing a bowstring.

Cuthwin nodded as Alfgeir wended his way through the fight, moving as though he fought it anew. At last he turned to face Cuthwin, his face betraying a grudging respect.

“You took a big risk in helping these dwarfs, scout,” said Alfgeir. “That took courage.”

Cuthwin shrugged, uncomfortable with praise. “It seemed like the right thing to do. It’s what Sigmar did.”

“And we all want to be like Sigmar,” laughed Alfgeir. “Good lad. Now the wagons were over here, yes?”

Cuthwin rose and smoothly made his way to join Alfgeir, carefully avoiding the earlier tracks and making sure to stick to the hardened ground to leave no trace of his own passing. The knights followed him, leading their horses and without the care he showed.

He pointed to a disturbed area of ground at a bend in the road.

“There,” said Cuthwin. “That’s where the wagons were.”

“So where are they now?” asked Orvin.

“Maybe the goblins took them,” he said. “Maybe the forest beasts broke them up for firewood or weapons.”

“Can’t you tell?”

Cuthwin shook his head. “Maybe if your horses hadn’t trampled the ground I could have.”

Alfgeir put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You do enjoy provoking people, scout.”

“I reckon the goblins took the wagons,” said Cuthwin, pointing back down the road. “There’s a stone path leads up into the mountains about a mile back. Could be they took them that way.”

“Do you think they found what the dwarf buried?”

“Hard to say,” said Cuthwin. “Let me look.”

He waved away the knights and dropped to his hands and knees, lowering his face to the earth, scanning left and right for any trace of something out of the ordinary. Moving like a bloodhound with the scent of its prey in its nose, Cuthwin ghosted over the ground as though listening to it. He ignored the chuckles of the knights. Let them laugh; they’d be choking on it when he found something.

He moved over where the wagons had been circled, touching the ground and feeling the tension in the soil, brushing it with his fingertips. The earth here was looser, less densely packed, as though disturbed. Where the wagons had been pulled around and turned into makeshift barricades, the earth was hard-packed, but this patch in the middle was loose.

Cuthwin rose to his feet, circling the area and searching for any other obvious signs of something buried. He brushed the ground with the sole of his boot, closing his eyes as he relied on senses honed in the wilderness over many years.

“It’s here,” he said, dropping to his knees. He drew his dagger and sketched a rough rectangle in the dirt, encompassing where he knew the dwarf had buried what Grindan had called the Thunder Bringer.

Alfgeir knelt beside him. “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s here, trust me,” said Cuthwin. “The mountain folk are masters of digging. If anyone can bury something they don’t want found, it’s them.”

“Aye, that’s true enough I suppose,” agreed Alfgeir. He looked over to his knights. “Orvin, you and the others break out the shovels and start earning your pay.”

“By digging?” said Orvin, as though the notion was beneath him.

“By digging,” confirmed Alfgeir. “Get to it.”

Orvin shook his head and, together with five other knights, began shovelling earth from the spot Cuthwin had indicated. They dug relentlessly and swiftly moved a large amount of soil. Cuthwin watched with Alfgeir as they dug down around four feet into the ground without finding anything.

Just as he was beginning to entertain doubts that there was anything buried here, Orvin’s shovel clanged on something metallic. Orvin used the end of his shovel to clear away the black earth, using his hands when the shovel proved insufficient for the task. At length, he leaned back to allow those above him to see what he had uncovered.

Cuthwin looked into the hole the knights had dug. He caught a gleam of tubular iron, like the funnels on Govannon’s forge, spars of splintered timbers and what looked like an iron-rimmed wheel.

“What in Ulric’s name is that?” said Alfgeir, tilting his head to the side.

“The Thunder Bringer,” said Cuthwin. “And we have to get it back to Reikdorf.”

 

The ship was a long merchantman, sleek-hulled and coloured a garish blue and green with wide, dark eyes painted beneath its prow. An elaborate figurehead jutted provocatively from her forecastle, representing Myrmidia and Manann entwined in an embrace that Marius was sure the temple priests of Jutonsryk wouldn’t find in any of their holy books. Its flag was one Marius had seen before, but he couldn’t remember to which distant princeling it belonged. He saw so many ships in any given week, it was hard to keep track of them all.

Hundreds of people bustled to and fro: sailors, tax collectors in blue robes, maritime enthusiasts, dwarf masons and shipwrights, rope-makers, labourers, hawkers, map-makers, whores and sell-swords. The taverns were doing a brisk trade, as a number of ships had just finished their unloading and their crews were eager to spend their wages.

The air tasted of saltwater and hard work, and Marius felt his brow turn thunderous as he saw the crew of the impounded vessel pressing against the ring of armed lancers preventing them from leaving the quay. Olive-skinned sailors from the south, they waved their arms and jabbered in their foreign tongue, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were on Empire soil and ought to be speaking Reikspiel if they wanted to be understood.

“To be fair, they do look rather unsettled,” said Vergoossen.

Marius waved away his aide’s comment. “Nonsense, these foreign types are always ludicrously animated when they converse. The way they talk to each other, they could be discussing the weather and you’d swear they were relating news of the End Times.”

“But still,” pressed Vergoossen, “what if they aren’t lying?”

“Of course they’re lying,” snapped Marius, rounding on his aide. “It’s the oldest trick in the book for fly-by-nights and thieves. Listen, Vergoossen, one of two things has happened here. Either they’ve stolen their master’s cargo and transferred it to another ship, which we’ll see in a few days with false papers of lading or they have come here claiming they had to ditch their cargo to outrun some pirates so they don’t have to pay the berthing tax. Then they’ll miraculously find a hugely lucrative trade deal when they get ashore. Either way, I won’t stand for it. I’ll have them locked in the tower for trying to cheat Marius of Jutonsryk.”

His lesson in tax evasion dispensed, Marius marched towards the merchantman, noting how high it was riding in the water. Its holds were empty, that was for sure, but he’d wager they’d been empty long before the sailors had come within spitting distance of the city.

The Sergeant of Lancers turned as he heard Marius approach. He gave a formal salute and placed his clenched fist against his chest before bowing curtly.

“My lord,” he said. “Sergeant Alwin. We detained these men when the Master of Taxes informed us they refused to pay the berthing fee.”

Marius scanned the sailors, a grimy bunch of men with colourful complexions and dark hair to a man. He counted around a hundred men on the quayside or clustering the rails of the ship. They looked desperate to get onto dry land, and many threw furtive glances over their shoulders out to sea.

“Is this all of them?” asked Marius.

Alwin nodded. “A couple of them may have gotten into the city before we arrived, but looks like there’s more or less a full ship’s complement here.”

That seemed about right, and Marius looked for the sailor in the least grubby clothes, the one that likely captained this vessel. His eyes immediately fixed on a man with skin like tanned leather and a mane of slick black hair. His manner was agitated, but from the looks the others were giving him, it was clear he was in command.

“You,” said Marius, beckoning the man through the line of lancers. “You speak Reikspiel?”

The man nodded and gratefully pushed through the lancers towards Marius. Two of his personal bodyguard quickly searched the man for weapons, taking a pair of daggers and a gunwale spike from his belt.

“I am Count Marius of Jutonsryk, lord of this city. What is your name?” said Marius, careful to enunciate each word carefully.

“My name is Captain Leotas Raul, and I speak Reikspiel very well.”

“Good, then we won’t have any misunderstandings,” said Marius. “This is your ship, yes?”

“It is,” said Raul, his voice prideful and yet melancholy. “Myrmidia’s Spear, sole surviving ship of Magister Fiorento’s fleet.”

“Yes, well I’m sure he will be overjoyed to hear that his last ship is soon to be impounded,” said Marius.

Before Raul could react to Marius’ dire pronouncement, the count of Jutonsryk said, “Tell me, Captain Raul, what do you think of my harbour? Is it adequate for your magnificent ship?”

Raul looked confused, and Marius said, “Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“No,” said Raul, a hard look entering his eyes. “That will not be necessary.”

“Well? Are my docks fit to berth your ship?”

“These are very fine docks, Count Marius,” answered Raul coldly.

“Good, so why don’t you tell me why you’ve taken the liberty of berthing in my perfectly good harbour and yet refuse to pay the berthing fee.”

“We have no cargo,” replied Raul. “No cargo means nothing to tax.”

“Oh there is always something to tax, Captain Raul,” Marius assured him. “But if you have no cargo, then you have come a long way for nothing. Magister Fiorento must be a wealthy man indeed to despatch ships with no cargo all this way.”

“We did not come here with empty holds, my lord,” said Raul. “We were forced to abandon our cargo.”

“So tell me, what manner of cargo were you carrying before you abandoned it?”

“A thousand bales of embroidered cloth,” answered Raul. “Dyes and oils from the warmer climates of the southern islands.”

“I see, and you threw these overboard because…”

“We were attacked by black ships with crimson sails of ragged cloth and crewed by dead men. Sailors from the depths of the ocean risen from the sea to hunt the living.”

“Very poetic,” commented Marius. “Of course, you realise I don’t believe a word of it?”

“I speak no lies,” hissed Raul, and Marius smiled at his conviction.

“Then, please, elaborate,” said Marius, knowing even a skilled liar would often trip themselves up in the details of an over-elaborate farrago.

“As we rounded the Reik headland from the south a noxious fog arose from the sea and a host of crimson-sailed vessels moved to intercept us. Not a breath of wind stirred their sails, yet they came on at speed, as though all the fiends of the deep pulled their rotted hulks through the waters. More appeared around the northern headland, trapping us between them, two hundred vessels at least.”

“Two hundred?” laughed Marius. “Now I know you are lying. There are, I’ll grant you, a few corsairs who raid the shorelines of the far Reik, but none with so large a fleet.”

“These were no corsairs,” insisted Raul. “As their ships drew nearer we smelled the stench of rotten, waterlogged timbers and saw the decaying flesh of the skeletal crewmen aboard each vessel. We tried to outrun them, but they were too fast, and our sister ship, Shield of Glory, was overtaken. A hundred dead warriors swarmed her decks, and they tore the living apart to eat their flesh. Though our fellow brothers of the sea were being devoured, not a man aboard ship dared turn to help them. Golden Goddess tried to evade, but she was too heavy, and more of the ships of the damned cut her off. She too was lost with all souls.”

“But you escaped,” said Marius.

“No sooner had I seen how many ships opposed us than I knew we were too heavily laden to escape. I ordered our cargo ditched, but even then we only barely made it through the line of mouldering hulks.”

“These ships of the dead did not pursue you? How convenient.”

“They did not,” said Raul. “But they are still out there, this I swear on the life of my mother. They are out there and no more ships will come to your city. And while they lurk in the fog, none shall leave.”

Marius had heard enough and shook his head. “A fanciful tale, Captain Raul, but one I am disinclined to believe.”

He turned to Sergeant Alwin. “Impound the ship and lock these men up in the Old Town gaol. Vergoossen, draft a letter to Magister Fiorento and tell him that if he wants his ship and crew released then he’ll need to pay their fines and taxes. Be sure to inform him of the increasing levy of fines the longer he leaves them here.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Vergoossen.

Marius turned and walked away as the lancers began rounding up the protesting sailors.

“Dead corsairs, indeed,” he said. “Ridiculous.”

 

The five chariots thundered over the rugged flatlands to the south of Three Hills, the horses running at battle pace as Maedbh let them stretch their muscles. Asoborn beasts needed to have their head now and again. The training fields allowed the youngsters to get a feel for the beasts and how the chariot behaved, but there was nothing like riding tall at battle pace to get the heart pounding and the blood racing.

Two chariots sped along either side of her, each with an Asoborn youth at the reins. Not one was over thirteen years of age, but they worked the reins like veterans. The ground here was dotted with thin copses, unexpected slopes and random patches of rocks, but so far they had steered around them without losing valuable speed. Ahead, the Worlds Edge Mountains soared to the sky and a black line of thunderheads rolled like a giant wave crashing over the distant peaks to the far south.

Looking at those clouds gave Maedbh a shiver of dread, though they would be long back at Three Hills before any storm broke. She returned her attention to the ground before her chariot as they rolled over a rough patch of earth and the wheel spun in the air for a moment. The chariot wobbled, but Maedbh brought it back level without effort.

“Careful, mother!” squealed Ulrike with frightened delight.

“Are you still secure?” called Maedbh, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder.

“Yes, mother! Of course I am!”

Ulrike had her right ankle braced against the side armour, her left against an angled ridge of wood Wolfgart had crafted to compensate for her narrower stance. Her knees weren’t locked, her legs flexible and her posture loose; the perfect position for a charioteer spear-bearer. Maedbh smiled, seeing the same fierce determination in her young features she saw in herself. And, if she was honest, she saw in Wolfgart.

Thinking of her estranged husband brought a lump to her throat. She missed him, and it rankled that she felt like that. An Asoborn woman needed no man to complete her, she was a fiery warrior princess with the winter fire of Ulric flowing in her veins. Maedbh knew all that was true, but she knew there was no shame in wanting to be part of a union that had created so beautiful a life as their daughter.

She and Wolfgart were too alike, that was what she loved about him, and, perversely, was also the problem. Like two bulls in a pen, they locked horns every day to establish dominance, though surely there was no need. She regretted her harsh words to him, but like arrows of fire, they could not be taken back and had struck where they would do the most damage. Maedbh knew herself well enough to know that pride was but a facet of stubbornness, a quality both she and Wolfgart possessed in abundance.

It wasn’t in her nature to back down, and yet Ulrike needed a father. She had cried when Maedbh told her that Wolfgart had returned to Reikdorf. Part of her hated him for leaving without saying goodbye, but she recognised that any such farewell would have resulted in a bitter quarrel, and couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid such a confrontation.

“Mother!” cried Ulrike, and Maedbh cursed as she wheeled the chariot away from a scattered tumble of rocks in a dry riverbed. Her attention wasn’t on what she was doing, and that was dangerous. Many a careless charioteer had run themselves into rocks or trees through their inattention, and such inglorious fates were amongst the most shameful among the Asoborns.

She pushed Wolfgart from her mind and fixed her attention on her wild ride, weaving a deft path through a sparsely wooded forest in the shadow of a long ridge that ran from east to west. The chariots formed a line in her wake, smoothly changing formation in response to her manoeuvres, and she smiled at the youths’ deft touch on the reins.

The horses were breathing hard, their flanks lathered with sweat and Maedbh drew them in, gradually slowing them until they were gently trotting. The horses came to a standstill and Maedbh coiled the reins through the loop of iron fixed to the chariot’s wooden frame. She was sweating, her limbs pleasurably sore from their ride.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Ulrike. “I like going that fast!”

“The horses need to rest, my dear,” said Maedbh. “They’ve had a hard morning. Think how tired you are after you’ve run around the training ground five times. These horses have done that and more.”

“They need to rest then.”

“Yes, my dear, they do,” said Maedbh. “We all do. See to the horses, and I’ll fix you some food once you’re finished.”

“Can’t I have food first?”

“No, always see to your horses as soon as you stop,” instructed Maedbh. “You can go without food for a little while, but your horses may need to ride fast at a moment’s notice, so be sure they’re watered and rubbed down before you see to yourself.”

Ulrike nodded reluctantly, but began expertly brushing the sweat from the horses’ heaving sides. The chariots had halted in such a way as to form a rough circle, a perfect defensive formation and one that allowed each rider to set off without fear of hitting another. Maedbh watched the others follow Ulrike’s lead, rubbing their horses down with handfuls of straw before allowing them to drink from a trickling stream of clear water.

Satisfied the horses were being looked after, Maedbh stepped down from the chariot and sat on its base, untying a bundle of black bread and cheese from an internal pannier. She broke the bread and set out a portion for her and Ulrike, enjoying this chance to get out in the wilds. Any Asoborn warrior preferred the wind in their hair and the sight of open horizons to the feel of enclosing walls and buildings of stone. Though Three Hills was far from oppressive, Maedbh still relished the chance to explore the far reaches of Freya’s lands, to ride the wild woods and race along the open flatlands beyond the hills.

“That was well done, my beauties,” said Maedbh, as the others led their horses back to the chariots. They didn’t hobble the horses, but let them roam freely, knowing they would come with a whistle. They beamed at her pride, knowing that as charioteer to Queen Freya, her praise was not given lightly.

As they gathered around her, Maedbh offered instructional tips, helpful pointers and the occasional admonishment to her charioteers. Each had performed well, but there was always room for improvement, and nobody could afford to rest on their laurels.

“You’re leaning left when you crack the reins, Osgud,” she said, angling her hand as she spoke. “It makes the horse pull away from the line, and you need to keep your spacing close when you’re riding in close to the enemy. And Daegal, follow through with your spear thrusts, but remember to twist the blade at the extent of your thrust, otherwise it will be torn from your grasp. Ulrike, you need to watch your balance, always keep your back foot braced or you’ll be thrown out if the wheels strike a rock or hit a dip in the ground.”

They listened intently, and Maedbh was pleased with their progress. With their midday meal eaten, they broke into smaller groups, practising with their spears and posture. Ulrike ran to join them and Maedbh watched the young Asoborns with a fierce maternal affection. They were all her children, not just Ulrike.

She rested her head on the side of the chariot, letting the sounds of the wilderness wash over her: the burble of the water, the sigh of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a carrion bird over something dead. It had been a long day and she closed her eyes briefly, letting a warm lethargy sneak up on her.

Again the carrion bird cawed, and Maedbh opened her eyes.

The sound was closer than before, louder and more strident, which was strange, as food for crows didn’t normally move. She didn’t react, but let the sensations of the world come into sharper focus. The wind was coming from the north, the carrion bird was to the south and getting closer.

Maedbh rose to her feet as the wind changed and the horses’ heads came up, their ears flat against their skulls and their eyes wide with fear. They snorted and tossed their manes, walking back towards the yokes of the chariots. A wolf howled to the south, and Maedbh tensed. Such a sound would normally be auspicious, but there was something wrong with this howl, it had a hollow, hungry edge to it that no animal servant of Ulric would possess. An answering howl answered the first, this time from the west. A wolf pack was circling them, and Maedbh fought down her rising fear.

“Get the horses yoked back to the chariots,” she shouted, authoritative, not frightened.

The young Asoborns moved to obey, too slowly.

“Get a move on!” she cried. “If you were under attack, is this how fast you’d move?”

Maedbh gathered the two horses of her own chariot and swiftly harnessed them to the yoke with quick tugs of the bronze buckles. A shadow flitted across the chariot’s frame and she looked up to see a flock of circling birds with black feathers. Eaters of the dead.

“Hurry it up, for Ulric’s sake!” she said, scooping up Ulrike and depositing her in the chariot. She unlimbered her bow from the side of the chariot and quickly bent it back to string it.

“String yours too,” she said to Ulrike. “And keep a wary eye out.”

“What’s going on, mother?” said Ulrike, sensing a measure of her mother’s unease.

“Nothing, my dear,” she said. “Just do it. Hurry.”

She climbed onto her chariot seeing that the rest of her group were almost ready. The birds cawed again and another wolf howl echoed over the desolate wilderness. That one was unmistakably from the north, and as the wind changed again, Maedbh caught the reek of dead flesh, of mangy, maggot-ridden fur and stagnant, bloody saliva.

Someone screamed and she looked up to see a line of huge timber wolves on the ridge above them. Their fur was rotted and patchy over yellowed bone and torn muscle. Vacant eye sockets glimmered with emerald light and drooling ropes of bloody saliva hung from their exposed fangs.

Some dead things did move, it seemed.

“Ride!” shouted Maedbh.