The riders thunder through the wood, their hooves kicking ice and snow high into the night air.  There is a sense of desperation about them, of grim determination, of enraged bloodlust.

When the thrall staggered into Thane Bolwerk’s stead, Guiromélans’s worst fear was realized.  The udyronde have struck in force, and now this hird rides for bloody vengeance.

The thrall was loyal.  He ran all day and night to reach Hardanger, through forests most herr fear to tread.  It was a hard journey, but he managed to relay his message before exhaustion overtook him.  The udyronde have attacked Mostheath, a small family stead some 6 hours ride from Hardanger.  Many brave herr were lost in the initial ambush.  Those who survived took shelter in the longhouse.  Many karls sacrificed their lives buying time for the thrall’s escape.

Guiromélans rides with the huskarls, anxious to help the survivors, praying the details of the attack were exaggerated.  He has not slept tonight—none of them have—and the bloodburn of the alcohol drunk during last night’s meal is already ebbing.  He swallows the discomfort and focuses on the task ahead.  Soon, there will be battle.  He must be prepared for what he must do.

Söderkarl are not a patient people, and as the ride progressed, the weaker riders or those with slower steeds have fallen behind.  Guiromélans has taken note of this.  When they arrive at the stead, nearly a third of their number will be missing, Baldruus included.  Caidryn still rides hard with him, unwilling to let the Raven get the better of her.

Of his companions, only Dagnin did not join the hird.  Though the rich Söderkarl provender and effective ministrations of volva Huld have mended the older knight’s body and cured his illnesses, he has yet to rediscover his heart and courage.  He had not the stomach for this battle and chose to stay behind in Hardanger with Balen and the women.

Guiromélans urges his stocky Söderkarl steed faster and rides abreast of Ofeig’s, leader of this hird.  “Huskarl!” he shouts, “How much further to Mostheath?”

“Soon,” the karl grunts, gesturing forward, “Through the wood, across the ness, over some hills.”

Guiromélans glances back at the others.  He sees no fatigue in their eyes, only burning fury.  He is not surprised.  The Söderkarl breed warriors who are brave, combative, and fierce.  To be otherwise would mean to be an ergi, a degkarl.

“Then I suggest we slow our pace,” Guiromélans says.  “Give those among us a chance to garter their strength.  Give those who have fallen behind a chance to catch up.”

“Time is of the essence, Korp!” Ofeig shouts.  “We must make haste, lest all be lost!”

Without hesitation, Guiromélans’s hand darts out, seizing Ofeig’s bridle.  He pulls back, and both horses rear and protest as he forces them to an abrupt stop.

Ofeig is nearly blind with fury and half out of his saddle as he struggles to draw his long sword.  Guiromélans watches him impassively.  “You had better have stopped to pick your burial mound!” the Söderkarl bellows, “For you’re most certainly a dead man!”

Instantly, the rest of the hird have surrounded them, their eyes full of bafflement but quite ready to draw blood.  They are as ready to wreak vengeance upon Guiromélans as they are upon the therm.  He knows he is in dangerous territory.  Söderkarl think nothing of killing or betraying outsiders.  He feels another horse pressing close against his, and he is relieved to sense Caidryn’s presence beside him.  She doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but she’s willing to stand with him.  Such is Brackish loyalty.

Guiromélans draws his saber and levels its jagged blade at the huskarl.  The symbolism of the broken sword is not lost of the Söderkarl, and its appearance noticeably calms the warriors.  “If you wish to embrace me in the sword-storm, it is your privilege, Ofeig,” he warns, “but first you will hear me out!”

“There is nej time for talk, outsider!  You die or I die, and the rest goes to Mostheath!”

“So you would waste it in fighting me?” Guiromélans asks.  Their two horses circle each other, each rider passively seeking openings or weaknesses.  The wind howls through them, stinging them with sleet and ice.

Ofeig’s angry eyes flash, his face black with rage.  “Your kinsmen said you spoke with the udyronde,” he snarls, “Perhaps you are in league with them?  Perhaps this is why you seek to delay us?”

Guiromélans smiles and visibly relaxes.  “I forgive you for saying such foolishness.  If you knew me at all, you never would have said such a thing.”

Guiromélans’s reaction both confounds and angers the huskarl even further.  “You make jokes?  You mock me?”

Guiromélans glances down the path and sees Baldruus arriving with some others.  Slowly, the rest of the hird is gathering.  At least he succeeded in achieving that end.

As he trots forward, Baldruus stands on his stirrups in an effort to see over the wall of Söderkarl muscle.  “What is this?” he shouts.  “What have you done know, you damn elfajzott Raven?”

Guiromélans looks back at the huskarl, “I ask only that you listen to what I have to say.  Orkning sent me with you because I am a Korp.  He sent me because I know battle—”

“We all know battle!” Ofeig bellows, “We are not some troupe of stripling degkarls!”

“You are facing a force of unknown size and strength,” Guiromélans continues, ignoring the outburst.  “You spread out your karls, so you cannot attack in force.  We must regroup, so we can attack in strength.”

He raises his voice.  Though he still looks at Ofeig, he speaks to everyone.  “Planned right, 50 rested and ready karls can defeat twice their number… unless they attack only one at a time!”

He rides closer to the huskarl, braving the reach of his long sword.  “I understand your fury.  The udyronde bear the blood-wite, and you seek your mulct.  But you must use discretion if you wish to survive your blood feud.  It is best for man to be middle-wise.”

Ofeig looks around at his assembled hird before sheathing his sword.  “We ride, nothing stops us,” he says with finality.  Then looking back at Guiromélans, he adds, “If we arrive too late, you may yet regret your actions.”

Guiromélans bows in his saddle and sheathes his saber.

The final rise is before them.  The glow of low fires illuminates the crest from behind, and the scent of unhealthy smoke hangs thickly in black, stormy air.  Guiromélans tries to stop the Söderkarl, urging them to pause and plan their next move, but nothing now can stop their bloodlust.  They storm to the summit and, rearing their horses, bellow their challenge to the stead below.  Guiromélans sighs and spurs his horse ahead as well, followed by Baldruus and Caidryn.

Reaching the top, they see the scene of destruction before them.  The smaller böths of the stead lay in burning ruin.  The granary, the hothouse, the armory, others.  Only the longhouse still stands whole, though it is obvious that attackers have tried to set several fires across its roof and walls.  Countless therm swarm through the grounds, dancing in the firelight like demons.

At the huskarls’ challenge, the therm stop and roar their reply.  There will be no surprise here, no strategy, no tactics.  It will be a simple, murderous, bloodbath.  A chill runs down Guiromélans’s spine as he watches the beastmen begin to swarm towards their position.

“Are you ready for this?” Baldruus whispers in Palpi.

Guiromélans looks at the sorcerer.  “What do you mean by that?”

“Your friend can be down there.  You may have to face him.  You may have to kill him.”

Guiromélans draws his saber.  “Yes.”

He glances at Caidryn and observes the spatha in her white-knuckled grip, the muscles of her clenched jaw.  “Any chance of convincing you to stay back?”

She looks at him, and he sees the frightened but determined look in her eye.  “I’ve faced Muttese þiuda and diseased storm-queans and corrupt tyggskins.  I’ll meets these oversized dogs as well… unless yä wants tä draw lots again?  I’ve a lispund.”

Guiromélans smiles and shakes his head.  “Very well.  Then heed my advice.  Stay on your horse.  If you fall, get back on as quickly as you can.  I know Bracks prefer ground fighting, but in this case, make an exception.  You need to stay mobile.”

She grimaces and looks down at her steed uncertainly.

Guiromélans looks back at Baldruus.  “Watch her,” he says in Söderkarl.  “Keep her safe.”

“Of course!” Baldruus laughs, already summoning his spells.  “And you?”

With a roar, the Söderkarl raise their rifles and fire.  The air fills with the smell of sulfur and the pop-popping of each discharge.  The closest therm scatter, torn apart by the burning bullets.  Throwing down their spent firearms, the warriors storm down the hill, eager to embrace their enemies with their swords.  Guiromélans nods after them, “I must do what I can to keep them safe.”

With a laugh, Baldruus waves him on.

Guiromélans spurs his horse, following the hird as they roar down the snow-slickened slope.  In the face of the Söderkarl’s charge, the therm stop and draw their bows.  Their peculiar cork-screwing arrows sing through the air, felling several huskarls with the first volley, but momentum and rage are with the Söderkarl.  Some therm try to turn and flee, others charge.  The Söderkarl don’t even use their swords.  Instead, they crush the beastmen beneath the iron-shod hooves of their steeds.

After the initial charge, both lines are broken, and the battle degenerates into a chaotic melee.  As Guiromélans nears, he knocks aside two arrows with his sword and then rushes to aid two huskarls who have already fallen from their horses.  The burly warriors have been sorely wounded by the missiles, but they still defend themselves bravely from the feral attacks.  Guiromélans rides past them and, leaning low in his saddle, strikes down a therm.  The beast howls as one of its arms pinwheels into the night sky.

He wheels his horse around and charges.  Even as a therm leaps upon a huskarl, Guiromélans rides along side and cuts it down from behind.  Leaning down, he helps the stricken Söderkarl out from under the corpse.

“Many thanks, Korp!” he gasps.  Blood runs from deep gouges in his face—cruel arrows sprout from his side and chest—but he still holds his long sword with a firm grip.  Guiromélans can see the wounds will be fatal if he isn’t helped soon.

“You want me to take you out of here?”

“Nej!” he groans.  “I fight the arrow-storm, Korp, until I can lift my sword nej longer!”

“Courage and glory,” Guiromélans murmurs.  He notes that the other huskarl already lays still on the bloody ground.

Suddenly, his horse lurches forward violently.  Looking over his shoulder, he sees a therm sinking its claws into its haunches.  The steed screams and tries to bolt, but Guiromélans keeps the reins tight.  Leaning forward, he urges it to kick.  With the sound of stone striking stone, the horse’s hooves connect, and the smaller therm spins away.  With a bellow of fury, the wounded huskarl charges, burying his long sword into the stunned therm’s side.  Jerking the bloody blade from the body, he salutes Guiromélans before turning to face his next foe.

The hird are outnumbered, but with their horses, they are swifter and larger than their enemies.  Guiromélans spurs his to a gallop, killing two therm as they are closing on Ofeig.  He urges his horse to faster speeds as he races through the battle.  His saber is a blurring scythe, cutting efficiently, felling the bestial foes at every turn.  He saves his arm strength and uses his horse’s speed and power to inflict the deep wounds and deathblows.  Everywhere he turns, there are enemies to attack.  There are just too many for him to miss.

There are too many for his efforts to remain unnoticed.

His horse suddenly becomes difficult to manage.  It shakes its head and rolls its eyes left and right.  Turning in his saddle, he sees three therm pursuing him, a fourth closing from the side.  They bound after his panicking horse with great graceful leaps, nicking at its hocks and rump with claws and spears.

Guiromélans veers away from the approach of the fourth.  It is a reaction they expected.  It is the natural response of the prey—the therm love to dance the raskus, and each move they make blends with that of their prey—but they are quick to discover that Guiromélans is not easy prey.

With a sudden jerk, he turns his horse back and charges directly at the solitary therm.  The three behind him fall over themselves as they scramble to follow the unexpected move.  The surprised therm before him slides to a stop, scrabbling for purchase as Guiromélans’s horse bears down on it.  With a scream, it leaps straight into the air as Guiromélans’s saber cuts.

Blood sprays into Guiromélans’s eyes as he feels his jagged blade cut through muscle and bone.  Claws hook into his side, and he hears more than feels his flesh tear apart.

Clutching at his bleeding side, he spares a glance behind and sees the three remaining therm leap over the twitching pieces of their brother and continue the pursuit.

There are fires all around him, and Guiromélans realizes he is riding through the burning remains of the wrecked stead.  With each step, he can feel his horse straining, gasping.  After the long, hard ride to Mostheath, it has little endurance left for this battle.  His horse is tiring, and the therm behind are closing.

Turning it towards one of the pyres, he urges it forward one last time.  Nearly blind with fear, it tries to turn away or slow, but Guiromélans doesn’t allow it.  Holding a tight rein, he bellows at it to run harder, slapping its thighs with his saber.

Flames flicker around them as they gallop into the blazing böth.  Two more steps, and then the horse leaps.  Fire reaches up at them, singing their legs, faces.  Guiromélans keeps his eyes closed, but still the smoke and gas burn them and his lungs.

They pass through the flames and hit the ground with a jaw-rattling jolt.  Guiromélans immediately kicks his leg over and slides out of the saddle, letting his horse flee behind him.  Raising his saber, he faces the fire and waits.  Mere seconds later, the therm leap through.  Guiromélans disembowels the first as he ducks beneath.  Turning, he charges the second as it struggles to get its bearings.  Even as it turns, he lops off its rear leg.  Stepping forward, he severs its upper arm and then cuts off the top of its head.

He watches the two therm die as he lets the blood run from his blade.  He blinks.  There were three.  He looks up just in time to see the third appear from around burning building and leap onto his horse.  The two collapse in a bloody heap, and the horse screams as its throat is torn out.

Guiromélans charges as the therm crawls across the struggling beast in search of its rider.  Their eyes meet, and the therm roars.  Rearing onto its hind legs, it brandishes an oversized spear and bares its claws.

It lurches at him, the serrated edges of its spear flashing at his eyes and throat.  Guiromélans parries and dodges, trying to get inside the range of the spear, but just as he gets close, the claws of the therm’s upper arms force him back.  Fighting bipedally makes the therm slow and clumsy, but it lends them four hands for attacking.

Guiromélans circles his foe, watching the way it hops around to face him.  His hand clutches at his side, feeling the blood ooze between his fingers.  The situation is strangely reminiscent of his duel in the paqa outpost.  He can only hope the outcome will be the same, if not better.

The therm snaps its jaws at him, eager to crush him with its teeth.  It leaps, jabbing with the spear, and Guiromélans easily bats it down, driving its head into the ground.  A look of surprise passes across the therm’s face as it tries to pull its spear back and fails because Guiromélans is now standing on it.  It sneers and wrenches the spear back just as Guiromélans leaps.  The saber cuts downwards, cutting off a foreleg at the wrist.  A horizontal slash dismembers the upper arm on the same side.

The shocked therm staggers away, tipping backwards and falling onto its back.  Guiromélans darts forward, ducking beneath a wild swing of the spear, and ends its agony.

Looking past the corpse, he sees three more beastmen sniffing around for stray enemies.  There is simply too many of them for an unmounted man to stand alone for very long.  Behind him, the böth burns hotly.  There is nowhere for him to run or hide.

“Guiromélans!  Yä boduus asshole!”

Both Raven and therm look up at the cry and see Caidryn riding hard towards him.  Her face is bloody, her hair thickened and clotted with it, but her eyes flash whitely in the fiery darkness.  Guiromélans runs to meet her even as the therm do.

Glancing at the charging beastmen, she grits her teeth and spurs her horse.  Guiromélans runs harder, trying to time his arrival with theirs.  They are coming at her from her left, and she will be unable to use her heavy spatha to defend herself against them.  She will be helpless if he doesn’t get there in time.

Desperately, he tries to wave her off, to get her to veer to her right, to buy herself more time, so that he can engage them before they reach her.  A sly grin spreads across her face as she seems to understand.  With a twitch of her reins, her horse breaks right, and the therm moan their disappointment.

Guiromélans likewise adjusts his tack and closes on the creatures from an oblique angle.  His only chance is if they don’t notice him until it’s too late—their sense of smell is likely ruined by the smoke—he can only hope their night vision is likewise spoiled by the fires.

Just as he nears them, one glances in his direction and roars in surprise.  Almost immediately, a bolt of blue light explodes through its throat.  The two others startle as they see their comrade struggle and clutch at its bleeding neck.

Guiromélans bellows his challenge and charges into them.  The first tries to turn to meet him, and Guiromélans lays open its side with his saber.  Sparks flash as claw meets blade as he speeds past it and moves for the second.  He spins his saber around and attacks.  The therm rolls to its back in surprise, baring six sets of claws, and Guiromélans lops off its rear foot.  Insane with pain and shock, it lunges at him, seeking to crush him beneath its weight.  Guiromélans parries away the grasping claws as he spins and sidesteps.  The therm lands heavily on the ground, turns, and tries to slash at him.  Its wounded comrade crawls across its back, reaching for him as well.

A second bolt of light flashes, leaving a smoking hole in one therm’s chest.  Its eyes roll into its skull, and it collapses, pinning the second beneath its weight.

Even as Guiromélans closes carefully, the panicking creature slashes wildly as it struggles out from beneath the corpse.  It limps on its three remaining feet as it tries to warn the Raven off.  The sound of horse’s hooves comes too late for it to react.  Caidryn rides by, her spatha dipping deeply into its haunch.  The therm screams, spinning to try to catch her as she passes.  Guiromélans leaps into the opening and finishes the fight.

Caidryn turns and rides back to him.  She smiles proudly.  Her clothes are torn and bloody.  The scratches on her body and on her horse tell the tale of these past few minutes.  “These Söderkarl breed good horses, uh?” she shouts.

Guiromélans leaps onto the horse behind her.  “Go!  Go!” he shouts, gesturing towards the main longhouse.  “It’s no good for us to be alone here!  We must find the others!”

Caidryn mutters curses under her breath, but she does as he orders.  As they ride through the burning böths, Baldruus joins them.  The sorcerer looks haggard, exhausted, but otherwise uninjured.  Even as Guiromélans watches, he summons and fires another blue bolt at a pursuing therm.  The beast tumbles into the bloody snow, its shoulder now a gasping wound.

Ahead of them, there is a scene of carnage.  The corpses of men, therm, and horse are everywhere.  The stench of blood and bile mixes with the choking smoke.  Less than a dozen Söderkarl remain mounted.  They stay at the fringes of the stead, plunging into the fray to deal a few blows before retreating again.  The remainders of the hird are now dismounted and largely wounded.  Clustered together in a circle, they are harried by the more numerous therm from all sides.

Guiromélans points at the circle of Söderkarl.  “There!” he shouts to Caidryn, “Ride there!  We need to get in there!”

Caidryn grunts as she nods.  “You watch our left!” she yells as she leans right with her spatha.

“Baldruus!” Guiromélans shouts as he switches his saber to his left hand.  “Help us!  Clear a path and follow us in!”

The sorcerer wipes at his face and nods.  He is nearly at his limit.  Despite his cocky attitude, Guiromélans doubts the Mynyddi has seen much battle before this.

Clinging to Caidryn’s waist, Guiromélans leans left, cutting down or fending off any therm that try to block them.

“Run through them!” Guiromélans shouts to her, “Run them down if they get in front of us!  Trust your horse!”

Caidryn screams with fury as they plunge into the sea of therm.  Her spatha descends into their masses, chopping with the sounds of an axe cutting into wood.  Therm fall aside as Baldruus’s bolts blind and wound them.

Suddenly, Guiromélans hears the cries of men, and he sees Söderkarl diving out of the way of their charge.  Automatically, he reaches around Caidryn and grabs the reins from her, rearing their horse to an abrupt stop.  Baldruus is less successful in stopping his horse, and huskarls have to leap onto its neck to prevent it from carrying him through to the therm’s lines on the other side.

Caidryn turns and smiles broadly at Guiromélans.  “We did it, uh?” she exclaims.

Guiromélans smiles.  “Yes, we did.”

Without warning, he grabs her around the waist and slides them both off the exhausted steed.

“What!” she screams, rage suddenly replacing elation.

Gesturing to a burly huskarl, Guiromélans hands her off to him.  “She is strong.  She is skilled.  Use her.  But don’t let her back on this horse!”

The Söderkarl nods.

“What’re yä doin’?” Caidryn screams at him.

“You rode hard here, Caidryn,” Guiromélans says, “Your horse is exhausted.  It will only collapse beneath you and leave you someplace… inconvenient.  Besides, you’re a better fighter on your feet than on the back of a horse.  Do what you can to help these men.”

Baldruus approaches, and Guiromélans surveys his steed.  Compared to the others, his is relatively fresh.  The sorcerer had been keeping his distance, using his spells rather than his sword.  Guiromélans moves for the horse, “Off!  Get off!”

Baldruus slides off with some relief and holds the horse steady while Guiromélans mounts.  He eyes the growing stain in Guiromélans’s shirt and trousers.  “You’re wounded.”

“I’ll survive.”

Baldruus arches an eyebrow, “One would hope so.”

Guiromélans gestures towards the therm beyond the Söderkarl’s skirmishing line.  “I need to get back out there.”

Baldruus laughs.  “You’re crazy?”

“We’re all dead if we don’t do something!  Help me!”

The sorcerer nods.  “I will do what I can.  For as long as I can.”

“The ones with the spears,” Guiromélans hisses.  “Focus on them!”

His saber lashes out, cutting in two an arrow hissing towards his breast.  “And the ones with bows,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Of course!” Baldruus laughs.  “Anything else I can do for you?”

Guiromélans turns the horse, surveying the melee around him.  “There!” he yells to the Söderkarl, pointing his saber towards an opening.  “There!  Clear me a path!”

“Óriás, jâ!” a ridder gasps in awe, and the huskarls surge forward with a roar.

Guiromélans spurs the horse, shoving his way past man and therm alike.  His blade snakes out, cutting at the reaching claws.  An immense weight nearly topples him and his horse as a therm leaps upon them.  Spears and long swords pierce its sides and haunches, but it desperately tries to drag Guiromélans down with it.  With a swift backwards cut with his saber, the weight is gone.  Bringing his blade down across either side of his horse’s head, he clears away the therm in front.

He spurs the horse, and with two powerful leaps, he is clear of the melee.  Therm leap towards him from all sides.  Picking a direction, he accelerates to a gallop.  Blue bolts of fire fell or wound the therm that try to meet him, his sword kills the others.  The cluster of mounted karls stand at the fringes of the battle, and Guiromélans rides towards them.

“Óriás!” Ofeig shouts at him as he approaches the mounted Söderkarl, “You fight well!”

“Jâ!” another agrees, “You are a little man, Korp, yet you sit firmly in your stirrups!”

“Enough of me!” Guiromélans snaps.  He is tiring.  Fatigue, the fight, and his wounds are beginning to take their toll, and his temper is short.  He points at Ofeig, “You take two men.  Make your way to the longhouse.  We’re here to save those damned karls, and they sit in there in hiding!  Tell them to open their doors and get the Hells out here!”

Ofeig glances towards the longhouse and nods, “There may not be many…”

“Any will help our numbers!  I am not interested in saving men who lack the courage to save themselves!”

“Jâ,” he agrees.  “I will do it.”

Guiromélans stands in his stirrups.  “The rest of you, form up!” he bellows.  “Follow me!  Use your speed!  They cannot match us except in numbers!”  He points down to the dismounted Söderkarl who continue to fight desperately, “It is up to us whether our comrades live or die!”

The Söderkarl cheer, and following Guiromélans’s lead, they thunder back into the fray.  They’ve reached galloping speed when they meet the first of the therm.  Guiromélans’s horse trips as it tramples one, and he and his horse collide with the Söderkarl on his left.  Both men keep their saddles, and the horsemen pass through the battlefield relatively unscathed.

Turning around for another pass, they are attacked by arrows.  The bolts spiral through the air, burying themselves in horse and human flesh alike.  Guiromélans cuts down three, including one meant for the man on his left.  “Charge!” Guiromélans screams.  He points toward Ofeig and his two men who are being pursued by a pack of therm.  “Clear the way for Ofeig!  Go!”

The horsemen split into two groups.  One engages the stray therm that were harrying Ofeig and the occasional straggler Söderkarl.  The rest attack the therm circling the dismounted hird.

Guiromélans fights hard, but he is tiring.  Gradually, he holds his saber lower and lower as his arm weakens.  His attacks are more selective, as he picks only the best targets now.  His horse froths with the effort as well, flecks of sweat gathering on its shaggy coat.  He surveys the scene around him.  This fight had better end soon, one way or the other.

It is difficult to say—it is hard to discern the living from the dead from the dieing—but it looks like the sides may have evened.  There are still many more therm, but most of them appear to be harrying the livestock and horses of the stead.  Perhaps they haven’t realized that the tide is turning.

The circle of huskarls has slowly migrated across the yard, trying to reach the longhouse for protection.  Guiromélans is relieved to see Caidryn is still among them, though she now looks tired and frightened and is doing little fighting.

The distraction nearly proves fatal.  Guiromélans senses the heat and smell of the leaping therm before he sees it.  Its mass collides into his side.  Its claws scrabble across him for purchase and hook the flesh of his leg before it falls away.

Guiromélans cries out as his leg is torn open.  The horse pitches, and he looses the presence of the saddle beneath him.  The frozen heath meets him violently, he hears his arm snap, and he tumbles across ground and lays stunned in the snow.

Even before he has regained his senses, the therm leaps upon him, grabbing his leg in its maw.  Guiromélans reacts instinctively, and even before it can bite down, he plunges his saber down its throat.  Of the many universal constants among the animals in this world, he is gratified to see that the gag reflex is one of them.  The therm spits out his leg, followed by much blood and the remains of its previous meal.  It dies slowly, clutching at the sword driven into its throat.

Guiromélans rolls onto his back, trying to summon his strength, but there is none left to tap.  The pounding in his head makes it hard for him to see, and he realizes he must have struck it in his fall.

A roar of men fills the air, and he hears the report of gunfire.  Rolling to his side, he peers at the longhouse.  Vague figures spill from its bright portals.

Ofeig must have persuaded their charges to join the fray.  Guiromélans smiles.

Gradually, the embrace of unconsciousness overtakes him.

“Success, Óriás!”

Ofeig embraces Guiromélans and shakes him manfully.  The Raven moans and vainly tries to push him away.

“Ha!  Ha!” Ofeig laughs as he address the rest of the men around him, “Nej degkarl is this one!  Strength in numbers!  He fought like an óriás!”

As the huskarl carries on, Guiromélans slumps back down onto his cot and rolls to his side.  His head feels heavy, bandaged, and his side and leg are nearly immobile.  Gingerly he explores them with his fingers and is relieved to discover them merely tightly bandaged.  His broken arm is also well restrained.

The air around him is tight with heat and the smells of blood and alcohol.  He sees he is inside the besieged longhouse.  The bodies of the injured or dieing Söderkarl lay all over the floor.  Guiromélans’s status must have been elevated since he is given the privilege of a cot.

Either that, or his injuries are much worse than he suspects.

As he watches, old women and young girls tend to the dead, washing the naked bodies and cutting their hair and nails.

Guiromélans tries to count the dead by numbers of long swords piled in a corner, but he quickly looses track and gives up.  He will learn the news soon enough.

Someone sits heavily next to his cot, and it takes him several seconds to recognize Baldruus.

“You are well?” he murmurs.

“Better than you,” Baldruus answers.  He briefly checks Guiromélans’s dressings before giving up and sagging back to the floor with exhaustion.

“I have no magic left—no healing for you—so don’t even ask.  I’m all used up on men even worse off!  Not to worry, there are other sorcerers.  Whatever we don’t get around to fixing, I’m sure that crone in Hardanger will mop-up.”

“How…” Guiromélans sighs, “How did we do?”

“Nearly 30 dead,” Baldruus says, “Another 20 might as well be so, most won’t make it through the day.  Nearly twice that many are wounded—but they’ll recover—though they’ll bear the scars.”  Baldruus smiles and displays three ragged wounds across his shoulder, “Like me!”

Guiromélans moans and closes his eyes, “I’m sorry…  So sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It’s like Ofeig is saying.  Without you, everyone in his hird would have died.  Without you, everyone in this stead would have died.  Those who live do so by your graces.”

“So it’s over?”

“Not quite,” Baldruus shakes his head.  “The udyronde have fled into the woods.  The karls of Mostheath thirst for revenge and are pursuing them.”

“No, wrong,” Guiromélans warns.  “Don’t let them.  It’s finished.  It’s over.  I’ve had a plenitude of bloodshed for now.  The udyronde are finished for this night.  Let them end it before it starts again.”

The sorcerer nods, “I will tell them so.”

Baldruus hesitates before leaving.

“Guiromélans.  Caidryn is fine.”

The Raven smiles without opening his eyes.  “Of course she is.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because you’re here with me, fool.”

Baldruus smiles.  Moments later, he begins to chuckle.  “I have to hand it to you, Raven.”

“What is that?”

“A Medianist dreadnought, a true themoch, a war between Söderkarl and udyronde!  You have one hell of a way of committing suicide!”

Patting Guiromélans’s arm, he walks away laughing.