The further his steps took him from the Great Hall, the futher away were his thoughts of the huntress. His warrior's heart, his warrior's mind - they focused on the matter at hand. Picts were approaching. Supposedly a war band, but how big a war band? The warrior paused infront of the barracks, before stepping in, Warriors that had them strapped on crudely made chain armor, some even metal plating. Others simple pulled out fur or leather cloaks, to sheild the frost bitten air that set on this morning. Fearghus looked about - while most of his belongings were kept in his quarters, he still kept his heavier armors in the barracks, along with various weapons. On this day, he would not choose his standard chainmail, scale mail, or even the fur, leather, and plated chestguard he often wore.

He pulled on leather padding first, following by the coat of chain first, as he might normally. He wrapping the same padded leggings about him, before pulling on the chainmail legs. Then came the plating, forged by Cimmerian Blue Steel. Wrists. Shoulders. Torso. Legs. It was not comfortable. It was not flexible. It did protect. He pulled on the iron helm he kept with the plate, and wrapped his weapons belt around his waist. His two favorite weapons, a curved and wicked looking blade of his own making, and a battleaxe, looted off the corpse of an Aesir marauder. Though he always took the two with him, and though he normally wielded them, this time, he needed something else. Picts were ferocious beasts, and aye, dealing with a small band of them he could do his normal routine in battle. This wasn't a skirmish. The alarm in the voice of the warrior that dared to wake him - it was something bigger. Far bigger.

He wrapped his hands around the pommel of the war sword, and lifted it. He examined the weapon and noddded once in satisfaction - on this day, he would fight with the larger weapon. Though he may have been a natural in dual wielding blade and axe, it was still easier to handle the larger weapon. One weapon, one focus.

"Tell me," Fearghus growled, "How big is the war band?"

The very warrior who woke him - known in the village as Aelholf - glanced at the Skirmish Lead, "It isn't small. I think... and I am sorry I don't know the exact numbers but, I think we have at least two hundred Pict heads in that band."

The Warrior grimaced, "Two hundred. Someone made them angry. Very well. Let the hunters know... find Elder Windseeker and tell the hunters to flank them. Picts are overwhelming in numbers, even if we have the larger force, we will take heavy losses. We need to find a way to have the hunters prevent that?"

Aelholf frowned, "What are you suggesting?"

"Bait. Tell Elder Windseeker... we need bait. She will know what that means."

Aelholf nodded once, and made his way to find the huntress. Fearghus frowned... he knew what that meant. It meant he would need to test his stoicism. If the bait succeeded, in the best case, whoever was put out there would walk away from it all intact. Worst case... the sacrifice of one to save many others. Picts were gullible creatures, always looking at what was right infront of them. Attack from the front, distract from the rear... flank from the sides. Perfect. Again he grimaced.

He made his way to the gates, and stepped outside, joining the rest of the warriors that began to form up. Sluaghadh, Cathal, many faces he reocognized. Some he liked. Some he despised. All were kin. All were clan. All he would fight and die for. The Warrior was no Chief, nor Elder, but the Skirmish Lead, the lead defender on an attack, the main attacker on a raid. He was a blade of the Chieftain, of the Warchief, of the Lawgiver, of the Trialmaster. He was a vanguard.

He gripped his blade and moved forward. His boots crunched the snow beneath his feet. His breath was chilled. He glanced down at the ridge below, at the trees. He saw the Picts. They slaughtered the beasts that lurked in the woods. They moved uphill.

Fearghus glanced behind at his men, glanced forward, and charged.

***

Gods. She didn’t know why she was cursing. She hated Picts. So disgraceful even the devil doesn’t want their filth-smeared hides. What drives men to eat each other’s flesh? The thought of them in Adharca, doing the same to her clansmen… she cringed. That wouldn’t happen.

Isleen was finishing the workings and buckles of her harness, lined on the shoulders with dark fur. It wasn’t a matter of protection for her. It was one of speed. If she was caught, she would need to run. She did not possess the fortifications of a warrior, nor the strength. Crom blessed her not with muscle at birth, but agility. She was born of hunters, and hunt she would. Had she been a southerner, or some Nordheimer, she might have paused to utter a prayer. But she was Cimmerian. She needed no gods and burned no offerings to the unseen powers. She would fight and if she fell, she’d wander the grey mists forever. No different, she thought, than the ones waiting her today in life. This was her ritual – to be reminded that her own death is nothing to fear. It is unpreventable.

“Elder,” a man called out as Isleen left the keep. “How far are they?” she returned. She heard the man rushing up beside her, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. His shadow beheld a lanky fellow, his very presence telling of a thinly muscled man unfit for the front-lines. And he was not unlike the others before them with bows slung over their backs and woad smeared on their flesh, to hide them from the attention of the enemy. “Not far,” the lanky man – Donal, he was called – said flatly and spat on the ground. “Not close. Yet. Skirmishers are getting ready to do what they do.” His shadow moved rapidly, his fingers drawing out an invisible map in front of the already blind woman. “Bet that wasn’t a very cuddly wake-up, was it?” he then quipped, smirking.

“That isn’t your concern, Donal,” she answered. She was an elder, but it had a knack for not crossing the minds of some clansmen. Donal had the tongue of a jackal, the kind that wasn’t fixed by a simple beating. He was silenced and slinked away to find his steed, but he kept a sly smile. “Very well,” Isleen sighed, addressing the hunters that stood before her. “You know what this is about— protect the clan, protect each other. Let’s go.”

******


They crawled in the hills. They hid in the trees. The Picts were near and so were the hunters. Their breaths were chilled, coming in thick foggy drafts. Donal laughed mischievously as he and another sent out to scout bounded over the shrubs and grass to meet Isleen. “The bloody bastards are in the trees,” Donal said almost excitedly, nearly tripping over a stone on the ground. “We can get them if we’re fast. I don’t think—”

“Elder Windseeker!”

Isleen turned, casting her blind eyes on the man. She recognized his voice, but he wasn’t a hunter. It was one of the skirmishers. For a moment Isleen’s heart sank and hardened all the same, dreading what he might have to say. And it was, somewhat, confirmed. Aelholf delivered his message from Fearghus. She let out a grim sigh and turned away. Curse these sick-brained flesheaters. “Run back to Fearghus,” she told Aelholf. “I have his message. There will be bait. If we can keep the Picts in the trees, it may help.”

The skirmisher dismissed, Isleen turned to the hunters. They could see it in her eyes: she did not want to make this decision. They knew if not for her status, she would go out for them. She would be the bait. But they needed a leader and that was why…

“Elder,” Donal spoke. His tone was not the quick, mischievous pipe of a jackal, but of a man willing to test his honor and courage for his clan. “I’ll go.” Isleen could not see him, but he knew she was looking. He smiled. “Don’t give me that look. It’s just some bloody pissed off cannibals. What’s the worse that could happen?” Without waiting for her approval, he turned and set off for what they all hoped not to be his ultimate destiny in life. Two other hunters followed him, needing no encouragement to defend their kin.

Likewise, Isleen signaled for the rest to move. It was time to flank and disarray. Where the skirmishers would butcher the Picts, the hunters would help make it easier. “Bring the oil and the torches,” Isleen snarled. “Bring the ropes and barbs. We hang Picts this day.”

***

Two hundred picts. Not one of them with the reasoning to avoid a slaughter.

Fearghus braced for it. The battle was at hand, he could not wait any longer. The more time wasted, the more grounds the Picts had. Luckily for the skirmishers, they held the high grounds. Fearghus clutched the war sword, and looked to his left, then his right. The charge was iminent. They moved forward, all of the axes, and blades aimed at the savages below them. The initial charge was brutal, bloody, and over in the blink of an eye. Steel weapons met wooden weapons, armored warriors met the naked flesh of barbarians far more barbaric then the northern hillmen. Blood met the frost covered ground. Dying screams echoed from the Picts. The Skirmishers had won the initial charge.

More was to come. The Skirmishers saw the main host of the tribal savages. They were moving fast. The Skirmish Lead made several hand signals that only his men understood. The warriors used the snow, the dirt, and the trees to conceal their appearance. Fearghus smeared woad on his face, and leaned on the tall sword he wielded. The Picts came closer. Yet as they approached, their move slowed. Fearghus squinted his eyes, watching as their Chief barked words to some of the other savages. He had no knowledge of the Pictish Tongue, but from the tone of the words, and the actions of the various warriors, they were inspecting the area. The Warrior grimaced - if they were not careful, they would be found.

"Come and get me you Pictish whelps!"

If someone else didn't get found out before hand. Fearghus eyed the wirey fellow who charged into the area, blades waving wildly. The Picts all turned. The lad - Fearghus knew him as Donal - paused in his tracks, as if realizing his error. The Warrior had to decide... would he risk failure to save this boy, or would he allow a butcher's job? Fearghus struggled with the choice... the boy was not what he had in mind as bait. He glanced towards the other skirmishers, and again made several hand signals. As foolish at the boy was, there was no sacrificing of one for many. The Chieftain might have made such a choice, as might have others, but Fearghus was Hoath born. No man would be left to die alone. And so he emerged from the brush, sword raised, an angry yell as he charged. The others followed suit, jumping out, blades singing.

The Picts at first tried to retreat, but as several fell, the rest turned to fight. Fearghus spotted the Pictish Chief making his way to Donal. He ran in, tackling the leader of the savages to the ground. The Chief growled, and attempted to bite at the Warrior, but Fearghus quickly rolled off the Pict, and made his way to his feet. He brought the blade down, but the Pict Chief moved. The leader of the war host raised his own weapon, a wicked looking wooden axe, with an iron head and base. Crude, and hardly wieldable, yet deadly looking. Fearghus's eyes narrowed. He brought up his weapon in a guarded manner, moving towards his enemy. He braced for an attack.

He made the right call. The Pict came in furiously, bringing the axe towards Fearghus. There was no way the war sword would not be torn from his grip, and so instead of blocking or parrying, the Cimmerian merely jumped backwards. The axe met the dirt, and the Warrior stepped in, thrusting the war sword into the heart of the Pictish Chief.

Yet unlike other tribes, the Picts did not retreat. He looked on at the chaos. The bloodshed. While he may have won the battle, he saw at least three dead Skirmishers. If the hunters did not get there soon...

"Crom help us all..."

***

“What do you mean he’s gone?” It took all she had not to fume, but the blind woman’s stoicism was faintly shattered by the announcement. She stood on a grassy knoll that, had she the ability, overlooked the frosty earth that was hastily transforming into a battlefield – and very recently a sea of blood. Her bow was strapped to her back, her blades hanging from the red sash that marked her as an elder in the clan, but Isleen would have no direct participation in the battle… for now. It was one thing for her to hunt alone or in a small group. It was one thing to hunt a beast or a few Picts. She knew the paths, she knew how to.

But this was two hundred Picts – a small army. And she would not risk firing an arrow into a fellow clansman if even for the briefest moment she doubted his identity and could not tell friend from foe amidst the action. She fought beside her clan against an army of Hyperboreans in time now past, but her wounded shoulder allowed her only the use of her blades, and if it came to that she would use them here as well. For now, she would direct the hunters.

“We can’t find him,” repeated Cearbhall, another hunter and at the moment, Isleen’s eyes. “We saw Donal run right in front of the bastards and stop. It was kind of funny,” he chortled.

“The thought of your kinsman in danger amuses you?” Isleen asked darkly. Cearbhall bowed his head. “No,” he answered. “But after the skirmishers charged out of the brush, we lost sight of Donal. Don’t know what happened to him.”

Isleen let out a troubled sigh. “Nevermind, is everything ready?” Cearbhall nodded. Isleen sensed the movement and returned the nod. “Good. Tell me what happens.”

“The hunters make their way to the trees, Windseeker…”

*****


“Crom help us all…”

It wasn’t Crom when the first arrow singed through the air after the skirmishers charged and bled into the cannibals. When the Pictish chief stained the ground with his corpse, when chaos wailed in his death, there came a wet rasp as an arrow struck a Pict in his throat. He convulsed as he struggled to find air and to scream out his agony.

Hundreds of arrows flew from the trees from behind and beside the Pictish horde. Many collapsed instantly. Some screamed and yelled in surprise and fear. And others turned with their own crudely shaved bows in hand, and began firing upon the enemy hunters. Cimmerians fell from their perches and landed lifelessly on the ground.

A Cimmerian huntress, called Alana, turned her eyes from her perch and looked onward at the grassy knoll in the near distance. Cearbhall raised his hand and made a gesture all too clear to her….

“Barbs!” she yelled to her comrades. “Trap them!” Barbs, lengths of rope woven with metal barbs. Each hunter took an end and worked quickly to attach rope to arrow, letting them loose to stick on the ground. As Picts attempted to pass through the trees the hunters corralled them, trapping between the sharp ropes (if the cannibals managed to stop before rushing head first into them). And as they glanced up into the branches, they saw only death: the Cimmerians, their blood-red tartans fluttering grimly in the cold wind, bows at the ready, were now firing upon the trapped bundle of Picts, spilling their blood upon the frosted earth…

…and Isleen nodded grimly as Cearbhall described all he could see. “Good." She gestured behind them. "Call the others. It is time."

***

Crom would not help - he was a true god - one who didn't give a damn. None of the gods of Cimmeria gave a damn, or if they did, they expressed it in grim ways. Yet it was almost a symbol of the Morrigan that sprung out, striking at the Picts, as the barbed arrows were let loose. Some of the savages stopped in time, surviving the onslaught, yet they were trapped. Others ran into the barbed arrows, bloodied and shredded open. Fearghus smiled grimly, it was the opening they needed. He clutched his war sword, and with the rest of the skirmishers, went about their bloody business. Heads, arms, legs, even whole torsos were severed from the Picts. Blood splattered the ground, death filled the air. The warrior felt victory from a distance, yet there was much work to do.

"Do not let them regroup!" The Skirmish Lead called.

He made sure to duck under the barbs, or to step over them. It was a perilous ordeal, even the skirmishers of the clan had to take care not to cut themselves. Fearghus was no stranger to this tactic however, and neither were his men. Savage after savage was cut down, but more kept coming. It seemed as a large army of them, howling, growling, stampeding through. The Pictish Invasion kept coming, and with every cut, with every slash, more took their place. Had they underestimated the numbers of the Pictish force?

Fearghus noted Aelholf from the corner of his eye. The skirmisher was wounded, fighting now not with his own weapons, but with a Pictish Spear. His left eye appeared to be gone, blood oozing in its place. He thrust and withdrew the spear, killing Picts as best as he could. The Warrior's eyes opened in alarm as he noted another Pict run up behind him - he moved to try to intercept, only to find himself on the ground, a sharp pain in the back of his head. He heard the sound of gurgling, and a body slump to the ground. His vision was blurry from the hit, and he saw Aelholf's corpse on the ground. Fearghus grunted, and turned over onto his back. He blinked at the massive sight before him.

This one was a Pict, but he was a giant of a Pict. Not the normal sized ones, or even the smallest of the cannibals. He was a giant of man, possibly even taller then the Chieftain of the Elkhorn. He was bulky, adorned in furs. He held Fearghus's war sword, a sight which caused the Warrior to curse. This Pict was different. He was not attacking with an unbridled rage as the others. His movements were deliberate.

And it spoke.

"Your clan will not survive! I am Uurgut, King of the Death River Tribe. I will crush you!" It spoke, in a strained form of the Cimmerian tongue.

Fearghus growled, "A Pictish King? A mad cannibal chieftain..."

Uurgut snarled at that, Fearghus's light provocation pulling him into the fury the others were so quick to fall into. He brought the sword down, but Fearghus rolled out of the way. The Warrior pulled himself up to his feet. He found his footing, and scrambled up. He stared at the tall Pict, and charged in. The Pictish Chief who called himself a King turned the blade around, smashing the hilt against the Skirmish Lead's face. Fearghus stumbled back, as he felt warm blood splash his face. He felt a dizzying sensation, but he wouldn't allow himself such a simple defeat. Yet he was groggy, unable to move it seemed.

Uurgut charged, aiming for his prey. Yet as his blade seemed to meet Fearghus's chest, the Warrior moved, his hand reaching out, grabbing hold of the blade, as his food moved, and kicked out the Pict's feet from under him. The Cimmerian winced as he felt the blade dig into the palm of his hands, yet it was only for an instant, as the Pict fell to the ground. Fearghus allowed the blade to fall, as he held his hand for a moment.

"Urhgh..." the Pict groaned.

Fearghus snarled, "Your death is now."

The Cimmerian watched as the Pict attempting to pick himself up, but the thrust of the foot sent the Chief flat on his stomach. The Skirmish Lead smiled grimly once more, and as the Pict known as Uurgut tried to move one more time, the Warrior's boot smashed against the back of his skull. The Pict twitched underneath as brains leaked out, staining the ground, and the Warrior's boot.

Fearghus wiped the blood from his own face and glanced about at the chaos that continued around him...

"I hope she can get more arrows singing... before this madness takes us all..."

***

“Picts,” cooed Veledah’s smoky words in her head, “are as ants and rats. You never need fear their extinction; there will always be more to replace the fallen.” Isleen could remember her first experience with the Pictish savages. She was not yet a woman when she and Veledah were ambushed by a tribe of them, but not even the shamaness opted to stay and fight them for long. Even Veledah feared them to a degree, more so than the bandits of the Border Kingdoms and the cruelty of the southern clans.

Isleen rushed from tree to tree. The hunters smeared in their woad or the mud of the earth, or even the blood of beasts they slaughtered beforehand, ran behind and beside the elder. Cearbhall was close, though he could not imagine how the huntress flew over such obstacles without the use of her eyes. He knew she was aware of the paths and that she could sense the incoming – but something about it seemed unnatural. The blind do not belong in the fight. They are confined to their huts to go mad and spin tales of the future, or sing of the sullen land that is Cimmeria.

Presently there was a great howl of rage as a small flurry of Picts spilled down the side of a tree-spotted hill, their crude and misshapen weapons raised high over their heads as the rain of their fury bull-rushed the hunters. Only the Cimmerians furthest from the front stopped to fire their arrows. Others never paused. Isleen pulled her blades from her waist and struck the first Pict to reach her, his rank breath hot on her skin as she stabbed the poor bastard in the gut, and with her small blade she slashed his throat, thrusting her foot into his chest and forcing him to the ground. With a barbaric cry she stomped her leather boot on his head, relishing the warmth of his lifeblood on her skin. She would not lament the death of these savages. She would savor it.

“Strike them down!” she cried viciously. They needed to reach the others. She had sent what hunters she could in haste to the skirmishers, but they were a much smaller group in comparison to this one. If they were divided for too long the Picts might overcome both groups and the skirmishers would have no arrows to back up their force.

Cearbhall finished cutting down the nearest cannibals, and with most of the hunters still standing moved forward. The assault was short and neither he nor Isleen wanted to stick around to fall for any traps the Picts might have in store if the savages were aware of the incoming Cimmerian presence. They charged over and down hillsides following the not too distant sound of battle ahead, the screams of death ringing in their ears loudly as they closed in, falling in formation from behind bush and tree that hid them. Where the former hunters attacked the Picts from the trees and fired down upon them from above and behind, these hunters flanked the cannibals. Isleen could hear the skirmishers roaring as they clashed with Picts; she could hear Alana barking commands and the noise of arrows flitting like wasps, swords clinging and clunking against wooden weapons; a mess of sound, but there was a shadow and shouting she was sure she recognized better than all – the sound of her mate.

“Raise,” the blind woman cooed and signaled her hunters. Cearbhall repeated this signal at his end. Their bows were poised and aimed expertly on every vulnerable inch of Pictish flesh – which was not hard to find – and steadied. “Make them fly.”

More arrows entered the battle and the body of enemies. Pictish heads became fountains of blood, throats and bellies became rivers. Naked bodies were pinned to trees. It was all meant to cause panic. The Picts knew of their enemy from above, but with hope they would not realize the enemy striking from the side as they were. Isleen listened morosely. She would not allow her blood to boil over with rage or hatred, however much she wanted to. Veledah had taught her differently. The shamaness taught the girl a grave silence they knew; a calm mind and a steady soul.

*******


While he watched and indeed, fired his own arrows upon the Picts, aiming particularly for the ones who assaulted the skirmishers from behind, Cearbhall felt a distant unease rising in his belly. He wasn’t sure if it was Windseeker’s sudden calmness where moments before she was ripping apart Picts or if it was something greater. Perhaps it was simply the battle at hand. The cannibals seemed to be spilling out of nowhere. Cimmerians though skilled were falling. The day was grimmer than most.

The hunter tapped an arrow to his bow and prepared another hit when out the corner of his eye there was a strange silhouette. As the hunters continued their slaughter Cearbhall turned to have a better look. The silhouette crouched on a boulder in the distance and the hunter thought he sensed familiar, jackal-like eyes gazing at him from afar. Cearbhall raised an eyebrow. He looked over his shoulder at Isleen, who stood like a woman-shaped cairn upon the earth, and then back to the silhouette. He cautiously began his walk toward the figure. Could it be…

“…Donal?”

***

Arrows. They rained down on the savages, some merely grazing their flesh; others, pinning them to trees. More blood was shed, more death was wrought. Though good men had been lost, the battle was turning in the favor of the Cimmerians. Fearghus gritted his teeth as his eyes scanned about, watching the fights around him. Sometimes it would be single fights; a Cimmerian would fight a lone pict. Othertimes, there would be groups, or several attacking one - for both sides. The howling, the screaming, the battlecries. They were bloodthirsty, piercing. Cimmerian or Pict, it disturbed the land around it. Any animals that would lurk nearby, flew or scurried away, lest they be caught in the chaos.

Fearghus saw the opening. The battle was seamingly won. He saw his Skirmishers taking to the offensive. Picts began to flee, others fought to they fell at the ends of blades, spears, axes. The Warrior breathed deep, confident in his men. They woud not let him down. They would butcher every savage that came near - whether they were running, or whether they were fighting. Picts were rabid animals. They knew nothing but whole sale slaughter. The Warrior watched his men - they ran down their foes.

He climbed up, away from the scene of much of the violence. He needed to check in with the archers, but he knew he would not - he could not - spare a single man. If the Picts realized they still had greater numbers in the thick of the combat, they would surely regroup. No - better to finish them off soundly, better to end their miserable lives now.

He looked around - for his huntress. His eyes spotted the form from a distance - Donal was it? He frowned. He glanced over and saw Isleene, and made his way to her, breathing raggedly, exhausted... yet full of energy.

"Blasted fight... we can win this if the skirmishers stay on the offense..."

***

The silhouette moved and Cearbhall wondered if he imagined the figure. It could be Isleen’s sharp words had struck him. “The thought of your kinsman in danger amuses you?” Guilt – Cearbhall shook his head. He would not cave in to guilt. It was Donal’s own fault for not returning to the hunters, for dashing out in front of the Picts like a damned fool. But still, if Donal was wounded… Cearbhall would not turn away from kin. He climbed up the hillside from whence he saw the wiry jackal of a man, digging the butt of his sturdy bow into the earth for support. He grunted, wiping the sweat and filth from his eyes that he’d gained from butchering Picts face-to-face earlier. “Donal!” he called, but carefully. He did not want to alarm any enemy that might be lurking. “Donal. Where are you, ya bastard?” He looked right and left. He scanned the trees for reasons unknown. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. Something was strange about all of this. If it had been Donal he saw, why did he wander away from the hunters – not to them? Surely he had seen Isleen and the others. Hells, Cearbhall swore he had felt the man’s eyes on him.

“Crom’s foot, Donal, I’m not playing games. If you don’t show yourself…” he faded. And – unsurprisingly – only silence answered. Shaking his head, the hunter turned and started his way back down the hillside. He didn’t have time to waste chasing after whelps, even if they were his own kin. But then, there was a voice. “Cearbhall,” Donal called flatly. The old hunter turned around, eyeing the direction from where it came, “Aye?” There was a moment of pause, a loud rustling. Donal emerged from what appeared to be a thicket, covered in all manner of filth. Most distinguished was the blood coating him roughly head to toe, both old and new. He panted lightly. “There’s a lot of them, isn’t there?” he asked, but something in his voice said he already knew the answer. Cearbhall raised an eyebrow. “Aye, but we’re doing well. Skirmishers are driving them back and the rest of us have them panicked from the flanks. What are you doing out here?”

“There’s so many…” Donal continued. “They don’t stop coming. They won’t.” There was faintness about the lanky man. He was faded, vulnerable. He shook his head as if disagreeing with some invisible force. Cearbhall swallowed a nervous lump in his throat and passed Donal’s strangeness for a concussion. He must have been hit in the head, or something. “Come on, Donal. I’m taking you to Windseeker.”

“No,” Donal replied. “Come with me. I-I’ve got to show you something.” He turned, headed back for the thicket. He paused only to wave his hand in summoning. Cearbhall frowned. “Crom,” he cursed under his breath. His hackles were rising but, a stronger need to help his clansman overwhelmed that sensation. He followed Donal. Where he followed, gods only knew.

******


Wisps of air blew Isleen’s hair into her face as arrows flew. Somehow, the sound was comforting. All her life she was surrounded by the noise of arrows, the sound of a straining bowstring. She was content and at the same time, tense. She focused on staying calm. Somewhere she heard the cry of a raven and the faint beating of wings in the darkness. Was Badb on their side or was it merely a knowing scavenger waiting for the feast?

The song of arrows filled her ears once more as her mind wandered away from her thoughts and settled on the battle. She heard the roaring, the rushing, the cries and screams from both sides; she listened grimly to the melody of war around her – and then his voice…

“We are doing well,” she answered Fearghus as she made her way around the archers, offering him a small grin as she approached. “No doubt it’s a mess down there though. I think all of Cimmeria can hear it.” She turned her eyes on the hunters and then back. “Do you know where Donal ran off to? He never came back to us. Cearbhall said you had to tackle a Pict for him.”

***

Fearghus grimaced. "Not a damn clue... I thought I saw him in the distance..."

The warrior shook his head. The carnage, the mayhem, it seemed to be slowing down, yet it wasn't any less bloody. The mass of the picts seemed to slow - those who stood and fought were butchered. Those who ran, were butchered even more. Gore covered the landscape around them. The warrior' hair was caked in it, his armor too was stained. It was the aftermath of so much fighting, so much chaos. His eyes looked down on the scene below him, the sight of picts being slaughtered. It was a victory he didn't treasure - this was simple butchery. It was not a test of skill, it was a test of survival, of tenacity and the will to live.

He glanced at the huntress, his mate. His eyes appreciated her form, even in this time of fighting. No doubt he wanted to take her there in the mists of the bloodshed - though warriors would no doubt find such an act to be at the wrong time. Too many enemies still standing, and too many at this point would find themselves watching. Fearghus cracked a half grin, and lightly moved past her, a hand lightly moving to run across her shoulders, before he returned his full grip to his war sword. A passing thought for later - first, he wanted to figure out what was going.

Shriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiik!

The loud piercing sound filled the air. Fearghus winced at the sound and turned, facing the carnage below. Picts that lived stopped their fighting. They fell to their kneels - no - they lay flat on their stomachs, a symbol of worship. Cimmerians paused, looking for the sound of the blood curdling shriek. Fearghus edged closer.

Then he saw it.

It was the size of two men stacked upon each other - a giant shape. It walked with a limb, it dragged a large club. It was disheveled and misshapen. It's face was two faces, one horrid and ugly visage. It breathed, and growled, it lumbered slowly - and it shrieked ever so often. The Picts of the Death River Tribe seemed to venerate it - to worship it. The creature looked as if it were both a man, and a beast. A Pict itself, no doubt, warped by whatever sorceries the picts had found in the area they came from - it was not unheard of for the beasts to stumble upon ancient ruins and toy with the foul demonic essences that lurked.


Fearghus gripped his war sword and charged in - he wanted a crack at the demon.

***

Isleen let out a sigh of frustration. Her blood was ready to boil, but she would not waste her thoughts on the jackal. She would deal with him later. Her thoughts instead turned to Fearghus, and she found they would not stop. Even here among the destruction raging below she felt her heart was light, beating rapidly as he came nearer to her.

She savored his musk, the virility of his presence, the gentleness of his hand as it swept over her shoulders and caused her skin to sizzle pleasantly under the touch. Her instinct briefly turned to that of an animal – a she-wolf, not a woman. She desired him, and the fire of combat did nothing to dampen that lust. Yet she shook her head and turned her mind to the present situation. She would have him soon enough.

The loud, screeching pierce shocked the huntress, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise and her skin crawl. She pressed her hands against her sensitive ears to muffle out the sound. “What is that?” she demanded, wincing. Isleen swore she could feel the earth shudder as the creature moved, or perhaps it was merely the exaggeration of the noise the – thing – made. As she sensed Fearghus dash away, no doubt to fight the creature, an unsettling discomfort churned in her stomach. “I want arrows ready for whatever that thing is,” she barked to the hunters as she fingered her blades. “Cearbhall has the run of things for now. I’m going down there.”

“Cearbhall isn’t here,” announced one of the hunters. Isleen turned sharply. “What?” She feigned to look around, searching for his shadow among the others. The previous hunter frowned. “He isn’t here,” he repeated helplessly, no more than a boy who’d just come of age and was handed a bow. “I saw him go into the hills. I thought, maybe you told him to.” Anger welled up within the huntress. But it wasn’t the boy she was angry with. It was Cearbhall. It was Donal. Men kept leaving where they ought to stay. This was battle. She shook her head as she put away her blades and gripped her bow, readying an arrow on the string. “Fine – archers ready.”

They obeyed. Each aimed for a Pict or for their monster-deity. Isleen herself aimed for the latter, for the downfall of large prey is that they cast a greater shadow and she could single this one out easily enough among the rest. She let loose her arrow, aiming for the thing’s head or somewhere close to it. As she did the other hunters released their arrows, hurling them into the enemy one-by-one once more. Crom’s hall if you don’t have a reason, Cearbhall, Isleen thought.

*****


“Just a little farther, Cearbhall,” Donal announced weakly as he led the older man over the thickets and stone, his hands cut and bruised as he moved away the scraggly branches of dead, fallen trees. Cearbhall followed cautiously. He studied the damage on the young man’s person. Had Donal been fighting something? He had he lost? The hunter looked up and saw a tendril of black smoke rising in the air. He could smell it strongly in his nostrils now, but it was a strange stink. There was something sweet about it – too sweet. It made his stomach roll. “What is that, Donal?” he questioned.

“You will see,” the young hunter answered simply.

***

A large thing this demon was. Large, brutish, ugly, almost making the rest of the Picts seem attractive. It too was a Pict, and the barbarians he fought were worshiping it. The Death River Tribe were mesmerized by it. And when Fearghus rushed in, their jaws dropped in horror, as war sword tore through its flesh. The deformed monster howled in anger, in ferocity as it thrashed, raising the club, and bringing it down. Fearghus was already gone before he could get hit with it - and every attempt failed. The club would smash the ground, cause dust to leave the soil, or smash into one of the fervish Pictish followers. Fearghus kept on his feet, timing his slashes.

Picts began to swarm him - but in a whirlwind of one large blade, the war sword cut Pict after Pict apart. Fearghus's face, his armor, was covered in blood. He charged the demon again. This time he felt his luck briefly flee him - as the beast winded him not with its club, but with the tenacity of the swing. Though missing his death by inches, the wind it kicked up send Fearghus back. He rolled out of the way, and quickly unhooked his armor as it snagged on the torn branches on the ground with him. He brought himself up, and charged, but paused, noting the stance of the demon - club raised.

He heaved his blade back and threw it - straight into the monster's heart, killing it, ending its miserable life. And just like that it fell lifeless. Its followers fleed, and Fearghus focused on one person in his line of sight.

****

Piece by piece his armor dropped as he felt the desire overwhelm him. He walked right up to his huntress, and pulled her into a heated kiss. He tore at her armor, no longer caring, no longer giving a damn if any saw them in the heat of the moment. Hands crawled over her shoulders, her neck, her arms, her breasts, her hips. He savored the feel of her flesh, even blood and woad stained from the day's events. He kissed her, touched her, felt her warmth against her.

Then down they went to the ground, taking her, groaning aloud in the pleasure of the night as fires around them went up - warriors piling the corpses of the picts, burning them, not caring that their Skirmish Leader and their Elder were savoring each other - if anything they respected that two leaders within the clan had brought them victory - they deserved it. Fearghus knew they deserved it.

With every wave of his hips, he knew it, as he made love to his huntress. When they rolled over, and she took command, driving his pleasure higher, he knew it. When he had her on her knees, and took her, that primal lust commanding him, he knew it. She was his, and with every bead of sweat on his body, with every thrust of his hips, with every surge of pleasure, with every kiss, groan, and euphoric release - he knew - he deserved this, and she deserved this. They were as animals in heat, rolling about, ravaging each other, he took her, savored her, made love to her.

Every position led to more pleasure, until at last they lay on their sides, legs enwined, hips moving in motion that the pleasure rose higher. His hands continued to explore her, continued to take care of her, just as she no doubt took care of him - until at last his pleasure released, and all that he cared about was hers - not even caring that their bodies were sweaty, bloody, and dirty from the ground, the battle, and their furious lust under the open air.

There was nothing better.

***

As the Picts were finished, the remaining arrows still striking them as they fled into the mists, Isleen climbed down from the hill away from the other archers. The ensuing silence made her nervous. She heard the monster fall but, had it taken Fearghus with it? The crunching of boots and the sudden abandoning of armor as each piece hit the earth made the huntress pause. “Fe—?” she began, but the name was cut from her lips by the kiss, and the heat that sizzled under her skin now erupted in wildfire.

She was immersed in his touch. She gasped for air only to go back in, mashing her lips against his in a fury as she vied for a grip. Her hands crept eagerly over his body, searching every slope and curve of muscle, through his hair and over his neck, down his shoulders and arms, past every valley of his person, losing herself with each passing moment. After a long day of battle, of uncertainty and even frustration, this was relief. There was no greater relief than in his embrace.

She grunted as the leathers were torn from her body – a brief moment of protest, for the others may surely have found themselves watching. Yet spare eyes were not enough. Her lust, her passion for him was enveloping and the feel of him… was drowning.

On the ground she moaned and writhed, forgetting the world around her, submitting to him until they rolled and she rode atop him, fiercely and freely with every commanding push and thrust of her hips. He was her warrior, her barbarian mate. He alone conquered her both heart and body, and she made this known with each cry of pleasure, of passion, as they twisted and he took her again, her body flowing into that lustful rhythm, her breasts kissing the earth.

Each position brought a higher cry, a louder moan, a fiercer gasp and sharp, euphoric sighs as she was taken, ravaged, and tossed, roughly and without pause. Sweat glistened on her flesh as pleasure spilled in and out of her, driving her mad as she touched, kissed, loved him, returning his savageness, savoring every inch of his body as it was explored – tenderly and caringly. She squirmed wildly and rolled, legs locking him against her as she dragged her teeth and nails over his skin – not playfully or teasing but with the truly daring, unbridled, animalistic lust shared between them.

As they lay down again she felt that sweet exhaustion overtake her, but it did not stop her from caressing him, from her body arching as the last of their lovemaking washed over her – drowning her in a sea of pleasure, though so many had come before it, that only continued until she exhaled, unquestioningly tired, covered with sweat, blood, dirt, and no doubt their own lovemaking, but it only brought a blissful smile to her face – a look that spoke what no words needed to. There on the earth not even Adharca called to her.

With him, she was content.

*****


Branches and bushes were parted to expose the source of the rising smoke. It was a long, flat stone spread over the ground and whatever was on it, was burning. As Donal approached the pile he pulled his tunic up over his mouth, his eyes dancing to the rhythm of the flames in front of him. Cearbhall meanwhile observed it with the same caution he carried with him on the trip, wondering why it was here at all and why Donal had brought him to it. In the distance he could hear the fighting die down as day descended into night and the fire, while an ominous object amidst the earth, became the only reliable light source.

“We should go back,” Cearbhall decided.

Donal bent at the knee to grasp a hand full of dry weed and throw in the flame. It sparked and danced wildly. “Why, do you fear a lashing?” he chuckled, his tone challenging. He quickly ascended from that weakened, disoriented state to his normal, predator-like self. There was little about Donal that could be called human. He was a scavenger, a trickster in the clan.

Cearbhall eyed him just as he fondled the hilt of the blade at his side. “Why did you bring me here? You said you had to show me something.”

“Aye,” Donal grinned, gesturing to the rock. “That’s it.”

“…a fire? Gods, man. Let’s get out of here! I don’t hear any fighting but the Picts could still be about and wouldn’t mind picking us off.” Cearbhall shook his head and started to turn around, but Donal stopped him. “Look closer,” he suggested. The older hunter paused, eyeing Donal once again before he turned to the fire and focused, trying to see beyond the flames. And what he saw both confused and horrified him. For as the fire danced something glistened on the stone in the light – an oozing liquid red. But more than that, the thing burning was not merely some pile of dry leaves and wood as Cearbhall had previously assumed. He saw blood, and a hand, with long slender fingers outstretched as though it had struggled, grasping for life as it ended. Cearbhall recognized that sickening sweet stench now. It was the scent of burning flesh.

“Bah! You brought me to a Pict fire, Donal?” he questioned, unsheathing his blade and scanning the dark, black trees around them. “Fool boy. We need to get out of here before they come back.”

“Picts didn’t burn her, Cearbhall,” the younger hunter sighed as he stood. Cearbhall frowned, closing his eyes. He knew in the back of his mind what Donal meant but gods, he did not want to believe it. He nodded once and begrudgingly spun around, poising his blade for Donal’s neck. “She was Cimmerian, wasn’t she? Was she one of ours?”

“No. Some gatherer, out alone.”

“Why?”

“The spirits are vengeful, Cearbhall. They need blood. I’d have preferred Windseeker’s or the skirmish leader, but yours will do for now.”

With a rage-filled cry Cearbhall struck at Donal, only to have the blade parried by the younger hunter’s own crudely forged sword. Donal countered, slicing open the flesh on Cearbhall’s arm. The older man grunted. “So what, boy, you’re a Pict now?” he spat as they fought. “The Picts are countless, Cearbhall. And when something is bigger than you it kind of makes you wonder what it’s doing right, aye?” He jumped back as Cearbhall lunged for him. That was it, then. Donal had betrayed the clan and given in to the dark magics of the Pict tribes, seeking blessing from them. “When something is bigger, Donal,” Cearbhall growled as he marched toward the jackal. Donal lost his footing, losing his sword as he started to slip but Cearbhall grasped his tunic and pulled him closer so that their noses touched. “…it falls harder!” There was a spurt and Donal gasped as the flesh of his stomach was shredded, Cearbhall’s blade plunged deep into the man’s gut. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Cearbhall let him go. He wiped the sweat from his brow and gripped the hilt of his blade firmly, thrusting the tip into Donal’s throat – separating head from neck. He would bring it back as some means of proof.

But he would not return to Isleen or the other hunters. Instead he found a branch, ripped a length of his tunic and wrapped it about the tip. He lit it with the fire to make a torch and grasped the hair of Donal’s lifeless, dripping head, and made his way for Adharca Cathair. He was done.

***

Epilogue

Hours passed. They had cleaned themselves up - cleaned up the bloodshed, burned the bodies, and saw to the wounded. There was no guilt in the Skirmish Lead's head that day - none at all for the passion he and his huntress had unleashed on one another. Yet he still worked just as hard as anyone else - harder even - in killing every last Pict that remained. The beast was dead, the Pictish Chief was dead... when the warrior had found the fire and spotted Donal's corpse, he knew something had happened. No head, just a corpse. Something had happened, but he would not ask any of the men.

He didn't pity those who were foolish. And if the dead Cimmerian he found near Donal was any indication - he felt less pity for a traitor. The fallen woman's body, though charred to the bone was buried under a cairn - in the Elkhorn grave-site, even if she wasn't one. She was far more of the clan that Donal had been - such had been guessed. He let the traitor's corpse out for the vultures.

When he returned to the village, he oversaw the skirmishers, many with simple slashes and cuts. Yet others were not so fortunate. At least one was due to lose an arm, and one was due to lose a leg. Three others were dead. Possibly more would die. The warrior knew this had been a close call - too close for comfort. He wanted to know what stirred the Picts. Was it the chief he slew? The monster? Or Donal?

He saw to the burials of several of the men, before he was called to the tavern - there, he received the confession of Cearbhall for the death of Donal - and the truth. The Skirmish Lead had told him he didn't care - he had already figured out. Yet in the back of the warrior's mind... he felt betrayed. Not by Cearbhall, not by the clan, but by the simple fact one of their own had turned their back on the clan. That someone would have the audacity...

*****

He returned to his quarters in Frostfall Keep, weary. Yet alive. He found the huntress, and swiftly moved to her. He crushed his lips to hers, tugged at her hips, tugged at her clothing, allowed her to remove his - yet this time was not the abandon frenzy in the woods. This was slow, deliberate, caring. Every touch of her flesh was gentle, and every moment was loving as he laid her down, and lay against her, hips moving - offering one more moment of pleasure before the night concluded.

Hips moved, hands wandered, groans echoed out in their room as he took her, loving her, and savoring her.

He was her warrior.

***

Isleen was tired, all of them were. That lustful frenzy had robbed her of strength so much her muscles numbed, but the grin and contentment on her face confessed otherwise. She carried on, and when the work was done she led the hunters home. There was a gnawing at the back of her mind over Cearbhall and Donal, a chilling touch to her spine she could have done without, but she decided that wherever they had gone they had chosen it for themselves. If they were strong they would return to the clan.

And thus it was when she found Cearbhall, but not Donal. The raven had slain the jackal. The strong overcame the weak. Isleen nodded grimly to the older hunter’s story. Donal not only betrayed the clan, but his own countrymen. Vengeance was delivered. Though she supposed she should have more feeling than that to spare, the huntress merely gave Cearbhall a pat and moved on. “Hang his head out on a tree,” she suggested casually. “Maybe the crows will find some better use for it.”

And yet when she walked away she bowed her head, choking back the anger stirring within her. Donal was a fellow hunter, a comrade. Despite what he was he had shared much with the rest, telling jokes and spinning funny tales to pass the time while they tracked beasts and hunted them. He was no warrior, but he was good at what he did. And yet all of it could be counted for nothing. He had lied. He had betrayed them. What truth was there to his person? He was nothing. Isleen could not help but feel saddened over it. If she knew, she might have stopped him from making his foolish decisions…

Shaking her head, the huntress left Adharca Cathair and ventured out to find the river. She washed the day’s filth from her skin: the dirt, the blood, the woad, and the one thing that continuously made her smile as she bathed. She still burned for him, she still wanted him even now as her hands wandered her own body – remembering the paths his hands had took when they explored her. Isleen chuckled and then shook her head, clothing her back and returning to the village. She tended what needing tended to, especially the wounded, and preparing the beasts the hunters brought home for feasting. They had fought to protect the village alongside the skirmishers, but their families still needed to eat.

*****


High in the inner quarters of Frostfall Keep she fell into her own thoughts. She was weary, sore from the day. But there was satisfaction in all of it. Despite all the mess, it was a good day. They had returned, most of them. And when she heard her warrior’s footfalls entering their quarters she turned, smiling, caught off-guard by another passionate kiss. She fell into his arms, sliding away his clothing as she felt hers removed.

Her hands were soft. Her touches were gentle as she embraced him, as she lied on her back and her hips rode into his, her moans rising as she savored his affections, his lovemaking. She loved him and though that love was fierce, she enjoyed the gentleness, the care placed in every touch. Every moment was better than the last, and every moment she shared with him, giving herself to him, wanting to hear those sounds of pleasure echoing on the walls.

It had been a good day.

***

Elsewhere...

On the Hoath Plateau, a solemn face pondered. The High Hoath of the Clan had crossed arms, and a contemplative expression. A frown started to form. He had heard the scout's report. A Hyperborean Witch-God named Tholgrim had taken the guise of a Stygian, and were close by. The Frost Swamps - beyond their domain, yet close enough to warrant action. His eyes scanned the area about him... he turned about and noted a gray haired warrior working on making stew. He was an Elder of the Clan by now... yet the High Hoath knew a grim fate would be waiting for Finnegan of the Hoath.

"Your son's sins visited upon you..." he muttered softly.