Blood of the Red

Chapter 10 - Sindri

Part 10 – Sindri

The poison tasted wonderful, sweet but not cloying, clean on the tongue with the aroma of roses. Sindri held out his iron cup for more.

"A man could get addicted to this stuff."

Greyheart's beard hid his grin but the laughter was in his voice, "T'is a canny brew right enough."

He set the flask upon the ground without refilling Sindri's cup. Around him the others readied their weapons. Red Gregor held his great-axe in two meaty hands, his eyes upon the path, bushy ginger 'brows escaping beneath the rim of his iron helm. Melchem hefted his shield, a circle of hide-bound timber, fully three feet across and set with a golden boss around which wolf chased wolf in an endless circle. Silver bands confined his long dark hair, and he bore the black sword with which he'd slain the Ogre of Keln some twenty summers back.

Sindri felt he was in good company. Too good if anything. He was a boy amongst men. His ring-mail weighed heavily, he felt the ache in his shoulders. Under his helm, sweat plastered his hair to his skull. The blond stubble itched on his chin. It didn't seem right to die beardless, but he was too young yet to grow a beard worthy of the name.

The four men stood across the trail. Around them the trees grew tall, making dwarves of the warriors arrayed among the coiled confusion of their roots. Tall and silent. Sindri didn't trust the trees, they were broad of leaf, gnarled and old, not like the snow-clad pines of home. He raised his axe. Four of them against the Carthachin. They had lost twice that number when it first attacked! Greyheart caught his eye and winked.

"We're ready for him now lad. We've toasted the Captain of the Burning Ship."

Sindri nodded and forced a smile. No retreat. The taste still lingered in his mouth, sharper and more bitter by the moment. He could hear the sound of branches breaking, growing louder, closer. The Carthachin had no need for stealth. Sindri glanced across the line. Four northmen bound by death, bound to face their foe. His knuckles grew white on the axe haft.

"A good day to die."

The great bulk of the enemy crashed into view.