Age of Conan: Songs of Victory: Legends of Kern, Volume 3
Loren L. Coleman
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The army of Kern "Wolf-Eye" has been scattered, and as the dead are buried, the tribes gather to choose new leaders.
To prove his worth, Kern must seek out the House of Crom, where rests a weapon of legend that can kill any man, beast, or god. For in his heart he knows that not all glory lies on the battlefield, and that there is no sacrifice too great to sing one last song of victory.
rolled to his feet, coming up in a guarded crouch. Like bursting up from a still pond on a summer’s day, the blurry landscape shifted around him, and suddenly he saw the Vanir warriors where they had crouched in hiding, cloaked beneath Lodur’s dark sorcery same as the great cat had been. Wrapped in the storm’s winds until the eye simply wanted to slide away to look elsewhere. A trap! And his warriors, Ros-Crana’s, were running right into it. “Ware!” Kern shouted. “Vanir!” He had time for little
be slaughtered, or sent running, with the rest? Cul seized Brig’s arm, yanked the other man to a halt. “So why does Wolf-Eye still live?” “He earned it.” Brig jerked his arm free. “Every step along the way, Cul Chieftain.” Almost he’d left off Cul’s honorary. Almost. But Brig could not deny that Cul was still chieftain of Gaud. He glanced at the ground. “I could not take from the man that which Crom’s gifts earned.” “You mean Ymir’s blood. The foulness runs in Kern’s veins as surely as it runs
his trophy. How else to assure Cailt Stonefist’s appearance? “Cul says you have words for me, Wolf-Eye. Words I’ll nay like.” Morag’s hair, thin and patchy, was more di sheveled than ever. As if the man had not slept well this night, if ever. The bare spots on his scalp were puckered and glassy from long-healed scars. “He says you will present Cailt Stonefist with the bloody spear. That you’ve brought it back.” Kern nodded at the bundle in the crook of his arm. Slowly, as if following through
battle against Grimnir, on the bluff above Clan Conarch. Everywhere Kern looked, there was activity. Weapons inspected for rust, for nicks, being stropped against hand-sized hunks of black whetstone. Water carried in leather buckets from the nearby creek, always careful to dip above any man or woman coloring the stream. Bedrolls being tied up for travel. Horses fed. And where men and women gathered, there were contests. Feats of strength. A few blows exchanged to settle honor debts or simply for
of surprise. “Torgvall admitted the same, did he not?” As calm as he might be discussing the day’s hunt, Cailt talked of Kern’s possible—if unknowing—aid to Cimmeria’s enemy. He shrugged, as if he had not yet made up his mind. “Our other choice, of course, is the same courtesy we showed Torgvall.” Strength flooded Kern’s body as the dark power sang. Wrapped in a calm voice or nay, it knew a dangerous threat. Kern swallowed hard. “I would prefer to find a different solution,” he admitted. Cailt