Cimmerian Rage (Age of Conan, Hyborian Adventures: Legends of Kern, Book 2)
Loren L. Coleman
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Kern "Wolf-Eye" and his Men of the Wolves continue their war against the Vanir raiders. But innocents are paying the price for the Wolves' actions as the Vanir pillage and burn one village after another.
Only by uniting the Cimmerian clans under one banner—and one army—will Kern be able to rid the land of the Vanir once and for all.
to those who stood nearby. Kern caught one, dancing it on his open palm while it cooled enough to eat. Wallach Graybeard fumbled the other, trying to catch with both hands when he only had the one now. Kern watched him recover the flat cake from the ground, brushing away the dirt and a few flecks of dead grass. The oldest veteran in the group, save Old Finn, Wallach had seen more raids and fought in more battles than any other two clansmen in Kern’s pack combined. In the battle against Grimnir,
Cimmerian clans than most bothered to think, or admit. And it was easy to feel betrayed by that loss of certainty. Of safety. Then he led his pack of rogues over a sharp-edged crest, and there was no time to worry about such things anymore. A wave of heat slammed over the exposed ridge with a baking intensity, robbing breath and stinging the eyes with a touch of sulfur. There was barely time to drink in the sight of the nightmare spread around them before the Vanir began shouting for their
across his again, spilling blood and gore and a latrine scent over the coarse, black rock. A third time, fast as a viper, across his throat. His cry died off in a wet, choking gurgle. The dead man slumped to his knees, then sprawled forward into his own blood and offal. Which was enough for the remaining raider. One arm useless, hanging near dead at his side. His two companions dead. He lashed out with his war sword, forcing Kern back another few steps, then turned and fled after his
there was no raucous uproar. But Kern heard more than one person barking a few sharp laughs at Ossian’s expense. Reave alone could have hauled the fallen clansman back to the top of the cliff, but instead they left him twisting around at the end of the rope, craning his neck to stare back up the sheer climb. “Reave!” Kern watched the others head back down the ridge’s spine. Then shifted more weight to his shoulders as he relaxed the grip his feet had against the pine’s trunk. Sliding down,
silver-gray mist. It fell into a large pool among soft-edged boulders and red clay, feeding a muddied stream. The stream trailed off, running the escarpment’s edge as it bent south toward Gunderland, twisting through the settlement that was less than a village but obviously not any kind of nomadic camp. Small huts, hardly as tall as Ehmish, who stood over the first of many bodies, lost to his revulsion and grief. Each dwelling was just large enough for one or two people to crawl inside for