Something moved in the earth where she had been standing. A shape appeared, like a handful of pale, pink wyrms, glistening and writhing.
No, not wyrms. Fingers. Or claws.
A hand thrust out of the ground, small as a child’s, but the fingers were long, thin and sharp, then another hand reached out, a face appearing, fragile and sharp-featured: a narrow line of a nose and chin, hairless with large, dark eyes. It hauled itself out of the ground, standing as tall as her knee. Ink-dark veins threaded pale-pink skin, wings on its back shaking, a cloud of soil in the air. It looked up at Elvar and opened its mouth wide, revealing two rows of teeth, the outer one sharp, the inner row flat, like grindstones, and it hissed at her.
A tennúr!
All along the slope the ground was trembling and shifting, more of the small creatures appearing. Thirty, forty, fifty of them, more than Elvar could count, and more still clawing their way from the ground. It was as if the hillock they had camped upon were some huge nest. Their wings snapped out behind them, soil spraying in small clouds, and they were leaping into the air, hurling themselves at the Battle-Grim. Shouts of shock and warning rippled along the line of warriors. Elvar staggered away as the tennúr that had emerged at her feet flew at her, claws reaching, jaws gaping wide. She fumbled for her sword, trying to shrug her shield off her back and into her fist. Sharp claws raked her face and she cried out, her sword half out of its scabbard. The tennúr’s claws hooked into her cheeks and it pulled itself on to her, jaws gaping wide, its teeth far too close.
Elvar shook her head, her sword clearing her scabbard, then she stumbled and fell backwards. The tennúr still clung to her; its jaws lunged forwards.
A shower of blood and bone exploded over Elvar’s face, the tennúr abruptly gone, Grend standing over her with his axe. Elvar lay on the ground, staring up at him, then there was movement beneath her and small hands were clawing out of the ground to reach around one leg, more movement around her arm. She thrashed and heaved but could not pull herself free. Grend’s axe rose and fell, rose and fell, tennúr screeching, more blood like a mist in the air and Elvar was free, lurching to her feet, Grend chopping at another tennúr in the air as it flitted down upon Elvar, wings buzzing. She realised that Grend had two tennúr clawing their way up his legs, claws raking bloody grooves through his breeches, and that he was ignoring them to defend her. She stabbed one through the back and skewered it. The creature shrieked and flailed, letting go of Grend’s leg, and she threw it spinning from her blade to slam into another tennúr in the air, both of them crashing to the ground.
More tennúr were on Grend, one hanging on to his back, jaws opening wide and crunching down on his shoulder, the sound of mail grating on teeth. Elvar stabbed it through one eye and it fell away, loose-limbed.
Elvar had her shield in her fist, now, and she punched the boss into a tennúr as it flew at her, sending it spiralling away. Grend grunted, more tennúr swarming around him. Blood flowed from wounds on his legs, claw marks on his neck and chin, and sheeted down his face from a wound on his scalp. Elvar stabbed and chopped at the creatures upon him, a red-blood harvest. When he was clear they moved back to back, shields raised, sword and axe slashing and stabbing against the swirling blizzard of wings and teeth and claws, guarding each other. Elvar wished she had not left her spear and helm strapped to one of the pack ponies.
Agnar was bellowing, battle-cries or orders, Elvar was not quite sure. She glimpsed warriors around her running to him, their shields slamming together, forming a small circle, spears and swords stabbing out. The shield wall began to move towards the Isbrún Bridge. A horse screamed, reared and collapsed, swamped with tennúr. A woman on the ground, Sólín, Elvar thought, was rolling in the heaving grass and soil, fighting a trio of tennúr as they tried to prise her jaws apart and rip her teeth from her gums.
We need to move, to join Agnar’s shield wall.
There was a grunt from Grend, and Elvar felt his weight shift from her back, falling away. She turned and saw a tennúr perched on Grend’s shoulder, a gloss-black stone in its hands, red and dripping. Grend lay sprawled upon the ground, the black hair on the back of his head matted with blood, the tennúr dragging at his head, trying to get long-clawed fingers into his mouth.
Grend, the only constant in her life, the man who had given her his oath and never broken it, the man who had sacrificed everything to protect her.
Elvar screamed, fury and fear mingled, and chopped at the tennúr with the rock, sending its head spinning through the air. She stepped over Grend’s motionless body, shield raised, sword stabbing and hacking as tennúr tried to fall upon him.