Banewreaker

THIRTY-ONE

A half dozen ravens perched in the green shadows of the outermost edges of the Delta, drowsy in the midday sun. Beneath them, Ushahin Dreamspinner crouched, watching horses grazing on sedge grass.

He had been raised by the Grey Dam Sorash and, outcast or not, a part him would always be kindred to the Were. He knew the paths the Were trod; the dark paths of the forest, the dark paths of the pack mind. Although his path had diverged, he heard the echoes of their thoughts. When Oronin’s Bow was raised against one of his Brethren, he felt it, and shuddered at the killing impact. When a dire bargain was struck, he bowed his head and grieved.

“You are too hasty, Mother,” was all he whispered.

It was her right, the Grey Dam Vashuka. And he understood, oh yes, the thought behind it. Oronin’s Children had never sought anything but solitude; the right to hunt, the right to be left alone. Still, he thought, she had surrendered too much, too soon. Perhaps it was a trick; yes, perhaps. The bargain held only as long as the Grey Dam lived. And she might live many hundreds of years upon the hoarded years her brethren sacrificed to her. His dam, the Grey Dam Sorash, had done so.

Or she might not. It was yet to see.

Ushahin watched the horses.

They did not care for him, horses. Although he was of the blood of two races, Lesser Shapers whose mastery of the lower orders of being went unquestioned, it was his years among the Were that had shaped him the most. Horses sensed it as if it were an odor on his skin. Ushahin, the predator. They carried him reluctantly at best, and when all was said and done, he preferred to travel on his own two feet It had been a fine arrangement, until his Lordship had closed the Ways. Now, Ushahin had need of speed. Darkhaven was waiting; and the horses of Darkhaven lay to hand.

They were splendid creatures, there was no denying it Their inadequate disguises had long since worn off; ill-cropped manes and tails regrown in flowing splendor. They were poorly groomed, aye, but they had shed winter’s shaggy coat, and their summer hides gleamed with good health.

He had his eye on the best of the lot, an ill-tempered bay with a coat the color of drying blood, a black mane and tail. It had been Hunric’s mount, if his memory served. A longlegged stallion with a fine, wedge-shaped head and snapping teeth to boot The others bore scars of his temper.

The horses of Darkhaven had sharper teeth than those bred elsewhere.

Ushahin waited until dusk, when his own abilities edged toward their height. It was then that he emerged from the verges of the Delta, a length of rope in his crooked hands. It had served to secure his skiff; it would serve for this.

“Come,” he crooned. “Come to me, pretty one.”

It didn’t, of course. His target stood poised on wary legs, showing the whites of its eyes, aware of his intent. He had to use the glamour, a Were trick, catching its mind in the net of his thoughts. Once it was done, the horse stood still and trembled, its hide shuddering as if flystung. Ushahin limped from his place of concealment, placing the rope around its neck, winding a twist about its soft muzzle and knotting it to create a makeshift hackamore.

“So,” he whispered. “Not so bad, is it?”

The blood-bay stallion shuddered. So close, their hair was intertwined; Ushahin, leaning, his fine, pale hair mingling with the horse’s black mane. He could smell the sweat, the lather forming on the horse’s blood-dark hide. Its defiance would only be held in check so long, unless he wanted to fight it all the way to Darkhaven. He did not. Now, or never. Ignoring the pain in his crooked limbs, he slid one arm over its neck and hauled hard, pulling himself astride, and clamped hard with both thighs.

“Home!” he shouted, casting aside the net of thought that bound it.

The bay exploded beneath him: bucking, sunfishing, limbs akimbo. Ushahin laughed out loud and clung to its back. It hurt, hurt beyond telling, jarring his ill-mended bones. Yet he was one of the Three, and he had breakfasted with a dragon. No mere horse would be his undoing, not even one of the horses of Darkhaven.

It was a long battle nonetheless. Almost, the bay stallion succeeded in unseating him. It plunged toward the Verdine River and planted its forelegs in a halt so abrupt Ushahin was thrown hard against its neck. The other horses watched with prick-eared interest as the bay twisted its head around to snap at him. It charged, splashing, into the fringes of the Delta and sought to jar him loose against the trunk of a palodus tree, bruising and scraping his flesh.

None of it worked.

By the time the bay’s efforts slowed, stars were emerging in the deep-blue twilight. The capitulation came all at once; a slump of the withers, the proud head lowering. It blew a heavy breath through flared nostrils and waited.

“Home,” Ushahin said softly, winding his thoughts through the stallion’s. Leaning forward, he whispered in one backward-twitching ear. “Home, where the Tordenstem guard the Defile as it winds through the gorge. Home, where the towers of Darkhaven beckon. Home, tall brother, where your attendants await you in the stable, with buckets of warm mash and svartblod, and silken cloths for your hide.”

The blood-bay stallion raised its head. Arahila’s gibbous moon was reflected in one liquid-dark eye. It gave a low whicker; the other two horses answered. From verges of the Delta, a half dozen ravens launched themselves, flying low on silent wings over the moon-silvered sedge grass.

Ushahin laughed, and gave the bay its head. “Go!” he shouted.

With great strides, it did. Bred under the shrouded skies of the Vale of Gorgantum, it ran with ease in the pale-lit darkness, and thundering on either side were two riderless horses. One was a ghostly grey, the color of forge-smoke; the other was pitch-black. And before them all, the shadowy figures of the ravens of Darkhaven forged the way.

Homeward.

Dani had slipped.

It was as simple as that. He did not know that the terrain he and his uncle traversed was called the Northern Harrow, but he did not need to be told that it was a harsh and forbidding land. He knew that bare feet toughened by the sun-scorched floors of the desert were a poor match for the cruel granite and icy clime of the northern mountains. And he had discovered, too late, that ill-sewn rabbitskin made for clumsy footwear. When the cliff’s edge had crumbled under his footing, he slid over the edge with one terrified shout.

Unmindful of the pain of broken and bending nails, he clung to the ledge he had caught on his downward plunge, fingertips biting deep. Below him, there was nothing. It was an overhang that had broken his fall; beneath it, the cliff fell away, cutting deeply back into the mountain’s peak. His kicking feet, shod in tattered rabbitskin, encountered no resistance. There was only a vast, endless drop, and the churning white waters of the Spume River below.

“Uncle!” Craning his neck, Dani fought terror. “Help me!”

Uncle Thulu—lean Uncle Thulu—peered over the edge of the cliff, and his eyes were stretched wide with fear in his weather-burnt face. “Can you pull yourself up, lad?”

He tried, but something was wrong with the muscles of his arms, his shoulders. There was no strength there. It might, Dani thought, have had to do with the popping sound they’d made when he caught himself. “No.”

“Wait.” Uncle Thulu’s face was grim. “I’m coming.”

Since there was nothing else for it, Dani waited, dangling from his fingertips and biting his lip at the pain of it. Overhead, Uncle Thulu scrabbled, finding the braided rope of rabbit-hide he’d made, looking for an anchor rock to secure it.

“Hang on, lad!” Thulu called over his shoulder, letting himself down inch by careful inch, a length of rope wrapped around his waist, his bare feet braced against the mountainside. “I’m coming.”

The rope was too short.

Dani’s arms trembled.

At home, the rope would be made of thukka-vine. There was an abundance of it. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru-yami learned; how to braid rope out of thukka. Here, there was only hide, only the scant leavings of one’s scant kills, poorly tanned in oak-water. And if Uncle Thulu had not tried to make him shoes, Dani thought, the rope would be longer.

“Here!” Plucking his digging-stick from his waistband, Thulu extended it, blunt end first. “Grab hold, lad. I’ll pull you up.”

Dani exhaled, hard, clinging to the ledge with the fingers of both star-marked hands. Against his breastbone, the clay flask containing the Water of Life shivered. A fragile vessel, it would shatter on the rocks below, as surely as his body would. What then, if the Water of Life was set loose in Neheris’ rivers, where her Children dwelled? It was the Fjeltroll who would profit by it. “Take the flask, Uncle!” he called. “It’s more important than I am. Use your stick, pluck it from about my neck!”

“No.” Thulu’s face was stubborn. “You are the Bearer, and I will not leave you.”

Gritting his teeth, Dani glanced down; down and down and down. Far below, a ribbon of white water roared over jagged rocks. It seemed it sang his name, and a wave of dizziness overcame him, draining his remaining strength. “I can’t do it,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Uncle, take the flask. As I am the Bearer, I order it.”

Without looking, he heard the agonized curse as his uncle reversed the stick. He felt the pointed end of his uncle’s digging-stick probe beneath the cord about his neck, catch and lift. For an instant, there was a sense of lightness and freedom, so overwhelming that he nearly laughed aloud.

And then; a gasp, a sharp crack as the tip of the digging-stick broke under the impossible weight of the Water of Life. The flask thudded gently against his chest, returning home to the Bearer’s being, nestling against his flesh.

“Dani.” Thulu’s voice brought him back, at once calm and urgent. “It has to be you. Grab hold of the stick.”

Fear returned as he opened his eyes. Once again, it was the blunt end of the stick extended. The braided leather rope, stretched taut, creaked and groaned. “The rope’s not strong enough to hold us both, Uncle.”

“It is.” Uncle Thulu’s face was contorted with effort, his own arms beginning to tremble under the strain. “Damn you, lad, I wove it myself. It has to be! Grab hold, I tell you; grab hold!”

“Uru-Alat,” Dani whispered, “preserve us!”

The end of the peeled baari-wood stick was within inches of his right hand. It took all his courage to loose his grip upon the steady ledge, transferring it to the slippery wood. What merit was there in the mark of the Bearer? Dani’s palm was slick with terror, slipping on the wood. The vertiginous drop called his name. He struggled to resist its call as Uncle Thulu’s digging-stick slid through his grasp, scraping heedlessly past the Bearer’s starry markings.

Slid; and halted.

Against all odds, Dani found a grip; there, near the end, where the slick wood was gnarled. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Clinging to the rope with one arm, Uncle Thulu hauled hard with the other, grunting and panting with the effort. The leather rope thinned and stretched, thwarting their efforts … but it held and did not break. The muscles of his arm quivered as, inch by torturous inch, Thulu of the Yarru-yami pulled his nephew from the abyss. When his head reached a level with the overhang, Dani clawed at the rock with his free hand, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and levering himself upward until he got a foot beneath him, toes digging hard against the granite, and drew himself up onto the ledge to stand on wavering legs.

“Oh, lad.” Uncle Thulu embraced him with one arm, weeping. “Oh, lad!”

“Truly, Uncle,” Dani said, his voice muffled against Thulu’s shoulder, “if I am the Bearer, I could ask no better guide.”

It took a long time to get from ledge to cliff-top. When it was done, both were trembling with a mix of exertion and the aftermath of fear. Uncle Thulu unwound the rope from his waist and unknotted it from the anchor, a proud jut of granite. He kissed the rope in gratitude, and for good measure, the stone itself. “Uru-Alat be praised,” he said fervently, shoving his digging-stick into his waistband.

“Truly,” Dani murmured, collapsing onto the chilled stones. His arms ached and his shoulders felt half-pulled from their sockets. “How much farther, Uncle?”

Uncle Thulu paced the edge of the cliff, eyeing the river below. “We’ll find another route.” His voice was decisive. “A better route, Dani. The Spume is a key, I’m sure of it. There are … traces, a foulness in the current.” He stroked his digging-stick, humming absently for a moment, then stopped. “There is a branch underground that leads to the Defile. That much I sense for, even here, the waters are tainted.” Pausing in thought, he tapped his lips. “It must happen some leagues to the west. Perhaps, if we abandon the heights and cut westward … yes. Such is the pattern of Uru-Alat’s veins.” Thulu glanced at his nephew, who sat huddled in his cloak, cradling his aching limbs. “Have you the strength, lad?” he asked gently.

“Aye.” Dani shuddered, and laughed. “At least,” he said, “we’ve not encountered the Fjeltroll.”

“We have received no reports of such travelers.”

Their host spoke smoothly; but then, Coenred, Earl of Gerflod, was a smooth man. His auburn hair was smooth, flowing over his shoulders. His beard was groomed and silken, and his ruddy lips were smooth within their tidy bracket of facial hair.

Osric nodded. “Like as not, they’ve not been spotted yet.”

“Like as not,” Earl Coenred agreed, hoisting a tankard of ale. His fingers, with their smooth nails, curved about the bejeweled tankard. He nodded to one of the serving-maids. “Gerde, fill our guests’ cups. Drink up, lads, the mutton’s yet to come!”

Bobbing a nervous curtsey, she obeyed, circulating around the long trestle table. It took a long time to serve the Staccian lord’s contingent and Osric and his men. There were a great number of the former, clad in handsome attire. Another servant brought her a fresh jug of ale. As she reached the far end of the table, where the Fjeltroll were seated, her steps began to drag, and her hand trembled visibly as she poured.

Osric and Coenred spoke in murmurs, ignoring both her anxiety and its source. While the earl had extended hospitality to the Fjel in a gesture of allegiance, it did not include taking them into the counsel of Men.

With an attempt at a benign smile, Skragdal extended his tankard. For Lord Satoris’ sake, Skragdal was doing his best to honor the earl’s hospitality, hunkering on the tiny chair provided him. It was built to Men’s scale and he perched awkwardly on it, broad thighs splayed, his rough-hided knees bumping the edge of the table. It was not his fault it was too small, nor that his taloned grip dented the soft metal of his tankard, rendering it lopsided. He tried to convey these things with his smile; easy and apologetic, wrinkling his upper lip and baring his eyetusks in a gesture of goodwill.

The serving-maid squeaked in terror, and the lip of her jug rattled against his tankard. Ale splashed over the rim. Setting the half-empty jug upon the table with a bang, she fled. Earl Coenred glanced up with brief interest, beckoned to another serving-maid to bring another jug, then resumed his conversation, intent on Osric, spinning a web of smooth words.

Skragdal frowned.

“I … do not like how this smells.”

A deep voice; a Fjel voice, speaking their tongue. He glanced up sharply to see the young Tungskulder Thorun, sitting with shoulders hunched, a posture of uncertainty. “Speak,” he said.

Thorun’s hunched shoulders shrugged as he peered out from under his heavy brow; his eyes were red-rimmed and miserable. “I do not trust my senses.”

“Ah.” Skragdal remembered; there was a story, one that mattered. “Bogvar.”

Thorun nodded. They remembered it together—Thorun who had lived it, Skragdal who had heard it, left behind to command as field marshal in Hyrgolf’s absence. Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass, where the Lady of the Ellylon had awoken the wraiths of the dead. There, confused by the magic she had awakened, Thorun had mistaken his comrade Bogvar for an Ellyl wraith. Death, a foul death, had been the result. Thorun had offered his axe-hand in penance. The Lord General had refused it.

Skragdal flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply. “There is no enchantment here,” he said calmly. “Only fear, only greed. Such are the scents of Men. Speak, Tungskulder.”

“Lies.” Thorun shuddered in his hide. “This earl reeks of lies.”

The Nåltannen were squabbling over the fresh ale-jug, laughing as their steely talons clashed in the effort, drinking deep and making toasts. The Gulnagel were little better, hunkering over the table with slitted eyes and rumbling bellies, awaiting platters of mutton. And the Kaldjager … the Cold Hunters would not commit themselves to any hall built by Men. They remained outdoors and kept a safe distance, scouting the perimeter of Gerflod. Neither the earl nor his Men knew of their existence.

For once, Skragdal was glad for their distrust.

He flared his nostrils again, inhaling softly, letting the delicate odors of Men’s emotions play over his palate. There was Osric, dogged and determined, grateful for Earl Coenred’s kindness. There were Osric’s Men, dreaming of gain and glory, hoping the serving-maids would return. There were Coenred’s Men, nervous and wary in their thoughts. And there …

Skragdal smelled the lie.

It was smoothly spoken. There had been no word—no word—since their company had emerged from the Vesdarlig Passage. No one knew what had transpired in Beshtanag, how badly their plans had gone awry. How not? It was his Lordship’s business. His Enemies were slow. And yet … and yet. Here, mere leagues south of Neherinach, where Osric’s Men and Skragdal’s Fjel would part ways, word had emerged.

Earl Coenred had heard news, dire enough to undermine his loyalties. All was known. Nothing was said. The lie was there in every smooth denial, every polite inquiry. The Earldom of Gerflod had turned.

Skragdal exhaled with regret. He wondered how it had happened. A traitor among the Staccians? It could be so. Fjel had never trusted them. Men did not remember the way the Fjel did, trusting carelessly to their ink-scratched markings to preserve memory. And what manner of loyalty was it that could be purchased for mere gold? He did not doubt Lord Vorax, no—he was one of the Three, and beyond doubt. Yet his countrymen … perhaps.

He dismissed the thought. What mattered was at hand.

“You smell it,” Thorun said.

“Aye.” Skragdal realized he was staring at the earl; Coenred had noticed it, a nervous sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. His smooth mask was slipping, and the sour tang of ill-hidden fear tainted the air. Skragdal looked away. Arelieved, the earl called in a loud voice for more ale, more ale. Once again, fresh jugs were set to circulating, born by a procession of nervous servants. At least they made no pretence of hiding their fear.

“Should we kill them?” Thorun asked simply.

It was a hard decision. Hyrgolf, he thought, would approve it; he would not hesitate to trust a Tungskulder’s nose. Would General Tanaros? No, Skragdal thought. He would not hesitate to believe, but nor would he sanction violence against an ally who had not betrayed his hand. So, neither will Osric turn on a fellow Staccian on my word alone. I cannot count on his support.

That left only the Fjel.

As platters of mutton were brought to the table, heaped high and steaming, Skragdal cast his gaze over his comrades. They tore into the meal with tooth and talon, terrifying the earl’s staff. The Nåltannen had drunk deep, and continued to heft their tankards, alternating between mutton and ale. The Gulnagel ate with a will, smearing grease on their chops as they lifted slabs of meat with both hands, gnawing and gnawing, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

Such was the Fjel way; to gorge until replete, to rest upon satiation. Those were the dictates of life for Neheris’ Children, raised in a harsh clime where summer’s bounty inevitably gave way to barren winter. Survival dictated it.

What was disturbing, Skragdal thought, was that Earl Coenred knew it. This abundance had been deliberately provided. He watched his comrades gorge and pondered the expression of satisfaction that spread, slow and sleek, over the earl’s features. What were the odds? There were sixteen Fjel in the Great Hall of Gerflod Keep, and all of them unarmed. Their arms and armor were stacked in a stable lent them for shelter; a cunning stroke, that. How many Men? Coenred must have two hundred within the walls.

It could be done, of course. Skragdal hunched his shoulders and flexed his talons, feeling his own strength. He had labored in the mines and in the smelting yards. He knew the weaknesses of metal, where armor was willing to bend and break. With his talons, he could peel it from them, piece by piece. Men were soft, as General Tanaros had taught them. Men died easily, once their soft flesh was exposed.

“Boss?” Thorun’s red-rimmed eyes were hopeful.

Reluctantly, Skragdal shook his head. “No. Lying comes easily to Men. We have no proof that they mean us harm because of it,” he said softly. “General Tanaros would want proof in this matter. But I will speak to Osric of it.”

It proved harder than he had anticipated. Once the meal was consumed, Earl Coenred rose, tankard in hand He made an elegant speech in Staccian about Gerflod’s loyalty to Darkhaven, the long arrangement by which Staccia prospered and dwelled in peace alongside the Fjel border. He praised Osric’s diligence and vowed Gerflod’s aid in the quest. He made much of thanking the Fjel for their unflagging bravery and support. “ … and it is my hope that you have enjoyed my hospitality tonight, as poor token of those thanks,” he added.

The Nåltannen roared in approval, banging their tankards.

I should not have let them drink so much, Skragdal thought.

Earl Coenred raised his free hand for silence. “I apologize that Gerflod has no quarters to adequately house you, but Lieutenant Osric assures me that the stable we have provided will suffice,” he said. A contingent of Men entered the hall, wearing light armor underneath the livery of Gerflod. “My men will escort you there forthwith,” the earl continued, “and with them, a full keg of ale!”

Ah, but it is hard, thought Skragdal. How am I to command their appetites, when it is how Neheris Shaped us? I am not General Tanaros, to preach the joys of discipline. He is one of the Three. On his tongue, it sings with glory; on mine, it would be a lie. Must I betray what I am to command my brethren?

All around him the Fjel roared with goodwill, surging to their feet to follow Coenred’s Men. Already, they were halfway out the door, following the promise of more drink and sweet slumber. And why not? They had earned it. And yet, there was Thorun with his hopeful gaze. There was the earl smiling, with his smooth beard and his combed hair, the lie stinking in his teeth.

Skragdal sighed and rose from his chair. Leaning over the table on his knuckles, he took a deep breath and raised his voice. “Osric!” He was no Tordenstem, to make his enemies quake to the marrow of their bones with the Thunder-Voice, but the shout of a Tungskulder Fjel could rattle any rafters built by Men. In the fearful silence that followed, Skragdal added, “We must speak.”

It was an awkward moment. The smooth mask of the earl’s expression slipped, revealing fear and annoyance. He made a covert gesture to his Men, who stepped up their pace in escorting the Fjel from the Great Hall. Skragdal nodded at Thorun, not needing to speak his thoughts. Thorun nodded in return, following the exodus quietly. Skragdal waited. Osric, flushed with embarrassment, made his way around the table. Although his head only came to Skragdal’s breastbone, his fingers dug hard into the flesh of his arm, drawing him into the far corner of the hall’s entryway. “They’re our hosts, Tungskulder!” he hissed under his breath. “Have a care for Staccian courtesy, will you?”

“Osric.” Ignoring the Staccian’s importunate grip, Skragdal dropped his voice to its lowest register, a rumble like large rocks grinding. “This earl is lying.”

Osric blew out his breath impatiently, smelling of ale. “About what?”

“He knows.” How to communicate it? There were no words in Men’s tongues to explain what he knew, or why; no words to describe the scent of a lie, of ill-will behind a smooth smile, of danger lying in wait. “More than he is saying. Osric, we should leave this place. Now. Tonight.”

“Enough.” The Staccian lieutenant’s voice was sharp. He released his grip on Skragdal’s arm, taking a step backward and craning his neck to glare at the Fjel. “We part ways at Neherinach, Tungskulder. Until then, by Lord Vorax’s orders, you are under my command. Your Fjel have embarrassed Darkhaven enough for one night. Go with them, and keep them under control. Do not embarrass his Lordship further by insulting our host.”

Skragdal flared his nostrils, smelling the lie. “Osric …”

“Go!”

He waited.

“Go!”

With a curt bow, Skragdal went. Behind him, he heard one of the earl’s Men make a cutting comment, and the wave of laughter that answered; then Osric’s voice, at once dismissive and apologetic. What can you expect? They are little better than brutes, after all. But his Lordship insisted on it. We need the tribes, you know.

It galled him, prickling his hide all along the ridge of his spine. Skragdal made his way down the halls of Gerflod Keep, past the earl’s startled guards, to emerge outdoors. It was quiet in the narrow courtyard. He took deep breaths of night air, filling his lungs and seeking calm. He had thought better of Osric. That was his mistake. Staccia was not Darkhaven. Here, the balance had shifted. Arahila’s Children were reminded of their superiority, compelled to exercise it.

“Hey.” One of the earl’s Men peered tentatively at him beneath the steel brim of his helmet. With the point of his spear, he gestured toward a stable across the courtyard, where lamplight poured through the crack of the parted door. Faint sounds of Fjel merriment issued from within, muffled by sturdy wood. “Your lodgings are that way, lad.”

Skragdal rumbled with annoyance.

“As … as you will.” The Gerflodian guard’s words ended on a rising note of fear.

Shaking his head, Skragdal trudged across the courtyard. A patch of gilded lamplight spilled over the paving-stones. He flung open the stable door and was hailed by shouts. Thorun, who had donned his armor, met his gaze with a shrug; he had done his best. The Gulnagel, having gorged deepest on the meat, were half asleep, bellies distended. Everywhere else, it seemed, Nåltannen lounged on bales of clean straw, their kits strewn about the stable, tankards clutched in their talons. They raised their tankards in salute, shouting for him to join them.

“Shut up!” With an effortless swipe, Skragdal slammed the door closed behind him. In the echoing reverberation, the Fjel fell silent. “Where is the ale-keg?”

One pointed.

“Good.” He trudged across the floor, pausing to catch up his axe. Bits of straw stuck between his toes as he approached, hefting the axe over his shoulder. It only took one mighty swing to breach the keg, splintering its wooden slats. Brown ale foamed over the straw, rendering the whole a sodden mess.

“Awww, boss!” someone said sadly.

“Shut up.” Skragdal pointed with the head of the axe. “Listen.”

They obeyed. For a moment only the hiss of foaming ale broke the silence; then, another sound. A slow scraping as of wood against wood, a gentle thunk.

“That,” Skragdal said, “was the sound of the earl’s Men barring the stable door.” Tramping across the straw, he kicked a dozing Gulnagel in the ribs in passing, then began to rummage in earnest through his pile of arms and armor. “Get up, Rhilmar,” he said over his shoulder, donning his breastplate and buckling it. “All of you. Up and armed.”

They gaped at him.

“Now!” he roared.

There was a scramble, then; deep Fjel voices surging in dawning anger, metal clattering as armor was slung in place, arms were hefted. It was just as well. To Men’s ears, the sounds of Fjel preparing for battle would be indistinguishable from the sounds of Fjel at their leisure. Skragdal smiled grimly.

“What now?” a Nåltannen growled.

“We wait.” Watching the barred door fixedly, Skragdal settled the haft of his battle-axe on one armor-plated shoulder. “There’s no harm in it. We’ve waited this long, lads, and the Kaldjager will be keeping watch from the borders. We’ll wait until the earl’s Men show their hand. And then …” He bared his eyetusks in another smile, “ … we’ll see what there is for a Fjeltroll to learn here.”

They cheered him for it, and Skragdal’s heart swelled at the sound. His words had struck them where they lived, speaking to the old unfairness, the old hurt. Although his name might be forgotten in the annals of Men and Ellylon—no one would write down this night’s doings, and if they did, they would not record the name of Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel—if it was worth the telling, Neheris’ Children would remember the story.

It was a long wait, and a dull one. Outside, the stars moved in their slow dance and, in the west, the red star ascended over the horizon. Inside, the lamps burned low, and there were only the slow breathing of the Fjel, and the sound of straw rustling underfoot as this one or that adjusted his stance. Funny, Skragdal thought, that Men were so anxious to bar the door, yet so fearful to attack. If they had waited longer for the former, it might not have tipped their hand.

But it had, and the Fjel were patient. Even drunk, even sated, the Fjel knew how to be patient. Now they had shaken off their torpor. They were awake, waiting and watching. If it took all night, they would wait all night. One did not survive, hunting in a cold clime, without patience.

In armed silence, they waited.

And in the small hours, there were new sounds.

There were footsteps, and whispering and hissing. Men’s voices, tight with fear and urgency. Liquid sounds, splashing. Skragdal’s nostrils widened, inhaling the sharp odor of seep oil. It was the same oil used in the lamps, only more, much more.

“Boss …” someone murmured.

He hoisted the axe in his right hand and settled his shield on his left arm, General Tanaros’ words ringing in his memory. Keep your shields up! “Soon,” he promised. “Keep your shields high, lads.”

They were alert, all of them. The earl was a fool if he reckoned them slaves to their appetites; Skragdal’s words had done the trick. Words; Men’s tools. He had used them well. In guttering lamplight, Fjel eyes gleamed under heavy brows. It made him proud to see the determination in Thorun’s visage; a fellow Tungskulder, here at his side. Broad shoulders for heavy burdens; so Neheris had said when she Shaped them.

Krick … krick … krick …

“A flint-striker,” one of the Gulnagel said unnecessarily.

Outside, flames whooshed into the air, licking at the dry, oil-soaked tinder. Inside, there were only slivers of brightness, showing between the planks. Smoke, grey and choking, crept under the door. Someone coughed.

“Now!” Skragdal shouted, hurling his weight at the door.

He remembered, and kept his shield high. It hit the stable door with splintering force, the full might of his charge behind it. The door burst outward in an explosion of sparks, singeing his hide. They were minor wounds; he had endured worse when the acid rain fell over Darkhaven, an understandable expression of Lord Satoris’ ire. He kept his head low, letting his charge carry him into the courtyard.

“Who is first?” Skragdal bellowed, axe in hand. “Who is first to die?”

There was no shortage of volunteers. It had been a dozen Men, no more, who had undertaken the mission. They died easily at the bite of his axe, dropping empty jugs of lampoil, cowering in their armor. Skragdal laughed aloud, feeling blood splash his arms, slick and warm on his hide. It felt good, at last, to do what he did best. He strode sure-footed across the cobblestones, laying about him like a Midlander harvesting hay. The earl’s Men poured through the doors of Gerflod Manor, emerging in scores, even as Fjel after Fjel leapt from the burning stable, joining him in the massacre until the narrow courtyard was churning and it was hard to find fighting-space. Over and over he swung his axe, rejoicing in the results. By the leaping flames of the stable he saw the terror in his attackers’ faces. It didn’t last long. Their swords and spears clattered ineffectually against his shield, against the heavy plates of his armor, glancing blows scratching his tough hide where it was unprotected. Neheris had Shaped her Children well. Meanwhile, the keen blade of his axe, swung by his strong arm, sheared through the thin metal of their armor, until the head was buried deep in soft flesh. Again and again, Skragdal struck, wrenching his axe loose to strike again. As their warm blood spilled, ebbing from their bodies, terror gave way to the calm stare of death.

Men died so easily.

“Sir! That was the last of them!” Someone was grappling with him; one of his own. A shield locked with his; over its rim, he met Thorun’s gaze. “You spoke of learning,” the Tungskulder reminded him.

“Aye.” Panting, Skragdal disengaged. “Aye, I did. My thanks.” He gave his head a shake, clearing the haze of battle-frenzy, and lowered his axe. The stable was engulfed in flame, blazing toward the heavens, throwing heat like a forge and illuminating a courtyard awash in blood. Everywhere the bodies of the earl’s Men lay strewn and discarded, pale flesh gouged with gaping wounds. Here and there, one groaned. The Nåltannen hunted through the dead, dispatching the dying. There were too many to count, but he reckoned a good number of the earl’s Men had died in the courtyard. More than the earl had intended to risk. Turning his head, he saw the doors of Gerflod Keep standing open and unbarred. “So,” he said. “Let us learn.”

Once the words were uttered, there was no stopping the Fjel. The Gulnagel, blood-spattered, howled, racing for the doors in great, bounding leaps. Even as they entered the Keep, Nåltannen caught up the cry and streamed after them, weapons clutched in gleaming steel talons, half-forgotten shields held low and dangling.

Skragdal sighed. “Summon the Kaldjager,” he said to Thorun. “We’ll need to leave this place. Swiftly.” Thorun nodded, thrusting his axe through his belt-loop, moving with steady deliberation through the flame-streaked darkness. A good lad, Skragdal thought, watching him go. A good one.

Gerflod Keep lay waiting, its open doors like the mouth of a grave.

Shouldering his axe, Skragdal trudged across the courtyard. He paused in the open door and cocked an eye toward the stable. Its roof sagged as a beam collapsed somewhere inside the burning structure, sending up a huge shower of sparks. Safe enough, he reckoned. Gerflod Keep was stone; stone wouldn’t burn.

He entered the Keep, his taloned feet leaving bloody prints on its marble floors, mingling with the tracks of the Fjel who had gone before. He followed their trail, opening his nostrils wide.

The stink of fear and lies had given way to the reek of terror and the stench of death. All along the way, Men lay dying; Gerflod’s Men, Earl Coenred’s men. Here and there, where they were unarmored and wore only livery, the Nåltannen had given in to old instincts, slitting their bellies with the swipe of a steel-taloned paw. Those Men groaned, dying hard. The Nåltannen had been in a hurry.

Skragdal snorted at the odor of perforated bowels, bulging and blueish through the rents in soft mortal flesh, oozing fecal matter. Those Men, clutching at their spilling entrails, still had terror in their eyes. Murmuring a prayer to Neheris, he raised his axe to dispatch them, one by one. Some of them, he thought, were grateful for it.

In the Great Hall, he found Osric and his Men. None of them were alive. Osric was leaning backward in his chair, grinning. A half-empty tankard sat in front of him and the hilt of a belt-knife protruded from his throat. It was a small knife, made for a Man’s hand, with the earl’s insignia on the hilt. A trail of blood lay puddled in his lap.

“Ah, Osric,” Skragdal said, with genuine sorrow. “I tried to tell you.”

The Staccian lieutenant continued to grin at the ceiling, wordless and blind. Near the head of the table there was a low groan and a scraping sound, a hissed curse. Skragdal trudged over to investigate.

On the floor, Earl Coenred writhed in his shadow, one hand clamped to his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers, where the rending marks of Nåltannen talons were visible. He did not, Skragdal thought, look so smooth with red blood bubbling on his ruddy lips. Stooping, he leaned in close enough to grasp a handful of the earl’s auburn hair and ask the question.

“Why?”

The earl’s eyes rolled up in his head, showing the whites. “The Galäinridder!” he gasped, catching his breath in a burbling laugh. “The Bright Rider, the Shining Paladin!” Droplets of blood spewed from his lips in a fine spray. “We did not welcome him, but he came. Out of nowhere, out of the mountains, he came, terrible to behold, and he told us, told us everything. Haomane’s Wrath is coming, and those who oppose him will pay. Even here, even in Staccia. There is nowhere to hide.” The earl’s face contorted as he summoned the will to spit out his last words. “You are dead, Fjeltroll! Dead, and you don’t even know it!”

“Not as dead as you,” Skragdal said, releasing his grip and straightening. Raising his axe, he brought it down hard, separating the earl’s head from his body.

The edge of his axe clove through flesh and bone and clanged on marble, gouging a trough in the floor and making his arms reverberate. Skragdal grunted. The earl’s head rolled free, fetching up against a table leg. There, it continued to stare at him under drooping lids.

Dead, and you don’t even know it.

“Fjel!” Skragdal roared, straightening, adopting General Tanaros’ words without even thinking. “Fall out! Now!”