Banewreaker

  “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.