‘You’re a guest in my Holding,’ he said. ‘That’s enough for now.’ Fisher bit his tongue and jerked his head in assent. ‘Anyways …’ and the man went to a barrel and drew a glass of what looked like red wine. ‘There’s news to relate.’ He offered the glass to Fisher, who took it wonderingly. Stalker caught his gaze and motioned to the barrel. ‘That? Ah, raiding them outlanders.’ He drew another and offered it to Jethiss, who accepted it with a bow of his head. He took one for himself. He did not offer one to Badlands and neither did his brother move to collect one; the man just sat, now, elbows on the table, his head lowered.
‘News is,’ Stalker began again, ‘that Svalthbrul has been taken up by Bregin’s son, Orman.’
Fisher sat back in wonder. ‘Bregin? That Sayer hearthguard lad?’
Stalker nodded, his brows raised. ‘And that’s not all. Orman used it to slay Lotji.’
Fisher blew out a long breath. ‘So much bad blood there.’
‘Aye. Blood-feud back generations. But …’ and Stalker raised his chipped glass of wine as if in salute. ‘The outlanders burned Bain Greathall to the ground and the last of the Bains are gone.’
Astonished, Fisher matched the gesture, as did Jethiss. ‘Farewell, honoured foe,’ he murmured, and they all drank, all but Badlands.
His head lowered, Badlands growled into his knotted fists: ‘Sing us a song, bard.’
Fisher was quite taken aback; it had been a long time since he’d been in service to a patron — though his last, Lady Envy, used to test him that way, as if hoping to catch him out. He shook his head. ‘I am not in the mood, truly. I would not wish to do a disservice.’
Badlands slammed a fist to the table, upsetting Stalker’s glass and making the bowls jump. ‘Sing!’
Fisher, luckily, was cradling his glass on his lap, and he tossed the last of it back, sucking his teeth. Jethiss, he noted, was watching him closely now. He nodded a slow thoughtful assent and cast his gaze to the massive log rafters cloaked in the gloom above. Birds flew about them and guano streaked them white. Then he looked to the far entrance and saw how the wind drove the rain within where it pooled on the beaten dirt floor; he noted the rotting straw kicked about the ground, the mere four of them huddled about the dying embers of the broad hearth before them, and he sang.
‘
Badlands lurched from the bench and staggered off into the dark. Stalker regarded the bard for some time. The man’s eyes did indeed seem to glow brighter than the embers. He finished the dregs of his wine, stood. ‘Don’t forget to add how stubborn and foolish we were.’ He followed his brother to disappear into the darkness at the rear of the hall.
‘I should,’ Fisher muttered to himself.
‘I understand them,’ Jethiss offered, surprising Fisher.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He appeared almost embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why. I just feel the same way.’
‘Perhaps the Andii share something of their — our — way of thinking.’
‘Perhaps so.’ Jethiss rose, refreshed their glasses. ‘So, what shall we do?’
‘What of your … quest?’
The Andii clasped the glass in both hands. ‘I believe I was sent in this direction for a reason. I do not know the reason, but you mentioned someone, or something, in the north that might provide an answer. What is it?’
Fisher shook his head; he considered taking up his glass, but reconsidered and left his hands crossed on the table. ‘I will not speak of them.’
‘Then they are there. Thank you.’
Fisher bit his lip. Gods! He was a bard! The stories he could tell of the Forkrul! But he took up the glass and drank instead. ‘I will not encourage you in this.’
‘Neither do you dissuade me.’
‘That is not for me to decide. Each of us possesses a Wyrd — a fate — and nothing we do can undo it.’
Jethiss thought about this while the birds roosted overhead, cooing and fluffing their feathers, and the rain pattered, hissing. He answered, musingly, ‘You think everything is foreordained?’
‘No. I believe we follow our natures. That our natures determine the choices we make. In short … we do it to ourselves. There is no one else to blame.’
‘Not even the gods?’
Fisher threw back the last of his wine, sucked his teeth. ‘The gods are determined by our natures. But if you decide to quibble them down to nothing more than mere causation — then why have them at all?’
‘Things happen regardless?’
‘It is a logical deduction.’
The Andii nodded, sleepily. ‘I suppose some other justification would have to be found, then, for their existence.’
‘I suppose so.’
Jethiss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, there you have it. The world’s troubles sorted out over a cask of wine.’
Fisher smiled fondly. ‘A nightly ritual.’
‘I am off to find some bedding.’
‘Good night.’
Fisher sat alone in the amber glow of the dying embers. He listened to the rain pattering and wished the night would whisper an answer to the quandary he faced. To survive, these Icebloods — we Icebloods — must retreat north, ever higher. Yet, if the legends and tales were to be believed, a peril far greater than any human invasion slumbered there. A threat to all, no matter what breed or kind.
What was he to do? He listened again, intently, but the night seemed only to sigh. He answered the whisper with a sigh of his own.
* * *
Kyle entered the sprawling besiegers’ camp wrapped in a ragged dirty cloak with its hood raised, a battered shortsword beneath at his side and dirks at his belt. The white blade he now carried wrapped in leathers and firmly tucked in his shirt. No one challenged him as he came walking in from the west, no picket or posted guard, and this alone convinced him that this mob was doomed to failure.
It was a bright and lingering twilight, the sky a beautiful shade of purple. He stopped where a gang of fortune-hunters, now soldiers — of a kind — lingered beneath the awning of a tent. ‘I’m looking for the Shieldmaiden,’ he said.
‘Who isn’t?’ answered one, and took hold of an imaginary set of hips before him. ‘This time of night, hey?’ Kyle ignored him and continued east, as the man’s gaze had flicked in that direction when he’d spoken. ‘Hey!’ the fellow called. ‘Where’re you from?’
‘Cordafin,’ he called back.
‘Where’s that?’
Kyle kept walking. How the fuck should I know? I just made it up.
He continued round the broad arc of the camp. There were enough of them, he decided. But they had to be kicked into shape. Was Lyan the one to do it? He found one larger tent, a possible command tent. It at least was guarded, and almost entirely by Genabackans. This convinced him. As he’d thought; they’d recognized her. He approached the guards before the closed flap.
‘I’d like to speak to the Shieldmaiden.’
The guards, two burly veterans, exchanged annoyed looks. ‘You can’t just saunter up and meet a commander,’ one said. ‘You look like a veteran, you should know that. Chain of command. Who’s your sergeant?’
Inwardly, Kyle cursed. ‘I just arrived.’
‘Thought she’d welcome you personally?’ another commented with a sneer.
‘You know her or something?’ the first demanded.
‘We’ve … met.’
‘When?’
Kyle licked his lips. This was rapidly degenerating and now he couldn’t just walk away. ‘On the … the passage in.’
The first grunted. ‘Congratulations. That’s nice.’ He straightened, pointed off. ‘You just arrived? See that big house, the one with two storeys?’