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.