“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.