Morget would not be able to match that.
Since her birth, Morgain’s glory had been sullied, overshadowed by the greatness of her father and brother. Scolds sang songs about their journeys and their duels, about how Morg had seen every land in the world, and how Morget had bested every man who ever stood against him. The songs they sang about Morgain made men laugh. The girl who would play with knives, they’d called her. Then the girl who would be chieftess. Of late they’d stopped singing the songs-she’d killed enough men that her exploits didn’t seem so funny anymore. Yet still she was considered weaker than her brother. Until she could prove herself Morget’s better, she would never be satisfied.
“We have some time to play with,” she said. “Time to strike another blow. Perhaps a fatal one.”
Halvir had been made bold by her near defeat on the road. “We’re wounded and tired, and long to return to the fortress, Chieftess. Why this delay?”
She stared at him in surprise. Her brother, she knew, would strike the man down just for defying him. He would never allow his men to speak to him in such a way. Yet perhaps she had inherited some of her father’s wisdom. Morg, she knew, always wanted to hear what his subordinates thought. He understood they might have seen something he missed, or have come up with some creative solution to a problem that vexed him.
She decided to take a middle course, and pretend his defiance was beneath her notice. The buzzing of a pesky fly. “Is there not a manor house near here?” she asked. “There was one on the map I saw in Helstrow.”
The reaver frowned. “Aye, a place called Easthull, not so much as a quarter mile away. Yet we had reports from Morget’s men that it was abandoned. There was no smoke from its chimneys and its gates were locked up tight. No lights showed at night. He assumed it was untenanted. That all the Skraelings fled from this part of the road.”
“Apparently not all of them,” Morgain said. She held the apple up where Halvir could see it.
Someone had taken a bite out of it. Recently. Its pale flesh was brown around the edges but not yet rotten.
Halvir scowled. He didn’t seem to understand.
“Look up,” she said. Above them an apple tree bent its branches over the road. Here and there a red fruit sagged on a limb, though not so many as one might expect. And there were no rotten apples lying on the side of the road, nor any others trampled in the dust. Only the one she’d found. “Someone has been collecting these. Perhaps storing them away for the winter. Someone who lives close by, but who is clever enough not to show himself when we ride past.”
Halvir’s nostrils flared. Did he see it now? Or was he only angered that she’d showed him up? For many men that was the only possible reaction when a woman demonstrated she had a brain in her head-or an arm capable of swinging a sword. She wondered idly if she would have to kill Halvir before the day was out. As an example to the others, and to stop his wagging tongue.
“You saw the men Sir Croy led against us,” she told him. “A rabble, poorly trained. Barely clothed. But they had one great advantage-they were organized. Better so than we were, and that cost us many men. Croy gathered every man he could find to fight us and he trained them himself. He must have had someplace to bring them, a staging ground from which to plan his attack.”
“So you would raid Easthull, and find that place,” Halvir said. He turned his head away, but he nodded. “Perhaps find Sir Croy as well. His head would be a good prize to bring the Great Chieftain. Yet if we find the manor deserted and empty-”
“At the very least we’ll have a place to sleep tonight,” Morgain pointed out.
Halvir seemed not wholly convinced. Yet he knew better than to challenge her further. Morgain mounted her horse and led the way. The manor was very close indeed, and easy enough to find if you were looking for it. As promised, the gates were locked and the house shut up, but Morgain’s nerves keened as she approached anyway. This was the greatest glory she knew, the finest pleasure. To approach a place with sword in hand and no idea what one would find.
The thrill of discovery, she thought. The thrill of finding new enemies to destroy. Who knew what was inside that house? Dust and shadows? Sir Croy, nursing some wound that left him helpless to fend her off?
The body of the long-sought-for king of Skrae? Now there would be a prize.
They tied ropes to the gate and used her horse’s strength to pull it down. It fell into the road with a great thud. Surely anyone inside the house would have heard that sound, but no door opened, there was no flash of color at a window as someone peered out to see what was happening. Morgain drew Fangbreaker and moved in, crouching low as if she were braving an enemy revetment and expected to be peppered with arrows.
Behind her the dozen reavers came on, not nearly so cautious.
“Look at the door,” Halvir said, loud enough to be heard inside the house.
Morgain did not turn to chastise him, but instead did as he’d suggested. Fallen leaves had piled against the bottom of the manor house door. No one had gone in or out that way in weeks, it looked like. Morgain began to wonder if she’d made a mistake after all.
“I weary of this,” Halvir said, and strode forward, past Morgain.
So when a western peasant jumped out of a tree above their heads, he landed on Halvir, not Morgain. The little man knocked the reaver to the ground and started pounding on his head with a rock. Blood flowed and Halvir shouted in pain.
It seemed Morgain would be spared the task of killing the reaver herself.
Morgain lunged forward with Fangbreaker and skewered the peasant. The civilized man screamed and died, even as two dozen of his fellows erupted from side doors of the house or came running out of the stables, crying for blood and swinging weapons.
The reavers behind Morgain had all fought in raids before. They formed up in a tight knot at her back, swords and axes ready. They were outnumbered. Yet Morgain only took one look at the weapons the peasants carried-sticks and farm tools-and a wicked smile bloomed on her face.
She’d found what she was looking for, surely.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Malden grabbed onto a window ledge and hauled himself upward. One foot on the casement, he thrust his arms up to grasp the sharp edge of a roof, then swung himself up with a grunt and scrabbled up the shingles toward the roof ridge. Dancing around a chimney pot, he dashed to the edge of the roof and leaped into empty space, barely catching the head of a marble statue in the square beyond. Before he’d lost his momentum, he kicked off the statue’s shoulders and somersaulted onto a second floor balcony across the way.
Through the windows of the house he’d landed on, he saw a family of four sitting at table, taking their midday meal. The father looked up and for a moment made perfect eye contact with him-a thief, climbing around on the outside of his house.
The man gave him a cheery wave and rushed to the window to fling it open. “Lord Mayor! Lord Mayor!” he called, but Malden was already on his roof and running up the slope of shingles as fast as he could.
There had been no time to acknowledge the change that had come over his life. No time to reflect and even think about what he was doing. He’d been so busy since the people carried him through the streets and put a garland of dried roses on his head. Too busy to think or even stop and reflect on the burden he now bore. The only peace and quiet Malden ever got anymore was on top of someone’s roof, running as if every man in the watch was after him.
Except there was no more city watch, and the people chasing him all wanted to shake his hand and express their gratitude.
In the week since the death of Pritchard Hood, things had changed in Ness. The people owned their own city now. It had always been a Free City, and the people of Ness had always enjoyed certain liberties. Freedom from royal taxes. Freedom from conscription. Freedom to own property, and to keep their own money. All those things were guaranteed in their charter, a piece of paper Juring Tarness had signed eight hundred years ago. They had a saying in Ness: “City air makes you free.” Of course, there had been limits on that freedom. All other rights not specifically listed in that document were still the province of the king.