Croy and Bethane had slept curled up together for warmth when they were alone in the hills. Now the custom of Skilfing demanded they sleep at least six feet apart. Croy found he missed the human contact more than he’d expected.
In the morning he woke with a fever. His vision swam and he could barely swallow the thin wine they poured down his throat. In a daze he watched Bethane argue with the retainers and then with the knight until some kind of agreement was reached. Bethane knew even less of their language than Croy did but somehow she got her way. He supposed that was part of her inheritance as a daughter of a long line of kings.
Croy was lifted by the retainers and then tied to the back of the horse. There was no law against two men riding together, it seemed.
All that day he drifted in and out of consciousness. His wounds pained him grievously when he was awake, and when he slept he was plagued by horrible meaningless dreams. He saw the hills flashing by, now as if the horse were galloping, now as if they moved more slowly than a cloud across a summer sky-trees, rocks, everywhere lichens sprouting, he could almost see them grow as he watched — and then they rode up a long promontory of rock, a kind of natural highway flanked on either side by high walls of stone. They came out on the side of a hill overlooking a valley swaying with dead yellow grass. It hurt Croy’s head to watch it bend and shift in the wind, so he focused instead on the shapes that didn’t move.
Tents, he saw. Hundreds upon hundreds of tents. Not the crude animal-skin tents of the barbarians either. These were neat pavilions, organized in militarily exact rows and columns, and each had a standard in front of its flap. Every standard flew the black and yellow colors of Skilfing, except for one. One especially large tent near the mouth of the valley flew green and gold.
The colors of Ulfram V, and now the colors of Bethane I.
The queen came running up to grab at Croy’s dangling chin and cheeks. “Croy!” she said, with excitement so long buried it cracked the wind-chapped skin around her mouth. “Croy, do you see it?”
He could not answer. The Skilfinger knight took him down the hill, the horse picking its way with excruciating care. They rode up to the large tent flying the royal colors and then, finally, they stopped. The knight’s retainers lined up in perfect order. The knight dismounted, then untied Croy and lowered him carefully to the cold ground.
Croy tried to sit up. Found it impossible. Bethane helped him, tucking a bedroll under his head so at least he could look around him. He saw someone come out of the tent-saw their greaves of steel, at least, from that vantage. The greaves were of Skraeling manufacture and design.
He struggled to turn his head enough to look up, to see the face of his fellow countryman.
When he did he could only believe he had lost consciousness again and was being harried by a ghost from one of his fever dreams.
It was the smiling, worried, oh so very long missed face of Sir Hew, Captain of the King’s Guards. But of course Sir Hew had died at Helstrow, with the rest of the Ancient Blades. Sir Orne and Sir Rory and Sir Hew, all dead in the first hours of the barbarian invasion, only Croy remaining of their brotherhood “How?” Croy managed to ask.
Sir Hew seemed to understand what he meant. “Sir Rory and I attempted to reach the keep, to organize a final defense, but we were too late. Morget and his men cut us off before we could reach the inner bailey.”
“Sir Rory,” Croy said.
Hew shook his head. “He died at Morget’s hand, seconds after you left us. The barbarian cut him in half. Even worse-he broke Crowsbill with the same blow. An Ancient Blade, shattered in one blow by a barbarian!”
Croy thought of Bloodquaffer, which had suffered the same fate. It seemed even magical swords of ancient provenance were no guarantee against Morget’s strength. His heart sagged in his chest, and not just to hear that his friend Rory was dead.
“Morget tried to come for me then, but I was busy. Killing every man I could get my hands on. I thought only to sacrifice myself in delaying the barbarian advance, to give you more time.” He shook his head. “I achieved nothing in that regard. A berserker knocked me over the head with an axe while I stood trying to defend the bridge over the Strow. I fell in the river and started to drown. Wearing that much armor, I should have. But the Lady had other uses for me. She washed me up on a bank two miles south of the fortress. I found a horse and came straight here.”
“Sk-Skif-”
“Enough. I’ll answer every question later. For now, be at peace. You’ve done a man’s service,” Sir Hew said, “bringing us the girl. I take it that Ulfram is dead.”
Croy nodded. It took some effort.
“Long live the queen,” Hew said. “Now, hero-sleep.” Hew’s face swam away from Croy’s vision as he followed the direct order of his superior.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Morg was no fool.
He would have heard some of the murmurs in the camp. Of late it had become open talk-how could he have not heard it? Though still the chieftains turned their faces away and fell silent when he came near, he must understand it would not always be that way. A challenge was coming.
Morget watched his father’s tent all day, endeavoring to be no fool himself. He watched as those most loyal to the Great Chieftain found excuses to always be near the tent. Morgain went into the tent early in the day, coming quickly as if she’d been summoned. She left again a few moments later, fury twisting her face, striking out at every man who got in her way. She did not return, but always there were berserkers and loyal chieftains standing around, warming themselves by the fire Morg kept, drinking his mead. Even those with specific duties elsewhere-those tasked with finding more stones for the trebuchets, those who were stationed to watch the walls of the besieged city, looking for signs of new defenses-found time to come around and joke with Hurlind, or feed morsels to Morg’s filthy hound.
And always-always-there was Torki, the Great Chieftain’s champion, standing like an oak tree before the flap of the tent. Torki with his burnt face and his massive double-bladed battle-axe. Torki did not move. He did not smile when Hurlind made jest of him. He did not drink when the mead horn was passed around.
He only stood, and waited.
“If you don’t strike soon,” Balint told Morget, “you’ll lose your chance. Morg’s smarter than a crow sitting on a gallows tree. He’ll find some way to convince the chieftains his way is the right way.”
“They’ve grown tired of this waiting game,” Morget insisted. “They are ready for action.”
“They’re bored, and looking for some passing diversion,” Balint said. “If you don’t provide it, someone else will. They’ll back your throw only if it promises them some reward. Morg can make promises, too.”
Morget roared and grabbed her up off the pile of furs. “Shouldn’t you be building another trebuchet right now?”
“Why?” she asked as he dangled her in the air. She was no coward, he had to admit. “There aren’t enough stones for the three we have.”
He dropped the dwarf and went to sharpen his axe again, even though it was already keen enough to cut through steel.
Night came quickly, and with it snow. Huge soft flakes filled the air and collected everywhere, danced in the guttering flames of the camp’s many fires, collected in beards and on hair. The temperature dropped to the point where even barbarians wanted to be inside and away from the wind. Suddenly the berserkers and loyal chieftains weren’t crowding around Morg’s tent so thickly anymore. Hurlind went to fetch his master’s dinner.
“This is the moment!” Balint urged. “If you keep anything in those breeches at all, you’ll do it now.”