Cutbill? Hardly. I’m sorry, lad, but you’re no kind of match for that villainous bastard.” Slag pulled at his beard. “I can’t figure this at all.”
“I was never supposed to see this. I was just supposed to die. Cutbill doesn’t know I have it.”
“What’ll you do now that you know?” the dwarf asked, quite carefully. “If you plan to move against him you’d better do it quick. He’s smarter than you. If he gets any idea you’re coming for him it’ll be over before you can fucking blink.”
Malden stood up slowly. If Slag decided that his allegiance to Cutbill was worth fighting over, this conversation could end very badly. “Slag, I need to know—”
The dwarf waved away his concerns with one hand. “Cutbill’s my employer. You’re my friend. Dwarves count those things different. I don’t know how humans rate them.”
Malden nodded carefully. It was a kind of reassurance, and it would have to do. He could never hurt Slag, he knew that much. They’d been through too much together.
“You’re still headed to Ness?” Slag asked.
Malden filled him in quickly on the barbarian invasion. Slag had already known some of the information.
“Aye, sounds like Ness is the safest place in the storm of shit. When we get there, I don’t want to know what you have planned,” Slag told Malden. “Maybe you’re not going to do anything. Just play along like you never saw that parchment. Maybe you’re going to forget the whole fucking thing. That would be pretty smart. Smarter than most humans I’ve known. Maybe you’re going to try for something else. Don’t tell me, and I can’t tell anyone else, alright?”
“I think we have a deal,” Malden told him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Croy’s rounsey whickered and bucked as he climbed onto its back. “Gentle, there,” he soothed, and rubbed the horse’s neck. It wasn’t used to his weight in full armor. Neither was he, for that matter. He was already sweating under the quilted gambeson he wore next to his skin. With the hauberk of chain over that and the whole covered with his full coat of plate he thought he might broil in the warm sunlight.
A serjeant handed him up his great helm, which he tucked under his arm. Finally he was given his shield—painted black and silver, Ghostcutter’s colors, and thus Croy’s as well. He goaded the rounsey over to where the others were assembling. Sir Orne already had his helmet on and Croy was glad for it, as he had no wish to see the knight’s doomed eyes. Sir Hew had been ready for an hour and looked impatient to make a start.
Sir Rory’s children polished his greaves and cuisses with rags, while his wife, up on a stepladder, fed him morsels of chicken. “That’s enough, woman,” he said at last, and rode away from his family. Together the four Ancient Blades made their way down to the eastern gate.
And there they sat, staring at the lowered portcullis for the better part of another hour while they waited for the king.
They said little in that time. The horses stamped and were shushed. The men-at-arms gathered around the gate leaned on the hafts of their bill hooks and made quiet jokes with each other to ease the tension.
When the king came on his massive destrier, he came alone save for his herald, who carried his banner. The gold and green snapped in a stiff breeze as the gate was drawn open.
“None of you speak, no matter what the provocation,” Ulfram V instructed. Someone handed him his crown, a massive piece of gold worked with emeralds. He put it on his head and adjusted its level while he spoke. “This is to be a parley between myself and the Great Chieftain. Do not draw your weapons unless I give direct command. Do not make any sudden movements, and do not—under any circumstances—offer me counsel. You are here to be my honor guard, and nothing else.”
“Of course, your majesty,” Sir Hew said.
Croy spurred his horse forward to keep pace with the king’s enormous warhorse. As he passed through the gate he lifted his helm over the chain hood of his hauberk. The eye slits narrowed his vision to only what was directly in front of him. Once outside the gate, he had to turn his head from side to side, just to see all the forces arrayed against them.
Ten thousand barbarians had come through the pass. They’d been sighted that morning, marching without any sign of lines or formation. Nor had they formed up since. They stood like a great rabble of giants on the grassy field east of Helstrow. Only a very few of their number sat on horses, and nowhere did Croy see any sign of organized archers, nor any siege machines. Ten thousand foot soldiers against a fortress—it made no sense to Croy’s classically trained military mind. Where, even, were the serjeants, where the drummers, where the flags? Many of the barbarians had tired of waiting on foot and had sat down in the sward. Some had started up games of dice or bones.
At the head of this—army, for lack of a better word—a line of firepits had been dug and fed great blocks of peat. Around the fires, the biggest of the barbarians danced wildly, throwing their arms up to the sky at random intervals, stomping down the grass with their massive feet. The dancers all wore the same markings Croy had seen on Mörget’s face—everything below their eyes was painted a bright, blood red.
Alone among the barbarians, these dancers didn’t look up as the king of Skrae came riding toward them.
As the royal party closed the distance to the firepits, only one barbarian stirred. A man who had been in the throes of a dice game slowly stood up. He looked older than the rest. His hair was longer than most—the barbarians cropped their hair, or shaved their heads entirely, and this one had a mop of gold and silver atop his head, as well as a full beard. He also stood out a bit for the fact that no visible part of him was painted. He was dressed in furs no finer than the others wore, however, nor was he possessed of any jewelry or harness. He had a single broadsword strapped to his back and when he rose a mongrel dog stood up beside him and trotted along at his heels.
A second man got up from where he’d been lying in the grass, drinking wine. This one looked more like the others—his hair was cut very short and he had a mocking smile painted over his own lips. He followed the golden-haired oldster past the firepits and up to a point just far enough from the walls of Helstrow to be out of longbow range. The two men—and one dog—raised no banners or flags, nor did they call out.
Ulfram’s herald raced forward on his horse and shouted down some words to the two barbarians. The golden-haired one nodded and then looked up and beckoned to the king of Skrae with one arm. There was a warm smile on his face.
The king approached warily. Hew brought his horse close to Croy’s. “I half think we’re being made sport of,” he whispered.
“It’s just their way,” Croy returned, just as softly. “East of the mountains they treat their inferiors like equals. There are few divisions between the classes.”
“But how do they know their proper place, then?” Hew asked. “Are they even men, like us? Or some hairless kind of ape? They’re big enough for me to believe it.”
“They’re men. Don’t underestimate them,” Croy told his friend.
Hew turned his helm from side to side as if he were counting the vast number of the horde. “No fear in that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
