A
thousand barbarians marched north, pulling wagons full of books from Redweir. They grumbled at the load, wondering what the Great Chieftain could possibly want with words. Mörget ignored their complaints and ordered a doubling of the pace. He was anxious to see his father again. He had something to say to the old man.
“Slow down, you bastard. We’ve been walking so long I’ve got blisters all the way up my legs. For fuck’s sake, I’ve got blisters so far up my arse I can taste them.”
Mörget hauled in Balint’s chain. The dwarf staggered toward him, her eyes wide with terror. He was in a good mood for once, so he didn’t hurt her. Just grinned down into her hairy face and laughed his dark and booming laugh.
Mörget in a good mood was still a frightening thing.
Ahead he could see the walls of Helstrow. He’d been walking for days to return to the fortress, leaving his horses behind. There were so few of them left that every mount was needed for the dwindling number of scouts Mörget could command. The scattered men of Skrae had been busy killing his outriders. No matter—if that was the best they could do, then victory was assured.
There was a nagging doubt in the back of Mörget’s mind, a curiosity about what he would do once he had conquered the West. What would satisfy his bloodlust then, when every man on the continent was his thrall? The barbarian put such pointless wonderings behind him. There was always the Old Empire, across the sea to the south. There were always more lands to crush.
At the gate of Helstrow, Mörgain received him with honors. She placed a wreath of dry roses upon his head in mockery of western pomp. She’d even pruned off all the thorns—which he thought might be a subtle jab at his toughness. He was used to her disdain, however. He thrived on it.
“I hear you laid low a baron,” he told her. “A silly little man in linen and fur.”
She bowed like a western courtier. “Milord, you are too kind to remember my paltry accomplishments. Though I see you’ve forgotten I also defeated Sir Croy.”
“I forgot nothing. He still lives.”
Mörgain laughed. “I left him in a welter of berserkers. We’ve heard nothing of him since. Though, if he is alive—I want him. He’s beautiful, in a decadent way. I want him stripped and staked in my tent. I want to see what soft western skin feels like under my lips. I want to know the secrets of courtly love.”
“Him you may not have. I must slay him myself.”
“You give me orders now, Chieftain?” Mörgain’s eyes flashed dangerously. The two of them had never fought a true blood duel. Never had their Ancient Blades met when the intention was to draw heart’s blood. Mörget wondered briefly how long it would take to kill his sister. Whether she would be a satisfactory opponent, the foe he’d been looking to meet for so long.
She was still useful to him, though. He grabbed her by the throat—she did not try to stop him. Her eyes danced and she smiled as he squeezed.
“What do you really want, Mörgain? I need your aid today. Tell me your price and I’ll pay it.”
“I want,” she said, picking her words carefully, “to serve my clans. To obey and enforce the decisions they make. I want nothing for myself. I am their chieftess, and what they want is all that matters.”
It was a variation on the oath every chieftain took when he won his clan. She would deny him the true secret of her heart’s desire by parroting words he’d spoken himself so many times. Words their father had composed.
He let go of her. For a moment he expected her to draw Fangbreaker and try to cut him down, but she merely laughed.
“Ah, this tender scene explains quite a bit,” Balint said. She had sat down on the grass outside the gate to capture this stray moment’s rest. “I was wondering how you lot got so pig stupid. If all brothers and sisters in the east act like this, it’s no more a fucking mystery. You know what they say about the get of incest.”
Mörgain slapped the dwarf hard across the face. “We kill sibling-fuckers! And we kill anyone who makes false accusations as well, tiny bitch.”
Mörget considered letting his sister kill Balint. It might be briefly entertaining. Yet he still needed the dwarf. He knew what to say to save her life. “A scold can speak thus with impunity,” he told Mörgain.
Mörgain screamed in defiance. “She’s no scold! Scolds are warriors who have earned the right to speak truth to their betters. Who has she killed?”
“Hundreds—at the Vincularium, and at Redweir,” Mörget pointed out.
Mörgain wouldn’t have it. “She’s never held a blade in her life.”
“She may not have the training of a scold either, or know the kennings and the couplets, but she can speak oaths and curses better than Hurlind.” He hauled Balint to her feet by the chain. “And every chieftain may appoint his own scold, as he chooses.”
He had Mörgain there, and she could not gainsay him.
“Come, scold. Mörgain, you come with me as well. I take it your thralls can see to my men?”
“It will be done.” Mörgain fumed darkly and stalked inside the gate ahead of him. Mörget followed behind her.
“Listen,” Balint said, “my feet—”
Mörget picked the dwarf up and tucked her under his massive arm. He thought that would be enough to silence Balint, but it was not.
“So I’m your scold now, as well as your engineer? I want no more responsibilities from you, you daft giant prick. I don’t even know what a scold is supposed to do!”
“Oh, you know it all too well. But I did not give you this honor without reason. What you said to my sister—it was unforgivable. She was well within her rights to cut off your head, then and there.”
“Because I said she was inbred?”
“That’s our way. Slander is not permitted. Except when spoken by a scold. Scolds are expected to mock one and all, and no man may seek revenge for their jeering. Scolds alone are allowed to speak the truth—and by so doing, keep the chieftains from believing their own boasts. By making you my scold I have saved your life. Now you must find a way to repay me.”
“Lovely,” Balint said. “Where are we going now?”
“I go to see the Great Chieftain. You will wait for me, until I choose to return for you.” He tied her chain around a post standing before the gate to Helstrow’s inner bailey. The rotting head of a Skraeling knight still sat atop the post, dripping black fluids. Mörget laughed to see Balint strain against her spiked collar, trying to avoid getting any of the putrescence on her clothes.
When he felt he’d been amused enough—that, after all, was another responsibility of a chieftain’s scold, to keep him entertained—he headed into the inner bailey with Mörgain at his side.
Mörg waited for his children on the steps of the palace of justice. He received them there with wine for his daughter and milk for his son, and they all listened with varying degrees of impatience as Hurlind the scold recounted their great victories with a minimum of chiding. Sometimes a scold’s duty was to tell when a man was worthy of honor.
While they stood and listened to Hurlind’s accolades, the dog that followed Mörg everywhere came trotting out of the hall and curled around the Great Chieftain’s feet. All that animal ever did was sleep, Mörget thought. He hated it so—no barbarian would ever be allowed such lethargy or uselessness, yet Mörg loved it more than he had loved his own mother. He imagined all the different ways he could kill the dog while he waited for Hurlind to finish.
“The eastern half of Skrae is ours. Redweir has fallen,” Mörg said at last, and put a hand on Mörget’s shoulder. Normally the son would have shrugged off the father’s touch, but this time he tolerated it while he grinned nastily at Mörgain. As usual, Mörget thought, he’d shown her which of them was the stronger. As usual he swelled with the satisfaction of showing her up.
Yet Mörg took his hand away all too soon. “More importantly, the remaining soldiers of Skrae are vanquished and all resistance conquered,” he said. “Mörgain, you have given me half a kingdom by slaughtering that baron who was the last to stand against us. You of all my chieftains have achieved the most.”
Mörget’s jaw dropped. He could not believe this outrage. He had brought low an entire city! What had Mörgain done but crush a defiant rabble? This could not stand. This was not acceptable, that he should be slighted this way!
And yet—what could he do? Mörg had already honored him. To demand greater laudation now would be the petulant whining of a child who is not given enough of his mother’s milk to suck. He seethed and glowered at Mörgain, but she did not even meet his eye. Why should she? She was the hero of the day.
Mörg lifted his hands high and smiled at his children. “We have won this war, thanks to my get and my ain. You shall both have coffers overflowing with gold, and thralls by the hundred to do your bidding.”
“I’ll trade my gold for you calling me by my proper name,” Mörget growled. It had been a long time since he’d let anyone refer to him as Mörg’s Get. He would be damned if he was to be called by that shameful name now.
“As you wish it, Mountainslayer. Hmm. I’ve never saved that much money by giving a man proper respect before. I must do it more often,” Mörg said. He was very drunk, and in a merry mood.
“I’ll keep my gold,” Mörgain said, looking deeply satisfied. She had always seemed bizarrely proud to be known as Mörg’s Ain, that is, “one of Mörg’s.” The names had not been meant to bring honor to the children, but rather shame them—they had no true names for themselves, not until they earned them. Yet Mörgain acted as if her name was a badge of distinction. Perhaps she thought, like the decadent Skraelings, that glory could be passed on to one’s descendants the way you would pass down a sword or a shield. “Gold’s worth more than words any day,” she said. “Though it would please me to be called baronkiller, I confess.”
“Sorry, the price is nonnegotiable.” Mörg laughed and stepped forward to place a hand on their shoulders. “I will give you each one thing for free, and that is my pride. You’ve both done very well.”
“We’ve done nothing yet,” Mörget insisted, thrusting away his father’s hand. Perhaps there was a way he could turn this around—to downplay Mörgain’s accomplishment and gain another chance to reap glory for himself. “The western half of Skrae is unconquered. My spies tell me of a new army massing against us, this Army of Free Men. They say it is led personally by the Burgrave of Ness. As long as he opposes us we have only temporary claim to this land.”
“You desire to march out of here again so soon?” Mörg asked.
Mörget began to answer. Then he bit his tongue. He’d been about to demand it for himself, but he remembered what Mörgain had said outside the gate. Perhaps she had something to teach him after all. “I want nothing for myself. I am a chieftain, and it is what my clans want that matters.”
Mörg nodded respectfully, as a man will who appreciates a move his opponent makes in a game of counters. That meant far more to Mörget than his father’s
pride
.
“Winter is coming,” the Great Chieftain said. “This morning the water in my basin was frozen. I had to break it up to wash my face. It will be a hard thing, campaigning in a strange land in wintertime. I myself was going to suggest we spend the season here, and renew the fight only when the grass grows green once more.”
“My clans long to complete this war,” Mörget insisted. “To crush Skrae while its leadership is in disarray. If we press the fight now, we face scattered troops hiding under their beds. Resistance in the eastern half of Skrae may be broken,” he said, waving one hand in the air as if to suggest this was no great thing. “Yet there are plenty of men to oppose us in the west, still. Right now they are an untrained rabble, the kind Mörgain has proved so effective in dispersing.” Her eyes narrowed, and Mörget wondered how far he could push her before she drew her sword and attacked him. Part of him would relish the chance to match his Ancient Blade against hers. “If we wait until spring there may be a real army prepared to stand against us.”
Mörg shook his head from side to side. “Meeting even a scattered army on the battlefield means many casualties. Is it not better to let them come to us, where we have strong walls to aid us?”
“You assume they will attack if we do nothing. If it were wise for us to sit and wait, why would it be folly for them? They will not wish to fight in winter either. Let us use that to force them into a decisive battle.”
Mörg looked up at the sky, as if trying to gauge when the first snow would fall. “You. Chieftess. You speak for one half of all my clans. What do you say?”
Mörgain could not speak for a long while, as her skull-painted face contorted in rage. Clearly Mörget’s gambit was working and he had robbed her of her glory. “My clans desire to hear the word of their Great Chieftain before they make a decision.” Mörgain turned and stared into Mörget’s eyes. “For myself, I desire many things. But of course, what I want does not matter.”
Mörg nodded. “Very good. You’ve heard my decision. Take it to your chieftains, argue it all night over mead and contests of strength. Tell me tomorrow what you decide, and that will be our answer.”
There. It was out in the open. Mörgain did want something. His own heart’s blood, probably. It did not matter, though.
If she refused to march west now, she would look the weakling. She would be begging the scolds to call her Mörget’s cowardly sister. He knew Mörgain could never live that down. She would offer her clans to accompany his because she had no choice. All the clans would agree that the war must be taken to the west, as far as Ness and the mountains beyond, all the way to the far sea, until all of Skrae was under their heel. As for Mörg, he would never gainsay the clans when they were unanimous in their choosing.