Nothing moved in the cloud shadows. Nothing stirred. He heard an owl hoot from miles away, a low, mournful sound almost lost under the noise of his own breathing.
He waited.
He took the scrap of parchment out of his tunic and unfolded it against his leg. In the light of the candle he could just make out the words, and the symbol at the bottom of the page—a kind of signature.
“What’s that, lad?” Slag asked, stepping into the light.
Slag stood no more than four feet tall. He was as thin as a rail, and as pale as moonlight on snow. His dark beard stuck out in wild profusion and his keen eyes glimmered in the candlelight, but in the dark his clothing made him nearly invisible so his face seemed to float in the light. He might have been a specter of vengeance, bound to the place where he’d been killed.
For Malden, he was a sight for sore eyes.
The thief rushed to his old friend and embraced him warmly. He hadn’t seen the dwarf since they split up outside the ruins of the Vincularium. Not since before he’d gone to Helstrow.
“A love letter from your leman?” Slag asked, tapping the parchment.
“Not exactly,” Malden said, hurriedly folding it up again.
“I thought not. I saw you pull it off of Prestwicke’s body, way back,” Slag said. “I’ve been wondering about it since.”
Malden shook his head. He wouldn’t speak of the parchment, not yet. Not until he had a proper measure of Slag’s loyalties. “How are the elves?” he asked, instead.
“Squared away, neat as nails in a fucking drawer,” Slag told him. “I took ’em up to the Green Barrens, where at least they’ll have trees for company, and bade ’em to be fruitful but keep their heads down. The desolation of that place, and their natural mistrustfulness, will make sure the humans never know they’re there.” The dwarf sighed deeply. “Though they threatened to follow after me, and would not sit still, not ’til I promised Aethil I’d come back for her. She’s still besotted with me.”
Malden laughed, though he kept his voice low. “Maybe she just likes short men.” Aethil, the queen of the elves, had been given a powerful love potion that would make her give her heart to the first man she saw. Unfortunately for everyone involved, that had been Slag. According to Cythera—who knew about such things—the effects were permanent.
The fact that the elves and the dwarves were bitter ancestral enemies had made no difference. The last time Malden had seen them together, Aethil was still under the impression that Slag was just a very short human.
“But enough of my love life,” Slag said. “Tell me about the paper. Have we got fucking secrets between us now?”
Malden glanced down at the creased parchment in his hand. He’d hoped to distract Slag, but dwarves had keen and penetrating minds and he knew Slag wouldn’t give up until he’d learned the truth. “It’s a contract for an execution. Mine. It just describes me, gives information on my favorite haunts in Ness. There’s no price named, but considering that Prestwicke crossed an entire kingdom to fulfill it, I can assume the bounty was high.”
“Is it signed?” Slag asked.
Malden frowned as he unfolded the parchment. “In a fashion,” he said. He held the paper where Slag could see it. At the bottom of the page was a crude sketch of a heart, transfixed by a key.
Slag’s eyes went wide.
“The boss sent an assassin after you?” Slag asked.
Malden watched the dwarf’s eyes. Slag was a fellow employee of Cutbill. Malden wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision showing Cutbill’s mark to the dwarf.
“But for fuck’s sake, why? You’re one of his best earners.”
“Maybe that’s reason enough. Maybe he was worried I was too good at my job, and that made me a threat.”
“To 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.
