“But you weren't scared enough to stay awake.” Caim rooted around the fire's stone-cold cinders. “Why don't you go steal us some wood?”
Grumbling, Malig shambled away through the camp. Caim started digging in his pouch for flint and tinder when Kit appeared across from him. Her eyes were red like she'd been crying. “What have you gotten yourself into, Caim?”
He glanced around. “A storm of shit. Feel free to rub my nose in it.”
“Caim!”
“I'm sorry. I didn't sleep much. There's something strange about these northerners.”
She wiped her nose with the back of a hand. “That's the first smart thing I've heard you say in days.”
“So where have you-?”
Caim stood up as a huge figure emerged from the mist. Wulfgrim strode up holding two steaming mugs. He drank from one as he offered the other to Caim.
Kit flitted around to hover behind Caim as he accepted the cup. It smelled a little like tea, but much sharper. He thought he detected alcohol as well. He took a sip, and found it wasn't bad.
“We're moving,” Wulfgrim said.
“I don't like the way he looks at you,” Kit whispered in Caim's ear. “He wants something, and he doesn't look like the type to take no for an answer.”
Caim just nodded and nursed his drink. Dray and Aemon sat up. Dray stretched and yawned, but Aemon just watched the Northman with narrowed eyes crusted with sleep.
“You are heading north?” the Northman asked. “We will ride with you. I want to learn more of your homeland. Maybe, if the gods are good, I will see it someday, yes?”
Caim handed back the cup, but didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say unless he wanted to risk angering their host. And by the frank look in Wulfgrim's gaze, the Northman knew it, too. Maybe he was searching for an excuse to take offense.
“I'll get my men ready,” Caim said.
Kit was gone. Off to find them a way out of this, he hoped. Aemon rolled up his blanket and picked up his spear. “I had a feeling they weren't going to let us go.”
Dray scooped up a handful of snow and ate it. “Seven hells, I'm just glad I didn't wake up with a cut throat. What do they want with us?”
“I don't know,” Caim replied. “So everyone keep your mouth shut. Make sure Malig understands that, too. We want these Northmen out of our hair as soon as possible. Don't mention our plans.”
“That'll be easy,” Dray said. “Seeing as we don't know them ourselves.”
A Northman brought their horses. While the others got themselves together, he checked the animals. They appeared to be weathering the cold climate with few problems. Their hooves were a little discolored, but there were no cracks in the spongy frogs of their feet. Rubbing his horse's nose, Caim watched the camp break down. For all their savage manner, the Northmen moved with quiet efficiency. In addition to their riding animals, the tribe had a small herd of packhorses. Within a quarter of a candlemark, they were ready to ride. Malig made it back, without the wood, just in time to grab a stick of jerked meat out of his saddlebags and mount up.
Dray yawned. “What if we just made a run for it?”
Caim glanced around, but there were no Northmen close enough to overhear. Aemon cursed aloud. “For fuck sakes, Dray. Just shut up, will you?”
Dray scowled like he was going to reply, but Wulfgrim rode over with two of his men, both as big as he was. He raised his voice, shouting in the northern tongue, and the camp moved out in two columns; the women and striplings headed west with the pack animals while the warriors rode north. The large northern horses looked ungainly, but they rumbled to a swift trot without apparent effort. Caim wondered how long their southern horses could keep up the pace, and what would happen if their crew started to fall behind.
Wulfgrim rode near Caim all morning, asking him questions about the lands south of the Drakstag Mountains, which the Northmen called the Svartvedir, or Blackstorms. The chief seemed particularly interested in the great cities like Taralon and Othir. “I hear the homes of your southern kings are made of gold and ivory,” Wulfgrim said with a laugh. “Is that true? I think I should like to see an ivory house.”
“The duke's keep at Liovard is plain stone,” Malig said. “Maybe they got that rich stuff down in the lowlands. Caim, you ever seen a-?”
“No,” Caim said, and left it at that.
Wulfgrim watched him out of the side of his eye for a few moments, and then chuckled. “I like you, Southlander. A strong man needs to speak very little, yes?”
But the questioning went on for some time, although at certain points Wulfgrim would lapse into song in his native tongue. Skins of fermented buffalo milk were passed up and down the line of riders, which Caim always declined with a shake of his head. The uneasy feeling in his stomach was getting worse.
“Caim.” Kit materialized beside him as the company began the ascent of a long hill. “You're riding straight for a settlement.”
“Lion tribe?” he asked under his breath.
She shook her head, sending her silver tresses bouncing. “No. Bear. And it looks like most of their menfolk are out hunting.”
Caim started to ask how far away this settlement was when a sharp shout filtered back from the front of the group. Wulfgrim called for a halt. As the war band gathered, Caim tried to make out what they were saying, but his grasp of the northern tongue was almost nonexistent. The few words he knew constituted “yes,” “no,” and a couple different words for snow. Points of light shined in the distance.
Wulfgrim turned to him. “Ready for some sport, Southlander?”
Not liking the way that sounded, Caim just nodded. “Always. What have you got?”
“An enemy holdfast straight in our path. What luck, yes? The death gods must be watching over our shoulders this day.”
“Your enemies?”
The chief reached into his chain shirt and drew out a cord strung with dozens of teeth. “Aye, the great Bear. The only prey worth hunting.”
“We will leave you to it then,” Caim said. “You have our thanks for-”
Caim measured the distance between himself and Wulfgrim, and the warriors around him. Three were in reach of his knives from where he sat, and two more including their leader if he shifted his steed forward a couple paces. Tiny voices nattered in his ear as he loosened his grip on the reins. “This isn't our fight.”
Wulfgrim's brows knitted together. “You say you come north to find battle. Now it is here, but you will not join us?”
“It's not that simple.”
Wulfgrim grinned, showing off the carvings on his teeth, mottled with brown-and-yellow stains. “We fight or we die. That is the law of the north.”
Caim understood completely. This was what the Northmen had wanted from the start: to incorporate them into their death squad. The choice was simple: fight or die. “We'll fight.”
Wulfgrim called out to his men, and they surged ahead in an avalanche of iron, leather, and flying snow. Caim filtered back to his men, who were being swept forward in the movement.
“What's going on?” Malig asked.
After Caim explained the situation, Dray growled, “What the hell choice do we have? We'll have to fight with them.”
“Stay together,” Caim said. “If something goes wrong, ride north as hard as you can.”
The lights ahead were brighter now, a scattering of window ports glowing from a score of shaggy longhouses. Huge mastiffs bayed, but the Northmen didn't slacken. Two wings split off, left and right, while the middle column led by Wulfgrim plunged straight into the heart of the settlement. The first sounds of combat echoed ahead. Shouts of alarm split the darkness.
Caim didn't draw his knives, even though Malig and Dray drew their weapons. A glance from him kept them
