Chapter One Hundred Four
Morget raced back into the camp, Balint at his heels, clucking at him not to exert himself and reopen his wound.
He had never felt healthier nor more vigorous in his life. He clutched in one hand the severed shard of Fangbreaker. In the other he held Dawnbringer, the blade naked and whole. A symbol, if one was even needed, that he was the stronger leader.
He would slay Morgain in front of every warrior in the horde-after all, she had started their duel, and no man would stop him from finishing it-and then he would have no rivals. No one to challenge his supremacy.
Yet when he arrived at the camp, it was to find a third of the tents already taken down and packed away. Everywhere barbarians were on the move, bundled in thick furs as if they planned a long journey through the snow.
Hurlind lay drunk in the aisle between the encampments of two clans. The worthless scold stared up at Morget with a bleary eye. Dried mead formed a crust around his mouth. “Hail the returning hero,” he slurred, and pushed himself up on one elbow. “Survivor of a great ordeal. It’s not every man who can take a spanking from his little sister and hold his head high.”
Morget gave the old man a savage kick to the ribs. “You’re no favorite of the Great Chieftain anymore. Just another warrior, barely able to lift a blade. If you can fight, then stand. If not, I’ll take you on as my thrall.” Morget wanted nothing more than to slaughter the scold where he lay. But the law was clear-scolds, even the scolds of dead chieftains, could not be killed for words. Only for treachery or for boring their audience.
Balint bent over the old man and stared into his face. “Where is Morget’s sister? My master has unfinished business with her.”
“She’s there,” Hurlind said, gesturing vaguely toward the center of the camp. “Gathering her warriors. She said you were dead, Mountainslayer.”
Morget kicked Hurlind again and hurried through the maze of tents. Even as he watched, more of them came down. Their poles were separated into pieces, their hides shaken wildly to clear off accumulated ice, then folded and shoved into packs.
Morget grabbed the first man he saw and threw him into the snow. “Put that tent back up,” he commanded. The warrior just glared at him.
Enough. They would all obey him when he was named Great Chieftain. They would learn to fear him, one and all. He raced toward the thickest knot of activity, where horses were being loaded with gear and axes were being wiped down with animal fat to keep off the rust.
Morget shoved his way through the milling warriors and thralls until he spied Morgain sitting her horse in the very midst of the chaos.
She laughed bitterly to see him. “I like your new necklace,” she said, pointing at the coarse thread that held his throat together. Balint had been an indifferent seamstress, though she had saved Morget’s life. “Perhaps I’ll give you a matching belt, after I cut you in half.”
“That might prove difficult, with a broken sword.” Morget held up the shard of Fangbreaker until it blazed in the sun.
For a moment all the activity in the camp stopped. Men dropped their burdens, tents remained erect as their owners leaned on their poles.
Everyone wanted to see what happened next.
Morgain’s horse whickered, perhaps sensing that anything-anything at all-could happen in the next moment. She patted the animal’s neck.
Morget lifted Dawnbringer and struck its blade against the shard of metal in his hand. Light burst from his Ancient Blade, light brighter than the reflection of the sun. “I would continue our conversation,” he said.
The swordsmen of the West used the word conversation to describe the ringing back-and-forth of two blades engaged in combat. Every man listening got the joke. A few even chuckled.
Morgain drew what remained of Fangbreaker. Though it was much shorter than Dawnbringer now, it was still broader and heavier. It looked more like a meat cleaver than a sword. But it was still more than capable of killing a man.
Especially one who had been mortally wounded the night before, and saved only by the ministrations of a clever dwarf.
Morget took a step toward his sister. If this is how it ends, let it end, he thought. Let her slay me, and I will accept that my wyrd has run its course.
Yet it seemed his doom had further to take him.
With a look of supreme disgust, Morgain put her broken sword back in its sheath. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, brother. Yet I haven’t the time. My clans have spoken. We head east, to winter in Helstrow. Where we should have been all along. That was the wish of the Great Chieftain, after all, until you tricked him into coming here for no profit.”
“The Great Chieftain is dead,” Morget pointed out. “His wishes-”
“His wishes remain our course, because he has not been replaced. No man unites the clans now. No man speaks for us all.”
“Call a conclave. Bring every chieftain forward. We will elect a new Great Chieftain here and now.”
There was a great cheering and acclaim from the gathered warriors-yet it was not unanimous. More than a few of the chieftains only stood tight-lipped and glaring.
“I think not,” Morgain said. Her skull-painted face cracked in a wide grin. “You forget, my brother, that I am a chieftain myself. And a conclave cannot be called unless every chieftain agrees to attend. I refuse.”
A chorus of hissing and calls of cowardice fell on Morgain like a salvo of arrows-but not every man joined in. She turned and gestured at her thralls. They sluggishly returned to their work, breaking down tents and packing horses. They were making ready to leave at once.
And there was nothing Morget could do to stop them.
Ah, but there was one thing. He could officially challenge her. He could name her a coward. He could call on his own chieftains to fight Morgain and her clans. He could make war on her.
Civil war-while the Army of Free Men camped not thirty miles away, and Ness stood looming over them, unconquered. Morg the Wise would have had a good laugh at the very idea. It would take a leader of surpassing folly to even consider it.
Morget’s wyrd thought it was exactly what he should do.
His sister looked down at him, waiting to see which way the wind would blow. She was ready come what may.
Morget burned, his heart and his head already coming to blows inside him.
“You’re a fool if you don’t put that sword away,” Balint whispered up at him. “No man leads a nation with his cock hanging out of his trousers.”
She was right. Reason could make only one choice, and even bloodlust must bow to reason some of the time.
Morget smiled down at Balint. Then he put Dawnbringer in its scabbard. He held onto the shard of Fangbreaker. It was his last badge of glory, the one thing Morgain couldn’t take from him.
“How many clans ride with my sister?” he shouted.
Nearly a third of the chieftains gathered before Ness gave their names. Two thousand warriors and thralls would march with them.
That still left plenty of men loyal to Morget. Far more than he needed to take the Free City. “When I’m done here, I’ll come for each of you. I won’t rest until you pay for this betrayal,” he said.
“You know where to find them,” Morgain said. “Come to Helstrow and we’ll be waiting. That is, if you live through the winter.” Then she spurred her horse and rode off.
“Go,” Morget said to the faithless chieftains who followed her. “Go hide from snow and wind behind a high wall, you cowards.” He watched and shouted abuse until the last man had taken to his heels, heading east along the road. Then he turned his face away from them and started for where Hurlind lay in the snow.
His rage demanded bloodshed. If he could not avenge himself on his sister, he would turn instead on the last of his father’s faithful retainers. He would kick Hurlind until he was given lawful provocation-and then he would
