Croy stared down into eyes gone wholly to madness. He saw anger there, only anger-anger at the world, at the gods, at anything that could bleed. The berserker grabbed at the reins with his teeth and started chewing through them.
Croy didn’t have time to cry out in surprise. He lifted Ghostcutter high and brought its pommel down hard enough to smash in the berserker’s skull. The madman’s hands finally released the saddle, and the body fell away.
Easthull, Croy thought. He must go at once to the manor. The Baron, the king, the princess were there. He needed to move them somewhere else, perhaps far to the west. Perhaps as far as Ness.
There was no time to waste.
Part 3
Interlude
“Halt, here,” Morgain said, and the paltry remnants of her band formed up behind her steed. Wincing a little- Sir Croy had given her many new bruises to remember him by-she dropped from her horse to the surface of the road. Behind her a dozen reavers stood glancing at each other as if they wondered what she was up to. Let them wonder in silence, she thought. If they started questioning her decisions, she would act then.
She had seen something lying in the dust and wanted to know what it was. Some half-formed thought was wriggling at the back of her mind and she wanted to let it hatch from its chrysalis and try its wings.
Stooping, she picked up an apple and studied it carefully. Then she looked up at the trees that overhung the road, trying to see where it might have fallen from. Most likely it meant nothing. Still…
It was Halvir, one of her strongest warriors, who chose to speak for the rest. “Chieftess, we need to return to Helstrow as quickly as possible. The Great Chieftain needs to know about the Skraeling resistance we met.”
“We broke Sir Croy’s force,” she said, turning the apple back and forth in her hand. Not looking up. “He’ll be no trouble for us now, even if he survived the berserkers.” Those trance-crazed warriors were still out in the trees, either attacking every living thing they saw or having already collapsed into the deep slumber that always followed their mania. She would round them up tomorrow and reward them for carrying the day. In the meantime she had only this handful of reavers, the only survivors of Croy’s well-orchestrated attack, to work with. It might be enough.
If she returned to Helstrow now, she would gain glory and tribute from her father. She had, after all, broken a surprise attack from a superior force. Yet Morgain knew it would not be enough. Morget was returning as the conqueror of a city. His achievement would eclipse hers and he would never let her forget it.
No. She would bring something else back, when she returned to the Great Chieftain. She would be able to say she’d met the last army of Skrae-and crushed them, utterly annihilated them. And that meant finding their hiding hole and burning them out.
Morget would not be able to match that.
Since her birth, Morgain’s glory had been sullied, overshadowed by the greatness of her father and brother. Scolds sang songs about their journeys and their duels, about how Morg had seen every land in the world, and how Morget had bested every man who ever stood against him. The songs they sang about Morgain made men laugh. The girl who would play with knives, they’d called her. Then the girl who would be chieftess. Of late they’d stopped singing the songs-she’d killed enough men that her exploits didn’t seem so funny anymore. Yet still she was considered weaker than her brother. Until she could prove herself Morget’s better, she would never be satisfied.
“We have some time to play with,” she said. “Time to strike another blow. Perhaps a fatal one.”
Halvir had been made bold by her near defeat on the road. “We’re wounded and tired, and long to return to the fortress, Chieftess. Why this delay?”
She stared at him in surprise. Her brother, she knew, would strike the man down just for defying him. He would never allow his men to speak to him in such a way. Yet perhaps she had inherited some of her father’s wisdom. Morg, she knew, always wanted to hear what his subordinates thought. He understood they might have seen something he missed, or have come up with some creative solution to a problem that vexed him.
She decided to take a middle course, and pretend his defiance was beneath her notice. The buzzing of a pesky fly. “Is there not a manor house near here?” she asked. “There was one on the map I saw in Helstrow.”
The reaver frowned. “Aye, a place called Easthull, not so much as a quarter mile away. Yet we had reports from Morget’s men that it was abandoned. There was no smoke from its chimneys and its gates were locked up tight. No lights showed at night. He assumed it was untenanted. That all the Skraelings fled from this part of the road.”
“Apparently not all of them,” Morgain said. She held the apple up where Halvir could see it.
Someone had taken a bite out of it. Recently. Its pale flesh was brown around the edges but not yet rotten.
Halvir scowled. He didn’t seem to understand.
“Look up,” she said. Above them an apple tree bent its branches over the road. Here and there a red fruit sagged on a limb, though not so many as one might expect. And there were no rotten apples lying on the side of the road, nor any others trampled in the dust. Only the one she’d found. “Someone has been collecting these. Perhaps storing them away for the winter. Someone who lives close by, but who is clever enough not to show himself when we ride past.”
Halvir’s nostrils flared. Did he see it now? Or was he only angered that she’d showed him up? For many men that was the only possible reaction when a woman demonstrated she had a brain in her head-or an arm capable of swinging a sword. She wondered idly if she would have to kill Halvir before the day was out. As an example to the others, and to stop his wagging tongue.
“You saw the men Sir Croy led against us,” she told him. “A rabble, poorly trained. Barely clothed. But they had one great advantage-they were organized. Better so than we were, and that cost us many men. Croy gathered every man he could find to fight us and he trained them himself. He must have had someplace to bring them, a staging ground from which to plan his attack.”
“So you would raid Easthull, and find that place,” Halvir said. He turned his head away, but he nodded. “Perhaps find Sir Croy as well. His head would be a good prize to bring the Great Chieftain. Yet if we find the manor deserted and empty-”
“At the very least we’ll have a place to sleep tonight,” Morgain pointed out.
Halvir seemed not wholly convinced. Yet he knew better than to challenge her further. Morgain mounted her horse and led the way. The manor was very close indeed, and easy enough to find if you were looking for it. As promised, the gates were locked and the house shut up, but Morgain’s nerves keened as she approached anyway. This was the greatest glory she knew, the finest pleasure. To approach a place with sword in hand and no idea what one would find.
The thrill of discovery, she thought. The thrill of finding new enemies to destroy. Who knew what was inside that house? Dust and shadows? Sir Croy, nursing some wound that left him helpless to fend her off?
The body of the long-sought-for king of Skrae? Now there would be a prize.
They tied ropes to the gate and used her horse’s strength to pull it down. It fell into the road with a great thud. Surely anyone inside the house would have heard that sound, but no door opened, there was no flash of color at a window as someone peered out to see what was happening. Morgain drew Fangbreaker and moved in, crouching low as if she were braving an enemy revetment and expected to be peppered with arrows.
Behind her the dozen reavers came on, not nearly so cautious.
“Look at the door,” Halvir said, loud enough to be heard inside the house.
Morgain did not turn to chastise him, but instead did as he’d suggested. Fallen leaves had piled against the bottom of the manor house door. No one had gone in or out that way in weeks, it looked like. Morgain began to wonder if she’d made a mistake after all.
“I weary of this,” Halvir said, and strode forward, past Morgain.
