horses behind. There were so few of them left that every mount was needed for the dwindling number of scouts Morget 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 Morget’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, Morgain 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.”
Morgain 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?” Morgain’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. Morget 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, Morgain? 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.”
Morgain slapped the dwarf hard across the face. “We kill sibling-fuckers! And we kill anyone who makes false accusations as well, tiny bitch.”
Morget 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 Morgain.
Morgain 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,” Morget pointed out.
Morgain 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 Morgain there, and she could not gainsay him.
“Come, scold. Morgain, you come with me as well. I take it your thralls can see to my men?”
“It will be done.” Morgain fumed darkly and stalked inside the gate ahead of him. Morget followed behind her.
“Listen,” Balint said, “my feet-”
Morget 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. Morget 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 Morgain at his side.
Morg 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 Morg everywhere came trotting out of the hall and curled around the Great Chieftain’s feet. All that animal ever did was sleep, Morget thought. He hated it so-no barbarian would ever be allowed such lethargy or uselessness, yet Morg 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,” Morg said at last, and put a hand on Morget’s shoulder. Normally the son would have shrugged off the father’s touch, but this time he tolerated it while he grinned nastily at Morgain. As usual, Morget thought, he’d shown her which of them was the stronger. As usual he swelled with the satisfaction of showing her up.
Yet Morg took his hand away all too soon. “More importantly, the remaining soldiers of Skrae are vanquished and all resistance conquered,” he said. “Morgain, 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.”
Morget’s jaw dropped. He could not believe this outrage. He had brought low an entire city! What had Morgain 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? Morg 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 Morgain, but she did not even meet his eye. Why should she? She was the hero of the day.
Morg 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,” Morget growled. It had been a long time since he’d let anyone refer to him as Morg’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,” Morg said. He was very drunk, and in a merry mood.
“I’ll keep my gold,” Morgain said, looking deeply satisfied. She had always seemed bizarrely proud to be known as Morg’s Ain, that is, “one of Morg’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 Morgain acted as if her
