that crowned a hill halfway between Pavilosta and Adutiskis, the other leading village in the county. Enkuru, Simanu’s father, had made the place strong. The way he’d treated the local peasants, he’d needed a strong place of refuge. This forlorn squad could not hope to go in there and get Simanu out. They had to hope the word they’d got was good, and that he would come forth today after deer and boar and pheasant.
Raunu said, “Back before the days of egg-tossers, nobody could have stormed a keep like that.”
“Even with egg-tossers, even with dragons, a stubborn garrison in there could have made the Algarvians work for a living,” Skarnu said.
Dauktu spat on the ground. “Not Enkuru,” he said bitterly. “He knew which side of his bread had honey on it. As soon as the redheads looked like winning the war, he rolled over on his back and showed ‘em his throat and his belly, the way any cowardly cur-dog would.”
“He’s dead,” Merkela said. “Powers below eat him, he’s dead. Simanu deserves to be dead. And”--her voice roughened--”all the redheads deserve to be dead, too. What they did to Gedominu ...”
Her war with the Algarvians was and always would be personal. Skarnu said, “What they’re doing now, there in the west...”
As Merkela’s had, his voice trailed away. None of the other Valmierans said anything. None of them wanted to meet his eye. Skarnu still didn’t know how much faith to put in the rumors that swirled through his conquered kingdom. He didn’t want to believe any of them, but with that much smoke, he feared a fire had to be burning somewhere down at the bottom of it.
“You wouldn’t think even Algarvians could do such a thing,” Raunu said. “They’re whoresons, aye, but they fought clean enough, taking all in all, in the Six Years’War.”
“Barbarians. Always have been. Always will be.” Dauktu spat again.
“Aye.” Merkela’s voice was fierce. No one--not Skarnu, not Raunu, not the peasants who’d known her all her life--had had the nerve to tell her she might not come with the men on this raid. Had anyone tried, she would have been more dangerous to him than the redheads were likely to prove.
A horn call, thin in the distance, drove such thoughts from his mind. He peered toward Count Simanu’s castle, squinting to try to make his vision sharper. “Is that the drawbridge coming down?”
“Aye,” Raunu said. “I can’t hardly read at all without spectacles on my nose, but I don’t have any trouble with what’s far away.”
“Here he comes,” Merkela breathed. “Oh, here comes the whole band of hunters.” Her voice was soft, but the passion it held matched--outdid--even her wildest moanings when she lay joined to Skarnu in the bedchamber she had shared with Gedominu.
Skarnu had no trouble seeing that, either: every one of the hunters’ mounts was a brilliant, gleaming white, a white that glowed even under this dark, lowering sky. “Those aren’t horses,” he said. “They’re unicorns, for swank.”
“Aye,” Dauktu said. “You didn’t know about the herd the counts keep?” He shrugged. “Well, can’t be helped, I suppose. You’re not from here.”
If Skarnu lived out all his remaining days in this stretch of the kingdom, people would, he knew, be saying,
“Aye, and all of those riders will have sticks of their own, and they’ll know what to do with them,” Raunu said. “Don’t know about Simanu, but Algarvian cowards are few and far between, whatever else you say about the redheads.”
“If you haven’t got the stomach for the game, you can still go back to the farm,” Merkela told him.
“You know better.” The veteran underofficer locked eyes with Merkela. She looked away first, with a grudged nod. Skarnu’s respect for Raunu, already high, went up another notch. Very few people were able to make Merkela give ground. He’d had scant luck there himself, and he was her lover.
Another horn call sounded. Simanu and his cronies drew nearer. Some wore trousers, others kilts. They were all fine riders, handling their unicorns with effortless ease. The lead rider--Skarnu thought it was Simanu himself--pointed in the direction of the thicket where
