Harry Turtledove
Wisdom of the Fox
Harry Turtledove
Contents
Werenight
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Prince of the North
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Maps
Werenight
I
'Duin, you're a damned fool if you think you can fight from horseback,' Drago the Bear said, tossing a gnawed bone to his trencher.
Duin the Bold slammed his tankard down on the long table. Ale slopped over the rim. 'Fool, is it?' he shouted, his fair face reddening. 'You're the fool, you thickskulled muckbrain!'
Drago stormed up with an oath, murder in his eyes. His thick arms groped toward Duin. The slimmer man skipped back. His hand flashed to his swordhilt. Cries of anger and alarm rang through Castle Fox's great hall.
Gerin the Fox, baron of Fox Keep, sprang to his feet. 'Stop it!' he shouted. The shout froze both angry men for a moment, giving their benchmates a chance to crowd between them. Drago sent one man flying with a shrug of his massive shoulders, but was brought up short by a grip not even his massive thews could break. Van of the Strong Arm grinned down at him. Almost a foot taller than the squat Bear, the outlander was every bit as powerfully made.
Gerin glowered at his fractious vassals, disgust plain in every line of his lean body. The men grew shamefaced under his glare. Nothing would have pleased him more than breaking both their stupid heads. He lashed them with his voice instead, snapping, 'I called you here to fight the Trokmoi, not each other. The woodsrunners will be a tough enough nut to crack without us squabbling among ourselves.'
'Then let us fight them!' Duin said, but his blade was back in its scabbard. 'This Dyaus-damned rain has cooped us up here for ten days now. No wonder we're quarreling like so many snapping turtles in a pot. Turn us loose, lord Gerin!' To that even Drago rumbled agreement. He was not alone.
The Fox shook his head. 'If we try to cross the River Niffet in this weather, either current or storm will surely swamp us. When the sky clears, we move. Not before.'
Privately, Gerin was more worried than his liegemen, but he did not want them to see that. Since spring he'd been sure the northern barbarians were planning to swarm south over the Niffet and ravage his holding. He'd decided to strike first.
But this downpour-worse than any he could remember in all his thirty years on the northern marches of the Empire of Elabon-balked his plans. For ten days he'd had no glimpse of sun, moons, or stars. Even the Niffet, a
