clear they were waiting, not blocking the way. Even Amhanders ought to be able to figure that out.
At which point Shagot began to wonder how he would communicate with these men. In the past when he dealt with people unable to speak Andorayan he was in a position to bluster and threaten and make himself understood by hurting people who did not do what he wanted. That option would not be available here.
The riders talked it over. One rode back the way they had come. The rest remained where they were, distinctly uncomfortable.
'Are they afraid of us?' Finnboga asked.
'I don't know,' Shagot replied. He did not think his bunch looked threatening, if only because they were weighted down with so much clutter. The gods should have sent a few slaves or pack animals along.
An hour passed. The Andorayans ate bad cheese and dried meat. The Arnhanders watched. They did dismount, loosen their saddles, and let their animals graze.
'Hey, Grim. There's people coming.'
Shagot had fallen asleep. There was no time when he could not use a little more sleep.
Twenty-five or thirty riders approached in a hurry. Shagot wondered, 'Does everybody in this country carry his own flag?' The riders all carried long spears with pennons attached. Except for a handful in black, riding among them.
Sigurjon swore. 'It's those damned crows who killed Erief!'
Shagot had better eyes. 'No. They're priests but they aren't those priests. Even if they were, this isn't the time to close that account. Erief can take care of that himself.'
The band all stared at him.
'No, I don't know why I said that.'
'You're getting spooky, Grim.'
Somebody who had to be of superior rank moved closer, accompanied by bodyguards. And the priests. There were four of those. One of them was of exalted rank, too.
Shagot leaned on the shaft of a spear, cheek to cheek with the dead ogre's head. His brother and the others eyed him nervously because that dead monster bothered him not at all.
With those memories that he did retain it seemed unlikely that he would be squeamish about anything ever again.
The senior priest and senior soldier halted eighty feet away. Shagot began to feel impatient. He could not fathom why those people acted so strangely.
The priests came forward without the soldiers. They stopped ten yards away. They were unnaturally pale. Two shook so badly they could barely keep hold of their reins.
'By the thunder!' Finnboga said. 'These guys are shitting themselves just looking at us.'
'Yeah,' Shagot said. 'So what are they seeing that we can't? Why are they scared of us? Hey! Assholes in the slave smocks. What's your fucking problem? We just want to join up with your army.'
The priests chattered among themselves in a nasal, whining tongue unlike any Shagot had heard before. He asked his companions, 'Any of you guys understand them?'
The priests began trying different languages. Probably their best course, Shagot thought. His bunch, between them, might stumble through in two languages beside their own. And one of those would be Seatt because Finnboga's family used to trade with the witch people of the extreme north, up on the permanent ice.
'Ha!' Svavar said. 'That fat, scared asshole just said something that sounded like it might be in Santerin.'
'Hallgrim,' Shagot said. 'You were a prisoner in Santerin for a while. Talk to him.' Shagot had a little Santerin himself, but only enough to ask where the treasure was hidden.
Hallgrim said, 'It's Santerin, all right. But it ain't like any variety I ever heard before. I only get about a third of what he's saying. They seem to think that we're demons.'
'Keep him talking,' Shagot said. He was starting to pull it together. He began to catch up with Hallgrim. But that was only good enough to leave him puzzled.
Why would these idiots pick them out as demons? Because he and his bunch did not understand their bizarre religion?
'Start beating on the point that we're just the opposite. The gods have sent us to join their army.'
'They won't believe that. Not even if you've got a signed letter of introduction from the All-Father.'
'Just keep them talking. Keep telling them we're here to join their army.'
The Andorayans were allowed to accompany the Arnhander force, which was commanded by the Baron Martex Algres, a cousin of the king of Arnhand. His second in command was Archbishop Berл of Source, the foremost cleric of Arnhand, an in absentia member of the Collegium. The army numbered about fifteen hundred, plus camp followers. Many noble Arnhander families were represented in the force. Its mood was optimistic in the extreme. The army would join up with Adolf Black's Grolsacher mercenaries in a few days, on the border of the Connec. Then they would sweep through that province, destroying its heretics root and branch. The Duke of Khaurene would himself join them somewhere near Castreresone, after they settled up with Antieux for what it had done to the Patriarchal force sent to stifle the unholy rebellion of its people.
Shagot and the Andorayan band trudged along, always spied upon by several priests, never able to understand what moved these people. Always, at least one of the monitors was something called a witchfinder.
Shagot spent all of his time with the Arnhanders, confused. Their reasons for war made no sense. People were going to die over differences in doctrines between Episcopals and Maysaleans? When anyone old enough and smart enough to tie their own bootlaces could not possibly believe any of the crap put out by either bunch?
The most disturbing aspect of the situation for Shagot, though, was the universal conviction of the Arnhanders that the murder of Erief Erealsson had taken place two centuries ago. Today Andoray, Friesland, Weldence, and far Iceland were united under a single crown. And the official religion there was Chaldarean.
Were the gods mad to send him into such a mad world?
14. The Connec, Antieux, and Beyond
The rape of Antieux saw almost seven thousand of that city's people slaughtered. The majority were women, children, and the old. As shock and despair faded, the survivors became ever more animated by anger, horror, and deepening hatred.
People who wanted to help straggled in from the ends of the Connec and beyond. Count Raymone Garete burned bridges by publicly vowing a vendetta against Sublime V and the Brotherhood of War. That was a bold pledge. Not even Johannes Blackboots dared go that far. The Count's vow was so intemperate that Duke Tormond showered him with letters demanding that he recant.
Now a new army approached Antieux. This one was stronger than the last, better equipped, and consisted of veteran soldiers. It included members of many of the noble families of Arnhand. It was commanded by experienced men determined to make Raymone Garete eat his words one at a time, without condiments, chewing carefully.
Count Raymone was not dismayed. The previous mistake would not be repeated.
It was late in the season. The Arnhander troops were feudal levies on short terms of obligation. They would head home before many weeks passed.
Bishop Serifs paid for his perfidy. The people of Antieux vented their anger on his properties and on those of the Church.
Everywhere priests who supported Sublime suffered. At Gadge, previously a devout Episcopal town, an angry mob exhumed Bishop Maryl Pontл, Serifs's predecessor, tried him for crimes against God and humanity, then reburied his bones in an unmarked grave in unhallowed ground.
Messengers scurried everywhere as Kings and Princes and the Grail Emperor himself made their opinions known. Sublime V received no congratulatory letters.
