David Chandler - Honour Among Thieves

Ten thousand barbarians had come through the pass. They’d been sighted that morning, marching without any sign of lines or formation. Nor had they formed up since. They stood like a great rabble of giants on the grassy field east of Helstrow. Only a very few of their number sat on horses, and nowhere did Croy see any sign of organized archers, nor any siege machines. Ten thousand foot soldiers against a fortress—it made no sense to Croy’s classically trained military mind. Where, even, were the serjeants, where the drummers, where the flags? Many of the barbarians had tired of waiting on foot and had sat down in the sward. Some had started up games of dice or bones.

At the head of this—army, for lack of a better word—a line of firepits had been dug and fed great blocks of peat. Around the fires, the biggest of the barbarians danced wildly, throwing their arms up to the sky at random intervals, stomping down the grass with their massive feet. The dancers all wore the same markings Croy had seen on Mörget’s face—everything below their eyes was painted a bright, blood red.

Alone among the barbarians, these dancers didn’t look up as the king of Skrae came riding toward them.

As the royal party closed the distance to the firepits, only one barbarian stirred. A man who had been in the throes of a dice game slowly stood up. He looked older than the rest. His hair was longer than most—the barbarians cropped their hair, or shaved their heads entirely, and this one had a mop of gold and silver atop his head, as well as a full beard. He also stood out a bit for the fact that no visible part of him was painted. He was dressed in furs no finer than the others wore, however, nor was he possessed of any jewelry or harness. He had a single broadsword strapped to his back and when he rose a mongrel dog stood up beside him and trotted along at his heels.

A second man got up from where he’d been lying in the grass, drinking wine. This one looked more like the others—his hair was cut very short and he had a mocking smile painted over his own lips. He followed the golden-haired oldster past the firepits and up to a point just far enough from the walls of Helstrow to be out of longbow range. The two men—and one dog—raised no banners or flags, nor did they call out.

Ulfram’s herald raced forward on his horse and shouted down some words to the two barbarians. The golden-haired one nodded and then looked up and beckoned to the king of Skrae with one arm. There was a warm smile on his face.

The king approached warily. Hew brought his horse close to Croy’s. “I half think we’re being made sport of,” he whispered.

“It’s just their way,” Croy returned, just as softly. “East of the mountains they treat their inferiors like equals. There are few divisions between the classes.”

“But how do they know their proper place, then?” Hew asked. “Are they even men, like us? Or some hairless kind of ape? They’re big enough for me to believe it.”

“They’re men. Don’t underestimate them,” Croy told his friend.

Hew turned his helm from side to side as if he were counting the vast number of the horde. “No fear in that.”

The king walked his horse up to where the two barbarians stood. The four Ancient Blades kept close position behind him.

It was Ulfram’s herald who spoke first. “Hail and well met under the banner of parley! King Ulfram, fifth of the name, lord of Skrae, master of the fortress of Helstrow, protector of the people, favored of the Lady—”

“Owner of a very nice horse,” the barbarian with the painted smile said. “Can I have it?”

His golden-haired companion chuckled.

Ulfram’s herald went white with rage, but he finished his announcement. “River warden of the Strow and the Skrait, lord protector of the dwarven kingdom—may I present to you the Great Chieftain Mörg of the eastern steppes?”

“Ha! Don’t forget me!” the barbarian with the painted smile insisted. “Hurlind the scold! Ah, is it my turn to speak? This fellow went on so long I completely forgot my lines. Oh great Mörg the Wise, this is … some king or other, I believe you heard his recommends already.”

Mörg laughed openly. “Aye, I did. And well met, I say.” He shot out one hand to clasp the king’s.

“And the dog, Skari, what is it, the fifteenth of that name?” the scold went on.

The dog looked up on hearing its name, then flopped down on its side in the grass and panted.

“You dare introduce your dog to the king of Skrae?” Ulfram’s herald said, his face turning purple now.

“He’s not my dog,” Mörg said. “Sometimes I feed him, that’s all. More than once, when I was starving, he fed me. Sometimes I think I’m his man.”

Ulfram’s herald began to complain again, but the king stopped him with a gesture. “That will do, I think. Ride back to the gate now, and tell them I’ve been met with the required civility. Go on, man.”

The herald glared down at the barbarians one last time before he left. Ulfram sighed deeply once he was gone and then dismounted so he could face Mörg man to man. “I’ll choose not to take offense at the jests and boasts,” the king said. “It is my understanding your man there—your scold—is trained to taunt and provoke, rather than to offer your own thoughts.”

“He’s not my man,” Mörg said. He waved behind him, toward the rabble. “None of these are. They let me talk for them, that’s all. That’s what a chieftain does. A Great Chieftain just talks for a lot of them.”

“But you are invested with the power to make terms, today?” the king asked.

“I am. Should we sit? This might take a while.”

“I’d rather not soil my robes of state,” Ulfram said.

“As you wish.”

Ulfram nodded gratefully. “I understand you believe you were invaded first, by one Herward, a lone, insane religious hermit. Who you slaughtered without trial.”

Mörg waved a hand in front of his face, as if dismissing a fly.

“To show my contrition for this grave offense,” Ulfram said, “I am willing to offer you tribute—one hundred chests of gold coin. Once the exchange is made, I will expect you to lead your people back through the new pass to your own lands.”

Mörg sighed. “I already have a lot of gold.”

Croy could see Ulfram trembling. The crown rattled on the king’s head.

“What I’m really looking for is land,” Mörg went on. “We have plenty of that, too, in the east, but it’s no good for farming. My people need to eat. I’ve spent my life trying to convince them there’s more to life than just looting and pillaging, but when I can’t grow good wheat, it’s hard to get the point across. Now, personally, I’d prefer to avoid bloodshed today. I don’t like watching men die.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ulfram said, softly.

“Unfortunately, that makes me a rarity among my people.”

The scold laughed. “For us, the sound of dying men screaming their last is sweet music! We love the ring of iron on iron. Some like to drink hot blood, and others—”

Mörg punched the scold in the side of his jaw. His fist was like a hammer’s head, and it sent Hurlind sprawling into the grass, clutching his face as if his bones were broken.

Instantly Croy’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. It was all he could do not to draw Ghostcutter and race forward to cut down the golden-haired barbarian. But he had his orders.

“Sorry,” Mörg said. “He annoys even me, sometimes. As I was saying—the clans want to go to war. It’s what they love best. I might be able to convince them to let you live. But they’ll want something good in return.”

“Such as?” Ulfram inquired.