"What? Why?" Hilderic demanded.
"Because the Rulers, God curse them, are full of greed," Trasamund said. "We see the opening of the Gap as a chance to go north, to see what lies beyond the Glacier. They see it as a chance to fare south, to lay hold of what lies below the Glacier."
"They can't do that!" Hilderic wasn't the only Bizogot to say that—far from it. Several of the big blond men shook their fists at the north.
"I hope they can't," Trasamund said. "But they have tricks we know nothing of yet. This mammoth-riding is bound to be but the beginning."
"The jarl speaks truly," Liv added. "One thing we saw while we were with them—their magic is strong, very strong, perhaps stronger than any we know ourselves. If the Raumsdalian shaman were awake, he would tell you the same."
"Still and all, they can be beaten," Hamnet Thyssen said. "His Ferocity proved as much."
A reminiscent smile spread across Trasamund's battered features. "Well, so I did," he said, and then waited till his people clamored for him to tell them more. He was indeed a sophisticate—for a Bizogot. He spoke of his battle with Parsh, finishing, "And after I beat him, the poor fool killed himself for shame."
"Killed himself? For what?" Hilderic said. "For shame, you say? What shame in losing a straight-up fight, as long as you gave your best? Did he?"
"He did." By the way Trasamund rubbed his chin, he had no doubt of that. He stopped smiling. "Oh, yes. He did."
"For shame of losing to a man not of the Rulers," Hamnet said.
"They are a serious folk, then, the Rulers." Hilderic sounded impressed in spite of himself. By the way several other Bizogots, both men and women, nodded, he'd put into words what they were thinking.
"They are a danger, a great danger," Liv said. "We would do well to put warriors at the narrowest part of the Gap, to make sure they cannot break through and come down into the richer country we mostly roam."
The Bizogots who hadn't traveled beyond the Glacier stared at her. So did Trasamund. "Meaning no offense, wise woman," he said, "but we of the Three Tusk clan have not the warriors to hold the Gap. Even if we sent all our men, I doubt we would have enough. And if we did that"—he chuckled as if humoring a madwoman—"who would tend the beasts?"
"Let everything be as you say, your Ferocity, but the Gap still needs to be held," Liv replied. "If we have not men enough to do it, let other clans send warriors to our aid. Let even the Raumsdalians send warriors to our aid, so long as we hold the Gap."
"Let other clans' warriors cross the land of the Three Tusk clan in arms?" That wasn't the jarl. It was Hilderic, horror in his voice. "Let the Emperor's warriors cross our land? By God, it cannot be!" Solemn nods from his clansmen said they agreed with him.
"I am one of the Emperor's warriors," Hamnet Thyssen said mildly. "You see others here beside you. What harm have we done?"
"He is right," Liv said. Trasamund's big head bobbed up and down.
But Hilderic said, "You are travelers. You aren't an army. While you're here, you obey the jarl. You don't follow the Emperor's orders. If an army came, it would come to hold us and conquer us and take our wealth away."
Count Hamnet almost burst into hysterical laughter. What wealth? He wondered. He had no idea how to say that without mortally offending not only Hilderic but also Trasamund and Liv. While he tried to find a way, Ulric Skakki beat him to the punch, saying, "No Raumsdalians would want to hold a land where trees won't grow." He put it more diplomatically than Hamnet could have.
"Ulric is likely right about the southerners," Trasamund said. "But I wouldn't care to let our own folk onto our grazing lands in arms. Who knows what they might do?"
"If we yield the Gap, if we don't fight there, we'll have to fight farther south—here, or in our very heartland." Liv sounded desperate. "We could put a stopper in the skin." A Raumsdalian would have spoken of a cork in the bottle, but it came to the same thing either way.
"What of the Golden Shrine?" another Bizogot said. "We asked about it before, but got no answer. Do the Rulers hold it?"
"They do not." Eyvind Torfinn spoke with assurance. "As far as I could tell, they know nothing of it. We did not find it, but it is safe. Believe me when I say this, for it is true."
"What does a foreigner know?" the Bizogot muttered.
"This foreigner knows more of the Golden Shrine than any Bizogot," Trasamund said before Earl Eyvind could even begin to speak for himself. "Don't argue with me, Wulfila, for I know what I'm talking about."
Wulfila bristled. Anyone who tried to tell a Bizogot what to do—even the jarl of that Bizogot’s clan—was taking his chances, if not taking his life in his own hands. But then Liv said, "Trasamund is right," and Wulfila subsided. If a shaman said a Raumsdalian knew a good deal about occult matters, how could an ordinary Bizogot quarrel with her? Oh, a fool might,, but Wulfila didn't seem a fool—not that kind of fool, anyhow.
"If I had to guess," Earl Eyvind said, "the Golden Shrine has ways to make sure that those who would trouble its tranquility have no chance to do so. I cannot prove this, not with the little I know now, but I believe it to be the case." He sounded like a scholar even while speaking the Bizogot language. In an abstract way, Hamnet Thyssen admired that; he'd never imagined such a thing was possible.
Wulfila seemed impressed, but he asked, "If that's so, how do you know the Golden Shrine wasn't hiding from you?" That it might hide from a Raumsdalian seemed natural to him, where he never would have dreamt it might conceal itself from one of his own folk.
Eyvind Torfinn looked quite humanly surprised. "I do not know that, not for a fact. I do not believe it is true, but neither do I know it is not."
Count Hamnet was surprised in turn, for that seemed to satisfy Wulfila. Voice gruff, the Bizogot said, "Well, you seem honest, anyhow. Who would have thought it, from a man of the south?"
Trasamund upended a skin full of smetyn. He belched enormously, which showed good manners among the Bizogots. Then he yawned enormously. "Let us speak of all this another time. For now, I do believe I will die if I don't crawl under a skin pretty soon."
None of the travelers—those who'd stayed awake that long—argued with him. The Bizogots had hides and blankets to spare. The weather was cold, but not as cold as it might have been. Plenty of covers could make the difference between life and death when the Breath of God blew its hardest. Now the mammoth-herders shared them out to their guests. Hamnet Thyssen was as glad to slide beneath one as any of the others—and even gladder when Liv slid under the same one.
Count Hamnet woke in darkness. Liv was draped over him, smooth and bare, one arm flung across his chest, one thigh over his leg. One of his hands rested on the small of her back. He moved it, just a little. She murmured something wordless. It sounded happy. He hoped it was.
How long since he'd wakened with a woman in his arms before Liv? He knew that, down to the very day—since the last time he'd awakened so with Gudrid. After that, he'd bedded women, yes, but he hadn't slept with them, not in the literal sense of the words. He hadn't wanted so much intimacy.
Now .. . Now he had to remind himself not to wake Liv, not to rouse her as he was roused himself. He might want her, but she wanted sleep, and she'd earned the right to it. If she woke by herself. . . But that was a different story. So he told himself, over and over again, and made himself hold her quietly. It wasn't easy.
Then, just when he was on the point of drifting off again, she did wake— in surprise, more surprise than he'd shown. "What?" she said, and then, a long beat later, "Oh. Hamnet."