“Well, if that’s the Rule, it must be fit for the Rulers, right?” Runolf Skallagrim said. “What should we do with ’em? Broil ’em or boil ’em?”
“Either one. Both,” Hamnet said. “Talking about it’s easy, though. Doing it takes more work.”
Runolf chuckled. “Ah, well. If you’re going to complain about every little thing . . .” Ulric thought that was funny. Hamnet, again, didn’t. This time, he made himself smile. He could occasionally get away with hypocrisy because no one suspected he would stoop to such a thing.
The Raumsdalians and Bizogots mounted and spread out and rode south, looking for the Rulers-and for food. Coming across a flock of sheep the invaders had somehow missed made everyone happy. Oh, Trasamund said, “When I have a choice, I like musk-ox meat better,” but his heart wasn’t in the grumbling.
“Been a couple of thousand years since musk oxen ranged this far south,” Hamnet said. “In those days, the Glacier covered everything down to just north of Nidaros. No Gap then-not the smallest thought of one. Nothing but ice.”
“Good times, by God,” the jarl said. “Things on the far side of the Gap stayed where they belonged. They didn’t come down and bother honest men.” To put Hamnet in his place, he added, “Or Raumsdalians.”
“Ha! Bizogots are the ones who steal,” Hamnet retorted. “Even a guest-friend can’t go into an encampment and come away with everything he brought.”
“You don’t miss it. You Raumsdalians all have too many things anyhow,” Trasamund said.
“You sound like Marcovefa-only she says the same thing about ordinary Bizogots, too,” Count Hamnet replied.
Trasamund grunted. “Her folk don’t have enough. That is nothing but the truth, by God-not enough. I saw that with my own eyes. And you Raumsdalians have too much. Everybody knows it’s so. We Bizogots, we are just right.” He thumped his chest with his right fist.
“Why was I sure you would say something like that?” Hamnet asked dryly.
“Because down deep, you do have some notion of the truth,” Trasamund said. Runolf Skallagrim couldn’t make Hamnet laugh, but the Bizogot did. That was the silliest thing Hamnet had heard in weeks.
Trasamund got angry because he started laughing. The jarl took himself seriously-he always did. But before he could heat up his argument or start a fight, a horn warned that somebody off to the left had spotted the enemy. When Trasamund reached over his shoulder to grab for his sword, Hamnet knew the Bizogot didn’t intend to use it on him.
Hamnet Thyssen made sure his sword was loose in the scabbard, too. He saw no Rulers, not yet, so it wasn’t time to string his bow. He looked around for Marcovefa. Without her, neither sword nor bow was likely to matter much.
She waved to him. If her confidence was damaged, it didn’t show. That was all to the good. She called out, but he couldn’t catch what she said. He cupped a hand behind his ear.
Marcovefa rode closer. “We’ll fix them. You see if we don’t,” she said.
“Sounds good to me,” Hamnet said.
“The weather is better. I hope it will help my magic.” Marcovefa seemed to think better meant colder. Having lived almost all her life atop the Glacier, she probably did.
When Hamnet did spot the Rulers, they were herding along a swarm of Raumsdalian prisoners. Unlike Marcovefa’s folk, they didn’t eat people not of their blood-or Hamnet didn’t think they did. Whether they slaughtered them for the fun of it, unfortunately, might be a different question.
Still . . . “They’re nothing but guards-not real warriors,” Hamnet called. “We can beat them!”
The Raumsdalians and Bizogots cheered. Hamnet hoped he wasn’t lying too much. If the Rulers had a wizard along, things might get more complicated. The same was true if they attacked their captives.
Even if they didn’t, he wondered what his followers would do with that flock of Raumsdalians. How would they feed them? How would they house them? People couldn’t stay out in the open forever, not with the Breath of God beginning to stir. Even this far south of Nidaros, winter would be hard. He didn’t want to become a herdsman of people himself.
One thing at a time, he thought. First, beat the Rulers. Then worry about what comes after that.
He knew when the invaders spotted his oncoming warriors. Some of them started shooting into the crowd of captives. Others swung swords. Still others rode out to face his men. One of them, plainly, was a wizard. He held up his hand, palm out, as if ordering the attackers to stop.
Marcovefa laughed. Her left hand twisted in deft passes. Surprise seemed to radiate from the enemy wizard when he discovered his magic didn’t work the way he wanted it to. Marcovefa laughed again, louder.
She reached out toward the Rulers’ wizard-and then she stopped laughing, because whatever spell she aimed at him didn’t work the way she wanted it to, either. He stayed on his riding deer and aimed more magic at the Raumsdalians and Bizogots.
That also failed. He and Marcovefa seemed able to stymie each other, but no more. Hamnet wondered what Marcovefa thought of that. He knew what he would have thought of it: nothing good. How anxious was she about being able to work magic? As anxious as a man who had trouble rising for his woman? That was the only comparison that occurred to the thoroughly unsorcerous Raumsdalian noble. When it did, he wished it hadn’t. Worrying about rising to the occasion only made you less likely to rise the next time.
Then Marcovefa gestured again-this time, Count Hamnet judged, angrily. And the Rulers’ wizard threw up both hands, as if he were shot. He clutched at his chest. A moment later, he fell over. And, a moment after that, all the Rulers’ bows and arrows caught fire. Their swords suddenly seemed as limp as if they would never do their women any good again.
If his weapons failed in his hand, Hamnet knew what he would do: he’d run away. What else could you do, with no hope of fighting back? The Rulers seemed to come to the same conclusion. They rode off toward the south. A few of their captives had the wit and spirit to throw rocks after them, but Hamnet didn’t see that they hit anyone.
As soon as the Rulers were out of rock range, the rescued Raumsdalians turned and welcomed the army that had saved them. The sad irony was that it hadn’t saved all of them, but it had saved most. Here and there, someone wept because a spouse had died or got badly wounded at the last instant before freedom returned. Hamnet didn’t know what he could do about that.
And then his head came up, suddenly and sharply. Someone in the crowd of captives was calling his name. Two someones, in fact: a man and a woman. “No,” he said softly, for the voices were familiar. They called again. They waved, even more insistently than a lot of the other Raumsdalians. They were filthy and haggard and scrawny, but he recognized them anyhow. “No,” he said again, and covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Eyvind Torfinn went on shouting and waving. So did Gudrid.
“I’ll kiss you, if you want me to,” Gudrid said. “By God, I’ll kiss you and I’ll mean it, too.”
“If it please you, Your Grace, I’ll kiss you,” Earl Eyvind added.
“Don’t do me any favors,” Hamnet said-to which of them, he wasn’t quite sure. He was sure he wished he had something stronger than water in the tin canteen he wore on his left hip.