‘I reckon they already know,’ Orgrim replied. There was a flicker of light behind the gate, and then the sounds of boots crunching on snow.
Everyone readied their weapons. Yllandris reached down deep inside, evoking the power that throbbed within her veins and teasing it to the tips of her fingers. She saw her sisters doing the same.
There was the sound of a bar being raised. Very slowly, the gates creaked open…
To reveal four ragged figures: a man, a woman and two girls. Yllandris narrowed her eyes. She seemed to recall seeing the man before.
Mehmon.
It was indeed the chieftain of the North Reaching — but he was no longer the imposing figure she remembered from his audiences with the King in months gone by. He had been a proud warrior then, his long beard streaked with grey but his back broad and unbowed.
Now he was a broken old man. He hobbled towards them, his beard turned to white and his frail body robbed of the girth that had made him such a feared warrior even in his twilight years.
After a moment of confusion had passed, Krazka held up a gloved hand. ‘Mehmon? Is that you? You look like something my hounds shat out.’
The chieftain of the North Reaching halted. He stared across at his counterpart, his expression empty of hope. ‘Krazka… I didn’t expect you here.’
The Butcher of Beregund grinned, a predator’s smile completely devoid of humour. ‘This is quite the little reunion. I’d like to say you’re looking well, but that would be a barefaced lie, wouldn’t it? These your wife and girls?’ He nodded at the women shivering behind Mehmon. Each held a torch, revealing them to be emaciated.
Krazka gave a dramatic tut. ‘The poor lambs shouldn’t be out here. A girl could catch her death on a night like this.’
Orgrim frowned. ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Mehmon. Fought alongside you in many a battle. Got a lot of respect for the warrior you once was, back in the day. But you know why we’re here.’
Mehmon turned to the leader of the East Reaching and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. ‘Foehammer, I ain’t doing this by choice. You got to believe me. We ain’t got a scrap of food between us. Our larders have been empty the past six months. My people are starving.’
The big chieftain looked uncomfortable. ‘These ain’t easy times for any of us, Mehmon. We got demons and all sorts pouring down from the Spine. More with every passing season. My own Reaching has taken the brunt of it. That doesn’t excuse our obligations to Heartstone. It never has.’
Mehmon shook his head. ‘Listen to me, Foehammer! I taxed my villages until they had nothing left to give me but their blood. Even that’s turned to dust. Frosthold’s about the only settlement left for a hundred miles. And we’re on the brink. We’re fucked.’
Orgrim stared at the ground and then squinted up at the sky. He seemed about to speak, but the sound of scraping steel drew everyone’s attention.
‘You bleat like a sheep, old man. You call yourself a chieftain? You’ve grown weak with age, and that’s the fact of it. Just like the Sword of the North, who was too damn proud to step down when the fire went out.’
Krazka had his sword in his hand, a wide, single-edged blade that was said to have cut more throats than an executioner’s axe. His dead, frozen eye glinted evilly in the quivering torchlight. ‘You know something, Mehmon? I fucked his wife and now I’m gonna fuck you. Except this time I’ll do it with steel.’
Mehmon’s wife and daughters were trembling, sending shadows dancing all over the snow. Yllandris felt her breath quicken and then her own body began to shake. She bit down on her lip, silently cursing her weakness. This hadn’t happened in years, not since she was a child, when her father used to come home and she had smelled the mead on his breath and knew her mother would be searching around for lost teeth on the morrow.
You’re not that girl any more. You are Yllandris, a sorceress of the Heartstone circle. Soon you will be Queen of the High Fangs.
Those thoughts calmed her. She felt her breathing slow and her body relax.
Mehmon looked at Orgrim in desperation. The Foehammer’s jaw was clenched and his teeth ground together, but he said nothing.
Krazka spat on the snow. ‘Draw your sword, Mehmon. Show some backbone before your wife and girls, at least. You wouldn’t want them to die knowing their old man was a coward.’
In reply, the haggard chieftain of the North Reaching snarled and pulled his broadsword free from the scabbard at his side.
Yllandris watched, transfixed. Mehmon had been a warrior of great renown back in his day, but that day had long passed. Krazka, on the other hand, was possibly the most infamous killer in the High Fangs, a warrior with nerves of ice who had climbed a mountain of skulls to claim his position as chieftain of the nation’s most powerful Reaching. Unlike Orgrim Foehammer, whose muscle had turned to fat over the years, the Butcher of Beregund carried not a pound of excess weight on his athletic frame. This was only going to end one way.
Mehmon lunged forwards, but he slipped and his charge became a stumble. Krazka sidestepped him effortlessly, then spun around and planted a boot on his arse to send him crashing face-first into the snow.
‘On your feet, Mehmon,’ Krazka said. ‘I ain’t done with you yet.’
The rebel chieftain of the North Reaching tried to push himself up, but his arms gave way and he collapsed again.
Yllandris glanced across at Orgrim Foehammer, who was staring off into the distance. Contempt filled her. Coward, she thought.
Krazka placed one hand on his chin and assumed a position of mock consideration as Mehmon struggled to rise. ‘I reckon you need a bit of encouragement,’ he said. He stalked over to Mehmon’s wife, yanked her head back and ran his sword along her neck before she had time to gasp. A bloody smile blossomed on her throat and she sank to the ground with a soft gurgle. The two girls began screaming.
Mehmon made a noise like a strangled animal. This time, full of maddened fury, he managed to scrabble to his feet. Krazka dodged his first wild swing, caught the second on his own blade and then turned it aside. With frightening speed, his cleaver-like sword came whistling down and severed his opponent’s hand.
Krazka stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Well now, looks like you’re just about done-’ he began, but then he stopped and rocked forwards suddenly. There was a slight tearing sound.
One of Mehmon’s daughters clutched a small wood knife in her trembling hand. Yllandris could see the hole in Krazka’s magnificent white cloak where the knife had ripped the pelt. Apart from the damage to his prized mantle, the Butcher of Beregund appeared unhurt. He was, however, incredibly angry.
‘You bitch,’ he growled. ‘I’ve had this cloak for years. Killed a Highland cat for it with nothing but a hunting knife. It was that beast what took my eye. And now you’ve put a hole in it.’
‘Run,’ Mehmon croaked. He was on his knees, staring dully at the bloody stump at the end of his arm. His daughters heard him and made a break for it. Krazka watched them flee. Then he turned back to the fallen chieftain.
‘I might have been persuaded to grant you a swift death,’ he said. ‘That ain’t happening now. You’re coming back to Heartstone. It’s the flames for you.’
Sudden screams filled the air from the direction in which the girls had fled. The grunts and roars of savage animals punctuated the obscene sounds of tearing flesh. Yllandris felt sick.
‘Looks like the Brethren caught up with your girls, Mehmon. That’s that.’
Krazka turned and faced the war party. Most of the warriors had watched the confrontation unfold in silence. He raised his bloody sword high in the air and then pointed it at the gates.