Out in the courtyard, a scouting party jogged into view. “Let them through.”
His herald—one of his littermates—called them up.
The captain among them—one of Hakonin’s sons—gave the report: they had ridden south and west following the winding course of the Temes River. One fortlet they had burned, three skirmishes fought with no men killed. There were two substantial towns, both fortified although, in truth, they could be taken with a sufficiently large force. Of the Alban queen they had seen no sign.
Stronghand turned to his councillors. “Of the eight parties sent out, six have returned. None have found any trace of the queen. We await news from the north.”
“We should strike now at the towns we can plunder,” said Vitningsey’s chief, called Dogkiller.
“We should strike where our blows will have the most effect and not waste ourselves seeking treasure,” said Hakonin’s chief, called Flint.
“These prisoners are a burden,” continued Dogkiller. “If we killed them, we would be free to seek farther afield for their queen and their riches. What do you say, Ironclaw?”
“I say nothing,” said Isa’s chieftain. “I am still waiting to see whether Rikin’s son flies, or falls.”
Jatharin’s chief remained silent, as he usually did.
Stronghand nodded at Papa Otto, who had learned over time that his master preferred his counsel to his silence. “If you defeat the Alban queen, then you can become ruler in her stead. But as long as she or any of her lineage remain alive and free and allied with the tree sorcerers, the Alban people will fight behind her banner and for her heathen gods. Strike at their gods, and you will win Alba.”
“Kill the Alban people, and there will be no one left to fight you,” said Dogkiller.
Papa Otto shook his head. “Kill the Alban people and the land will become wasteland, worth less to you than the good crops farmers can grow to feed artisans and soldiers.”
Stronghand rose, surveying the court he had gathered around him: councillors, RockChildren eager to gain glory and gold, human men willing to serve a better master than the one they had left behind, slaves, prisoners, and the doubters, like Ironclaw, who were waiting for him to falter so that they could wrest from him what he had so far gained.
But even Ironclaw, who was wiser than most, did not fully understand Stronghand’s purpose and methods.
“We will wait until we have heard from the north. Our forces will continue to sweep the countryside until all the land three days’ walk on every side of Hefenfelthe is under our control. Burn what you must, but build where you can. A burned house is not a strong house; it cannot hold off rain, storm, and wind. Let the priests of the circle god follow in your wake and walk among the Alban folk.”
So it would be done. He sat, shaking his staff; it clacked softly, bells chiming, as he beckoned to his herald.
“Bring the next group forward. Are there any farmers among them?”
There were.
Satisfied, he sent this starving and pathetic group back to their farms with seed corn and enough grain to last through winter and early spring. He dispensed justice while morning passed, the rain stopped, and the sky cleared, although the wind still cut wickedly into the hall, leaving the humans shivering. The carpenters would have much to repair.
Recently more and more prisoners had fallen into his hands, not all unwillingly. It was easy enough to let rumor do its work for him and to allow Alban scouts sent from parties hiding in the woodlands to penetrate the lines of defense around Hefenfelthe and see for themselves the increasing activity in the city. To see their countryfolk hard at work, fed, and alive.
2
QUEEN’S Grave.
The words had an ominous sound, but the rolling hills and countryside they walked through with their escort before and behind them seemed pretty enough to Ivar despite the winter chill.
“Pretty enough for a graveyard,” said Ermanrich, observing the leafless orchard trees and the shriveled gardens of the most recent village they passed by. Folk came out of their houses to watch them pass, but said nothing. They whispered, gesturing to the banner that marked this party as Lady Sabella’s men-at-arms.
“They don’t like us,” whispered Hathumod.
“Or they don’t like Lady Sabella,” muttered Ivar. “Don’t despair.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Ermanrich.
“Look,” said Sigfrid, pointing down the road. “That’s a palisade. It looks like a fort.”
As they came closer to a prominent ridgeline, they saw where the log wall closed in a narrow valley’s mouth. A makeshift camp with barracks, tents, and a small number of cottages lay outside the palisade beside a stream. A few men loitered there, staring—soldiers by the look of them. A woman came to the door of one of the cottages, pulling a tunic on over her grimy shift, and grinned as they marched past.
