Loe raamatut: «Honour Among Thieves»
Honour Among Thieves
Book Three of
The Ancient Blades Trilogy
David Chandler
Dedication
For J.R.R.T. and G.R.R.M., the Epic Overlords.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication Page
Map
Prologue
The Free City of Ness was known around the world…
Part 1
Under the Flag of Parley
Chapter One
On the far side of the Whitewall mountains, in the…
Chapter Two
There was a mountain, and then there was no mountain.
Chapter Three
At dawn—as promised—Croy returned, looking a little tousled after riding…
Chapter Four
On a map the fortress of Helstrow would have resembled…
Chapter Five
Inside the common room of the inn, food and wine…
Chapter Six
Bursting out into the sunlight, Malden turned his head wildly…
Chapter Seven
The marketers all fled or pressed into the doors of…
Chapter Eight
When Malden burst out of the inn, Cythera leapt to…
Chapter Nine
They dragged Malden through the gate to the inner bailey,…
Chapter Ten
“This way, sir knight, milady,” the castellan said, and ushered…
Chapter Eleven
Ulfram V was a year younger than Croy, but the…
Chapter Twelve
“Is this true, Croy?” the king demanded. “Did you—in fact—make…
Chapter Thirteen
Instantly Ghostcutter came to Croy’s hand. Beside him he saw…
Chapter Fourteen
After Mörgain left, no one spoke for some while. Croy…
Chapter Fifteen
After darkness fell, Malden and Croy headed back into the…
Chapter Sixteen
He made a point of saying no more until they…
Chapter Seventeen
Cythera stood by the window in their room at the…
Chapter Eighteen
Malden never actually lost consciousness, but between the pain in…
Chapter Nineteen
The bridge across the river Strow began and ended within…
Chapter Twenty
In the king’s own chapel in the keep at Helstrow,…
Chapter Twenty-One
The day after the gates of Helstrow were sealed, the…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Malden put his hand on Acidtongue’s hilt, but kept the…
Chapter Twenty-Three
T he woman from the milehouse turned out to be…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Croy’s rounsey whickered and bucked as he climbed onto its…
Chapter Twenty-Five
The king walked his horse up to where the two…
Chapter Twenty-Six
The king of Skrae spluttered in rage. Croy didn’t blame…
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Behind the portcullis, soldiers shouted at one another and men…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Berserkers crashed up against the gate, straining and howling as…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Where do we take him?” Orne asked, when they were…
Part 2
The Sleeping King
Interlude
There was a place in the Free City of Ness…
Chapter Thirty
Helstrow burned for days. The barbarians were too busy celebrating…
Chapter Thirty-One
Just outside the gates of Ness a recruiting serjeant had…
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cythera found her mother down in Swampwall, where the river…
Chapter Thirty-Three
After Cythera went to find her mother, Malden led Slag…
Chapter Thirty-Four
“That’s ridiculous,” Malden said. How could he be Cutbill’s most…
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Alright,” Malden said. “Well, that’s got me up to date.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Croy brought the whetstone carefully up the iron edge of…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Through the stout oak door, Croy could hear the voices…
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The river Skrait twisted through Ness, carving its way between…
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Walking through the brambles surrounding Coruth’s shack was disincitement enough,…
Chapter Forty
Malden moved out of the way as Coruth swept into…
Chapter Forty-One
When dinner was finished Malden took his leave. He was…
Chapter Forty-Two
The thieves of Ness gathered just before midnight, when the…
Chapter Forty-Three
A few murmurs drifted up from the crowd regardless of…
Chapter Forty-Four
Perhaps there was a second reason why Cutbill had chosen…
Chapter Forty-Five
“I have grand plans for the people of Skrae,” the…
Chapter Forty-Six
The sky glowed a deep blue-black that made Malden’s head…
Chapter Forty-Seven
The air in Coruth’s house felt like it had been…
Chapter Forty-Eight
Mörget whirled his axe through the air and brought it…
Chapter Forty-Nine
The bandit camp proved a sorry affair. Two dozen men…
Chapter Fifty
Barbarian pickets controlled the road between Helstrow and Redweir, but…
Chapter Fifty-One
The Baron sighed and looked down at his maps and…
Chapter Fifty-Two
Money kept coming in, as it always had, and that…
Chapter Fifty-Three
It didn’t take long for the thief-takers to make their…
Chapter Fifty-Four
Slag followed Malden all the way across the Sawyer’s Bridge…
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Protection?” Malden repeated, when Herwig had told him what she…
Chapter Fifty-Six
Croy knelt low in the brambles by the side of…
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I didn’t want this job, Malden thought. I never asked…
Chapter Fifty-Eight
It wasn’t easy getting the word out so late in…
Chapter Fifty-Nine
An old fishwife with a face like a rotten parsnip…
Chapter Sixty
Coruth did not wait to hear if he would follow.
Chapter Sixty-One
In a muddy field just off the Helstrow road, Baron…
Chapter Sixty-Two
Mörgain’s barbarians were distracted by the archers and turned outwards…
Chapter Sixty-Three
Spittle flecked their red-painted lips. They came running with blood…
Part 3
A Change of Station
Interlude
“Halt, here,” Mörgain said, and the paltry remnants of her…
Chapter Sixty-Four
Malden grabbed onto a window ledge and hauled himself upward.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Malden leaned down and kissed Cythera gently. She wrapped her…
Chapter Sixty-Six
Loophole would never walk easy again. When the mob seized…
Chapter Sixty-Seven
He already knew what his Helstrovian second-in-command wanted, but still…
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Dead bodies littered the forecourt of Easthull manor. Not a…
Chapter Sixty-Nine
“The king is dead,” Coruth said, plucking at long blades…
Chapter Seventy
A thousand barbarians marched north, pulling wagons full of books…
Chapter Seventy-One
“The Godstone is cracked. The cracks need to be repaired.
Chapter Seventy-Two
“Be of good cheer, lad,” Slag said, as he led…
Chapter Seventy-Three
Croy kept his horse to a walk as they crept…
Chapter Seventy-Four
Malden reached up and grasped the snout of a gargoyle.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Malden lowered himself through the trap door by his hands.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Malden’s candle fell from his hand and flickered out instantly.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Malden closed the door behind him and bent low to…
Chapter Seventy-Eight
“Malden, no one loves me,” Cutbill said. He poured two…
Chapter Seventy-Nine
“The barbarians will arrive within the week,” Cutbill told Malden.
Chapter Eighty
Mörget tramped up the frost-crackling hill, naked axe in hand,…
Part 4
The Siege of Ness
Interlude
In theory there were no officers in the Army of…
Chapter Eighty-One
North of Helstrow, Croy took to the road.
Chapter Eighty-Two
“Nock! Draw! Fire!” Herwig the madam shouted, beating time against…
Chapter Eighty-Three
“Halloo! Halloo! Ness! People of Ness! Is someone in charge…
Chapter Eighty-Four
“Get me out of this ridiculous stuff,” Malden growled, trying…
Chapter Eighty-Five
Malden hurried through the streets, headed for the bridge to…
Chapter Eighty-Six
“Fascinating. In the space of one night they built three…
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Bethane slumped down to sit on a rock and rub…
Chapter Eighty-Eight
The whispers became murmurs. The murmurs became disgusted looks in…
Chapter Eighty-Nine
The rocks kept coming, though not as frequently as when…
Chapter Ninety
The rider had come very close, now. He could descend…
Chapter Ninety-One
The Skilfinger knight wore a byrnie of chain mail that…
Chapter Ninety-Two
Mörg was no fool.
Chapter Ninety-Three
The workshop stank of brimstone and urine, enough to make…
Chapter Ninety-four
“They’re scaling Ditchwall now, and there’s no one to stop…
Chapter Ninety-Five
There seemed to be no end to the berserkers willing…
Chapter Ninety-Six
Malden followed the dwarf down a flight of stairs to…
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Croy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a…
Chapter Ninety-Eight
A single trebuchet stone arced over the city that day.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Malden wrapped a loaf of bread in a silken cloth—the…
Chapter One Hundred
The Lemon Garden could no longer hold all the supplicants…
Chapter One Hundred and One
The wailing of Mörgain’s female warriors set Mörget’s teeth on…
Chapter One Hundred and Two
“Come forth! Step up, and receive Sadu’s bounty! Food for…
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Croy rode at the head of an army of two…
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Mörget raced back into the camp, Balint at his heels,…
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Malden ordered Velmont to search for other survivors in the…
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Malden looked to Cythera. She was drained, and worse than…
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
In her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair…
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
On the march, it is far too easy to slip…
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
There was no time to think on all that had…
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
“Get that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed…
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
An hour before dawn, the snow burned a deep blue.
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
As soon as Malden could stand on his own two…
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
The crowd of devout citizens gasped and ran as a…
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Croy brought Ghostcutter around and disemboweled a gray-bearded reaver, then…
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
When Ryewall collapsed Malden was thrown from his feet. He…
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where…
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
Mörget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in…
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Smoke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the…
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
The Lemon Garden was far enough from Ryewall that Malden…
Epilogue
He’d made his decision. He’d been forced to pick between…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by David Chandler
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
PROLOGUE
The Free City of Ness was known around the world as a hotbed of thievery, and one man alone was responsible for that reputation. Cutbill, master of that city’s guild of thieves, controlled almost every aspect of clandestine commerce within its walls—from extortion to pickpocketing, from blackmail to shoplifting he oversaw a great empire of crime. His fingers were in far more pies than anyone even realized, and his ambitions far greater than simple acquisition of wealth—and far broader-reaching than the affairs of just one city. His interests lay in every corner of the globe and his spies were everywhere.
As a result he received a fair volume of mail every day.
In his office under the streets of Ness he went through this pile of correspondence with the aid of only one assistant. Lockjaw, an elderly thief with a legendary reputation was always there when Cutbill opened his letters. There were two reasons why Lockjaw held this privileged responsibility—for one, Lockjaw was famous for his discretion. He’d received his sobriquet for the fact he never revealed a secret. The other reason was that he’d never learned to read.
It was Lockjaw’s duty to receive the correspondence, usually from messengers who stuck around only long enough to get paid, and to comment on each message as Cutbill told him its contents. If Lockjaw wondered why such a clever man wanted his untutored opinion, he never asked.
“Interesting,” Cutbill said, holding a piece of parchment up to the light. “This is from the dwarven kingdom. It seems they’ve invented a new machine up there. Some kind of winepress that churns out books instead of vintage.”
The old thief scowled. “That right? Do they come out soaking wet?”
“I imagine that would be a defect in the process,” Cutbill agreed. “Still. If it works, it could produce books at a fraction of the cost a copyist charges now.”
“Bad news, then,” Lockjaw said.
“Oh?”
“Books is expensive,” the thief explained. “There’s good money in stealing ’em. If they go cheap all of a sudden we’d be out of a profitable racket.”
Cutbill nodded and put the letter aside, taking up another. “It’ll probably come to nothing, this book press.” He slit open the letter in his hand with a knife and scanned its contents. “News from our friend in the north. It looks like Maelfing will be at war with Skilfing by next summer. Over fishing rights, of course.”
“That lot in the northern kingdoms is always fighting about something,” Lockjaw pointed out. “You’d figure they’d have sorted everything out by now.”
“The king of Skrae certainly hopes they never do,” Cutbill told him. “As long as they keep at each other’s throats, our northern border will remain secure. Pass me that packet, will you?”
The letter in question was written on a scroll of vellum wrapped in thin leather. Cutbill broke its seal and spread it out across his desk, peering at it from only a few inches away. “This is from our man in the high pass of the Whitewall Mountains.”
“What could possibly happen in a desolated place like that?” Lockjaw asked.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Cutbill said. He looked up at the thief. “I pay my man there to make sure it stays that way. He read some more, and opened his mouth to make another comment—and then closed it again, his teeth clicking together. “Oh,” he said.
Lockjaw held his peace and waited to hear what Cutbill had found.
The master of the guild of thieves, however, was unforthcoming. He rolled the scroll back up and shoved the whole thing in a charcoal brazier used to keep the office warm. Soon the scroll had caught flame and in a moment it was nothing but ashes.
Lockjaw raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Whatever was on that scroll clearly wasn’t meant to be shared, even with Cutbill’s most trusted associate. Which meant it had to be pretty important, Lockjaw figured. More so than who was stealing from whom or where the bodies were buried.
Cutbill went over to his ledger—the master account of all his dealings, and one of the most secret books on the continent. It contained every detail of all the crime that took place in Ness, as well as many things no one had ever heard of outside of this room. He opened it to a page near the back, then laid his knife across one of the pages, perhaps to keep it from fluttering out of place. Lockjaw noticed that this page was different from the others. Those were filled with columns of neat figures, endless rows of numbers. This page only held a single block of text, like a short message.
“Old man,” Cutbill said, then, “could you do me a favor and pour me a cup of wine? My throat feels suddenly raw.”
Cutbill had never asked for such a thing before. The man had enough enemies in the world that he made a point of always pouring his own wine—or having someone taste it before him. Lockjaw wondered what had changed, but he shrugged and did as he was told. He was getting paid for his time. He went to a table over by the door and poured a generous cup, then turned around again to hand it to his boss.
Except Cutbill wasn’t there anymore.
That in itself wasn’t so surprising. There were dozens of secret passages in Cutbill’s lair, and only the guildmaster knew them all or where they led. Nor was it surprising that Cutbill would leave the room so abruptly. Cautious to a nicety, he always kept his movements secret.
No, what was surprising was that he didn’t come back.
He had effectively vanished from the face of the world.
Day after day Lockjaw—and the rest of Ness’s thieves—waited for his return. No sign of him was found, nor any message received. Cutbill’s operation began to falter in his absence—thieves stopped paying their dues to the guild, citizens under Cutbill’s protection were suddenly vulnerable to theft, what coin did come in piled up uncounted and was spent on frivolous expenditures. Half of these excesses were committed in the belief that Cutbill, who had always run a tight ship, would be so offended he would have to come back just to put things in order.
But Cutbill left no trace, wherever he’d traveled.
It was quite a while before anyone thought to check the ledger, and the message Cutbill had so carefully marked.
CHAPTER ONE
On the far side of the Whitewall mountains, in the grasslands of the barbarians, in the mead tent of the Great Chieftain, fires raged and drink was passed from hand to hand, yet not a word was spoken. The gathered housemen of the Great Chieftain were too busy to gossip and sing as was their wont, too busy watching two men compete at an ancient ritual. Massive they were, as big as bears, and their muscles stood out from their arms and legs like the wood of dryland trees. They stood either side of a pit of blazing coals, each clutching hard to one end of a panther’s hide. On one side, Torki, the champion of the Great Chieftain, victor of a thousand such contests. On the other side stood Mörget, whose lips were pulled back in a manic grin, the lower half of his face painted red in the traditional colors of a berserker, though he was a full chieftain now, leader of many clans.
Heaving, straining, gasping for breath in the fumes of the coals, the two struggled, each trying to pull the other into the coals. Every man and woman in the longhouse, every berserker and reaver of the Great Chieftain, every wife and thrall of the gathered warriors, watched in hushed expectation, each of them alone with their private thoughts, their desperate hopes.
There was only one who dared to speak freely, for such was always his right. Hurlind, the Great Chieftain’s scold, was full of wine and laughter. “You’re slipping, Mörg’s Get! Pull as you might, he’s dragging you. Why not let go, and save yourself from the fire? This is not a game for striplings!”
“Silence,” Mörget hissed, from between clenched teeth.
Yet his grin was faltering, for it was true. Torki’s grasp on the panther hide was like the grip of great tree roots on the earth. His arms were locked at the elbows and with the full power of his body, trained and toughened by the hard life of the steppes, he was pulling as inexorably as the ocean tide. Mörget slid toward the coals a fraction of an inch at a time, no matter how he dug his toes into the grit on the floor.
At the mead bench closest to the fire a reaver of the Great Chieftain placed a sack of gold on the table and nudged his neighbor, a chieftain of great honor. He pointed at Torki and the chieftain nodded, then put his own money next to the reaver’s—though as he did so he glanced slyly at the Great Chieftain in his place of honor at the far end of the table. Perhaps he worried that his overlord might take it askance—after all, Mörget was the Great Chieftain’s son.
The Great Chieftain did not see the wager, however. His eyes never moved from the contest. Mörg, the man who had made a nation of these people, the man who had seen every land in the world and plundered every coast, father of multitudes, slayer of dragons, Mörg the Great was ancient by the reckoning of the east. Forty-five winters had ground at his bones. Only a little silver ran through the gold of his wild beard, however, and no sign of dotage showed in his glinting eyes. He reached without looking for a haunch of roasted meat. Tearing a generous piece free, he held it down toward the mangy dog at his feet. The dog always ate first. It roused itself from sleep just long enough to swallow the gobbet. When it was done, Mörg fed himself, grease slicking down his chin and the front of his fur robes.
A great deal relied on which combatant let go of the hide first. The destiny of the entire eastern people, the lives of countless warriors were at stake—and a debt of honor nearly two centuries old. No onlooker could have said which of the warriors, his son or his champion, Mörg favored.
Torki never made a sound. He did not appear to move at all—he might have been a marble statue. He had the marks of a reaver, black crosses tattooed on the shaved skin behind his ears. One for every season of pillaging he’d undertaken in the hills to the north. Enough crosses that they ran down the back of his neck. Not a drop of sweat had showed yet on his brow.
Mörget shifted his stance a hair’s breadth and was nearly pulled into the fire. His teeth gnashed at the air as he fought to regain his posture.
Nearby his sister, herself a chieftess of many clans, stood ready with a flagon of wine mulled with sweet gale. Mörgain, as was widely known, hated her brother—had done since infancy. No matter how hard she fought to prove herself, no matter what glory she won in battle, Mörget had always overshadowed her accomplishments. Letting him win this contest now would be bitter as ashes in her mouth. Nor did she need to play the passive spectator here. She could end it in a moment by splashing wine across the boards at Mörget’s feet. He would be unable to hold his ground on the slippery boards, and Torki would win for a certainty.
“Sister,” Mörget howled, “set down that wine. Do you not thirst for western blood, instead?”
Mörg raised one eyebrow, perhaps very much interested in learning the answer to that question.
The chieftess laughed bitterly, and spat between Mörget’s feet. But then she hurled her flagon at the wall, where it burst harmlessly, well clear of the contest. “I’ve tasted blood. I’d rather have the westerners alive, as my thralls.”
“And you shall, as many of them as you desire,” Mörget told her, his words bitten off before they left his mouth.
“And steel? Will you give me dwarven steel, better than the iron my warriors wear now?”
“All that they can carry! Now, aid me!”
“I shall,” Mörgain said. “I’ll pray for your success!”
That was enough to break the general silence, though only long enough for the gathered warriors to laugh uproariously and slap each other on the back. The shadow of a smile even crossed Torki’s lips. In the east the clans had a saying: pray with your back turned, so that at least your enemies won’t see your weakness. The clans worshipped only Death, and beseeching Her aid was rarely a good idea.
“Did you hear that, Torki?” Hurlind the scold asked. “The Mother of us all pulls against you now. Better redouble your grip!”
The champion’s lips split open to show his teeth. It was the first sign of emotion he’d given since the contest began.
And yet it was like some witch’s spell had been broken. Perhaps Death—or some darker fate—did smile on Mörget then. For suddenly his arms flexed as if he’d found some strength he’d forgotten he had. He leaned back, putting his weight into the pull.
Torki’s smile melted all at once. His left foot shifted an inch on the boards. It was not necessarily a fatal slip. Given a moment’s grace he could have recovered, locking his knees and reinforcing his strength.
Yet Mörget did not give him that moment. Everyone knew that Mörget, for all his size and strength, was faster than a wildcat. He seized the opportunity and hauled Torki toward him until the balance was broken and the champion toppled, sprawling face first on the coals. Torki screamed as the fire bit into his skin. He leapt out of the pit, releasing the panther skin and grabbing a mead jug to pour honey wine on his burns.
The longhouse erupted in cheers and shouts. Hurlind led a tune of victory and bravery against all odds, an old kenning every man and woman in the longhouse knew. Even Mörgain joined in the refrain, Mörgain of whom it was said her iron ever did her singing for her.
In the chaos, in the tumult, Mörget went to his father’s chair and knelt before him. In his hands he held his prize, the singed pelt. Orange coals still flecked its curling fur.
“Great Chieftain,” Mörget said, addressing the older man as a warrior, not as a parent, “You hold sway over the hundred clans. They wait for your instructions. For ten years now you have kept them from each other’s throats. You have made peace in a land that only knew war.”
Ten years, aye, in which no clan had feuded with another. Ten years without warfare, ten years of prosperity. For many of those gathered, ten years of boredom. Mörg had united the clans by being stronger than any man who opposed him, and by giving the chieftains that which they desired. Instead of making war on each other, as they had since time immemorial, the clans had worked together to hunt such game as the steppes provided and to raid the villages of the hillfolk in the north. Yet now there were murmurs in the camps that what every warrior wanted was not ten more years of peace but a new chance to test their mettle. Mörget had been instrumental in starting those murmurs but he had only fed a fire that was already kindled by restlessness. Eastern men, eastern chieftains, could not sit all day in their tents forever and dream of past victories. Eventually they needed to kill something, or they went mad.
Mörg the Great, Mörg the Wise, had pushed them perhaps as far as he could. As he turned his head to look around at his chieftains, how many eyes did he meet that burned with this new desire for war? Now that the mountains lay open to them, how long could he hold them back?
“All good things,” Mörg said, looking down at his son again, “should come to an end, it seems. Just as they say in Old Hrush. You’ve won the right to make your say. Tell me, Mörget, what you wish.”
“Only to stand by your side when we march through this new pass into the west, and crush the decadent kingdom of Skrae beneath our feet.”
“You lead many clans, chieftain. And I am not your king. You do not require my permission to raid the west.”
It was true. It was law. Mörg was the Great Chieftain, but he ruled only by the consent of the clans. “I have the right, aye, to raid the west. But I don’t wish just to scare a few villagers and take their sheep,” Mörget explained. “For two hundred years that’s all we’ve done, ever since the Skraelings sealed off the mountain passes. Now there is a new pass. Once, long before any of us were born, our warriors spoke not of raiding but of conquest. Of far greater glories. I wish, Great Chieftain, to make war. To take every mile of Skrae for our people, as has always been their destiny!”
Alone in that place, Mörg carried iron, in the form of a sword at his belt. All other weapons had been stacked outside, for no warrior would dare bring a blade into the house of the Great Chieftain. Should he desire it, if his wishes countered those of his son, Mörg could draw his sword and strike down Mörget this instant. No man there would gainsay him for it.
They called him Mörg the Wise, sometimes, when they wished to flatter him. Behind his back, they called him Mörg the Merciful, which was a great slander among the people of the east. If he struck the blow now, perhaps those whispering tongues would be silenced. Or perhaps they would only grow into a chorus.
The chieftains wanted this. They had made Mörget their spokesman, and sent him here tonight to gain this audience.
And Mörg was no king, to thwart the will of his people for his own whims. That was the way of the decadent west. Here in the east men ruled through respect, or through fear, but always honestly—because the men who served them believed in them. Mörg was no stronger than the chieftains he’d united. He lived and died by their sufferance. If he did not give them what they wanted, they had their own recourse—they could replace him. And that could only be done over his dead body. Great Chieftains ruled for life, so murder was the sole method of their impeachment.
On his knees, Mörget stared up at his father with eyes as clear and blue as a mountain stream. Eyes that never blinked.
Mörg must decide, now. There was no discussion to be had, no council to call. He alone must make this decision. Every eye watched his face. Even Hurlind had fallen silent, waiting to hear what he would say.
“You,” Mörg said, rising and pointing at a thrall standing by the door. “Fetch boughs of wet myrtle, and throw them on the fire. Let them make a great smoke, that all will see, and thereby know. Tomorrow we march through the mountains to the west. Tomorrow we make war!”
