For the instant it takes to draw in a breath, a shimmering aura of flame trembled around her as though she were about to flower with wings of flame. This Liath had a terrible power. She was somehow the same woman who had vanished from Verna and yet now something else entirely, a creature not quite human and not quite the beautiful, graceful, scholarly, yet fragile woman he had married. The one he had saved from Hugh, from Henry’s wrath, from life as a fugitive.
The one who had needed him.
This Liath had killed Bulkezu with a single shot and driven off a pair of griffins with a blazing ring of fire. She spoke with the ancient centaur shaman as with an equal. She stared at him now forthrightly, her gaze a challenge.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
XVIII
GRIM’S DIKE
1
THE country north of Hefenfelthe was rich and sweet, as green as any land Stronghand had ever seen, laced with fordable rivers and manifold streams, and so gentle that it placed few obstacles in the path of his army. Spring brought frequent showers, but although it rained one day out of three, they made good time and met with occasional, if stiff, resistance as they marched north on the trail of the queen. Mostly they found abandoned villages and empty byres.
“The scouts have returned!” called Tenth Son, who marched with the vanguard.
Human outriders called down the line of march and the army creaked to a halt at a stagger as word reached the ranks behind. The van had come to the top of one of those gentle, if long, slopes that allowed Stronghand to survey the line of his army where it snaked back along the ancient Dariyan road. The paved road made their passage swift, although it exposed them to attacks from the surrounding woodland.
The RockChildren marched in even ranks, five abreast, each unit bearing the standard representing their tribe. Rikin’s brothers were given pride of place at the front and the rear, while Hakonin guarded the wagons with their precious siege engines, supplies, extra weapons, treasure and loot, and the ironworks that could be set up as forges in a semipermanent camp. Like rowing, pulling the wagons strengthened a warrior on those days when there wasn’t any fighting to be had. The other tribes took their places in the order of march according to the honor they had earned in the last battle or skirmish, a shifting dance of bragging rights that kept the soldiers eager. Even the human levies were permitted to compete, and in truth their presence made his own people fight harder. None wished to be an object of ridicule by having killed fewer of the enemy or gathered less loot than the Soft Ones.
“There they are,” said Tenth Son on the seventh day out of Hefenfelthe, as the sun neared the zenith.
Stronghand moved up to the front with Hakonin’s chief, Papa Otto, and the young Hessi interpreter beside him. The scouts approached at a gallop along the road. Eight had been sent out. Only five were returning.
Outriders cantered forward to meet them and soon a dozen soldiers pulled up in front of the vanguard. The five scouts dismounted. Their mounts went eagerly to the human grooms who would walk and cool down the blown horses. Only horses bred on the fjords ever really became used to the smell of the RockChildren.
One of the scouts stepped forward to give his report; the gripping beast pattern decorating his torso marked him as a Hakonin son.
“A substantial force moves northeast off to the west of us. They fly the banner of the queen’s stag and one of a white boar. They’ll soon cross this road. If they get ahead of us we’ve worse to face ahead. There are fortifications lying across our path, a line of ditches and embankments. The land narrows. There are steep wooded hills to one side and marsh to the other, but a corridor down the middle. That’s where the fortifications lie.”
“Are they newly built?” asked Stronghand.
“They’re old.”
Stronghand gestured. Word was passed down to the thirtieth rank, where Alban volunteers marched.
“You trust these turncoats?” asked the Hakonin scout. By the markings on the scout’s shoulder, Stronghand identified him as First Son of a Thirteenth Litter.
“These are not turncoats, First Son. They had no coats to turn. They were slaves. Now they seek honor and position in my army because they had none before nor any chance to try.”
“Yet they are soft.” First Son bared his teeth to show the flash of jewels, earned in Stronghand’s battles. He was sharp, and bold, and independent. Worth watching, for good or for ill.
“They may be,” agreed Stronghand. “They have yet to prove themselves.”
A pair of men, one young and one gray, trotted up. Both had knowledge of this country, so they claimed.