CHAPTER 22

I t can’t be, it can’t be it can’t fucking be . .

He knew it was.

Egar saddled his horse again with numb competence, slung ax and shield, pegged the lance upright in the ground. Noticed his fingers trembling. The leather-cloaked figure fluttered in memory behind his eyes. He forced it down, no time for that now, or the icy shivering questions cramming into his head alongside. He scanned again for the riders, found them, down off the horizon now and almost invisible against the twilit flank of the steppe they were crossing. Drab colors, not a common thing among the Majak unless a sneak raid was the order of the day.

Or a brotherslaying.

Egar’s mouth tightened. He counted heads. Seven, maybe eight of them, in single file. Long odds, and time running out. The riders weren’t moving particularly fast, but there was a steady purpose to the motion and to the path they picked out. And you didn’t have to watch them for long to know they were heading for the tree and Erkan’s grave.

The fire crackled to itself, unconcerned. It was gaining strength now.

Oh, you faithless motherfuckers.

He stared blindly across the horse’s back for a moment, eyes defocusing on the riders, remembering Ergund’s face.

I’ll go with him, Eg. You know what Alrag gets like when he thinks about Dad, when he drinks. He’ll get in a fight as soon as spit, if I’m not there to drag him out.

Yeah. Egar, recalling his own drunken brawl with the quiet imperial, nearly two decades gone. Getting a bit old for that shit, isn’t he?

Ergund gave him a strange look. We all find different ways to live with it, Eg. Who’s to say yours is the best?

I wasn’t saying that.

No, but—

Okay, skip it. Whatever. You keep an eye out for him.

And off to some meeting of herd owners he hoped he could choke down to a couple of hours, by which time Sula should have gotten her chores done and her hot little body across to the yurt, and would no doubt be admiring herself in the big Kiriath mirror he kept there. He was going to come up behind her there and—

He remembered that, staring out at the riders now, how that feeling had snaked tight across his belly, how he’d watched Ergund slope off to Ishlin-ichan, and been glad to see him go.

Glad the vigil called for a single son, glad for once that rank and tradition demanded he fulfill the role. He badly didn’t want to have to spend the night in the company of Ergund and Alrag, or any of his other brothers, come to that, whether sunk in the reeking, steaming, bellowing chaos of an Ishlin-ichan tavern or out here on the cold quiet sweep of the steppe, with nothing at all to say to one another.

He swung himself up into the saddle, wheeled the horse about, and yanked the staff lance up out of the ground. His lips peeled back off a grimace.

Well, there’ll be no shortage of things to say now, I expect.

He nudged the horse up the rise until it stood just clear of the tree. He rested the lance across the saddlebow at a slanting angle and waited for the riders to reach him.

HE SPOTTED ALRAG WHILE THE NEW ARRIVALS WERE STILL A GOOD hundred yards out—his eldest brother had a cockerel swagger in the way he sat a horse, and for all he was swathed in a heavy cowled cloak, Egar would have known him anywhere by stance alone.

The others—he now saw it was seven, not eight, thank Urann for small fucking mercies—also went cloaked and cowled. Their weapons made vague lumps in the cloth, could in some cases have been anything, mace, hand ax, who knew. But four out of the company carried broadswords, naked blades jutting clearly down below the hem of their outer garment. Mercenaries, then. The Majak didn’t have much time for broadswords; too expensive, too southern-showy, and only really good for the one thing—killing men. It offended the steppe nomad soul to wield a weapon you couldn’t hunt with or use around the camp for chores. So it seemed Alrag had hired for the occasion—either southern freebooter scum too low-grade to hack it in the south, or wannabe Majak renegades aping the manners of those they aspired to be.

Something in Egar eased a little. These he could probably kill without too much trouble. He sat motionless, head tipped down, and let them draw near. When the distance was down to easy hailing, he looked up. Only his eyes moved.

“Well, brother,” he called. “Are you going to take that priest bollocks hood off and show me your fucking face?”

Three different hands twitched at the reins; one even rose halfway, then fell back. Egar nodded bleakly to himself. The three without swords. The betrayal was almost complete, then. Alrag and Ergund, without question. One other, Gant or Ershal. Had to be Gant, he’d mouthed off enough in the past about what a shit clanmaster Egar was, he’d want to be here for this.

The party drew to an ill-coordinated halt less than twenty yards away. Egar held his posture.

“What about you, Ergund? You come to murder me, but you won’t look me in the eye? Father would be proud.”

One of the cloaked figures reached up and tugged back its cowl. Ergund’s face emerged, helmeted for battle. In the failing steppe light, he looked pale beneath the metal, but determined.

“We haven’t come to murder you,” he shouted. “If you’d just—”

“Yeah, we have.” Now Alrag shook off his hood as well. He, too, wore a helmet, a little more ornate than Ergund’s, with a low horsehair crest. “He’s too fucking stubborn to bow out gracefully. Anyone can see that.”

“It doesn’t have to—”

“Yes, it does, Ergund.” Ershal’s quiet tones from beneath one of the other cowls. He did not unmask. “Alrag’s right about this. There won’t be any half measures.”

Egar forced down his surprise, and a little unlooked-for hurt.

“Hello, little brother. Didn’t expect to see you here. I thought better of you.”

“Yeah, well we all thought better of you, too,” Ershal snapped. “Once upon a time, when it still looked like you deserved it. Seven years we’ve given you, Egar. Seven fucking years! And what have you done with our fealty? You pissed it away, man. Made us the laughingstock of the Majak, made our family the laughingstock of the clan. You’re not fit for the mastery. That’s the truth, and everybody knows it.”

“Everybody, huh? So what happened to Gant? He break a leg getting on his horse? Or has he just not poured as much tavern courage down his throat as the rest of you?”

Ershal put back his hood. Of the three brothers, he was the only one who had chosen to ride bare-headed. “We’re not drunk,” he said calmly. “And Gant will not involve himself in this, but he will approve the outcome. He knows as well as anyone, the mastery must pass to safer hands.”

Egar stared back at him, unmoving.

“You do know you’re going to have to kill me,” he said.

“That choice is yours.” Ershal held his gaze. “But you have left us no choice at all. The shaman is right. If we don’t act, you’ll bring the ruin of the Gray One on us all.”

“The shaman, eh? Been listening to that dried-up old buzzard, have you? You stupid fucking—”

“We’ve been vouchsafed a vision,” shouted Ergund. “You profane the names of the Dwellers for all to hear. You snub the respected men of the clan as if they were hirelings, so you can rush back to your yurt, get pissed, and shove your prick into whatever teenage slut takes your fancy. You barely bother to honor the rituals, you drink and brood and sit alone instead, or you get out of your face and stumble about all night telling everyone how fucking wonderful it was in the south, how much you miss it, how we’ve all got to fucking change and be more like the imperials, be more civilized. You’ve sired no honorable heirs, nor given any good example for our young men to follow except to escape their obligations and go adventuring in the south. Oh yeah, and to fuck whatever piece of cheap milkmaid arse they can get the leggings down on.”