How to answer that? If Hamnet tried to bluff here, he reckoned he would lose his man. Endil was not a man who gave way to bluffs; if anything, they enraged him. And so Count Hamnet shrugged and said, “Yes, that’s about the size of it. His Majesty’s right about one thing – I know more about the Rulers and how they fight than you do.”

“You couldn’t very well know less. I’ve never seen one of the buggers, not yet,” Count Endil replied. “All I’ve heard about ‘em is from people who ran away from them. So I was going to do the best I could, but. .. .” He shrugged and spread his mittened hands.

“I’ve seen them. I’ve talked with them. I’ve fought them. I’ve run from them, too. It’s what you do when you lose,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “But some of the forces I was with almost won, and I think we’ve got a wizard now who can stand up to anything they throw at us.” He gestured towards Marcovefa.

“The Rulers, they are not so much of a much,” she said in her curiously accented Raumsdalian.

Endil Gris’ long, somber, mutilated face crinkled into an unexpected grin. “Nice to know somebody thinks so, anyway,” he rumbled. “Everybody down in Nidaros was shrieking about how they ate us up without salt.” He swung his good eye back towards Count Hamnet. “I’ll serve under you, Thyssen. I think you’ve got a better chance of making this come out right than I do, and what else matters?”

Plenty of other officers would have made that question anything but rhetorical. To them, their chance for fame and glory came ahead of anything else. Hamnet thought Endil Gris was a man of a different, sterner, school. He hoped Endil was. If the one-eyed noble claimed he was, Hamnet couldn’t afford to do anything but take him at his word. “Thanks,” he said. “As long as we’ve got that settled, let’s go after the barbarians and give them what they deserve.”

“Sounds good to me,” Endil said.

One of his aides had been listening with more and more agitation. “But, Your Grace!” the junior officer burst out. “This is your army! Are you going to let some … some stranger take it away from you?”

“Thyssen’s no stranger,” Endil Gris replied. “Why did we come up here, Dalk? To whip these Rulers right out of their boots, yes? If Count Hamnet can do that, I’ll stand behind him, because I’m not sure I can.”

“But – ” Dalk didn’t want to let it drop.

“Would you like to take it up with His Majesty?” Endil asked. “Would you like to go back to Nidaros and take it up with His Majesty?”

His aide recognized danger when it blew his way. “Uh, no, Your Grace.”

“Very good. Very good.” Count Endil was ponderously sarcastic. “In that case, would you like to salute Count Hamnet Thyssen and do everything you can to help him against these barbarians? That’s what I aim to do, by God.” He did it.

After a moment, so did Dalk. But rebellion still glittered in his eyes as he said, “May you lead us to victory, Your Grace.”

Count Hamnet knew what that meant. He gave the unhappy Dalk a thin smile. “Don’t worry about telling tales to the Emperor if I lose. He’ll hear them from better men than you, I promise. And he pulled me out of the dungeon to do this. If he throws me in again, what have I lost? What has he lost?”

Dalk’s eyes went big and round. “He … pulled you out of the dungeon?”

“I’d heard that,” Endil Gris said. “I hoped it wasn’t true. You’re not the kind of man who ends up in one, except maybe for telling the truth.”

“Well, you got the crime right the first time,” Ulric Skakki said. “Such men are dangerous – and if you don’t believe me, ask Sigvat.”

“Enough.” Hamnet held up a hand. “Only the Rulers get anything if we start slanging each other.”

“You’re right, by God,” Trasamund said. “We Bizogots did that, and we paid for it.” Dalk and Endil Gris both eyed him as if to say, So what? They didn’t want to listen to a Bizogot. Do they really want to listen to me? Hamnet Thyssen wondered. I’ll find out.

Then he realized Marcovefa had told him he would get a real army before he got it. How the demon had she known? How could she have known? She’s a shaman, that’s how, Hamnet thought. A strong one, too, by God. Maybe we’ve got a chance in spite of everything.

XX

Hamnet’s army reached the southern edge of the forest before the Rulers broke out of it. The Raumsdalians rounded up more soldiers fleeing from the mammoth-riders. Count Hamnet wasn’t sure he was glad to have them. He feared they hurt morale more than they swelled numbers. Some of them were eager enough to try conclusions against the Rulers again. More, though, babbled about barbarians spearing them from mammothback, and about magic shaking ground and twisting weather.

In summer, the forest – mostly pine and fir and spruce – was a dark green wave across the north of the Raumsdalian Empire. In the winter, snow cast a white veil of beauty over the same inhospitable countryside. The trees thrived where even oats and rye wouldn’t grow, and went on thriving up till the ground stayed frozen the year around and the Bizogot plains began.

Within five minutes of Count Hamnet’s ordering the army to halt before going into the woods, Ulric Skakki, Runolf Skallagrim, and Endil Gris all asked him the same question: “Are you going to go in there after them or wait till they come out and hit them on better ground?”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” he answered . . . and answered . . . and answered. Suddenly, he tried to snap his fingers inside his mittens. It didn’t work, but he still smiled. “Marcovefa!” he called.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Can you find out where in the forest the Rulers are lurking?”

She nodded. “Yes, I think I can. They not belong here. They leave trail, show where they go, where they are.”

“Do that, then, please,” Hamnet said, in case she thought he was only asking a hypothetical question.

Marcovefa muttered to herself in the strange dialect the folk who lived atop the Glacier used. She rubbed her horses ears – why, Count Hamnet couldn’t have said, unless it was to touch something that did belong to this part of the world. After a moment, she pointed north and a little west. “They are there,” she said in clear Raumsdalian.

Hearing her, Hamnet Thyssen had no doubt she was right. He looked to Endil Gris and Runolf Skallagrim. He would have been ready to argue with either one or both had they chosen to disbelieve, but they didn’t. Each of them nodded in turn: her certainty brought conviction with it.

“How far?” Hamnet asked.

Marcovefa frowned and muttered to herself again. “A day’s journey, no more,” she answered. “But they are not standing still. They are heading this way.”

She spoke in Raumsdalian once more. “How do you know that?” Runolf Skallagrim asked her.

Marcovefa’s frown got deeper. She tried to explain, and she did go on using the imperial language, but what she said made little sense to Hamnet – or, he could see, to Baron Runolf or Count Endil. What did blue fringes have to do with anything? And why would there have been red fringes had the Rulers been moving away instead of forward?

“Fringes on what?” Runolf asked. “Their clothes?”

“No, no, no.” Marcovefa sounded frustrated. “Their…” She couldn’t find the Raumsdalian word she wanted, or even one in the regular Bizogot tongue. Finally, biting her lip in annoyance, she came out with one in her own dialect. That did neither Hamnet nor Runolf nor Endil any good.

“Their auras?” Ulric Skakki suggested, and went back and forth with her in her tongue for a few sentences.

She beamed. “Yes. Their auras. I thank you. The way their spirits rub against the fur of the world.”

“The fur of the world?” Endil Gris still sounded confused, and Count Hamnet couldn’t blame him, not when he was confused himself.

“I think someone who spoke Raumsdalian from birth would say, the fabric of the world.” Again, Ulric did the interpreting. “Where Marcovefa comes from, there are no fabrics except felt.”