“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, either.” Ulric Skakki’s voice came from the gloom beyond the firelight. Turning toward it, Hamnet saw that he had a nocked arrow in his bow. “Hamnet has it straight. We’re supposed to fight the enemy, not ourselves.”

“But we can’t fight the Rulers, either,” Runolf said. “That’s why men are slipping off.”

“Yes, we can,” Ulric said. “We can’t do it right now, that’s all. There’s a difference. If your men have too many potatoes in the head to see it, you’ve got to keep banging at ’em till they do.”

“You make it sound easy,” Runolf Skallagrim said.

The adventurer grinned at him, there in the gloom. “It is easy . . . to sound that way. But we aren’t whipped yet . . . quite.”

XVII

HAMNET THYSSEN STARED glumly at the snow-covered trees. Fires burned in a clearing in the woods. But for Audun Gilli’s small spell to get them started, the men and the handful of women who still remained with him might have had to do without.

Chunks of meat from a short-faced bear toasted over the fires. The bear was a fierce hunter, but no match for hungry men. Hamnet liked bear meat well enough. He wished he didn’t have to eat it now, though. He wished he were closer to Raumsdalia’s heart, close enough to go on eating beef and mutton.

He glanced toward Marcovefa. She still hadn’t come back to herself. He had no idea when—or if—she would. Audun and Liv had done everything they knew how to do. It wasn’t enough. She ate and drank if you put food or water in her mouth. Sometimes she smiled or frowned in her sleep. That was as close as she came to real life. But without her, all of Hamnet’s wishes were in vain.

He couldn’t help thinking she would have laughed and solved the mistletoe spell in a heartbeat—had the arrow struck someone else. That reflection did him no good at all, nor her, either. She didn’t seem to be getting any worse. With such small encouragements Hamnet had to console himself.

None of the short-faced bear went to waste. The Raumsdalians might not have thought to roast the chitterlings, but the Bizogots did. When the Bizogots lit on a carcass, they left nothing but bare bones behind—and they’d split those for the marrow inside. Up on the frozen steppe, everything had a use. It had to have one, because the steppe held so little.

That also held true for the forest, as Count Hamnet knew too well. Towns in these parts had survived because they got grain from farther south. With the Rulers loose in the Empire, the towns wouldn’t get any this winter. How many people would starve before spring?

One worry led to another. Hamnet walked over to Ulric Skakki, who was doing his own rough cooking. “How long can we last in the woods?” Hamnet asked without preamble.

“Why, till we starve, of course,” Ulric answered lightly. He took his gobbet out of the flames and blew on it. When he tried to take a bite, he grimaced. “Still too cursed hot. Well, it won’t be for long, God knows, not in this weather.”

“Can we keep going here till spring?” Hamnet persisted. “Or would we do better to head back up onto the steppe?”

Ulric didn’t answer right away; the meat had cooled enough to let him eat it. After a heroic bite and swallow, he said, “We’d have plenty up there in the springtime—that’s for sure. All those waterfowl coming to nest . . .”

“Yes.” Hamnet Thyssen nodded. That endless profusion of ducks and geese and swans . . . “The question is, how do we keep from starving in the meantime?”

Ulric took another bite. In due course, he said, “Eating something is a pretty good plan.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose,” Hamnet said.

“You noticed!” The adventurer made as if to kiss him.

“Enough foolishness. Too much foolishness,” Hamnet growled. Ulric Skakki looked at him as if he’d just said something very foolish. Ignoring that, Hamnet stubbornly pushed ahead: “The foraging isn’t good here. You know it as well as I do, maybe better.”

“It isn’t good anywhere during the winter,” Ulric pointed out, which was nothing less than the truth. “This is the hard time of year. Lots of people go hungry before the snow melts.”

“Do you think the Rulers are hungry?” Hamnet asked.

“I hope so,” Ulric said, which was something less than a yes.

“What are we going to do?” Hamnet asked: a question better aimed at God, perhaps, than at Ulric Skakki.

“Fight. Give up. Do whatever you please. Me, I’m going to make sure I don’t go hungry, at least for a while.” The adventurer took another large bite of bear meat. Thus encouraged, Hamnet Thyssen went away.

Runolf Skallagrim crouched in the snow in front of another fire, talking with Eyvind Torfinn. Hamnet supposed he was glad Eyvind had stuck with them; the earl knew a lot that might prove useful. The only drawback to having him along was having Gudrid along with him.

She was also eating a chunk of bear. Grease ran down her chin. Count Hamnet turned away before their eyes could meet. If he talked to her, they would only have another row. He didn’t feel like it right this minute. He didn’t feel like much of anything, except maybe lying down in a snowdrift and not getting up again.

Trasamund methodically stropped his sword blade. The jarl looked like a man who expected more fighting and aimed to do the best he could with it. He nodded to Hamnet Thyssen. Crouching beside him, Hamnet nodded back. He might quarrel with Trasamund, but it wouldn’t be the soul-scarring kind of slanging match he’d have with Gudrid.

“Did you think, when we met in the Emperor’s palace, it would come to this?” he asked the Bizogot.

“Not me, by God!” Trasamund hardly looked up from his careful stropping. “I never dreamt there were folk who could beat the Bizogots.” Fog spurted from his nostrils as he snorted. “Shows what I know, eh?”

“Shows what we all knew,” Hamnet answered. “Do you still think we can win?”

“If Marcovefa comes back to herself, we’ve got a good chance—a decent chance, anyway. Otherwise . . .” Trasamund shrugged. “Well, who knows?” He left off stropping, tested the edge with his thumb, and grunted in satisfaction. Then he glanced over to Hamnet. “Have you tried horning her awake?”

“No.” Hamnet’s mouth twisted in distaste. “It would be like lying with a corpse.”

“You wouldn’t be doing it for fun,” Trasamund said deliberately. “You’d be doing it because it might work.”

“If I thought it would, that’d be different,” Hamnet said. “But I haven’t go any reason to think so—and neither do you.”

“Something’s got to,” the jarl said.

“If magic doesn’t, screwing’s not likely to.” Hamnet almost wished he’d picked a fight with Gudrid. “And magic cursed well doesn’t—our magic, anyway.”

“I know. That’s why I think we should try something else,” Trasamund said.

“She wouldn’t even know it was going on.” Hamnet scowled at the Bizogot. “I’ve never been one to enjoy laying women who were too drunk even to know I was there.”

“It wouldn’t be sport,” Trasamund insisted.

Hamnet Thyssen got to his feet. “Too right it wouldn’t.” He strode away before Trasamund could say anything more.

MAYBE TRASAMUND WOULD have taken up the argument again the next morning. He never got the chance, though, because the Rulers struck at the Raumsdalians and Bizogots at first light, riding out of a snowstorm and sending clouds of arrows ahead of them as they came. One sentry came out of the swirling snow a couple of minutes before the invaders from beyond the Gap struck the main encampment. How he escaped ambush—or perhaps the Rulers’ sorcery—Hamnet never found out. He never would, either, because the man died in the fighting that followed. But if the sentry hadn’t brought at least a little warning, the Rulers would have stormed in by surprise, and that would have ended that.