Else chuckled. "I can be a weasel, too. I plan to gouge him for a better deal."

Ghort snickered but nodded. "When you make decisions, don't forget you're making them for more than just you."

"Excuse me?"

"Wherever you go now, for reasons they couldn't explain themselves, Bo, Joe, and Pig Iron are likely going to follow. You're just one of those kind of guys. That Pig Iron is a good soldier. But the rest…"

Pig Iron was a good soldier. The mule did more than his share of the work. He never complained, unlike Joe and Bo. Pig Iron was content just to go where Joe went.

Else had no trouble imagining schemers like er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen trying to breed a race of warriors as placid and pliable as Joe's favorite mule.

Ah. The Sha-lug were not that way? The ideal Sha-lug. Not those Sha-lug like Else Tage, with a regrettable tendency to think for himself.

"Pinkus, here's an original notion. Instead of worrying about that stuff, how about we concentrate on getting out of this alive?"

"Shit, we got no worries, Pipe. Things are so ugly right now that I guarantee you everything's going to turn out all right. That's the way the Pinkus Ghort story gets told."

16. Andorayans and the Black Mountain Massacre

Blood and murder swirled around the Andorayans. The Connecten attack had caught them off guard. But they were shambling along through an alien time, unready for much of anything but being amazed.

The Andorayans could no longer refuse to believe that they had fallen into a world where the grandsons of the men they had pursued were long dead of old age. That truth hammered them constantly.

They were never a part of that army. Their presence was tolerated but to the Arnhanders they were less than remoras to sharks. Unpleasantnesses had hounded them since that day at the bridge in the Haunted Hills.

In the matter of the murder of Erief Erealsson Shagot grew ever more suspicious of the gods themselves. The murder served them too well. He did not share his suspicions. Words spoken were words sure to be overheard by the Instrumentalities of the Night.

Shagot had no idea what they wanted him doing now. He knew only that he was supposed to recognize the moment when it arrived.

Shagot was doubtful of any convictions he discovered when he explored his own inner landscape. Or was amazed at the depth of his own cynicism.

The rest of the band were deeper in the dark. All they could do was stick, protect him, and hope that a time would come when everyone would understand what they had to do. But there was no enthusiasm for the task.

When the Arnhander army entered the pass below the Black Mountain of the Steigfeit Range, Shagot's companions were beyond complaining. They no longer talked to their leader much, either. They just trudged along, bent to the Will of the Gods, indifferent to a world that betrayed no interest in them.

Thus, because of their self-involvement, they responded slowly when the attack came.

Shagot said, "They don't see us."

Indeed. The attackers paid them no heed at all. Until they began to run toward those same trees whence the attack had come. Then a couple of infantrymen came at them. Svavar and Finnboga dispatched the two almost casually.

"Don't anybody move," Shagot said. More attackers were headed their way.

The Connectens lost interest.

"Like old Trygg," Hallgrim said. "He was always forgetting what he was going to do."

Shagot said, "Let's move. They aren't looking, now."

They covered maybe eighty feet before a lone horseman in heavy armor charged them. Sigurjon flung an axe. While the rider fended it Shagot dropped his mount with a two-handed sword stroke to its forelegs. The others murdered the rider before he hit the ground.

Trial and error showed them that short bursts, a dozen yards at a time, followed by a minute of inactivity, let them travel without attracting attackers.

"Pretty damned feeble magic if you ask me, Grim," Svavar said.

"It's keeping your stinky ass alive, ain't it? Once we get to them rocks over there we'll lay up until this shit is over and the survivors go away."

It was clear who the victors would be. Already it was all over but the butchery.

THE BATTLEFIELD WAS QUIET. THE CONNECTENS HAD GIVEN UP looting the dead and murdering the wounded. Now they were coping with the enormity of what they had done. It was more difficult for them than for men of Shagot's land and time. The Connec's only acquaintance with war was through those few adventurous sons who went to fight in the Holy Lands.

Svavar asked, "What do we do next, Grim?"

Shagot had no idea. This disaster was nothing that the gods had foreseen. "I need to sleep on it. I'll let you know in the morning."

The others did not question that.

They were all weird men.

They had been to heaven and back.

Or maybe they had gone somewhere else.

But in this world all beliefs were true. In this world the gods came first, then men re-created them in images they preferred.

In time the victors went away. The surviving Arnhanders and Grolsachers were long gone by then. Shagot and his friends took the opportunity to scavenge what they could.

They did not find much.

"SO WHERE ARE WE HEADED, GRIM?"

"Back the way we came. Staying away from people."

After Shagot explained what he had learned in his dreams, Hallgrim wanted to know, "Who is this Godslayer?"

"I don't know."

"So how're we supposed to recognize him when we find him?"

"I don't know."

"This whole thing is turning into a cluster fuck, Grim."

"I know."

"And the answers are all in this place called Brothe?"

"Unless the Old Ones change their minds. Now shut the fuck up. We've got a long walk ahead. And most of the time we'll need to stay out of sight of the natives."

"Why?"

“The Old Ones don't want us noticed. They didn't say why. Same old shit. We're supposed to be thrilled to be used like a pack of dogs."

Each hour left the six less sympathetic toward their gods.

THE GODS OF THE ANDORAYANS REFLECTED THE NORTHERN folk themselves. Which meant that they were rowdy, drunken, not too bright, drunken, violent, drunken, and short-sighted. While often drunk.

Those were values their culture had accreted over the ages.

They were not the values of anyone in the world where the Andorayans found themselves now.

"We'll find the man."

The others scowled but readied themselves for travel. With less enthusiasm than ever.

The serious grumbling started a week later, as Shagot tried to sneak past Antieux unnoticed. Finnboga snapped, "What the fuck are we doing, Grim? We were supposed to catch some assholes that killed Erief. But I ain't heard Erief's name come up in a month."

Sigurdur grumbled, "I'm ready to go home."

Shagot reminded him, "Home ain't there anymore."

"Whatever is there, it'll be a lot more like home than this is."

Even Asgrimmur was restive. "I'm thinking maybe it's time the gods looked out for themselves."

Shagot drew a deep breath, released it. He did not know how to fight this creeping defeatism. He had trouble enough motivating himself.

He slept longer now than he had while they were part of the Arnhander army. He could not help it. He wanted to pursue a normal waking cycle. He wanted his band out of this country where they could be held accountable for the bad behavior of their former Arnhander companions.

That was the worst. The sneaking. The creeping along, trying to get by unnoticed.