"Lies." Thorun shuddered in his hide. "This earl reeks of lies."
The Nåltannen were squabbling over the fresh ale-jug, laughing as their steely talons clashed in the effort, drinking deep and making toasts. The Gulnagel were little better, hunkering over the table with slitted eyes and rumbling bellies, awaiting platters of mutton. And the Kaldjager… the Cold Hunters would not commit themselves to any hall built by Men. They remained outdoors and kept a safe distance, scouting the perimeter of Gerflod. Neither the earl nor his Men knew of their existence.
For once, Skragdal was glad for their distrust.
He flared his nostrils again, inhaling softly, letting the delicate odors of Men's emotions play over his palate. There was Osric, dogged and determined, grateful for Earl Coenred's kindness. There were Osric's Men, dreaming of gain and glory, hoping the serving-maids would return. There were Coenred's Men, nervous and wary in their thoughts. And there…
Skragdal smelled the lie.
It was smoothly spoken. There had been no word—no word—since their company had emerged from the Vesdarlig Passage. No one knew what had transpired in Beshtanag, how badly their plans had gone awry. How not? It was his Lordship's business. His Enemies were slow. And yet… and yet. Here, mere leagues south of Neherinach, where Osric's Men and Skragdal's Fjel would part ways, word had emerged.
Earl Coenred had heard news, dire enough to undermine his loyalties. All was known. Nothing was said. The lie was there in every smooth denial, every polite inquiry. The Earldom of Gerflod had turned.
Skragdal exhaled with regret. He wondered how it had happened. A traitor among the Staccians? It could be so. Fjel had never trusted them. Men did not remember the way the Fjel did, trusting carelessly to their ink-scratched markings to preserve memory. And what manner of loyalty was it that could be purchased for mere gold? He did not doubt Lord Vorax, no—he was one of the Three, and beyond doubt. Yet his countrymen… perhaps.
He dismissed the thought. What mattered was at hand.
"You smell it," Thorun said.
"Aye." Skragdal realized he was staring at the earl; Coenred had noticed it, a nervous sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. His smooth mask was slipping, and the sour tang of ill-hidden fear tainted the air. Skragdal looked away. Relieved, the earl called in a loud voice for more ale, more ale. Once again, fresh jugs were set to circulating, born by a procession of nervous servants. At least they made no pretence of hiding their fear.
"Should we kill them?" Thorun asked simply.
It was a hard decision. Hyrgolf, he thought, would approve it; he would not hesitate to trust a Tungskulder's nose. Would General Tanaros? No, Skragdal thought. He would not hesitate to believe, but nor would he sanction violence against an ally who had not betrayed his hand. So, neither will Osric turn on a fellow Staccian on my word alone. I cannot count on his support.
That left only the Fjel.
As platters of mutton were brought to the table, heaped high and steaming, Skragdal cast his gaze over his comrades. They tore into the meal with tooth and talon, terrifying the earl's staff. The Nåltannen had drunk deep, and continued to heft their tankards, alternating between mutton and ale. The Gulnagel ate with a will, smearing grease on their chops as they lifted slabs of meat with both hands, gnawing and gnawing, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
Such was the Fjel way; to gorge until replete, to rest upon satiation. Those were the dictates of life for Neheris' Children, raised in a harsh clime where summer's bounty inevitably gave way to barren winter. Survival dictated it.
What was disturbing, Skragdal thought, was that Earl Coenred knew it. This abundance had been deliberately provided. He watched his comrades gorge and pondered the expression of satisfaction that spread, slow and sleek, over the earl's features. What were the odds? There were sixteen Fjel in the Great Hall of Gerflod Keep, and all of them unarmed. Their arms and armor were stacked in a stable lent them for shelter; a cunning stroke, that. How many Men? Coenred must have two hundred within the walls.
It could be done, of course. Skragdal hunched his shoulders and flexed his talons, feeling his own strength. He had labored in the mines and in the smelting yards. He knew the weaknesses of metal, where armor was willing to bend and break. With his talons, he could peel it from them, piece by piece. Men were soft, as General Tanaros had taught them. Men died easily, once their soft flesh was exposed.
"Boss?" Thorun's red-rimmed eyes were hopeful.
Reluctantly, Skragdal shook his head. "No. Lying comes easily to Men. We have no proof that they mean us harm because of it," he said softly. "General Tanaros would want proof in this matter. But I will speak to Osric of it."