"A flint-striker," one of the Gulnagel said unnecessarily.
Outside, flames whooshed into the air, licking at the dry, oil-soaked tinder. Inside, there were only slivers of brightness, showing between the planks. Smoke, grey and choking, crept under the door. Someone coughed.
"Now!" Skragdal shouted, hurling his weight at the door.
He remembered, and kept his shield high. It hit the stable door with splintering force, the full might of his charge behind it. The door burst outward in an explosion of sparks, singeing his hide. They were minor wounds; he had endured worse when the acid rain fell over Darkhaven, an understandable expression of Lord Satoris' ire. He kept his head low, letting his charge carry him into the courtyard.
"Who is first?" Skragdal bellowed, axe in hand. "Who is first to die?"
There was no shortage of volunteers. It had been a dozen Men, no more, who had undertaken the mission. They died easily at the bite of his axe, dropping empty jugs of lamp-oil, cowering in their armor. Skragdal laughed aloud, feeling blood splash his arms, slick and warm on his hide. It felt good, at last, to do what he did best. He strode surefooted across the cobblestones, laying about him like a Midlander harvesting hay. The earl's Men poured through the doors of Gerflod Manor, emerging in scores, even as Fjel after Fjel leapt from the burning stable, joining him in the massacre until the narrow courtyard was churning and it was hard to find fighting-space. Over and over he swung his axe, rejoicing in the results. By the leaping flames of the stable he saw the terror in his attackers' faces. It didn't last long. Their swords and spears clattered ineffectually against his shield, against the heavy plates of his armor, glancing blows scratching his tough hide where it was unprotected. Neheris had Shaped her Children well. Meanwhile, the keen blade of his axe, swung by his strong arm, sheared through the thin metal of their armor, until the head was buried deep in soft flesh. Again and again, Skragdal struck, wrenching his axe loose to strike again. As their warm blood spilled, ebbing from their bodies, terror gave way to the calm stare of death.
Men died so easily.
"Sir! That was the last of them!" Someone was grappling with him; one of his own. A shield locked with his; over its rim, he met Thorun's gaze. "You spoke of learning," the Tungskulder reminded him.
"Aye." Panting, Skragdal disengaged. "Aye, I did. My thanks." He gave his head a shake, clearing the haze of battle-frenzy, and lowered his axe. The stable was engulfed in flame, blazing toward the heavens, throwing heat like a forge and illuminating a courtyard awash in blood. Everywhere the bodies of the earl's Men lay strewn and discarded, pale flesh gouged with gaping wounds. Here and there, one groaned. The Nåltannen hunted through the dead, dispatching the dying. There were too many to count, but he reckoned a good number of the earl's Men had died in the courtyard. More than the earl had intended to risk. Turning his head, he saw the doors of Gerflod Keep standing open and unbarred. "So," he said. "Let us learn."
Once the words were uttered, there was no stopping the Fjel. The Gulnagel, blood-spattered, howled, racing for the doors in great, bounding leaps. Even as they entered the Keep, Nåltannen caught up the cry and streamed after them, weapons clutched in gleaming steel talons, half-forgotten shields held low and dangling.
Skragdal sighed. "Summon the Kaldjager," he said to Thorun. "We'll need to leave this place. Swiftly." Thorun nodded, thrusting his axe through his belt-loop, moving with steady deliberation through the flame-streaked darkness. A good lad, Skragdal thought, watching him go. A good one.
Gerflod Keep lay waiting, its open doors like the mouth of a grave.
Shouldering his axe, Skragdal trudged across the courtyard. He paused in the open door and cocked an eye toward the stable. Its roof sagged as a beam collapsed somewhere inside the burning structure, sending up a huge shower of sparks. Safe enough, he reckoned. Gerflod Keep was stone; stone wouldn't burn.
He entered the Keep, his taloned feet leaving bloody prints on its marble floors, mingling with the tracks of the Fjel who had gone before. He followed their trail, opening his nostrils wide.
The stink of fear and lies had given way to the reek of terror and the stench of death. All along the way, Men lay dying; Gerflod's Men, Earl Coenred's men. Here and there, where they were unarmored and wore only livery, the Nåltannen had given in to old instincts, slitting their bellies with the swipe of a steel-taloned paw. Those Men groaned, dying hard. The Nåltannen had been in a hurry.
Skragdal snorted at the odor of perforated bowels, bulging and blueish through the rents in soft mortal flesh, oozing fecal matter. Those Men, clutching at their spilling entrails, still had terror in their eyes. Murmuring a prayer to Neheris, he raised his axe to dispatch them, one by one. Some of them, he thought, were grateful for it.