Dahrima watched the group of Uduru mingling with the blue-skins. She recognized Boroldun the Bear-Fang, Magron Irontooth, and Kol the Stumbler. Dressed in the crude furs and fanged necklaces of the Icelands, they were practically Udvorg now. Only their pale skins and dark eyes separated them from the blue-skins. Curiously, she had noticed a lightness creeping into the skins of the Udvorg for weeks now. The longer they stayed out of their frozen realm the paler their blue hides were becoming. She imagined that their crimson eyes were dulling as well. Perhaps if they stayed out of the ice and snow long enough, the Udvorg would lose their pigmentation and become indistinguishable from their Uduru cousins. Did that mean the hundreds of Uduru who remained in the Icelands were slowly turning blue of skin and red of eye? These colors could be merely signs that Giants adapted well to any environment.
“You speak little these days,” said Chygara the Windcaller. She sat down against the same stone Dahrima had chosen. The other Uduri sat or lay at rest about them, some already sleeping, others watching the angry sea thunder at the base of the bluff. Merelda the Flamesinger walked off to meet with an Uduru that Dahrima recognized as Ugroff Elkslayer. He had been Merelda’s mate years ago, before she sent him north to spawn children with blue-skinned Uduri. Most of the spearmaidens had never taken husbands, only a series of lovers. Yet Merelda had pledged her love to Ugroff when they were young. Perhaps Ugroff had only joined this southern crusade for the chance to see his first wife again. Dahrima wondered if his second wife longed for him in the kingdom of snows.
“I have little to say,” Dahrima told Chygara.
Chygara’s long braids were corn-yellow like Dahrima’s, and she wore bands of silver about them. A thin scar upon the Windcaller’s left cheek marred her fine face. She leaned her shoulder against the pole of her spear, which she had planted in the dirt between her knees.
“We no longer march at the King’s side,” said Chygara.
Dahrima shrugged. “My spearsisters are free to march where they will.”
Chygara smiled. One of her upper incisors was missing, the result of some ancient brawl. “Before we reached the black city you would not leave Vireon’s presence,” she said. “Now you keep yourself apart from him. Your sisters wonder why this should be.”
“My sisters should mind their own fates,” said Dahrima. Here it was then. She had wondered how long it would be until one of them brought up their repositioning in the ranks.
Chygara stared at her. Other faces glanced her way as well: Atha Spearhawk, Gorinna the Grin, Vantha the Tigress, Shaigra the Shieldsplitter. Why must they pry into her private thoughts? She was not their leader, not by any law. They followed her of their own free will, as she followed the Giant-King. Their vows were to serve Vireon, not Dahrima. She owed them no answers. Let them go forward and march at Vireon’s heels like a pack of hounds if they wished to do so.
Alisk the Raven offered Dahrima a tankard of dark ale, her broad hand cupped over its top to keep out the rain. Dahrima took it, drank half its contents, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“Five nights now,” said Alisk, “the blue witch shares Vireon’s tent.” She chewed at a piece of dried beef.
“What of it?” asked Dahrima. “Why tell me what my own eyes can see?”
Chygara and Alisk exchanged a glance. Their eyes flashed in the rain. The smells of horse manure, Mansweat, and saltwater floated on the wind. Beneath it all Dahrima sensed the musky reek of the Udvorg. They stank less now after three days of rain had washed their cloaks and tunics of matted fur, but still she could not get her nostrils free of their scent. There were so many of them.
“Varda of the Keen Eyes has taken your place,” said Chygara. “This is the cause of your sorrow.”
Dahrima shook her head, slinging rain from her braids. She drained the rest of the tankard. “Foolish girls,” she muttered. “You are too long without coupling so you invent stories and gossip.”
“If this is not true,” said Alisk, “then why do we march among these smelly blue-skins instead of at the King’s side?”
“March where you will!” Dahrima spat. She stood up, grabbed her spear and shoved the handle of her great axe through the loop on her belt. Lightning danced above the distant forest. “Speak no more of this to me, else I crack open your thick heads.”
She trudged into the rain, leaving her sisters behind. Men and Giants watched as she passed through their clustered camps, heading toward the open woodland. By the time she reached the edge of the encampment the scent of warming stews and the smoke of cookfires had replaced the stench of the blue-skins. Dahrima’s stomach growled, but she had no appetite.