The Gathering Storm
“Eadwulf is dead or soon will be. It is no concern of mine. This man standing here at my right hand is Lord Ediki of Weorod. Here is his kinsman, Lord Erling of—What lands do you claim?”
Erling laughed, reckless with triumph. “South of Hefenfelthe lies Briden Manor. My mother is buried there. It lies under the authority of Lady Ealhflaed.”
“Very well, Lord Erling, you are now lord of Briden Manor. As for these others—”
But as he turned toward them to discover what claims the other men would make, Eadig stepped forward with the fearless manner of a man accustomed to ruling and to being obeyed. His tone was sour and scornful and he trembled, as tense as a dog straining against a leash.
“You have no authority to steal the inheritance of those who came legally into possession of these lands!”
“Have I not?” Stronghand asked curiously. “I have the right granted me by force of arms. Can you say otherwise?”
“It goes against nature for slaves to take the place of free men and claim to rule as masters over those who are rightfully lords by law and divine favor!”
Stronghand closed with him, unsheathing his claws a handbreadth from the earl’s face. Eadig’s expression changed utterly; his eyes flicked nervously to the corpses littering the ramparts and field and his nostrils flared in a pallid face, but he did not retreat.
“In truth, your objection puzzles me,” said Stronghand, turning his left hand the better to display his wicked claws. “You ruled over them. Fortune’s wheel turned, and now you have lost both law and divine favor. How does this go against nature? One day a wolf may flourish, hunting down the sheep, and the next he may be pinioned by the spears of the sheepherders.”
“Call me a slave, but I will still be earl of the middle country.”
Stronghand grinned, baring his teeth. “Erling, kneel.”
Erling did so, one knee in the dirt, face lifted obediently to look upon the one who ruled him.
“I name you earl of the middle country and lord of Wyscan.” Eadig sputtered, but Stronghand brushed his chin with the tip of his claws and the man fell silent.
“E—arl?” Erling stammered. “I never thought—a manor, my lord, but to be titled an earl—”
“I am in need of loyal men to rule, Erling. You are one of them. I consider it no easy task. I expect you to become a responsible steward of these lands. The riches of Alba are not to be squandered. There are other men who desire what you have now been given. Serve me well and you will prosper. Serve me ill, and you will die.”
“Y—yes, my lord.” The young man had gone so white that his slave brand burned red against the pallor of his skin. His companions stared at him, whispering among themselves and beginning to eye each other as if wondering who might gain the greatest prize from their generous benefactor.
“Not all of you will serve me well,” remarked Stronghand. “Such is the nature of humankind, I have observed. But I rule in this land, and those I have raised up I can bring down.”
“Only for as long as you live.” Eadig spat in Stronghand’s face. “You cannot defeat the queen and her council, nor can you pray for the gods’ favor.”
“Let me kill him for you!” cried Erling, leaping up.
Stronghand did not mind the spittle. It was as inconsequential as rain even though he knew that to humankind it was a mortal insult. “Lord Ediki, does this nameless slave serve us better alive or dead?”
Ediki considered the question with a serious frown, as it deserved. “Living, my lord, but crippled. If he is blind, then he can no longer lead slaves in revolt or bear arms against us.”
“Very well. See that his eyes are put out, Lord Erling. Best that he survive the operation. Lord Ediki, walk with me. We’ll need torches.”
Torches were brought. They climbed back up onto the ramparts, careful to step over the cooling bodies of the dead Alban soldiers. There were so many of them. Eadig’s screams cut through the air and for an instant Stronghand smelled the sour stink of burning flesh, but he did not look back.
Two score of Eika soldiers carrying torches to light their way attended them as they walked. The smooth path that topped the rampart was divided here and there by a stockade or a jumble of branches piled up to make a barrier. In time, as the night crept on and the moon touched the zenith, they reached the northern end of the barrier. The moon’s light was so strong that he could survey the landscape, all pale silver and coarse shadows. To his left, mixed forest land swept away to the south and west, but northeast the land sank and leveled off into a sheet of pewter. What he smelled off the wasteland was indescribable—sweet, heady, with the barest sting of salt.