Stand the wizard did. The Rulers, say what you would of them, seemed as hard to kill as serpents. The man’s eyes speared Hamnet. His lips shaped a word. Hamnet had learned only tiny fragments of the Rulers’ language, but he thought he knew what that word was.

You.

To his horror and dismay, the wizard’s hands came up. He started to shape a pass. Then Ulric Skakki galloped past and struck with the sword from behind. The wizard’s head leaped from his shoulders. Body convulsing, he toppled and finally died.

“Tough bugger,” Ulric remarked. “I thought the one you landed would be plenty to do for him.”

“So did I,” Count Hamnet answered. “Well, he’s gone now.”

“He looked like he was still trying to cast a spell on you, even with his head already half gone,” Ulric said.

“He did, didn’t he?” Hamnet said uneasily. You. He’d heard that and things like it too often from the Rulers. For some reason, they worried about him. He wished he knew why. There were plenty of days when he felt more dangerous to himself than to the invaders from beyond the Gap.

“Must be nice to have them love you like that,” Ulric said.

“I could live without it.” Count Hamnet’s voice was dry.

The adventurer chuckled. “Probably quite a bit longer than with it. Which reminds me—how long are we going to live if the bastards turn on us?”

Not long, was the first thing that occurred to Hamnet. But the Rulers had no chance to do it. They were fighting for their lives, outnumbered by the hard-pressing Bizogots, and suddenly without sorcerous support. And Audun Gilli took advantage of that. The Rulers suddenly started staring at their swords and bows. The weapons must have started talking to them—the same spell Audun had used again and again, but never before, so far as Hamnet knew, on the battlefield.

Audun didn’t speak the Rulers’ language. He still had trouble with the Bizogots’ tongue. But a sword that suddenly started spouting Raumsdalian might have proved even more alarming. For all the Rulers knew, their blades were cursing them. If Audun Gilli had any sense—never a sure bet—the swords were doing exactly that.

Hamnet looked for Trasamund. The jarl of the Three Tusk clan was trading lusty sword strokes with an enemy warrior. Trasamund fought for the fun of it, as a lot of Bizogots did: a taste that had always struck Hamnet as perverse.

He roared in triumph when one of his great strokes got home. Maybe the Ruler’s boiled-leather corselet kept the edge from his vitals. Whether it did or not, though, that blow had to break ribs. The invader reeled on his riding deer. Trasamund’s next hack, undefended, sheared away half his face.

Maybe that broke the Rulers. Maybe they would have decided they’d had enough about then anyhow. They broke off the fight and fled back toward the north. The riding deer had shorter legs than horses, but still fled fast enough to let a good many Rulers on them get away.

“We beat ’em, by God!” Trasamund boomed.

“So we did,” Hamnet agreed.

“Yes, so we did. The Battle of the Dead Mammoth—huzzah!” Ulric Skakki said. “And if we win another hundred victories just this big, they may start to notice us.”

“Scoffer!” Trasamund said.

Ulric graciously inclined his head. “At your service, Your Ferocity.” Hamnet Thyssen wondered if Trasamund would explode. But he didn’t, not after a winning fight. He threw back his head and laughed instead.

VI

AFTER THE BIZOGOTS returned in triumph to the Leaping Lynxes’ village, Hamnet Thyssen took Trasamund aside and said, “This can’t go on much longer.”

“What? Why not, by God?” The jarl had a skin of smetyn clenched in his big fist instead of a sword hilt, but he hadn’t started drinking yet. “We’ll drive the stinking buggers mad.”

“That’s why,” Hamnet answered. “They won’t let us get away with it much longer. Either they’ll bring more men down from beyond the Gap—”

“If they’ve got ’em—” Trasamund broke in.

“If they have them,” Count Hamnet agreed. No one on this side of the Glacier knew how many Rulers there were or how wide a territory they ruled. Too cursed many and too wide were the only sure answers. But Hamnet went on, “If they don’t, they’ll bring their army up from the Empire to deal with us—or a good piece of it, anyhow. And don’t you think a good piece of that army could do the job?”

Trasamund scowled. “Not if Marcovefa’s magic puts the flyblown fornicators to rout, the way it’s supposed to.”

“There’s only one of her,” Hamnet reminded him. “I hope she can deal with their wizards. I don’t know if she can deal with all of them, but I hope so. If you think she can deal with the wizards and the warriors, you may be asking too much.”

“Then we deal with them.” Trasamund thumped his own chest. “We! The Bizogots! The hero-folk!” He broke into rolling verse.

Hamnet Thyssen wanted to bash him in the head with a rock and let in some sense. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any suitable bashers close by. “Stop that!” he said when Trasamund showed no sign of letting up. “We don’t have that many Bizogots here—not enough to beat a real army.”

Instead of answering, Trasamund pulled the stopper from the skin, raised it to his mouth, and drank a long draught. “Ahh!” he said, smacking his lips, when he finally came up for air. “I needed that.”

“Why won’t you worry about what’s going to happen, curse it?” Count Hamnet demanded.

“I can’t make more Bizogots,” Trasamund said reasonably. “Well, I can, but no matter how willing the women are, the brats need twenty years before they’re worth anything in a brawl, and we don’t have that long.” Hamnet snorted. Ignoring him, the jarl of the Three Tusk clan went on, “So why are you nattering at me to fix something I can’t do anything about?”

“They are going to hit us.” Hamnet clung to the rags of his temper by main force. “What will you do—what will we do—when that happens? Run away? Where will we go? How will we keep the Rulers off us once we get there?”

“You have more frets than a mammoth has fleas,” Trasamund said, and took another swig from the smetyn skin. “Whatever comes will come, and God will see to it that it all turns out all right.”

“The way he has so far?” Hamnet inquired, acid in his voice.

“Go away. Bother me later.” Trasamund drank deep again. “I want to get drunk. I want to screw my brains out.”

“What brains?” Hamnet asked, more sardonically still.

“Go howl,” the Bizogot told him. “I’ll worry about your worries, but when I feel like worrying about them. Not now!”

“When you were too late coming back to your clan from Raumsdalia, that was just one of those things that happen. It wasn’t your fault,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “But if you’re too late getting ready for trouble any fool can see coming, who’s left to blame but you?”

He thought the only way to get Trasamund to listen to him was to be brutal. He turned out to be righter than he’d guessed. The jarl dropped the precious skin of smetyn and charged him, bellowing like a bull woolly mammoth. Hamnet was a big man, Trasamund bigger still. They grappled, cursing and punching. Count Hamnet managed not to get thrown under Trasamund, but pulled the Bizogot down beside him onto the ground. Hamnet did his best to knee Trasamund in the groin, but the jarl twisted and took the blow on the hip.

“Well, this is sweet.”

Ulric Skakki’s light, ironic tones didn’t prove enough to get Hamnet and Trasamund to stop pounding on each other. Then a bowstring thrummed. An arrow stood thrilling in the ground only a few inches from the fighters’ faces.