"And someone took you in?" The disbelief on the centurion's face was almost comical. "This is not a burg noted for civility and hospitality to strangers- particularly to fyrdmen down on their luck. It seems a poor way of living."

Nicholas shrugged, tilting his left hand a little to the side. "A tavern keeper found me and said his faction would feed me if I'd fight on the Wall in the place of one of their own. So, here I am."

The centurion grimaced. The racing factions of the Hippodrome- the Greens and the Blues- had lost much of their old political power, but their ward bosses remained as canny as ever. They might not be able to make or break an emperor, but they surely knew all the tricks of keeping their clients away from the Imperial levies and drafts.

"Well," said the centurion, turning away to go into the tower, "find a place out of the wind."

Nicholas grimaced and looked out over the Wall again. The land was still and quiet, showing dirty snow, distant leafless trees, and a cold gray sky thick with fat clouds. It would start snowing again soon: he could smell it in the air.

Nicholas swung himself up to sit in the embrasure next to the side of the tower. It made a fine seat, though the wind out of the north slid across his face like freyasdottir kiss. He leaned back into the stones, waiting for events to unfold. Though by nature an impatient man, his business had taught him many virtues. Patience was even one of them. Thin fingers pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and he worked himself out of the direct strength of the wind.

He wondered if the men in the camps beyond the Wall were drinking deep of half-frozen mead, crouched in hide tents around their smoky fires. He wondered if slaves, barely clad in tunics of raw wool and graced with thick iron rings welded around their necks, scurried to bring the fighting men more of the heavy drink and thick slabs of meat, dripping with blood and steaming from the fire. His fingers twitched, touching the hilt of the long sword that leaned against the Wall at his side. There had been a rusting iron ring on his neck once. That was the sort of thing that you did not forget.

Once he had carried heavy jugs of mead from the storage house to the feasting hall, his bare feet bloody in the snow. The sky had been gray then, too, for the Storm Lord loved the Dannmark as no other place. Hail had slashed down out of bitter clouds, raising welts on his back. It had been a cruel life for an outland boy with odd-colored eyes, sold into slavery far beyond the frontier of the Empire. The jarls of Dannmark were not easy masters.

But without them? Nicholas raised the sword up, still sheathed, and smiled, showing his teeth. His hand moved gently on the sheath. I would not have met the niebelungen, or gained your love.

The sun was swallowed by cloud, and the sky darkened. Heavy gray overcast pressed against the earth. Snowflakes drifted down, melting on the stones of the Wall. His breath white in the air, Nicholas made his way down the wooden staircase behind the gate. He had waited on the Wall for three hours, slowly getting colder and colder, watching the distant line of trees. It had been quiet, and then the falling snow had obscured the Avar camps. The noise of the fighting down the Wall, at the great Golden Gate, had slowly risen in intensity as the day progressed. The tower at the Number Two Gate blocked a direct view of the looming redoubt that anchored the southern end of the city wall, but the sound of crashing metal on metal and the high-pitched snap of siege engines firing filtered through the cold air. At the bottom of the stairs a band of knights- no, he reminded himself, an alae of equites- were gathering in the space behind the gatehouse.

Nicholas jumped down from the next to last landing on the wooden scaffold, landing lightly in a space just off the gate. Horsemen armored in silvery bands of iron were preparing to go out into the snowy fields. Steam rose from the flanks of the horses, and the high arch of the gate rang with voices and the rattle of metal. The knights were checking the straps of their low-cantled saddles, and long straight swords hung to their knees. Many had wooden bow cases strapped behind them, the tops thick with gray goose feathers. Nicholas scratched the back of his head and turned toward the gate. A grinding sound echoing off the barrel vault of the passage drew his attention upward. The long iron bars that secured the gate were being drawn, slowly, up into the ceiling of the passage. The rumble of great hidden wheels echoed through the stout brick walls. Each iron bar was a foot wide, and the width of man's hand thick. Nicholas counted heads: there were thirty or forty men in the entryway- most of them the lead horsemen. He began scanning their faces, comparing them to a half-heard description.

A thin man, half Slav and half Greek, with a pleasant and smiling face. A spy and a traitor to the city.

"A sortie," a voice said from behind him. Nicholas turned, his face casual. It was the blond centurion from the tower. "Going out to burn a tower or two. Teach the barbs not to get sloppy about their flanks."

"You want to teach them to win?" Nicholas regretted opening his mouth as soon as the words had escaped. The centurion glared at him for a moment, then pushed past him through the throng of horses. Nicholas bit his lip in regret and considered going after the man, but there was little time left. The legionnaires by the gate itself were preparing to push it open. The equites in the first rank were trying to form a double line with something like proper spacing. The horses jostled in the confined space, and Nicholas was forced back against the Wall. Bricks ground into his back. Without conscious thought, his right hand reached up and tugged the wire loop that secured his sword in its sheath off the hilt. Behind him, out in the military street behind the Wall, a trumpet pealed and there was shouting.

The gate swung open. Nicholas cursed and pushed forward along the Wall toward the edge of the opening hinge. Five men were there, putting their shoulders into the rough planks of the gate. It was heavy, and the hinges squealed in protest at the movement. As Nicholas tried to make his way though the throng of horses and other men standing by the Wall, a dim gray light spilled in. Cold air followed, and the horses whinnied and milled a little before their riders stilled them. The snowy field was revealed, a foot at a time, as the soldiers continued to push the gate open.

Nicholas jumped up, trying to see over the bulk of the horsemen. Legion-naires pushed at his back, trying to move up to the gate. He turned back and began trying to swim against their flow. There was a shout, and the horsemen began to move out of the gate passage. A flash of something catching the light caught Nick's eye and he stared through a forest of horse legs at the other side of the passage. A bared sword blade flickered in the light from outside.

Nicholas snarled a curse and swung up on a man's shoulder, planting his boot against the courses of bricks on the Wall.

The soldier, startled, shouted at him. "Bastard! Get off me!"

The extra two feet of height was enough. Nicholas cursed aloud himself. The man he was hunting was across the passage, only fifteen feet away, screened by the knights who were filing through the gateway. He dropped down and absently blocked the legionnaire's halfhearted punch with a raised hand. The slithering sound of his sword coming into his hand stilled the soldier's protest. Nicholas glanced right, seeing the gate come fully open, then left, counting the remaining numbers of horsemen waiting to ride out. The column was halfway out the gate. He tensed, preparing to dash through the horses cantering past.