As the march continued I concentrated my resources on seducing Kara. Even though she made not the slightest effort to make herself alluring, still she managed to torment me. Even though she was as grubby and unkempt as the rest of us, lean, hard-muscled, shrewd eyed, I still found myself wanting her.
Despite the obvious negatives—being scary clever, knowing far too many things, seeing through me on almost every occasion, and being more than happy to skewer straying hands—I found her excellent company. This proved to be a new and rather confusing experience for me. Having Kara entertain twenty Danes with bawdy tales around the fire felt rather as if on a boar hunt in the Kings Wood outside Vermillion our quarry stopped running, sat down, and, pulling out a pipe, proceeded to discuss the merits of veal over venison with us, opining about the best wine to serve with swan.
Snorri, who until Hakon’s arrival I had counted my rival in Kara’s affections, seemed strangely guarded around the woman. I wondered if he were still bound by Freja’s memory, faithful to a dead wife. He slept apart from us, and often his hand strayed to pat his chest where the key hung beneath his jerkin. On the rare occasions I rose before Snorri I sometimes saw him wince, stretching his side as if the poisoned wound that Baraqel had diminished in Osheim were returning to plague him.
? ? ?
The nights of marching passed slowly. East Thurtan turned into West with only an increase in dampness to mark the change. We walked, my feet grew sore, and more and more I wanted a horse to carry me.
We’d spent our first night crossing West Thurtan and had little to show for it save for muddy boots. I’d had about as much of Lord Hakon’s antics for Kara’s benefit as I could stomach—he was holding forth on classic literature now as if he were some shrivelled dame let out for the day from her book tower—so I sought distraction with the only one of our monsters that could speak.
“What waits for you and your subjects in the Highlands, King Gorgoth? I don’t recall hearing that the Count Renar has a reputation for hospitality . . .”
“I’m no king, Prince Jalan. It’s just a word that proves useful for the moment.” Gorgoth held his hand out to the fire, so close it seemed impossible the skin wasn’t bubbling off his fingers. The three digits, stark against the blaze, made something alien of him. “It’s King Jorg who rules in the Highlands now. He has offered us sanctuary.”
“Trolls need sanctuary? I— Wait, Jorg? Surely not that Ancrath boy?”
Gorgoth inclined his head. “He took the throne from his uncle by force. I came north with him to the Heimrift.”
“Oh.” For a moment words escaped me. I’d imagined Gorgoth born among the trolls, though I’d given no thought to how he came to language among them, nor to his knowing the ways of men sufficient to negotiate with dukes and lords.
“And yes, trolls need sanctuary. Men are many and take strength as a challenge, difference as a crime. They say there were once dragons in the world. Now they are gone.”
“Hmmm.” I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry for the plight of the persecuted troll. Maybe if they were more fluffy . . . “This Jorg of yours, I’ve heard tales of him. Queen Sareth wanted me to put the scamp over my knee and tan his hide. I would have too—very persuasive woman, Queen Sareth.” I raised my voice, just a notch, nice and subtle, so Kara wouldn’t miss my talk of queens and princes. “Beautiful with it. Have you ever . . . well maybe not.” I remembered Gorgoth wasn’t the type to be getting invitations to court, unless perhaps it was in a cage, as the entertainment. “I would have taught the boy a lesson but I had more urgent business in the north. Necromancers and unborn to put in their place, don’t you know.” My adventures may have been an unrelenting misery but at least I could now pull “necromancers” out to trump my opposition in any story of daring and adversity. Gorgoth might be a monstrous king of trolls, but what would a cave-dweller like him know of necromancers!
Gorgoth rumbled, deep in his chest. “Jorg Ancrath is wild, unprincipled and dangerous. My advice would be to steer well clear of him.”
“Jorg Ancrath?” Hakon, catching the name, broke off from his discussion of the finer points of some tedious verse from the Iliad. “My uncle says the same of him, Gorgoth. I think he likes him! Cousin Sindri was impressed with the man too. I’ll have to take his measure myself one of these days.” The Dane stepped over from the fire—all golden hair, square chin, and shadows. “And you thought to put him over your knee, Prince Jalan?” I heard Snorri snort in the background, probably remembering the truth of the matter and our hasty exit from Crath City. “That might be difficult. The man put an end to Ferrakind . . .”
“Ferrakind?”
Kara answered. “The fire-mage who ruled in the Heimrift, Jal. The volcanoes fell silent at his death.” She watched me from the shadows, just the lines of her face caught in firelight. I could see her smile echoed on the faces of many of the Danes.