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A rooster crowed somewhere on the steppe. No, this wasn’t the steppe, and the mouse-gap beside Bone’s ear was cold, but it had done its duty and forced his eyes open early.

He pissed at the midden the slaves were instructed to use, then walked to the farmhouse in the gray half-light. Of the guard he demanded fresh bandages and water. When the nonplussed man had gone, Bone nonchalantly surveyed the steading, slowly pivoting. For once his mind was clear, and he committed every detail to his memory. This was a heist, really. It differed from the usual only in that he was stealing himself.

The guard returned with Gunlaug, who carried cloth and a kettle.

“She wanted to see,” the guard said, “this thrall who worries so over other thralls.”

They tended to Alder, cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages. Alder did not seem grateful to be woken and washed, but he slipped back into sleep soon enough.

Gunlaug spoke.

The young guard said, “Since you are seeing to him, you will do two shares of work. Since you have stolen Gunlaug’s time, you will assist her today.”

This proved to be hard work, especially as Gunlaug slapped him for failure to comprehend her mimed instructions or her Kantentongue words.
Spoken. Very. Slowly. And. Loudly.
But compared to breaking rocks it was bearable. He stoked the hearth-fires, fetched water, milked cows, fed animals, cleaned stables. In the evening he returned sore to the barn, bearing fresh cloth and water for Alder. There was an extra helping of stew and bread; the other slaves explained it was Santa Kringa’s feast day, and although the Gull-Jarl did not celebrate it, Gunlaug was a Swanling and made this small gesture.

Alder was playing a game with the old Kantening slave who brought in the food. With them sat the man who’d translated Gunlaug’s words when Bone first arrived. Other games were being played in other corners. The barn almost seemed festive.

“Thank you,” Alder said to Bone as the thief changed the dressings. “I know you’ve been helping me.”

“I just want to make the world less boring. There are so many more interesting ways to die, than taking fever after maiming.”

“I’m not bored,” Alder muttered. “Nevertheless, thanks.”

“Join us if you wish,” the old Kantening told Bone. “This game is winding down. Do you know it?”

“It looks a little bit like chess. Or weiqi.”

“I don’t know your weiqi, but this is perhaps the opposite of chess. The game is
hnefatafl
.”

“Bless you.”

“Ha, ha. One piece is the king. He is ringed by enemies and must escape.”

“How appropriate.”

“Fortunately he has friends.” The old man paused, extended a hand. “The name’s Havtor.”

“Mine is Imago Bone.” He took Havtor’s hand and bowed a little also, in the Eastern manner. “I am surprised . . . well, you’re a Kantening . . .”

“Ah. How does a Kantening come to be a thrall? My family’s fortunes diminished when my father’s ship floundered in the Draugmaw, the great maelstrom, taking him, most of his war band, and all his treasures to the deep. My mother was obliged to sell some of her children into thralldom.”

“That’s horrible.”

Havtor shrugged. “We might have starved otherwise. The Gull-Jarl took me on, and I have never wanted. He is not so bad. His son, now . . . well, we all have things that are best not talked about.” He moved a wooden warrior upon a grid, saying, “Like you and your horses.”

“What?”

The big man beside them laughed. “Twice now, Imago Bone, you’ve cried out in the night, rambling about horses. And yet you don’t remember?”

Bone scratched his chin. “I have had dreams. . . .”

“So I assumed,” said the big man, “as I saw no horses in here! And I do know my horses.” As if to apologize for teasing, the man shook Bone’s hand. “Vuk’s the name.”

“You’re not a Bladelander,” Bone said.

“I was captured in a raid on the Mirrored Sea. My people are Wagonlords of the Wheelgreen.”

“My sympathies. You must miss home.”

“It haunts my dreams, like your horses. And you? Where were you taken?”

“About half a mile from here, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re joking!” Alder said.

“I wish that very much,” Bone said. “My fortunes have plummeted. I made a critical mistake, one that has torn me from my wife.”

“A raid gone awry?” Havtor said.

“A bad gamble?” Vuk said.

“A dalliance?” Alder said.

“I made an error of judgment in a fight. I should not have been taken.”

“Ah,” Vuk said. “That is indeed bitter. Well, battle has its fortunes.”

“But to lose everything because of one lapse . . . I might have won that fight, at my best. But cares cloud my sight. I’m aging, it seems.”

“It’s said that no man can defeat Old Age,” said Havtor, “if he should live long enough to face her. Even the god Torden, when he wrestled her once, found himself evenly matched.”

Bone thought of Muninn Crowbeard and how he’d feared the thews of Old Age.

“I may not defeat
her
,” Alder said, “but my
hnefatafl
king’s escaped.”

“Ah!” Havtor said. “You are not as weak as you seem!”

“Nor as defeated,” Alder murmured, as Havtor set up the board for Vuk and Bone.

Vuk remarked, “Be aware the game is lopsided. It is harder to win as the king.”

“I’ll play that part,” Bone said. “Escape suits me.”

“Does it now?” Vuk said.

Bone was not as tired this night, and the sky was clear, stars and moon glittering above the snow’s silver sheen. So when he woke around midnight and relieved himself at the midden, he took his time, listening. By now he was sure the standard number of guards was five.

Snow crushed behind him: a sixth. The newcomer said nothing. It was a looming sort of nothing. Someone wanted Bone afraid.

Vapor emerged from Bone in the moonlight, from above and below. “You know,” he said, forcing his voice to be nonchalant, “I’d wet myself, Skalagrim, but you’re just a little late.” He concluded his business, hiked up his pants, and turned.

Skalagrim the Bloody stood there with his mace glinting in the moonlight. “I’ve had dreams of horses,” said the Kantening. “They are not my dreams. I have traced them to this barn, waiting for their source to emerge. It does not wholly surprise me that it’s you. I’ve sensed you are more than you seem.”

“What am I then?”

“You’re haunted by a strange wyrd, as am I. It’s said my father’s hall is built on the shores of the Straits of Tid. As long as I can remember I’ve roamed the world in my dreams, contending with others who dream as I do. One night, many of us met in dreams at the Great Chain of Unbeing, though to us it seemed as day. There we contested for the power of the Runemark. But we were surprised by new opponents that were not human . . . nine of us were forever changed. Three from Svardmark. Three from Spydbanen. Three from Oxiland. We were already strong men, but a grim power made us mighty as legends. And our eyes were opened to deeper truths of existence.”

“What deeper truths?”

“Our world is a semblance, a transitory illusion. Only one thing within it is truly real.”

It was strange, to hear this barbarian speaking as the warrior-priest Katta might. “Compassion?”

“Power.”

“Thank you for your edifying speech. I won’t criticize, as I like having pinkies. May I go?”

“Don’t think you have fooled me. You are a sorcerer, or one touched by the gods. Sooner or later I’ll know the truth. I have sensed
her
, skulking around you.”

“What?”

“There is one who has an interest in you. She thinks she is obscured, but I have seen. And on the day she comes to your aid, I will claim her. Think of that, enchanter. The one who would rescue you will be mine.”

Bone’s hands clenched. Skalagrim was alone, and though the Kantening was gigantic, and armored, Bone was quick. . . .

“Yes,” said Skalagrim. “I sense your hate. Rush upon me,
slave
. Reveal your true power, enchanter. I am ready.”

“You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“As you wish.” Skalagrim backed away and gestured grandly toward the barn. “Maintain your ruse if you wish. Know that I watch you always.”

Bone returned nonchalantly to the barn, whistling a tavern song from Amberhorn.

When he lay down, he heard Vuk’s voice in the darkness. “When I was last outside,” the Wagonlord said quietly, “I counted five bright stars among the Sisters, bunched together like a war band.”

The distant star cluster called the Sisters was often used as a test of eyesight on the continent. But Bone didn’t think that was what Vuk really meant. “I might have seen six,” Bone said after his nerves settled. “Though the last was perhaps a comet. Something that may or may not be there tomorrow.”

Vuk grunted. There was silence. Then: “One night soon, the snowfall may be too great to see stars or moon.”

“I think you’re right.”

“On that night, a fox may not be able to see rabbits in front of him.”

“What about five foxes?” Bone asked.

“It might depend on the number of rabbits.”

“You’ve thought more about this than I.” Bone said. After some thought he added, “I had a dream in which four horses played games together and then ran free.”

“I had a similar dream,” Vuk said after a pause. “We will speak again.”

“Soon.”

They were silent, but Bone could not sleep. Could he trust Vuk, Alder, and Havtor with his plans?

The one who would rescue you will be mine
.

He had little choice. Gaunt would be coming. Bone had to escape before then.

CHAPTER 11

CHRONICLERS

The trolls carried A-Girl-Is-A-Joy for miles, into rocky and desolate hills. She could tell by the illumination that the sun had risen high, but the sky remained stubbornly gray and the air only warmed a little. Any time the sun threatened to peek out from the veil of clouds, the trolls hid in some shadowed defile.

“Are you afraid of the sun?” she asked once.

“Shut up!” said more than one troll. “You speak when you’re asked to speak!” So she took that as a
yes
, and shut up.

Stay calm, Joy. Your mother, your teacher, your friends, they are formidable people. They’ll find you. Try not to think how many trolls there are.

For there were dozens, and every so often one or two more joined them. There were gray trolls and black trolls, white trolls and orange trolls, trolls mossy and mushroomy and brambly and bark-covered, two-headed, three-headed, no-headed, silent or gibbering or humming or monologuing rhymed poetry in an ever-changing choice of meter. There were trolls of granite and of obsidian, of quartz and of agate, of pebbly soil twisting with dead severed roots, and of smooth river stones punctured with dead bare branches.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked more than once.

She would get answers as varied as “Shut up!” “To the halls of Harrowshine!” “Silence!” “To the caves of the delven!” “Speak not!” “To the catacombs of the uldra!” “Be still!” “To the towers of Anemaratrace!”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She had to escape.

The trolls had allowed her moments to relieve herself, and so this time she faked such a need. Once alone she began the slow, dancelike movements known as the Preparatory and the Commencement of the Art. She felt her body’s energy reviving. She wanted to spend an hour more, but already the trolls were grumbling.

She gathered her chi, focused it into her legs, and leapt twenty paces up a hillside.

The trolls were after her immediately, with a dreadful sound of anger and recrimination.

“After her!”

“This is your fault!”

“No, it’s your fault!”

“Quickly, fools!”

“It’s his fault!”

“Faster!”

“She is quick!”

“Hurry! If we spend too long catching her, we may never have time to assign blame!”

The hill was treacherous. Wind-scoured, bereft of all but the hardiest scrubs, it was full of loose talus and deceptive boulders ready to dislodge at the slightest weight. She had to give her full attention to leaping from spot to spot, as each landing side slid beneath her.

The trolls were gaining.

She looked ahead to where the summit disappeared into a swirling sunlit fog. She forced herself ahead.

“The sun!”

“She seeks to reach the cruel orb!”

“Mossbeard! Claymore! I will hurl you ahead of her!”

“Why does it have to be me, Wormeye?”

“Or me?”

“You’re both light enough to throw and tough enough not to break! Mostly! Hurry up!”

“But it’s his fault!”

“No, it’s his!”

“Shut up and be a payload!”

There came a screeching moving through the air, starting below and behind, ending ahead and above. A gray rocky troll, with eyes like blue eggshells and a beard of green, charged downhill.

Another screech and impact revealed a gray, clay-bodied troll with eyes of schist and scraggly beach-grass for hair. It flattened like a mushu pancake when it hit but promptly popped back into a squat humanoid shape. “That hurt me, human!” it wailed, surging toward Joy. “You’ll pay for that!”