5

Shivering and covered with goosebumps, Gath strode over the coarse grass of Nintor, all alone. Behind him trailed his shadow, stretched and gaunt, as if reluctant to follow him into danger. He was barefoot, clad only in leather breeches too large for him, bunched at his waist by a thong. The cold wind ruffled his hair. If Mom saw that hair now she would tell him to get it cut—it was a terrible bush, and yet it was short compared to any other man’s on the island. Real jotunn hair didn’t stand on end like his. She would scold him for his dirty feet, too, and for not dressing more warmly. He decided he wouldn’t mind a bit of mothering at the moment. That was a very unmanly thought, but his was the only chin on Nintor without whiskers and Nintor was a long, long way from home. The sky was a sickly blue, and cloudless. Straight ahead stood the peaks of Hvark, with Frayealk the most conspicuous. Frayealk lay due north of Nintor, Twist had told him, and the sun cleared the summit one day in the year. It was very close now, moving eastward of course. When it stood directly over the mountain, that would mark midnight and the start of Longday.

The jotnar were already gathered at the Moot Stow—thanes down on the floor of the hollow, their followers assembled on the slopes, all unarmed. They had been singing ancient hymns, waiting on the sun. One by one the sorcerers had slunk away unnoticed. Gath could see a few of them ahead of him still, pale figures moving north over the tundra. Thewsome had told him to follow when the sun was one handsbreadth from the peak.

He had an astonishing faith in Gath’s courage.

Those last few sorcerers were still in sight ahead, all walking alone, heading for the Commonplace, whatever that was. They all seemed to be able-bodied young men, just a random selection from the thousands of jotunn raiders now infesting the island. Doubtless many were not what they seemed. Some would be women, Twist had said.

Which were the wolves and which the sheep? The sun was almost over Frayealk.

The effort of not using prescience was starting to give Gath a headache.

The standing stones of the Place of Ravens. were just off to his right. If somehow the Gods ever did take him back to Krasnegar, then he would be able to brag to his jotunn friends about seeing the holy of holies. They would want all the details, though. How could he ever admit that he had been so close and not seen it properly? It would not take him far off his path. He risked a peek at the next few minutes and knew that there was nobody up there. The sorcerer stragglers were still in plain view. He changed direction slightly.

A few minutes later he stepped between two of the towering monoliths. There was nothing to see, only a circle of weathered boulders, larger than he had expected, maybe. And grass. Any cemetery was as exciting. There were no ravens in sight, just a few seagulls sitting on the stones at the far side, preening themselves. Was the grass a little greener within the circle, perhaps—fertilized by’the blood of thanes? No, that was just the long shadows of the rocks.

He shrugged, shivering in the wind. Midnight sun. Should he cut across the edge of the circle? Peek . . .

No!

He would cut his feet if he tried that. The long grass was full of bones, old and brittle, weathered white. He saw a skull and then two more. There was a hazard he had never thought of! The combatants fought naked, or almost naked, and certainly barefoot. How many fatal duels had been decided by a careless misstep—tripping over a pelvis or planting a foot on a sharp vertebra? The skalds’ sagas would never stoop to mentioning that hero so-and-so had lost his head because he had stubbed a toe.

Cutting across the Place of Ravens would be unwise, perhaps even sacrilege. Gath went back out the way he had come in, and hurried around the outside.

Frayealk came in sight again. The sun was over the mountain. It was almost past the mountain. Longday had begun. The wind faltered for a moment and he thought he heard a distant roar. Then it had gone. Had that been the sound of surf, or was the moot in open bedlam already? The vote for war would take no time at all, Thewsome had predicted. Choosing a leader would be another matter.

In sudden alarm, Gath quickened his pace, eyes scanning the green slopes ahead, squinting against the low sun. Where were his guides? He had no idea what the Commonplace looked like-Thewsome had just said he couldn’t miss it. If he did miss it, he was going to seem like a complete idiot. Worse! He would look like a coward! There was nobody else in sight. He was completely alone.

He began to run.

Then he forced himself to drop back to a fast walk again. Panic would not help, and he certainly did not want to arrive panting and sweating. Peek again—Yes! He was going to find it!

And there it was. Couldn’t have missed it, even without prescience. He’d mistaken it for a hillock, but it was too regular to be natural, a flattish dome with grass growing over it. In a few minutes he was going to notice that the turf had been trampled by many feet, converging into a path. Recently, too. The entrance was a low cave mouth in the south side. The Commonplace looked very much like some ancient, forgotten tomb.

The future inside it was a blank, meaning it was shielded, so there was no mistake, this must be the Commonplace. The first danger, Twist-Thewsome had said, was that he might not be allowed in, for he was not a sorcerer.

Horribly conscious of his pounding heart, Gath raised his chin and strode toward the doorway. Dad would approve, wouldn’t he? He could hear nothing except the wind in the grass. He could see nothing within except darkness.

He stumbled down a gritty slope and stopped when the passage widened into a chamber. Not even a sound of breathing broke the age-old silence. A quick peek of prescience told him there were people there, though. They were probably all looking at him. He was against the light of the door, and sorcerers could see in the dark anyway. He could see nothing of them. He waited. The air was icy cold and earthy-smelling, the ceiling oppressively low.

Dazzled from staring into the sun, his eyes took a moment to adapt. Then he began to make out a spectral shape glimmering before him, a glowing outline of a head . . . Argh!

Sorcery? No, trickery! It was only a man, lit from behind by a single beam of sunlight. His hair and beard and bare shoulders burned with golden fire and the rest was darkness. He must be even bigger than Thewsome.

“Who comes?” he demanded

Gath jumped and clenched his fists. There was no echo. Why not even the sound of breathing from the onlookers? “Who comes?” demanded that voice again, louder, more threatening. It was a deep, very male voice.

Never in his life, Gath thought, had he ever been really scared before. Not like this.

“Gath.” Twist must have told them he was coming.

“Who?”

God of Courage! Why had Twist not given him more instructions? Gath took a deep breath. Might as well be hung for a horse as a pony, Dad always said.

“I am Atheling Gathmor of Krasnegar, son of Thane . . . son of Rap Thaneslayer.” Was that stupid or smart? He swallowed with difficulty and added, “I come in peace.”

“You’d surely scare the piss out of me if you didn’t!” Sniggers ran off into the darkness.

That had been another voice, a youth’s voice, or a woman’s.

Gath’s eyes were adjusting to the gloom. The circular chamber was about ten paces across. He could see the shapes of people—vaguely, just indications of pale jotunn chests, silver hair. They were sitting all around the walls, on a bench, perhaps, tightly packed together. Some were smaller and darker than others, more covered—women?

“Gods’ bullocks!” roared the very large man—a very angry one, too—standing in the center. “Stripling, you blunder in where you are not invited. State your business or pay the penalty!”

Where in the Name of the Good was Twist? He had not warned Gath of any of this. Perhaps he had not known what to expect, because of the shielding. He had certainly not suggested having a speech ready.

Wiser not to. Would have scared him away completely. The sheep and the wolves. The herd and the pack. The pack was united, loyal to Zinixo and the Covin. The free sorcerers had no leader, Twist had said. Being jotnar, they would take hours to choose one, if they could ever agree, and by then it might be too late.

That was why Gath was here. He was to be a rallying point, a symbol. Bait.

Faces were becoming visible-unfriendly faces. Yes, some women. Some very old men. One or two hale warriors. Several cripples, but still Gath’s frantic searching had not located Twist. Not a smile in the place.

“Come here!” demanded the man in the middle of the chamber. He was standing on a low slab, of course. Even without that, he was big, his flaxen head almost touching the stones of the ceiiing. His glare was visible now. Gath had often seen its like in Krasnegar, and blood had always flowed right after.

A few firm strides put him directly in front of the speaker, and his eyes were lower than the giant’s furry chest. The sunlight was shining in through a shaft in the roof, and now it stabbed over the man’s shoulders into Gath’s eyes.

“Say what you expect of me, son of Rap Thaneslayer!” Gath breathed a silent prayer. This was going to be suicide! He looked up defiantly. “I want you to do homage.”

“To you?” roared the jotunn.

“To my da— I will accept your homage to, er, for my father, who is leader of the battle against the Alm . . . the dwarf . . .” Gath swallowed again and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Why was he so wet outside and dry inside? He desperately wanted to peek at the future, but his prescience would be detected and might seem like cowardice.

The jotunn raised a fist the size of a small anvil, right in front of Gath’s nose. “Tell me why I should kneel to you, boy!”

Speech!

Gath put his hands on his hips and shouted up at him. “Would you sooner kneel to a dwarf? You know the war that hangs over us! Some of you here are votaries of the usurper and are planning to enslave all the rest of you. Your only hope of remaining free people is to join the army my dad leads. Him and the imperor and the wardens against the dwarf.” Gods, this was coming out all muddled! He should never have mentioned the imperor! “The Protocol doesn’t protect the jotn . . . us . . . anymore. If the thanes go to war this time, they’ll be fighting against sorcery. My dad has promised a new protocol, which will stop votarism. You can trust him. I want you to help. He’s fighting for freedom. Your freedom, too.”

Gods, that had sounded really awful! He’d fouled it all up! Why hadn’t Twist warned him he would have to make a speech?

“That’s it?” the big man snarled, his breath reeking of fish and sour beer.

“That’s it!” Gath said, and braced himself to be knocked senseless.

“Sounds like a smart move.” The big man stepped back, off the plinth. “Get up there.”

Bewildered, fighting not to use his prescience, Gath stepped up on the flat rock. The sunbeam dazzled him. He felt shamefully shaky and his eyes were still not level with the sorcerer’s, but then the big man dropped to his knees and raised his great hands, palms together as if in prayer.

“I am Drugfarg son of Karjiarg and I am your father’s man,” he said loudly.

For a heart-stopping moment Gath stared down at those huge hands, while his mind whirled in search of the correct response. He found it in a faint memory of one of the fairy-tale plays that Kadie wrote and made all her friends perform at Winterfest. The words he would have to invent, but he recalled the gesture. Kadie knew all that sort of stuff.

He clasped Drugfarg’s hands between his own. His were colder.

“In the name of my father, Rap Thaneslayer, I accept your homage, Drugfarg son of Karjiarg.”

The giant waited.

There was more? Oh, yes. Gath bent to grip the sorcerer’s meaty elbow and raise him. Of course he could no more have truly lifted Drugfarg than he could have drunk the Winter Ocean, but that was the correct gesture. Drugfarg rose smoothly to his feet and stepped back without a smile or a word. He turned his back and walked away. Another man rose and came forward to take his place. Older and smaller, he also knelt before Gath and raised his hands.

“I am Gustiag son of Prakran and I am your father’s man.” Gath bent to clasp the hands. His mind turned cartwheels. He was accepting the homage of sorcerers! There must be sixty or seventy of them in this chamber.

“In the name of my father . . .”

Sixty or seventy sorcerers! Not all of them would be willing to do homage to him, of course. Members of the Covin would not. They could not, for they were already bound to Zinixoand they could not just pretend, Twist said, because in something like that they could not deceive the others. So when the sheep had all lined up behind Rap’s deputy, leaving the wolves . . .

Gath stole a peek at the future and sawHe was about to die!

The world exploded, in pain and fire and thunder.