CHAPTER FIVE

Pelemere, the Northern Kingdoms

L ook,” said Sirus, “if we attack from his left flank, we’ll—”

“That’s shit-talk and well you know it,” said Fulmer, King of Hosea. “That’s all you can talk, yes? You couldn’t fight your way out of a brothel, let alone—”

“Shut up,” said Malat, weariness evident in voice and posture and haggard expression. “Just shut up, Fulmer. You do not help the situation at all.”

“And you can?” Fulmer said, his voice rising a little, betraying his youth and inexperience.

Malat sighed, moving away from the other two kings and pouring himself a cup of warmed wine, buying time before he had to answer. The past few months had been stupidity personified as the three kings of the Central Kingdoms pitted their armies against that of the Outlanders, whose forces were led by Chief Alm Georgdi, who had replaced the murdered Rilm Evenor as the war leader of the Outlander tribes.

In theory, the armies of the Central Kingdoms should have destroyed the Outlanders. Their combined forces were four times the size of Georgdi’s, they had considerably more resources, they fought on their own territory, which meant they did not have the long supply lines that Georgdi did, and their armies were better equipped.

Unfortunately, superiority in theory did not translate to success on the battlefield.

They had fought Georgdi up and down the plains between Pelemere and Hosea and, while Georgdi had enjoyed no major victories, he had suffered no defeats, either. His army was well disciplined, highly motivated, and battle-skilled.

And it enjoyed the supreme advantage of having but one leader.

On the other hand, the Central Kingdoms’ armies suffered from lack of coordination, lack of cohesion, and three supreme commanders who bickered constantly among themselves and who could barely agree on the day of the week, let alone a coherent battle strategy.

“Georgdi is in danger of surrounding us,” Malat said, turning back to the other two, his wine untasted.

“We’ve managed to get ourselves stuck in this…” He caught himself just before he said nightmare of an indefensible city. “Stuck here in Pelemere. Our supplies are low to the point of nonexistence. Winter settled in a month early. We don’t have soldiers used to fighting on starvation rations in the middle of snowdrifts…and Georgdi does. Gods, my friends, they’ve fought the Skraelings in Viland for decades.

Fulmer, have you heard anything from the supply train that was leaving Hosea two weeks ago? We need those supplies, man. Badly.”

“I’ve heard nothing,” said Fulmer. “None of the scouts have yet returned.”

Malat and Sirus exchanged a worried look. No one had heard anything from the north for at least ten days. The entire area had been blanketed by snowstorms, yes, but they should have heard something.

“I think—” began Sirus, when he was interrupted by the door opening and one of his captains entering.

The captain bowed, excusing himself for the interruption.

“Sire,” he said, “Chief Georgdi sits his horse outside the city gates, requesting a parley.”

“What?” said Fulmer. “He has come to surrender?”

“No,” said the captain, “he says he has come to warn of the approach of a tide of death.”

BroadWing EvenBeat fought his way through the gusts of snow, his wings barely able to hold him aloft.

He was terrified.

He’d never encountered a storm like this. It wasn’t its ferocity so much as what it was.

Not just wind.

Not just snow.

There was something else in the air about him.

BroadWing couldn’t see the creatures, but he could hear them, and he could feel them. Whispers, cold, soft fingers brushing his face, his arms, his belly.

And sometimes, so fleeting he thought he’d imagined it, a face, an Icarii face, floating before him.

A cold smile lighting its features.

Then it would be gone, and BroadWing would be left to fight his way through the storm once more, desperate to get to Pelemere, desperate to warn the northern kings of what approached.

“Tell Georgdi he has our word,” said Malat. “He enjoys safe harbor while in Pelemere.”

As the captain left, Malat looked significantly at Fulmer. “He does enjoy safe harbor while under the parley flag, Fulmer.”

“Perhaps he wants to surrender,” said Fulmer.

“And perhaps you’re nothing but a young fool,” said Sirus, sitting down in a chair. “It might be better to allow Malat and myself to talk to Georgdi.”

“If it wasn’t for my forces and my supplies—” Fulmer began.

“Yes,” said Malat, “and we’re more than grateful, Fulmer. I don’t know what we would have done without you. But I think it is important to hear what Georgdi has to say. He has fought with nothing but honor, and I don’t expect anything else from him now.”

Fulmer grunted, but he said no more, and joined Malat at the table with Sirus.

He hoped they would make Georgdi stand.

Chief Alm Georgdi was nothing like what any of the three men had expected. Somehow, Malat thought, as the Outlander entered the room accompanied by three of his men, all unarmed (and one looking as though he’d come straight from the battlefield, given his grubby clothing and exhausted features), they’d always imagined Georgdi as an enormous bear of a man. A hulk, rippling with muscle, and probably bristling with a full beard and curling mustachios as well.

Instead, Georgdi proved to be a trim man of good height, short of hair and clean-shaven, who looked as if he should be a scholar rather than a far-too-successful warlord. His attire was stylish, his manner elegant, his eyes bright and honest.

Malat instantly knew that whatever news he brought, it wasn’t going to be good.

An approaching tide of death?

Georgdi waved aside all formalities and offers of refreshment, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table without waiting for an invitation.

“We’re in trouble,” he said, his well-modulated voice as elegant as the rest of his appearance.

“So you have come to surrender,” Fulmer said.

Malat closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience.

“All of us are in trouble,” said Georgdi, ignoring Fulmer and looking between Sirus and Malat, instinctively knowing the better men at the table even before Fulmer had opened his mouth. “And all our families besides. Many of them will already be dead. Our petty little battles must be forgotten in the face of what approaches.” He turned, gesturing to the disheveled and exhausted man who’d entered with him and who now took a step forward.

“This man is Jelial,” said Georgdi. “Lord Warden of the Eastern Plains Province of Gershadi. Fulmer, you know him, surely? Yes, well. Jelial’s hometown is Hornridge. He staggered into my camp late last night.

Jelial?”

“I have been running south for these past six weeks,” Jelial said, and the three kings went cold at the sound of his voice, because it echoed with hopelessness, “trying to keep ahead of death.”

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, man,” said Malat, rising from his seat, “what have you to tell us?”

“Several million Skraelings are approaching,” said Jelial, his voice still dead. “They ate their way through Hornridge. No one survived.”

Jelial looked at Fulmer. “Hosea is no more. Everyone, everyone, is dead. And as they come farther south, as they feed, they are growing stronger, larger…different. Gods, sometimes I have caught glimpses of some of them who bore the heads of jackals! The creatures are now streaming toward Pelemere.

They are perhaps a day away, maybe two if you’re lucky. Get everyone out. Get them out!”

“Nothing will stop the Skraelings,” said Georgdi in a tone as casual and even as if he were discussing the arrangements for a breakfast. “I know Skraelings. I fought them with Evenor in Viland. They are murderous in bands of a few score, and almost impossible in bands of a few hundred. Millions? Let alone the millions of what Jelial describes? I am not even going to attempt to stay and fight on these plains. You are welcome to your Pelemere and your Central Kingdoms, gentlemen. Within minutes I am going to rise from this chair and ride back to my army, which I shall gather about me and with all haste ride, flee, back into the Outlands, which I can either hope the Skraelings will ignore, or where we might have some chance of containing them in the passes between the FarReach Mountains and the Sky Peaks. What you do is your choice. If you decide to abandon your kingdoms—which, frankly I advise, because you stand no chance against these Skraelings—then you may flee with me. The more of us there are to battle the Skraelings in the mountain passes, if it comes to that, the more hope we have of standing firm against them.”

Fulmer, Malat, and Sirus stared at him. For the moment none of them could speak.

“You have lost your kingdoms,” Georgdi said, his voice now softer. “By the end of this week they will have vanished beneath a seething tide of death. Get who and what you can out now. You have a day, two at the most. Sit there and gape if you wish, but, frankly, I’d be moving.”

With that he pushed his chair back and rose. “I don’t have time to linger here. My armies spent the night packing, we will be gone by midmorning.”

“It’s all lies,” Fulmer said, white with shock.

“No,” Malat said quietly, “it isn’t.”

“The Skraelings?” said Sirus. “Millions? What is happening? They’ve never come this far south before.

And in such numbers…What in the world are they doing?”

“They are led by a man called Lister,” said Jelial. “He styles himself the Lord of the Skraelings. His Skraelings are swarming south. Migrating. My lords, I beg you. Flee. Flee.”

“I do not think news can come much worse than this,” said Georgdi. “I think—”

“News can get worse,” said a voice from the window, accompanied by a blast of cold air.

Everyone leapt to their feet, turning to face the intruder.

An Icarii man was balanced on the window ledge, one hand still on the shutters which he’d opened.

“My name is BroadWing EvenBeat,” the Icarii man said. He jumped down to the floor, spreading his hands to show he was unarmed. “And I did not think I would survive to get this far.”

“What news?” said Georgdi.

“Isaiah, Tyrant of Isembaard,” said BroadWing, “has just led an army of a million men or more out of the Salamaan Pass into the Outlands. Adab has fallen. They are allied, I think, this Lister and Isaiah. And we”—he gestured, taking in everything from Hosea to the FarReach Mountains—“are all but dead, for there is nowhere to flee.”

“How do you know this?” Georgdi said.

“For weeks I have been looking about the FarReach Mountains, scouting for Maximilian, who entered Isembaard,” BroadWing said. “My companions and I had reached the eastern parts of the mountains when another Icarii warned us.”

“What in the world is Maximilian doing in Isembaard?” Fulmer said.

“I don’t think any of us have time for that story right now,” BroadWing said.