Then First Son played his hand—axes and spears clattered against shields to create a host of noise rising out of the woodland. These Albans didn’t yet understand that the RockChildren attacked in silence.
The lord shouted a command; his banner dipped and rose to signal the advance, and the host broke forward at a run, making haste, and their tight formation came undone as one man outpaced another, as they raced for the safety of the ramparts.
Stronghand bared his teeth. Behind, he felt as much as heard the murmur of his army tightening their grips on their weapons.
When the first of the Albans came over the top, awkward as they climbed and winded and thinking that their brothers awaited them, they hadn’t a chance.
In the end, after the slaughter and with the sun sliding down beneath the western horizon, they took the boar’s head alive. He was a man of indeterminate years, lean, hard, and cunning by the look of him, not easy to subdue. He was too proud to curse at his fate and too clever to waste his breath begging for mercy or modesty when Stronghand’s soldiers stripped him. He wore luxurious garb under his chain mail, a padded tunic chased with gold thread, the gold armbands worn by Alban lords, a pair of gold necklaces, and silver rings and bracelets, a rich haul by any measure. In his time he had survived three wounds, long since healed, but on this day only his right hand was bleeding from a stroke that had knocked his gauntlet off. His shield was almost hacked in two, but it had fared better than the four young men who had died in a last attempt to break him out of the battle and escape toward the fens.
The Alban volunteers gathered to look him over. They had the look of starving dogs waiting to feed but held back by the chains of fear—because they feared this scarred and battle-hardened nobleman who stood stripped to his shift before them, barefoot, unarmed, and entirely at their mercy. Nonetheless Stronghand could smell their fear, a perfume as rank as old meat.
“The young should not die to save the old,” observed Ediki solemnly as he examined the four corpses sprawled at the foot of the noble lord.
“I am the queen’s uncle, called Eadig, Earl of the middle country and Lord of Wyscan,” said the noble to Stronghand, as if Ediki had not spoken. He took no notice of the former slaves. “What ransom will you take for me, raider? How may I ransom those of my soldiers who still live?”
Stronghand raised both hands, palms up, in a gesture he had seen used among humankind. “Your fate is not mine to judge. I have promised certain of my lords that they may enslave any man among the survivors.”
Eadig’s arrogant gaze skipped over the branded faces of Ediki and the others, ranged farther afield to encompass the Eika now looting the dead or settling down for the night’s bivouac within the safety of the palisaded manor. “You have lords among you? I thought you were like the wild dogs who hunt in packs and devour everything they meet.”
“Then you do not understand us. Yet what we are should not concern you. You have lords among your own kind, Eadig, for you were once one among them. Now, here are others. I name them for you, because you must know at whose hands you will suffer mercy, or justice. Here is Lord Ediki of Weorod—”
“Eadwulf is lord of Weorod!” cried the nobleman indignantly. “My cousin’s niece married him five years past!”
“Eadwulf is dead or soon will be. It is no concern of mine. This man standing here at my right hand is Lord Ediki of Weorod. Here is his kinsman, Lord Erling of—What lands do you claim?”
Erling laughed, reckless with triumph. “South of Hefenfelthe lies Briden Manor. My mother is buried there. It lies under the authority of Lady Ealhflaed.”
“Very well, Lord Erling, you are now lord of Briden Manor. As for these others—”
But as he turned toward them to discover what claims the other men would make, Eadig stepped forward with the fearless manner of a man accustomed to ruling and to being obeyed. His tone was sour and scornful and he trembled, as tense as a dog straining against a leash.
“You have no authority to steal the inheritance of those who came legally into possession of these lands!”
“Have I not?” Stronghand asked curiously. “I have the right granted me by force of arms. Can you say otherwise?”
“It goes against nature for slaves to take the place of free men and claim to rule as masters over those who are rightfully lords by law and divine favor!”
Stronghand closed with him, unsheathing his claws a handbreadth from the earl’s face. Eadig’s expression changed utterly; his eyes flicked nervously to the corpses littering the ramparts and field and his nostrils flared in a pallid face, but he did not retreat.
“In truth, your objection puzzles me,” said Stronghand, turning his left hand the better to display his wicked claws. “You ruled over them. Fortune’s wheel turned, and now you have lost both law and divine favor. How does this go against nature? One day a wolf may flourish, hunting down the sheep, and the next he may be pinioned by the spears of the sheepherders.”
“Call me a slave, but I will still be earl of the middle country.”
Stronghand grinned, baring his teeth. “Erling, kneel.”
Erling did so, one knee in the dirt, face lifted obediently to look upon the one who ruled him.
“I name you earl of the middle country and lord of Wyscan.” Eadig sputtered, but Stronghand brushed his chin with the tip of his claws and the man fell silent.
“E—arl?” Erling stammered. “I never thought—a manor, my lord, but to be titled an earl—”
“I am in need of loyal men to rule, Erling. You are one of them. I consider it no easy task. I expect you to become a responsible steward of these lands. The riches of Alba are not to be squandered. There are other men who desire what you have now been given. Serve me well and you will prosper. Serve me ill, and you will die.”
“Y—yes, my lord.” The young man had gone so white that his slave brand burned red against the pallor of his skin. His companions stared at him, whispering among themselves and beginning to eye each other as if wondering who might gain the greatest prize from their generous benefactor.
“Not all of you will serve me well,” remarked Stronghand. “Such is the nature of humankind, I have observed. But I rule in this land, and those I have raised up I can bring down.”
“Only for as long as you live.” Eadig spat in Stronghand’s face. “You cannot defeat the queen and her council, nor can you pray for the gods’ favor.”