“About milord's wife I'll sing a song, sing rickety-tickety-tin! About milord's wife I'll sing a song, who did not have her small-folk long. Not only did she do them wrong! She did every one of them in, them in, she did everyone of them in.”

Krool the Fool, black of skin and blue and white his motley, sat on the back of a cart that had survived the storming of Engasal, singing viciously. The castle had held enough food for two years, but after the feast and stretched over the size of Varg's army with the ogres and human allies it would only be enough for two weeks. That was more than sufficient though. They would arrive at their current destination in two days and three days after that be standing in front of the walls of the Andergastian capital.

“Are these still my lands?” Ulgrosh asked in Varg's hearing.

Ever since the wedding she wore a perpetual grin and carried her tiny husband wherever she went.

“These are still my forests.” Uriwin replied weakly, broken within a single night with her. “Though I'd say it's only hunting grounds. You will only find poacher here, no honest men.”

Ulgrosh lifted him to her face and raised an eyebrow, insistingly.

“You will find no honest men here, my love.” He corrected with a dry, anxious swallow.

“Mhhhm.”

The kiss the ogress planted on his face at that left his pale skin glistening with her slobber.

“I have blisters,” Bergatroll complained behind, “under my feet. They hurt from all the walking. Giants shouldn't do so much walking. Let the humans do it!”

“Maybe you should have that pathetic husband of yours lick your feet some more?” Cattlemuncher sneered coldly.

She had been all ears when Bergatroll spoke of the vast herds of livestock but did not take part in the amusement over how she tormented her husband or his queer fixation with her feet.

All the while Krool still sang on in the background.

“One morning in a fit of pique, sing rickety-tickety-tin! One morning in a fit of pique, she drowned the brewer in the creek. The water tasted bad for a week! And the ale was incredibly thin, a thin, the ale was incredibly thin.”

“We should be allowed to bind humans to our feet.” Bergatroll pouted, looking lustily at some Fjarningers marching a few meters beside.

They returned her gaze icy but said nothing. Gundula Maidenstomper had done just that, binding two of her slaves to her feet, leaving her with only one. The two maidens she had selected to keep before the slaughtering each died after her first step and by now there was very little left of their corpses, the young ogress' weight obliterating them more and more.

“Don't touch them or the Impaler will cut your feet off.” Cattlemuncher warned the fat lady Mannelig.

“That's wrong.” The other objected. “Humans are worms. We should treat them as such.”

“Treated some like worms at the feast, did you?” Weepke poked, slashing restlessly at some branches with her weapon.

Bergatroll frowned suspiciously, knowing that Varg was looking for the murderers.

“Only one.” She growled, gesturing at the dirty, half-naked creature in her hands that was supposedly a lord too.

Sly and some of his boys rode at the tip of the column, navigating the kilometre-long serpent through the woods. Others from his party were scouting ahead, around and behind. Still others were not with the army at all but scouting farther and farther. Varg had no knowledge of how many exactly were in Sly's employ now, but she had a feeling that, unlike Diego, he had not stored and kept the coin she had given him but used it to acquire ever and ever new capable men for himself.

He knew a lot of anything that happened in Andergast, including that the gates of the capital were barred and whatever buildings refugees and others had built outside had been torn down in a feeble attempt to prepare for an attack. It would not serve them, not with the scarce forces left there.

“The cook boy she could never stand, sing rickety-tickety-tin! The cook boy she could never stand and so a a poisonous soup she planned. The cook boy died with the spoon in his hand! And her face in a hideous grin, a grin, her face in a hideous grin.”

Varg was down to three slaves as well, after the bloody butchering at her command. That there were so few of them now made them precious, and her much less murderous toward them, a thing that could be observed in most other ogresses as well. She had them do her hair in the morning and carry the fine looking glass that Sly had given her. Her other possessions, plunder, she had abandoned with exception of the things that she carried herself, namely her glaive, her armour and a bunch of sleeping furs. The coin was carried by kin of Ulgrosh whom Varg could trust.

She had never much cared for coin before, but now she saw that it could buy her mercenaries and supplies. As such it was most useful, even though it's inherent value was next to nothing to her. Gold and silver could be molten and made into nice-looking things but that was that. In the chests there were nice-looking things anyway, silver platters, the odd jewelled goblet and things of that nature, robbed from the hands of humans.

On this side of Andergast, no keep, village or holdfast stood inhabited any more. Sly said so, and they had rounded up all the refugees they could get their hands on a while ago.

“She set her handmaid's hair on fire, rickety-tickety-tin! She set her handmaid's hair on fire, and as the smoke and flame rose higher, danced around the funeral pyre, playing on harpen string, a string, playing on harpen string.”

Most of the time there was little talk on the march so Krool's cruel singing did not come unappreciated. By now it was clear that he did neither discriminate nor fear. He made japes about everyone, no matter how large, powerful or short of temper. The current song could be understood as something coined on Ulgrosh, though it was far off. Ulgrosh did not play harp or dance, nor did she need to poison or drown anyone when she could simply crush them at a whim. At some point she would be reasonably free to do that to her people, but not now. She was peaceful now in any case, not even minding Krool.

The song before had likely been themed for the gargantuan titans that supposedly went to Thorwal and towards who's dwelling place Varg's army was marching now.

“For the foot that drops on you, will get your lord and neighbour too. So we'll all go together, yes we'll all go together, yes we all will go together when we go.” It went.

The one before that had been a jab at Varg: “For it is to no avail, that I hide my face with mail. My teeth they are too long, each one a yellow prong. My hair is fixed with strand, so why don't take my hand, in mirror's eye we stand, you look good, but I can't.”

He had been singing it while Varg was speaking to Gundula Cattlemuncher and the insult had vexed her. Gundula had tittered however, and so Varg knew that she would lend truth to his words if she smashed the fool. No one took him seriously in any case and she began to wonder why the Oakhards had even kept him. Perhaps it was best to get rid of him, preferably without violating her own new rules.

Many of the outlaws walked outside the column with bows in hand, seeing if there was any game turned up by chance. They had some hounds, taken from the kennels of Engasal, that dug up two rabbit dens along the way with the outlaws counting themselves lucky. It was the only success that day in terms of hunting. Once a dog tore lose from it's leash and ran at a craven giantess called Gargamil. She flinched and edged away but Trundle walked behind her and squashed the dog under her foot without even thinking about it.

When there were old, especially gnarled trees Gillax would stop, gather his Fjarningers and speak to the ghosts there. They seemed to all be saying the same: Keep faith with the giants and move on. Victory awaited. Varg wasn't so sure of that though. She expected no trouble at the village they were heading to and no great battle at Andergast either. But once the city was taken and all the succession shenanigans complete, Gareth would without a doubt recognize the threat and come fighting.

Sly confided that he was startled not to uncover Garethian troops in Andergast already. He knew that Andergast had called for help, but only Thorwal replied and exceptionally half-heartedly at that. Varg had crushed all that help already at Andrafall. Why Gareth had not replied as of yet, nobody knew.

Before evening fell the marching army came upon a massive swath in the forest that looked as though it had been created by an avalanche of unending proportions. Stoneoak trees, thirty meters tall, had been upended and sometimes been crushed to splinters under...

“Footprints.” A man of the Thuran Brotherhood said aghast. “Gods protect us, these are footprints!”

As soon as he said it the ogresses saw it too. There were gasps, frightened glimpses, gnashing of teeth. The prints weren't fresh but by the way that new grass and brush had grown out of them it was clear that the titanic weight had squashed out of existence all other plants previously growing there. The prints were simply huge.

“Hehehe!” Gundula Maidenstomper laughed after she laid down in one of them, revealing that the length of it exceeded her height.

Varg felt dwarfed. Sly studied her from the back of his grey horse, chewing the inside of his mouth.

“Mountains that walk!” Gillax babbled beside himself. “Ghosts! Gods!”

“This isn't anything new.” Gundula Cattlemuncher addressed everyone around. “We have known that they exist for a long time. So many humans have spoken about them. We heard how huge they are too, and of course they have big feet to carry their weight. There is no need to ogle like this! Move on!”

The existence of the titanic behemoths seemed indeed to be no news to any of them, as if they too had known but simply refused to think about them too deeply. Some seemed to agree with Gundula and shrugged it off albeit with visible discomfort. Others were simply unconvinced.

“What are they?” Asked one ogress.

“Where are they?” Another.

“Now don't break those hollow heads o' yours, eh?!” Badluck Robin grimaced, struggling to be light of heart. “Varg's got it all figured out, don't she?”

He looked to her expectingly.

“They are real.” Varg forced herself to say, hating every bit of it. “But they have gone elsewhere! They will not trouble us! What is there left in Andergast that they could want?”

It was swollen, clumsy and made up as she stood there. She could say nothing for certain about these gargantuan beasts other than that they were huge. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to think or speak about them sooner.

“What if they want us?” Gargamil asked, pale and sweating.

Varg did not have an answer and looked to Sly who wore an expression so sour that it would have rivalled Diego's.

“We'll gut them!” Weepke proclaimed suddenly, cutting air with her glaive. “We're so many!”

Maidenstomper frowned foolishly from the ground: “We're not as many as we once were though.”

“Still!” The wiry strong Weepke was undeterred. “Say, two hundred of us can fight?! From what I heard, we're about as large to these titans as humans are to us and we have weapons now! Two hundred humans with weapons can slay only two of us, I'd say, if they do it right?! So, if they come, we will kill them! It's that simple.”

In such a fight Varg would doubtlessly lose so many giants that a kingdom was out of reach, she feared. Still she was thankful for the help and boost in moral.

“We're going to need a lot more weapons then.” Trundle noted with a look at those ogresses that had none.

“And we are going to make them.” Varg finally joined back in. “In Andergast!”

-

“I have fought these wild men before! They break before a determined charge! Let us fight them!”

As usual, Thorsten's words were wasted. He had lost count of how many times he had tried in vain. Usually when he spoke to Lord Kraxl, the old, stubborn noble would make a brisk remark about Thorsten's knee or wits and turn away. Today he did not do even that much.

The situation in the small, fortified village was strange. Thorsten had never been under siege before, but other than that it was impossible to leave it seemed oddly normal. There was enough to eat and drink, even though Kraxl had seized all ale and wine and forbid anyone access to them for some reason. Obviously he wanted to safeguard them for when the Kuningaz Beryanoz would catch on to the idea that the village would start to experience attrition much quicker if access to the lake was barred for supply of water.

“Leave off, oaf.” A man at arms seized Thorsten by the shoulder to keep him from pursuing the lord in command.

Thorsten's anger flared, but when he shifted his foot to get into a better fighting position a jolt of pain shot through his leg and he turned to limp away, grimacing. His knee had turned from dark blue and purple to a green and yellow mess and something was clearly wrong inside the joint. The woman Dari had made him cool, wet compresses that had helped, but to keep them on he would have to remain at rest, which he refused to do.

He would grow mad. He was growing mad now. The foe was there, visible sometimes, prancing around in front of the tree line. But the Andergastians sat on their arses and hoped for the great host to relieve them. Thorsten found the armed men present more than adequate to lift the siege by force, if only for the sake of finally doing something again.

They did not know exactly how many men the foe had, only showing himself here and there, every now and then. It was clear though that the barbarians were spread thinly. A sudden, pointed attack at any point in the ring would break them surely, alas Kraxl did not agree or even listen.

The Andergastian king, or king to be, was still dying. If he went quicker about it, Kraxl might change his mind about the attack. But so long as Edorian Zornbold was too frail to move, nothing would happen. Even if the siege was broken they would likely remain here. But help save the man Kraxl would not either. Steve and Christina were still confined, not allowed to move about and much less perform their wondrous magic on the half-dead lord.

The Andergastians had built arrow towers and driven more stakes into the ground as defences. That was it. Some soldiers had even taken to quarter themselves in the houses of the villagers and began repair to their huts and hovels. It was a strange situation indeed.

The knight Sir Egon was not there to speak sense to any of them either. He lay on his sleeping furs, day and night, complaining of blinding headaches. Thorsten had heard that Kraxl's seizing of ale and wine had hit him hardest, for now he had nothing with which to dull the pain. Thorsten had gone with intent to apologise for losing his temper in the practise fight, but the knight had waved him away and told him to close the tent flap, claiming that the light drove needles into his eyes.

Dari did what she could for him. But that was little enough.

Just as he thought of her her voice called out to him from in between two houses: “You might as well speak to a rock, for all the good it will do you.”

He turned to see her. She was small and meagre, and appeared soft at first glance. Today her face was an undecipherable mask, only her eyes shining dangerously as they did sometimes. She was not soft at all, that much Thorsten knew. She wasn't strong but her movements were fast and sudden as lightning when she wanted them to be. Vaguely Thorsten recalled how she had almost killed him. The apple of his throat had been raw and blue beneath the skin for days, though that had healed away quick enough.

“It is very bad that he has the command.” He replied. “I know we can route the besiegers if we try.”

She looked unimpressed: “And what will that gain you?”

“A fight, at least.” He said immediately. “And we can send riders for the larger host.”

“And whom would that larger host fight?”

He thought a moment, finding that she was right. The larger host was for the Andergastians anyway, Thorsten wanted no part of it.

“Léon is getting stronger” He argued. “He and I can go...”

'Bury his brother' he wanted to say but Léon had qualified that there was something more important now only Thorsten had absolutely no idea what. The whole end of that one conversation had been mysterious but he never thought to ask of it since.

“Go where?” Dari asked, her eyes blinking.

He felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden, though he could not really tell why.

“Who is Jindrich Welzelin?” He asked instead of answering her question.

The name had come up back then, he remembered, and he had to know where Léon wanted to go if he wanted to help him.

She smiled at him like a cat would smile if it could, the moment it trapped a mouse against a wall. There was a tiny scar and some scab at her mouth where someone had struck her some time ago.

“Is it him you are going to seek?” She asked sceptically. “Why?”

He shrugged bluntly: “I wouldn't know.”

He should talk to Léon about that, he thought. The Horasian was mostly awake now and even left the bed for his chamberpot. When they spoke though, it was mostly Thorsten speaking, telling his friend of the situation in the village, his frustrations and how he thought the Kuningaz Beryanoz could be beat.

Dari studied him before her face showed disappointment.

“You are really just a giant oaf, aren't you?” She asked dismissively.

Again, his anger flared but he knew better than to raise a hand against her. Someone had and he wondered what she had done to that someone. Besides, she had saved him when she could have had him killed by the hands of the gargantuan ogress called Nagash.

“How is that knee of yours? Can you fight?”

The question was kind but the tone cold as a winter wind.

“Is rain wet?” He answered angrily. “Who do you want to fight?”

“Oh, no one.” Her eyes flashed. “It's only...I'm starting to think we won't make it out of here alive.”

Thorsten considered that thought for a moment, this time finding her blindingly stupid.

“And what if we don't.” He shrugged. “All that counts is going down fighting. If we fight the barbarians we wouldn't die though. Well, you might, but I won't. I fought them before, I know we can beat them.”

“Kraxl isn't going to fight them though, and they seem in no haste to fight us. Don't you find that strange?”

“It's a siege.” He explained the obvious. “They mean to wait until we starve and surrender like cravens and worshippers of the twelve bloody fools.”

The Andergastians were just that though. They worshipped the Twelve and were craven to boot, most of them anyway. Egon wasn't half bad, only he was injured.

“We have more than enough food and the oafs haven't even figured out that there is no well here from which we could get water. If they cut us off from the lake we would be down to ale and wine, Kraxl knows that too, it's why he's hoarding it.”

The young woman chuckled as though he had just made a fool of himself. Dari did not understand siege, or war, or fighting he decided, brushing it off.

“Is that what you think?” She asked queerly, her eyes belittling him from below.

He exhaled deeply, fighting to be calm: “What else?”

“To pay someone off.” She claimed. “Someone very large and very dangerous. Not far from here there is an ancient holdfast with a lord who married a giantess. That giantess is a belligerent drunk, run out of ale. While Nagash still ruled in this village there was an arrangement that we sent her drink and would get food and other supplies in turn. The two you saw riding out of camp more than a week ago were her men. Kraxl sent them to tell her she will get her ale. So far no one ever came back to claim it.”

He scrutinized her, trying to decide if she was lying. It seemed an oddly specific tale to make up, but that did not have to mean anything.

“So, should there not be an angry, red-nosed she-giant, stomping through this village?” He deduced.

Spoken light-heartedly it still brought back memories of Andrafall and crushed, mangled bodies under gargantuan female feet.

She nodded, grimacing: “Undoubtedly. But she hasn't come either.”

“Maybe she sobered, looked at our strength here and decided she'd rather grow fat?” He offered.

Dari persisted: “She is already fat, but yes, maybe. I could tell you a dozen things that may be but you don't know the most crucial bit yet. Our ogress, Nagash, was the drunkards daughter.”

That was bad, he knew at once. Still he was weary.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked. “And why now?”

Now she shrugged, but gave him a weighing look in the same instant: “Of people who can kill giants we have preciously few. I think you are one of them, despite your oafishness.”

That made sense.

“I shall be armed at all times and ready for when she comes.” He touched the falchion, a crude, short, single-edged blade, quite heavy and tugged into a cloth sash about his waist for lack of a real belt.

Against a giantess a longer weapon would serve him better, preferably one of higher quality steel like the Andergaster he had had. He recalled that he never thought to bring the blade along after the fight with the Kuningaz Beryanoz. Back then, all thoughts of fighting giants had been wiped from his mind. Maybe he was an oaf like Dari said.

She shook her pretty head at him: “If she was going to attack us, she would have by now. Something is up, Kraxl thinks so too only he blames me for whatever it is. I told him to dispatch those two and offer the giantess the drink. I never thought they would tell on us, that thing about the daughter, because they made it sound like they hated their lord's wife too. I might have been wrong on that count, or something else transpired.”

She chewed on her lip, no more looking at him at all but staring forlorn at nothing: “These wild men that besiege us know the giantess, her two minions we let go said so and for all we know they were allowed to pass through the ring unmolested.”

The subject matter was complicated, Thorsten understood. There were a lot of things playing into each other and they only knew very few of them. It was maddening.

“Let's suppose the Kuningaz and your fat giantess are in league.” He suggested. “Why would she wait?”

“Perhaps she does fear death or injury in the fight anyway, like you said.” Dari offered, though not quite convinced of herself.

“That would mean that they do want to starve us out.” He concluded.

“No.” Her face turned sour. “If they wanted to do that they would have cut us off from the lake, like you said. It is almost as if the only thing they don't want us to do is to move. As if they mean to keep us here - and alive.”

A cold shiver ran down Thorsten's spine by the way she said it: “Then what are they waiting for?”

In truth there was no way to know any of it for certain, there being too many variables at play. But the fact that the besiegers had not closed off the lake clearly left open only two conclusions, that they were either stupid or that they were waiting for something.

“I don't know.” Dari admitted. “I've met that giantess, Bergatroll. I cannot imagine her finding sympathy anywhere, she is simply too...too...hollow, too vain, lazy and violent. She's a monster.”

“Maybe she sought other monsters.”

Her eyes met his, scared as a startled animal's.

His breath had turned very shallow and it was clear to him that he was pale as milk.

“If they don't want us to move, then maybe that is what we should do.” He said slowly.

Dari gazed at him perplexed, then nodded: “Kraxl won't move with Edorian still injured though. It's a miracle that that man is not dead yet.”

Before he could even blink she seemed to realize something, turned on her heel and went away leaving him standing there like an idiot.

“Where are you going?” He called after her but received no reply.

This had been another weird conversation, he reflected. It tangled his mind in knots. Holding fast to his weapon he went to see Léon, hoping that he would better understand.

“Thorsten!” Christina cheered when he entered the room that served as a cell.

The air was always stale and rank here, though the chamberpots were emptied daily now. It were the rushes, he concluded, too old and in need of changing.

“You back!”

Steve gave him a curt nod and a frown: “Can we out?”

Thorsten shook his head: “No, not yet.”

Then the other snorted in rage. It was the same thing every time Thorsten came to see them.

Léon was standing, holding on to the wall while slowly dipping at the knees and pushing himself up again.

“You look much better, my friend.” Thorsten acknowledged him softly.

“Aye.” Léon concurred. “Soon I can walk again. Any news from the siege?”

Thorsten could only shake his head, reaching for a stool: “There is something I need to tell you. I spoke to that woman, Dari. We think this siege is only a ploy to keep us here alive.”

Léon stopped moving and moved over to the bed: “Keep us here for what?”

“That, we don't know.”

Then Thorsten explained in detail, about the drunkard giantess, the two men, the daughter and the lake. Léon listened the entire time, nodding.

“It sounds reasonable.” He finally said, but shrugged. “What can be done about it?”

“Little and less.” Thorsten rubbed his temple. “Even if we beat the barbarians I don't think Lord Kraxl will move while the king lives.”

Then the Horasian smiled queerly and got out of bed again to resume his exercise: “I think I must needs re-learn walking a lot faster.”

It was cryptic all over again and there was a silence, only Léon huffing and puffing, relearning the muscles in his frighteningly thin legs.

“Where will we go, if we get out of this?” Thorsten asked in desperation. “Are we going to look for Jindrich Welzelin?”

Léon stopped and looked at him, perplexed, much like Dari had.

“You said his name before you said we would not go bury your brother.” Thorsten added, explaining.

Then, when the other still would not speak he added: “Dari asked if we would go look for him.”

Léon's eyes narrowed.

“Dari?!” Christina asked from the back. “Dari good?”

“Hush now, darling.” Léon raised a hand to her, never taking his eyes off Thorsten.

-

Dari bit her lip until it bled. She had meant to lure some information about Léon out of the great, handsome Thorwal oaf. Instead, their conversation had devolved into something else, much more urgent. Dari was very afraid now and so was he by the look of him even though, as before, he had professed to not be afraid of death.

She had meant to find out about the connection between Léon and Xardas and what that cryptic talk had been about back then. Now she meant to kill Lord Edorian Zornbold. Boron clearly needed some help with him.

It would not be easy. They kept him in a windowless hut with only one entrance and three guards posted at all times. In daylight there would never be a chance to do the job, she knew, but at night anyone that wasn't a soldier was not allowed to be on their feet and challenged on sight. Had Lord Zornbold been in a tent the thing would be a lot easier. All Dari would have to do was cut a whole for herself or maybe just crawl under the canvas and do the deed silently.

Maybe that was why he had been transferred to a hut. Lord Kraxl was always suspicious, sometimes downright paranoid, especially as of late. On the other hand, tents were a lot worse soundproofed than huts and of those who slept inside the village many were villagers to begin with and people were packed far less densely than in the camp part.

Dari spent the day stealing things she needed, getting two knives from two different houses that she judged could be thrown reasonably well. Then she took flint and kindling, storing it in the front pocket of her dress. The knives she carried each on a leg, held by a wrap of cloth. There were many things that could be hidden in or under a dress, really the only advantage of such garb, she thought.

Lastly she stole a pillow and a book from Egon. The poor knight was so useless now, sleeping there and being glad for it because he could almost not stand being awake any more on account of the pain. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and made away ere he could stir.

The pillow and book, she simply carried. There was nothing wrong about a young woman carrying a pillow and if it was revealed that she could read then that would likely raise her value in the eyes of the Andergastians rather than to diminish it. She looked for a nice place and settled down, resting her head against the cushion. It would be a few more hours until nightfall.

'How do I murder a dying king to be.' She imagined the title of the book.

It wasn't the real title, but it would have had a great amount of class. She recognized that she felt much better already, more in control. She was an assassin again, armed and dangerous, not only some woman, or some slave, or some mite.

She'd use the pillow to murder the great Lord Edorian Zornbold, press it on his mouth until he was dead. He wouldn't even struggle. She'd lay fire somewhere, causing great chaos and then she'd strike. If the guards would stubbornly hold on to their duties that would be a problem though. If she killed them with the knives, it would be clear that it was murder.

But no one knew that Dari was an assassin. On the other hand, she had been stupid enough to reveal her prowess when she had stopped Thorsten in his whale rage. But then again, Kraxl had struck her and she had done nothing.

There would be many suspects, the wild people besieging them first and foremost. Who was to say they had not sneaked into the village and done the deed? If Dari had to kill the guards bloodily she could simply cut Zornbold's throat to keep it consistent.

The real title of the book was 'Stratagems and Formations' and it was a ponderous read. It served no other strategic purpose other than to excuse her carrying around a pillow, and even though it was the most entertaining-looking book in Egon's possession it failed miserably at the job. Apparently, a circle formation helped against attacks from all sides but was not very mobile. Also, any formation without shields was arrow fodder and if the enemy's soldiers' eyes were falling shut every now and then, then this was a sign of exhaustion. Half of it was knowledge Dari did not care about and the other half filled with almost comical gems of blatancy.

“When attacking a settlement, setting fire is a great way to cause distraction,” it also read in the book.

Dari rolled her eyes and let them wander away from the pages. Her ribs were getting better, healing quickly. Her injuries had always healed quickly, but she had adjusted to ignore the pain so long as it wasn't too overwhelming in order to function despite of it too. Some in the village and camp were not so blessed. Those that had gotten injured together with Lord Zornbold still bore signs of it, limping feet and many similar things.

She wondered if Bergatroll could crush the village now, if she cared to, together with the barbarians. There were defences but those were only meant for the latter. Bergatroll could simply walk over or through them and there were not nearly as many bowmen or spearmen left as when Nagash had been slain. And when she did all survivors would be crushed or become her subjects. Dari didn't know which one she preferred. Bergatroll liked pretty girls as servants and evidently lived out her cruelties on them.

That had to be an immeasurably short straw to draw, being commanded to serve her. Any servant was at their master's whim, but with a master so vicious and so huge it was hard to see why the young girls in Mannelig's hall had not run away. And if Bergatroll remembered Dari, her own straw might be even shorter yet. It could not happen. Zornbold had to die, the siege lifted.

Thorsten was right though. What was Bergatroll waiting for? Dari had killed giantesses before, perhaps if Bergatroll attacked she could kill her too, with arrows to her eyes and some spear through a thick, greasy vein in her thigh. That made her question everything she was doing now. She was a skilled assassin, deadlier than perhaps anyone. She shouldn't be so afraid. And yet she was worried, somehow.

She had not thought about what to do whence she got out of here. Andergast City would be the first, logical destination and from there to Griffinsford, Wehrheim, Gareth. There she would have to work to regain her old position. No doubt the city's underworld had devolved into fragmentation after she had left so sudden and unexpectedly.

She sighed, watching two soldiers play at dice in front of a hut they had made their new home for the time being. They were playing Seven Souse, which was odd because Kraxl had confiscated all ale and wine. They had a small bottle, hidden under a rug that must have been some snaps. Seven Souse was a game for when there was little coin, the game being that there was one cup or bottle and anyone throwing a seven being allowed to take a swallow.

“Ha! Phex is with me today.” The first soldier grinned deeply.

He was short but broad and bold-headed, his white surcoat showing the acorn and leaves.

“You're cheating!” The smaller one complained. “I throw with one twelve-sided dice and you throw with two six-sided dice. It's unfair!”

That one was old and had grey, unwashed hair and a filthy beard, displaying the oak tree on his chest. Dari knew him by name. Fritzl was dimwitted and craven, a peasant called to arms.

“It's all twelve.” The other grinned. “Six and six is twelve, you know that, count the gods!”

That, Fritzl could not argue with apparently. The other looked around suspiciously and Dari quickly dove into her book again. Then he took a swallow from the bottle beneath the rug, grimacing afterwards.

“I want a drink too, go again!” Fritzl threw his dice.

There was no gain in watching them, Dari almost thought when she realized that the drink might help with the guards in front of Zornbold's hovel. She got up at once, sauntering over.

“What you want?!” She big one scowled at her when he saw.

“Ya, go away!” Fritzl concurred, nervously protecting his throat with his hand.

So, Dari had a reputation. That was bad. Assassins should not have reputations outside of certain circles.

“He is cheating you, you know?” She told him.

“Bugger that!” Spat the big one. “Fuck off!”

“I can prove it, but you must give me the rest of that drink if I can.”

Fritzl scowled, first at her, then at his companion.

“Slip out of that dress, wench, or go away. She's cheating you, Fritzl. She wants to fool you and take away our snaps.”

“If I can't prove it I will slip out of my dress for you.” Dari winked playfully.

The old man's brain had not been a fortress of wisdom before, and now it went dark completely, judging by his look.

“Aye.” He slobbered eagerly. “Do your best.”

He didn't even watch what she was going to do, only lustily at her.

“Your dice has twelve sides.” She explained, leaning forward and giving him a smile while turning his dice to the mark for seven. “His have only six. You were wise to see that, and here is why.”

She had to playfully put a finger to his chin and direct his attention to the wooden box on which they had been playing.

“He's got many more ways to land on a seven than you, look.”

She turned the big soldier's dice to one and six, two and five and three and four respectively.

“Oh!” Fritzl gaped, wide-eyed. “You have cheated me!”

“Bugger off!” The big one lurched to his feet.

He wasn't tall among men but loomed over her all the same.

“Lay a hand on me and I'll break your throat.” Dari threatened.

He stared at her for another second, then turned and stomped into the hut, cursing. Fritzl said nothing and could only watch helplessly when Dari took his bottle and hid it on her chest under the book and pillow.

Next she went straight to the hut in which Lord Zornbold lay dying, as usual finding three soldiers out front. She moved up to the most handsome of them, making eyes at him. When noticing her, he grinned.

“Got any coppers left?” She asked with a quick flick of her tongue, hugging her pillow.

He looked her up and down, licking his lips. This one was a tall man in his late twenties, she judged, though the yellow hair on his heavily tanned head was already receding.

“Mh.” He grinned a little wider. “I'll do ya for three.”

“Three?!” She laughed, turning.

“Oh, did I say three? I meant four. Old fool me, heh, never good with numbers!”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms: “I'd call that rape. You're handsome, but not that handsome. A girl has to make a living!”

“You ain't got to make a living here with us.” His smaller, black-haired companion joined in. “Food's free. Four coppers is a fair price, but I'll do you for five.”

She twisted a strand of hair into a pigtail: “Six.”

“Six for him, five for me, how's that sound?” The big one offered.

She gave him her most disarming smile: “When will the watch be changed then? I wouldn't want to get any of you boys whipped.”

Both of them leered her up and down. If they got someone to take over the watch for them, Dari might well have to sleep with these men, she realized. That she'd do though. It wasn't the first time and she was on a mission. She was willing to do anything for a mission and it felt great. She'd feel dirty and sore afterwards but, who knew, perhaps one of these would have a little more fervour than soft, gentle Egon.

“Tonight.” The big one said. “When the sun's down. I sleep over there, in the hut with the slated roof.”

He pointed.

“Till tonight then.” Dari walked away with a last smile, thankful that the ploy had worked. She'd have to give the drink to the watch after nightfall, so as not to waste it.

As she went, two women brought three wooden bowls of food for the guardsmen, signalling that it was time to take the singular daily meal. Today, as often, it was gruel with a hard heel of bread and a small piece of mutton, not bad for soldiers' fare at all. Egon had largely stopped eating, retching up anything he forced down. And since he was no longer capable of caring for Dari, she had to share the food of the commoners. She did so as she had to, finding the gruel terribly wanting of honey.

After, she went and entered into Birsel's old home through a window and sure enough found an old, dirty and abandoned gown there. Her previous one she left, along with her clean appearance. Some soot from a cold hearth changed her taint and made her appear dirty and of low station. The new old dress received the same treatment, as well as her hair. In a jar in some other empty house she entered she found something sticky. The substance was a dark brown and rank, good enough to create a believable fake mole that she placed on her upper lip. Had she placed it on her upper cheek it would even have been considered beautiful in some circles, but beautiful was precisely the opposite of what she was going for.

Then she went back and even put a pale of water she found next to her old dress in case she was discovered and needed to change her appearance again. The most difficult part would be dealing with the guardsmen but the snaps was bound to sap their attentiveness and slow their hands. If she couldn't slip in undetected she'd use the knives, maybe after flirting with them. She felt that it was as well thought out a plan as it was ever going to be.

But when she went to look for a good place to stay at while waiting for the change of the watch she saw that there were people gathered in front of Zornbold's hut with some kind of argument brewing.

-

The giant, grey thing loomed in the distance, huge as a mountain. At first, Varg had thought that it actually was a mountain, though the way it reflected the light told everyone with eyes that it was made of processed metal. That was simply supernatural to begin with and something she did not want to think too much about.

“It fell from the sky.”

That was what everyone told themselves and each other. Gillax was particularly overwhelmed with the sight of the thing whenever it came into view. It did not seem to fit with his culture's perception of there being ghosts in spirits everywhere and in everything. First he told everyone that he sensed an otherworldly evil there, but that got his fearsome Fjarningers so frightened that he changed the story to that there were absolutely no ghosts or spirits there at all.

When he was challenged on the inconsistency he said: “Nothing and evil are close companions.”

That was quite simply as meaningless as wind, Varg was sure. She understood Sly's earlier words about the shaman quite well now.

At the bottom of the thing they would find a village, encircled by more wild men. The gargantuan creatures were not there, or else they would have been seen. That was good. Other than that, marching was marching. It was the second day from Engasal and they were putting step before step, as they had grown accustomed to by now. Some giantesses were complaining just like Bergatroll had, of blisters. Varg did not heed them. If she gave in to every little complaint, her rule would not be of long duration.

Besides, another dog had been crushed, but by accident. Then somehow, a few of Uriwin's flock had managed to sneak out of the column and flee before being turned up by Thuran Brotherhood men, looking for game. They were returned to Varg who left judgement over them to Ulgrosh. Ulgrosh's wits were a mystery. Most of times she did what she did according to what was immediately obvious. In this instance however there were a lot of options to choose from and none obvious at all, other than to kill all six of them.

Instead she lifted her husband to her face and let him make the decision, all the while floating her power over him, as well as her ogrish brutality. That seemed to torture him more than anything else and was nothing short of brilliant. As Varg expected, and Ulgrosh wanted in truth, he argued that all of them should be forgiven because of the extraordinary nature of the general situation. She concurred with one exception, that she would make an example out of one. Naturally, it was just one tiny human Ulgrosh fancied to kill.

“My love,” Uriwin's inner struggle was visible on his face, “of course I concur with your judgement. Only whom would you pick? They're all equally guilty and equally innocent. Singling out one would be a byword for cruelty, and unnecessary besides. Look at these poor people.”

Ulgrosh herself was a byword for cruelty, but Uriwin did not really know that yet. He had never seen his wife skin people alive.

“Aww.” Ulgrosh grunted amiably, towering over the kneeling six awaiting judgement. Had she wanted she would have just to walk over them once as though they were a carpet and all of them were dead to be sure.

“I am so against cruelty.” She went on, lying through her huge, square teeth that had torn so many roasted and over-salted humans apart. “But we cannot allow something like this to happen. Would you allow it if the circumstances were not extraordinary?”

Her logic was flawless. Human lords did not let their subjects run away either. The way it worked was that the lord was lent the land by the king, with all people living on it. Those people had to pay the lord in goods and labour while he judged over them and supposedly protected them from harm. If he was cruel to them though, or failed to protect them or let them starve, the small-folk had little way of recourse. The lord basically owned them like slaves, only there was no one who would phrase it as honestly as that.

“No.” Uriwin had to admit, honest and honourable. “But still it is cruel and the circumstances are extraordinary. Perhaps a whipping would suffice?”

Ulgrosh considered for a moment: “Aye, but I will swing the whip.”

“My wife.” The disarmed knight grimaced. “If there is a whip large enough to fit your lovely hand I have never seen it. Also you must know how frail we are, compared to you, and that you might split these poor men and women in half with a single strike if you do it.”

He argued calmly with her, never threatening or raging. He was already becoming her little worm. Varg didn't blame him. At Ulrgosh's size she could likely crush a male giant to death if she sat on his chest.

“Fine.” She finally said after more consideration. “We shall be merciful this time. The next time justice will be carried out to the full, as I see fit.”

Uriwin could only bob his head and give his subjects a warning glance.

“Oh blue-blooded lord, that you have grown stout and fat, was it not when we cut you, that red you bled? And priests say you rule, as the gods have seen fit, but don't you leave at the privy, just brown sausages of shit? And your noble daughters, all fair and all fine, is not their noble piss, just as yellow as mine? So why in the forest, to you belongs all game, when it's obvious as daylight, that we are all the same?”

Krool fixed Lord Oakhard with an mad, white stare as he sang that day. Varg was starting to think that the fool was not quite right in the head.

He noticed her looking at him and gave a stained grin before stroking his horrible harp again: “And Varg the Impaler, fierce down the marrow, please let me remind you, that you piss is just as yellow!”

“Silence, Krool, you'll get yourself killed!” Birthe, youngest daughter of Geldrick's hissed at him as they walked.

“What, me, humble singer, with a skin black as soot, why it would be a mercy, to die beneath that foot!” He roared, grinning.

The young lady bent nimbly at the knee and picked up a handful of dirt that she flung at him: “Sing something else!”

Now his cruel attention was fixed on her.

“She was a beauty as day but now it is night!” He screeched entirely out of tune. “I came to her bed and slipped in by her side! Her father was wroth for the sheet was all wet! He so rued the day then that he and I met!”

Varg observed it all from above, not knowing what to think. Krool was like this to any- and everyone, but somehow she still found it entertaining sometimes, so long as he didn't sing about her.

“I came to her room and she gave me a fight!” He sang, his voice growing deeper before rearing up again. “A beauty as day but now it is night! She wreathed and she bit me but my hands won! And one day she birthed me a black and white son!”

“Hehehe, that would be a mongrel creature!” Ulgrosh chuckled.

“Why did you ever keep this fool?” Varg asked Uriwin in his wife's arms.

He did his best to shrug, her embrace a tad too loving at times for his tiny frame: “My brother had a fondness for him. He was clad in rags when he walked into the village one day, pulled out a knife and tried to cut his own throat. My brother was there, in company of our daughters who were quite distraught by the sight, as you can...”

He looked at her wearily before going on.

“As you might imagine. My brother wrestled the knife from him and condemned him to hang. Birthe begged for his life however, and Geldrick always had a tender spot for her in his heart. He made the dirt skin a fool instead, he could sing and dance and make japes. He must have been a travelling jester once, we believe, so it is fitting, though I admit that some of antics are quite disturbing.”

“My black and white son lived to be the new king! Long was his reign and peace he did bring! The taxes were low and good was his rule! And his skin was patched like the garb of a fool!”

Krool had finished his song and jerked to his feet on the cart he had sat on. Then, suddenly, he started to stagger, rowing with his arms before he came crashing down with a thump. The wood harp flew from his grasp, landing right in Varg's path just so that she might have stepped on it if she hadn't seen.

The little black fool in blue and white motley lurched up and made a cartwheel over to retrieve it, but Varg let her foot hover right over the tiny thing.

“Heh!” He cackled awkwardly, looking up at her. In his dark brown, ill-shaped face his eyes always shun whitely though at the fringes they were as yellow as his teeth, as if some of the dirty colour of his skin had sept in there.

She studied him, waiting for what he would do. He was a strange character, so odd that he did not seem to fit with any of the others or anywhere she could imagine. She was curious if he'd still be insolent and smart once she pinned his arm under her foot or if he would start to beg and grovel like any sane human would. If she'd actually crush his arm or not she had not decided yet.

But instead of reaching for the instrument the fool planted both his hands on the ground, lifted his feet in a handstand and spread them skilfully, sticking out his fat, blue and white bottom. Then he farted.

Varg was so taken aback that she chuckled and had to steady herself by pulling back her hovering foot. Krool hopped back onto his feet and snatched the harp away, sticking her tongue out to her as he danced away, tittering. She did not pursue him, though she would have greatly appreciated the opportunity to break some bones again. It burned under her fingernails.

“Faster!” She commanded, quickening her stride. “Urge them on!”

The pace of the humans was terribly slow, with their short, thin legs.

-

No one spoke when the food was being carried into the room. There was no bowl for Thorsten who could walk well enough to get his own and was sleeping in a much less smelly place anyway. All three received good pieces of mutton and a whole onion, shrivelled from fry and dripping with grease and gravy. The bread was good too, by the look of it. With the food came a tankard of water for each of them.

Léon met Thorsten's gaze.

“The food has become much better as of late.” He said. “I believe we get special rations.”

Thorsten nodded, looking over to Christina and Steve who attacked their bowls with quite some fervour. He was sure that there was some implication to this but his head was still spinning with what Léon had told him.

Xardas. The story was fantastic to the degree that he could have sworn it was made up. Léon did not seem to think so however, and he suspected that Dari knew some things that might clear that up. It was important for a couple of reasons all relatively over Thorsten's head. Xardas seemed to exist, according to the guilds of wizards, whoever they were Thorsten had given up contemplating, and was believed to be immensely wise, immensely powerful and possibly dangerous. Léon claimed that the wizard might be involved in many great or terrible events in history. Thorsten did not even bother to ask which events. This was a game for thinkers and talkers, not for him.

“So, when will you speak with her?” He asked softly when the guards were out of the room again.

Léon swallowed a bite of onion: “I would have already, but there is no angle on her. I have nothing I can use to make her tell me the truth, you understand? She could just lie to me.”

Thorsten agreed, the woman was somewhat mysterious and if he gathered all he knew about her he would not be the wiser. He hated the complexity in all of this. A fight would be better, friend and foe crystal clear, the motives obvious.

“We should just attack the Kuningaz Beryanoz.” He muttered, knowing that he must sound like a stubborn dullard.

“I agree.” Léon concurred, more strongly then on previous days. “But as you said, Lord Kraxl will not move if he fears that it will kill his dying king. I am confident that we will move soon, however.”

Thorsten looked up: “Can you explain that to me please? How do you know that?”

“Zornbold has been dying for long.” Léon replied after a short pause. “If he has not gotten any better by now he is sure to die soon.”

So it was not that complicated, this bit at least, Thorsten thought.

“So is there something I can do while we wait for that?”

Léon wolfed down the mutton with sips of water before mopping up the gravy with the bread.

“Yes. Help me out of this bed.”

He was worrisomely lightweight from lack of muscle, laying for too long without moving. A body that did not move went to rot. He had received clean clothes, shirt, britches and vest that looked as though they had once belonged to someone else, roughly of the same size.

“I would like a breath of fresh air.”

Thorsten helped him as best as he could without carrying him. Léon needed to get strong again and the best way to do that was to use his muscles and preferably in something other than the stunted squats he had been doing.

Leaving the house already took a long time and outside Léon squinted against the light. Thorsten looked and found a cane for him that he pressed into the hand on his good arm. The Horasian was sweating and grimacing with every step.

“Should we go back?” Thorsten half asked, half suggested. “You should not overburden yourself so early on.”

But Léon only shook his head and clenched his teeth, breathing heavily.

“Where do they keep Lord Zornbold?” He asked after a moment.

And then they went there, slowly, step by painful step, towards the small, windowless hut at the edge of the village, close to the tents. It took ages but Thorsten stuck to it, determined to help his friend. Friend, he thought queerly, a Horasian and a Thorwalsh, supposed to be arch enemies. By now they had gone through quite a lot together and Thorsten had no reservations.

The village was largely empty, most everyone gone to get food that was given out once per day without need to pay for it. But even at other times of day was the village empty. There had been many more people here once upon a time not so long ago and a few handfuls more soldiers too.

“So few though.” Léon noted when the people gathered at tables with kettles and baskets on them. “And it looks like one of those schemes to feed the poor.”

Thorsten had no idea what something like that looked like. All he saw was people in rows receiving a wooden bowl, a spoon of gruel, a heel of bread and a markedly smaller amount of meat than Léon, Steve and Christina had gotten. All in all there were fifty to sixty fighting men, some well trained and armoured knights among them. The surviving villagers were dubious people and most were not trusted enough to be given spears.

“That is the place.” Thorsten pointed when they got there.

It was small and shaped like a wooden chest, straw the roof and daub and wattle walls. It had no windows, only one entrance with a heavy deer hide flap for a door that looked like it let no air through at all. Thorsten wondered if the rushes in that one had been changed or if they were just as rotten and stinky as in the other. The guardsmen stood out front, lazily leaning on their spears and looking like they could not wait until their watch was over.

Léon studied the place critically for a long time, as if there was something curious about it. Then he suddenly hailed Lord Kraxl who had come along for a brief inspection of the feeding. Kraxl was an older man and stout, clad in chain mail and flanked by two knights, all three armed with swords. His expression was icy, contemptuous and hard as stone.

“Ah, my lord!” He said, courteous but cold. “How good to see you on your feet, finally.”

“A remarkable recovery, thanks to two other prisoners of yours.” Léon answered snidely.

“Oh, but you are a guest. Imprisoning you would surely offend the noble house of Logue.” The Andergastian lord cocked his head just very, very slightly and narrowed his eyes a little before continuing. “But pray forgive me my lord. Where is that house of yours situated? None of my men seem to ever have heard of it and neither have I, I must confess.”

“Hear a lot about Horasian houses, do you? Hey you, brute,” Léon nodded at one of the bodyguards, “who is the archduke of Chababien?”

The spoken to could only shift around with his eyes and say nothing. Kraxl scowled but did not care to answer the question either.

“My lord, you had the tools at your disposal to save your king!” Léon went on, very loudly all of a sudden. “Yet you would not use them! The gods are giving you chance after chance, prolonging Zornbold's life and still you will not act! A suspicious man would say you meant for him to die.”

“Treason!” Kraxl flared up, spraying everyone ragingly with spittle. “I should have your head for this you Horasian rat!”

His guards had their hands on their sword hilts at once.

“Oh, my apologies!” Léon raised a hand and smiled.

Thorsten was not sure if the man knew what he was doing. He'd welcome fighting the knights with his falchion but they were two and he had his knee injured and Léon wasn't even armed. And yet he seemed to provoke Kraxl intentionally, speaking so unnecessarily loudly that everyone around could hear.

“You would never do that, my lord!” He continued without the viciousness. “None in their right mind could ever question your loyalty! So, what is it?!”

“What is what?” Thorsten asked in confusion.

“A wise man would think that Lord Edorian Zornbold is dead! Probably a while ago!”

Around, all that had been going on was stopped and people had started to edge over from where the food was given out.

“You...!” Kraxl's lip was shaking and his left eye started to twitch.

Then he looked around and saw the people, their eyes and heard their silence.

“His Lordship is not dead!” He roared back at the Horasian.

Something in his voice was oddly quaking.

“You are a poor leader, in truth, my lord.” Léon replied with a sad look. “Get him out then and show to us that he still lives!”

Léon's gaze was cool, calm, while Kraxl was a kettle full of boiling milk.

“Seize him!” He screamed, pointing, and his knights bared steel as did Thorsten.

When shoving Léon behind him the Horasian fell to the ground, shouting again: “Show him to us, my lord!”

Thorsten eyed his two opponents, markedly smaller than him but clad in armour and not alone. They eyed him back, clearly not quite eager to cross swords with him. The knew in what state Egon was, and that had only been practise.

Then Léon's words started to echo around, shouted behind hands so it would not be clear who had said them: “Show him!”

“You're going to die for lie.” Thorsten told the two knights while keeping his injured knee on the back foot. “It's not worth it. We can look at the lord and all is fine.”

The two exchanged a sideways glance and grimaced but still kept their stance, but neither did they move in to attack.

“His lordship is dead?!” Someone called loudly in the background.

“Be cursed!” Kraxl spat onto the ground. “Put your steel away! His Lordship's dead, died four days ago!”

He walked around the two knights to look at Léon in the dirt: “There, are you happy now, you Horasian bastard?!”

He spat once more, right in front of Léon's face before stomping away, roaring curses at the sky.

“You put yours away, we ours.” One of the knights reminded Thorsten and it was done.

-

Dari stood in the crowd, gaping. She had been out to kill a dead man. That would have been quite a realization had she pulled through, and now all her preparation was for nothing.

She should speak to the queer Horasian, she figured, ask him how he knew and much more than that. It wasn't a new idea but before she had decided to avoid Léon Logue until she knew more about him. She had no idea who he was, in truth, and any wrong word from her might have unintended consequences. Still, now it seemed foolish.

Keeping Zornbold's death a secret seemed foolish too, and stubborn, craven and dormant besides. That description fit Kraxl well though, waiting for others to solve his problems. After he had let Ulf and the madman go she had garnered some hopes about him, but that effort had clearly been wasted as well. Kraxl only acted when his hand was forced it seemed, in big decisions certainly.

She tried to push through to Thorsten who helped Léon to his feet and led him away with an arm around him. But the gathered people were going mad, moving like a tide towards the hut and dragging her with them. Frantic shouting was all about and after some moments they wrestled down the heavy flap at the door to get inside. The stench reached Dari, rank and familiar. Death.

Lord Edorian Zornbold, the hope of Andergast, the man who had gathered a great host against the giants and had been there when Albino was banned and Vengyr died, lay stretched out on a table, stiff, bloated and rotting. He looked more than four days dead to Dari's eyes. Flies had been at him for some time. His leg was covered in maggots.

'Such stupidity.' Dari thought, forlorn. 'All Kraxl would have had to do was tell the truth and heed Thorsten Olafson, of all people.'

But that must have been a call too big to make. He hadn't parted with Nagash's head either, indecisively willing to send the drink away but not fully commit. The priests must have been complicit in the scheme of secrecy, but if anyone was good at telling lies, explaining away concerns and smile, it was surely them.

She wondered if they would do what Thorsten proposed now and fight the barbarians, if they would win and if it was not too late. Kraxl's half-hearted leadership might have cost them dearly but perhaps it was not too late. Just as she thought that, a horn was blown from one of the archery towers.

Then it was chaos.

-

It was just as Sly had described. Evidence of the titans grew more the closer they got, more swaths, trampled trees, crushed to kindling. And then the Kuningaz Beryanoz were there, kneeling to Bergatroll instead of her. They were the strangest humans Varg had ever seen, closer to animals than anything else. They spoke the old tongue exclusively and easier to comprehend than Gillax'.

The village was there, with people, huts and tents in the middle of an area where no trees grew and everything had been trodden flat and squashed more than once. Led by wild humans, Nagash had her army encircle the place so that no one would escape.

The people weren't many and what defences they had built, towers and stakes, would be of little hindrance. Marching faster had left the humans on foot slightly winded but proved a good decision because now there was more than enough light left to close the circle. After an hour of waiting, Varg stepped out of the trees, Ulgrosh, Sly and Uriwin by her side. The new lord was a horse so as to make a better stature. Varg did not want a fight. The more humans she could capture alive the better, and the nobler they were the better still. Uriwin's people were behind them and after them two Skinners so that no tiny people would get any ideas of using the situation for an escape. The Kuningaz Beryanoz remained in the trees for reasons Varg didn't comprehend. As far as she was concerned they were weird and useless.

A horn blew from a tower, then another. Shouts erupted from the village when all around her army broke through the undergrowth.

“I hope they remember to stop at half the way.” Sly said, holding tight the huge shield he carried for the occasion.

Uriwin carried a white flag, signalling that they wanted to talk and the shield was meant to protect Sly against any dishonourable attacks during the parley if it came to that.

The lord hid his face behind a solemn, dark mask, but it was not enough to conceal his bitterness. He, Varg and Sly went on after she called a halt, making half the way again, well within arrow range. By the looks of it there weren't many bowmen tough. Then they waited.

“I thought to see more here.” Uriwin noted in the by and by.

Sly turned to him: “Bergatroll said that the knights and soldiers went away and came back bloodied and few. Some of the druids we caught told us that men with bows and spears came to fight them. Without that, I doubt the Kuningaz Barbarians would have been able to contain this force.”

Uriwin's face turned even bitterer at that.

“Without a doubt they hoped for the larger host to relieve them, only that one was crushed to bits by Varg. You never stood a chance.”

“My little husband is with us now.” Ulgrosh bent to pat the little man's head.

Varg was growing impatient before she saw some humans finally notice the peace banner, point and scurry away.

“Not much longer now.” Sly observed patiently.

Men in armour followed, gaping sourly at them. A bearded man with a big belly seemed to be their leader and looked most sourly of all.

“Come out and speak if you want to live!” Varg called out.

That finally brought some direction into the chaos they observed. It was an unkind situation to the beleaguered, encircled by enemies that could crush three times as many as them still with ease. That was the point.

There was but one horse and atop it sat the big-bellied man. Sly had said they'd likely all come mounted. Apparently they had lost their horses somehow. He was flanked by three armoured men, approaching with shields in their hands but swords firmly tugged away in their scabbards as dictated by honour.

“That is Lord Kraxl.” Uriwin said softly as they approached. “Beside him are Lord Gerwulf Albumin, Sir Blathislaus Trutzmayor and Praifons Kornplotz. Where is the king?”

“Sir Uriwin!” The leader spat from his horse. “What is the meaning of this?! Have you turned traitor?!”

Ulgrosh grinned widely: “It is Lord Uriwin now!”

Varg raised a hand to bid her silence and the tiny procession stopped a frightened twenty meters away.

“My lords,” Sly rode forward a step on his black horse, gesturing, “these are Lord Uriwin Oakhard, Ulgrosh the Skinner and Varg the Impaler, ready to accept your peaceful surrender. We were hoping to parley with his lordship, Edorian Zornbold.”

“He died.” The one on the horse spat. “I am in command here.”

Varg felt her throat dry up all at once. The plan depended on that lord. He had to marry the queen so that she could crush her and marry him to gain the crown by the stupid human laws and customs. It was all only possible because any other kin was out of the picture. Aele's bastard son, a young lad raised to knighthood far too early, had been the last contender before getting himself squelched in the battle further down south.

But Sly seemed completely undeterred. It was best to rely on him to know what to do.

“Very well, my lord.” He replied with a curt nod. “Then it falls to you to make the obvious choice. We have five hundred giants and giantesses as well as four hundred men. Throw down your swords and let us end this without bloodshed. All of you will live.”

“And what if we don't?”

Varg felt like she should have taken something along to crush under her foot for effect, one of her slaves perhaps. There were new ones to be had here. Next to her foot a sapling grew, having wrestled through the hard packed ground. She stepped on it and twisted her foot but doubted that it made for much of a sight.

“Just the same.” Sly said calmly. “We will take you alive anyway. You can bite and curse all you like. Your men I imagine will be crushed if they are in the way. The rest will be made slaves of. But we are rebuilding this kingdom and there are hands needed to hold hammers, saws and ploughs. Lord Uriwin saw the truth of that and not a single one of his people were harmed after the surrender. They stand with us today.”

The raider could lie well when he wanted, Varg observed.

Uriwin played his part dutifully: “This is true.”

Kraxl looked as though he would like to fall off his horse and die. His companions were downtrodden, exchanging glances of fear.

“The lordships go to the giantesses.” Sly went on. “If you are married your wives will be crushed and you will marry one of them. The rest of your kin will be spared, if you surrender peacefully.”

“Utter madness!” Kraxl roared in fury.

It was so predictable, Engasal all over again only this time the explanations were more blunt. Varg still thought that she might have convinced them more quickly if she had thought to bring something alive to step on. Maybe even one of the dogs would have been enough.

Sly turned to Uriwin: “Would he make a good king?”

The lord slumped in his saddle before nodding defeatedly.

“He is well renowned and has much support amongst those that remain.”

“If you don't surrender, one of your sons or grandsons or other male blood will be married and all other contenders removed, including you.” Sly went on. “You, Lord Kraxl, will marry the queen. Then Varg the Impaler will crush her to death and marry you in turn.”

“I will not!” The big-bellied man fell in, foaming with rage only his words had already run out.

He had no power any more, ever since Varg's army had stepped out into the open.

“Do you know anything of my son?” One of the others blurted out suddenly.

Then the one next to him followed: “And my son and my brother?”

“They're all flattened, except for your son.” Sly nodded at the first one who raised his head in hopes. “Your son died impaled on a stake, begging the entire time, for three days. I trust that you are cunning men, my lords. You will not have invested all of your bloodline in this campaign. If you care for what's left you will lay down your arms now.”

“Squishing your noble little ladies is fun.” The huge Skinner added cruelly. “They are so dainty and delicate.”

She understood the game quite well.

-

“Sing another song!”

The fool was tied up hands and feet so that his stupid, cruel songs could not interfere with whatever the grown-ups were doing. It was terribly important apparently, all were there, even the humans. He had been gagged as well but the young ogresses had torn it off to hear him sing. And the fool obliged them, best as he could. His skin was really, really dirty for some reason, prompting many to believe that he had never washed in his entire life.

They stood around the tiny man, some with sticks in hand, branches that they had wrenched off the trees all around.

“Sing!” One ogress demanded, prodding him.

He started but she stomped the ground in front of his face in anger.

“We heard that one! Sing a new one!”

It seemed he had run out though.

“Let's sit on him.” One girl suggested. “I saw my mother do it. It always gives the humans ideas.”

“Not always though.” Another mentioned concerned. “Mostly it breaks them. They become flat and then they die.”

“Let's do it anyway. I want to see him go flat.”

“I'll do it! I've done it before. I like it!”

“No, me!”

They started shoving each other.

“Leave him be!” Birthe pressed forward, terribly tiny against the forest of their naked feet and legs.

Valla was worried and reached out to yank her back. Her mother Ulgrosh had agreed that this daughter of Lord Uriwin stay with the fool since she seemed to like him so much and Valla was tasked with keeping her safe. Also there was the young lady's handmaid, Kunhuta, the only real adult present.

“Leave him!” Valla shouted. “He belongs to my mother.”

They turned.

“Why is it that suddenly we can't crush humans any more?” One complained.

“Because there are so few!” Valla shot. “And you are so young, I bet you haven't crushed anybody.”

“I have!” The ogress replied. “I stepped on it's it head and it cracked!”

“Maybe we should crush her humans.” An ogress roughly of Valla's age suggested. “Varg will blame her.”

“Oh yes!”

“You are really stupid, aren't you? She's my mother's husband's daughter. That makes her my mother's daughter too!”

“So she's your sister?” Came the sneering reply.

That the tiny human girl clearly wasn't, Valla recognized, though there was something about that too her mother had said.

“You can go hunt the wild humans, I think.” She offered. “They're like animals. Maybe Varg doesn't care about them.”

“But if she do she'll cut us heads off!” Another young ogress threw in, clutching her face in terror.

“All humans are like animals.”

“We are not!” Birthe objected, twisting in Valla's grasp trying to pull free. “We are thinking, feeling beings, just like you are!”

“Animals feel and think, I think. I don't know. I only eat and crush them.”

Urkununa was always out to kill. Every game she ever played was about killing so long as Valla could recall. The games were fun and all but Urkununa's cruelty would often not halt before her own kind. Crushing the pet humans of other ogresses was a thing she especially liked to do.

“What about her?” She pointed to the handmaid who was too afraid to make a peep. “She's not noble or anything stupid like that.”

Birthe shouted again with her little, feeble voice: “You leave her alone!”

“Sing a song!” Gora, Valla's younger cousin, had turned back to the fool and hovered her bare foot over him. “Sing a song or I step down!”

“You can't crush him, Varg will cut you head off!”

“I can!” Gora proclaimed. “He's my aunt's. That means he belongs to me too!”

“It's not like that, stupid!” Valla tried to intervene.

“Look at her.” Urkununa sneered. “Thinks she's better than us because her aunt licks Varg's butt hole.”

Gora turned her head in anger: “She doesn't!”

“I bet I could get the little woman to lick my butt hole.”

The young ogresses turned away in disgust but grinned and sniggered as well. The handmaiden's face was wet with tears and Birthe shouted like a baying dog.

Urkununa seemed to like that though.

“Come here.” She bent and reached for the crying woman, the only adult and still more helpless than any child against them.

Valla snatched the woman's arm and wanted to yank her away as well: “Stop it!”

But the other caught the handmaid's other arm and crushed it firm in her grasp. Valla was thirteen, already eight meters tall, but Urkununa was a year older, just as tall and heavy. She pulled tight and the woman screamed in pain and terror.

“Stop!” Birthe shouted. “You'll tear her apart!”

Urkununa seemed willing to do just that, pulling even harder so Valla gave in and let go. The cruel ogress laughed.

“Afraid to kill her, huh?” She sneered, lifting her screaming prize carelessly into the air.

Then she lowered her eyes to Uriwin's daughter: “Do you want to watch me squish her head?”

“What does a handmaid do anyway?” Another ogress asked, looking on in eerie fascination.

Killing was always fascinating, but unlike Valla these young brutes had not understood that the situation had changed and Varg wanted them to get along so they could have an entire kingdom for themselves.

Back at the camp Valla had killed often. She had skinned several humans while being taught by her mother and trampled several others either when she felt bored or when she was playing with the other youngsters. Once she had pissed on a woman in a latrine hole, but the woman was stuck in the muck and couldn't get away and Valla had aimed the stream straight for her little mouth. By the time she was done the woman had drowned.

Those days were over though. There was no army of slaves any more to do with as they pleased. Free humans were protected and slaves were few. Most ogresses had already turned much less violent.

“She brushes my hair, changes my linens and sees that my clothes get washed!” Birthe shouted through tears. “She sees that I have enough candles in my room as well and she empties my chamberpot!”

Urkununa laughed terribly, pointing at Valla who didn't understand a thing: “You've got a new handmaiden now so you don't need the old one any more. And if you don't shut up I'll only crush her quicker.”

Tears ran down the woman's face but she clenched her teeth shut at the words. She hung dangling by her arm and it looked immensely painful. Valla was angry though.

“I'm not!” She shouted and Birthe yelped when her midriff was squeezed in her fist. “I don't brush nobody's hair!”

“That I can see.”

Urkununa always had snide remarks for everything. Right now she was playing at the fact that her own hair was in nice, brown curls while Valla's was a strawy tangle of knots.

“Don't, huh, crush me!” Birthe begged.

How Valla ever became her champion she didn't know. She had crushed and killed more humans than any of them, except perhaps Urk who was tormenting her. It was only that her mother had commanded her to keep the little lady safe.

In the background Gora had been starting to step on the fool a while ago but she only noticed now. The young ogress' steps were ginger though, timid. She wasn't well accustomed yet to what happened when treading on a human with her full weight.

“Urk?” A boy's voice said suddenly.

It had gotten really dark by now, where they were, in between the trees. At the beginning of the altercation, the five young males had stood at some distance and watched as they always did. Valla had forgotten all about them.

Evidently they had gone, caught three humans and returned, their catch dangling from their fists, alive and kicking.

“We brought you wild humans you can crush.”

Urkununa's attention was captured immediately.

They were of the ones who had been here before, weird people clad in furs that grunted and sniffled like hogs. Varg and some other adults had been able to speak to them but of the young ones no one spoke the old tongue.

“What do you want for them?”

The boy that had spoken grinned sheepishly: “Two things. You must let go the one that Valla wants and then Valla and you must give each of us a kiss, you for getting the three we caught and Valla for getting her little lady's pet back.”

They were playing at being real males, Valla understood.

“A kiss?!” Urkununa spat. “I'll just crush this one and then I'll beat you if you don't give me the others.”

The tallest boy was six meters, no match for her.

“That's against the rules!” He complained.

“It's true, Urk.” Valla joined in. “If you want three instead of one you have to give the handmaid up or you'll get a spanking.”

Urkununa was clearly torn now. Three was better than one but the maid was her only way to torment Birthe and thereby Valla. Valla didn't really care in truth, only fearing that she'd be blamed somehow. In the background the fool was grunting under Gora's half-hearted stomps.

Valla went to seal it: “If you choose the one, my mother is going to hear all about this and she's bigger than your mother and more powerful too. If you choose the three I'll promise I won't have seen a thing.”

“Fine!” Urk snapped, thrusting out the dangling woman for Valla to take her.

Giving kisses was a cheap price. Valla didn't mind though wondering what the boys wanted with them. She understood something about the relationship between grown males and females but it seemed ages away from her vantage point.

Urkununa acted as though she was disgusted by it and the young males were proud, grinning like flayed humans. While the cruel ogress started killing, Valla rescued the fool. He was battered but alive, for once no cheeky rimes on his lips. His wood harp had gotten crushed under an uncaring foot but Valla was glad for it. She'd never liked his songs.

Urkununa gave her three victims pointless taunts they didn't understand before stepping on each one just so much that some bones snapped but they didn't die. It didn't look much fun since they didn't understand what she said and were not even able to beg comprehensively either. No later had she trampled the last of them to death that new humans broke through the undergrowth.

It was that outlaw leader, Badluck Robin, and ten of his men with longbows at his back.

“Oh, bloody shite!” He lamented when he saw what Urk had done.

He looked painfully around at all of them before frowning: “Don't get any ideas now lassies, eh? We're here to get you to the village. The fat lord surrendered and your mothers want to know that ye're safe. Don't anyone need to know 'bout this, not from my lips neither. Just come along and be nice.”