Skragdal flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply. “There is no enchantment here,” he said calmly. “Only fear, only greed. Such are the scents of Men. Speak, Tungskulder.”

“Lies.” Thorun shuddered in his hide. “This earl reeks of lies.”

The Nåltannen were squabbling over the fresh ale-jug, laughing as their steely talons clashed in the effort, drinking deep and making toasts. The Gulnagel were little better, hunkering over the table with slitted eyes and rumbling bellies, awaiting platters of mutton. And the Kaldjager … the Cold Hunters would not commit themselves to any hall built by Men. They remained outdoors and kept a safe distance, scouting the perimeter of Gerflod. Neither the earl nor his Men knew of their existence.

For once, Skragdal was glad for their distrust.

He flared his nostrils again, inhaling softly, letting the delicate odors of Men’s emotions play over his palate. There was Osric, dogged and determined, grateful for Earl Coenred’s kindness. There were Osric’s Men, dreaming of gain and glory, hoping the serving-maids would return. There were Coenred’s Men, nervous and wary in their thoughts. And there …

Skragdal smelled the lie.

It was smoothly spoken. There had been no word—no word—since their company had emerged from the Vesdarlig Passage. No one knew what had transpired in Beshtanag, how badly their plans had gone awry. How not? It was his Lordship’s business. His Enemies were slow. And yet … and yet. Here, mere leagues south of Neherinach, where Osric’s Men and Skragdal’s Fjel would part ways, word had emerged.

Earl Coenred had heard news, dire enough to undermine his loyalties. All was known. Nothing was said. The lie was there in every smooth denial, every polite inquiry. The Earldom of Gerflod had turned.

Skragdal exhaled with regret. He wondered how it had happened. A traitor among the Staccians? It could be so. Fjel had never trusted them. Men did not remember the way the Fjel did, trusting carelessly to their ink-scratched markings to preserve memory. And what manner of loyalty was it that could be purchased for mere gold? He did not doubt Lord Vorax, no—he was one of the Three, and beyond doubt. Yet his countrymen … perhaps.

He dismissed the thought. What mattered was at hand.

“You smell it,” Thorun said.

“Aye.” Skragdal realized he was staring at the earl; Coenred had noticed it, a nervous sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. His smooth mask was slipping, and the sour tang of ill-hidden fear tainted the air. Skragdal looked away. Arelieved, the earl called in a loud voice for more ale, more ale. Once again, fresh jugs were set to circulating, born by a procession of nervous servants. At least they made no pretence of hiding their fear.

“Should we kill them?” Thorun asked simply.