I should not have let them drink so much, Skragdal thought.

Earl Coenred raised his free hand for silence. “I apologize that Gerflod has no quarters to adequately house you, but Lieutenant Osric assures me that the stable we have provided will suffice,” he said. A contingent of Men entered the hall, wearing light armor underneath the livery of Gerflod. “My men will escort you there forthwith,” the earl continued, “and with them, a full keg of ale!”

Ah, but it is hard, thought Skragdal. How am I to command their appetites, when it is how Neheris Shaped us? I am not General Tanaros, to preach the joys of discipline. He is one of the Three. On his tongue, it sings with glory; on mine, it would be a lie. Must I betray what I am to command my brethren?

All around him the Fjel roared with goodwill, surging to their feet to follow Coenred’s Men. Already, they were halfway out the door, following the promise of more drink and sweet slumber. And why not? They had earned it. And yet, there was Thorun with his hopeful gaze. There was the earl smiling, with his smooth beard and his combed hair, the lie stinking in his teeth.

Skragdal sighed and rose from his chair. Leaning over the table on his knuckles, he took a deep breath and raised his voice. “Osric!” He was no Tordenstem, to make his enemies quake to the marrow of their bones with the Thunder-Voice, but the shout of a Tungskulder Fjel could rattle any rafters built by Men. In the fearful silence that followed, Skragdal added, “We must speak.”

It was an awkward moment. The smooth mask of the earl’s expression slipped, revealing fear and annoyance. He made a covert gesture to his Men, who stepped up their pace in escorting the Fjel from the Great Hall. Skragdal nodded at Thorun, not needing to speak his thoughts. Thorun nodded in return, following the exodus quietly. Skragdal waited. Osric, flushed with embarrassment, made his way around the table. Although his head only came to Skragdal’s breastbone, his fingers dug hard into the flesh of his arm, drawing him into the far corner of the hall’s entryway. “They’re our hosts, Tungskulder!” he hissed under his breath. “Have a care for Staccian courtesy, will you?”

“Osric.” Ignoring the Staccian’s importunate grip, Skragdal dropped his voice to its lowest register, a rumble like large rocks grinding. “This earl is lying.”

Osric blew out his breath impatiently, smelling of ale. “About what?”

“He knows.” How to communicate it? There were no words in Men’s tongues to explain what he knew, or why; no words to describe the scent of a lie, of ill-will behind a smooth smile, of danger lying in wait. “More than he is saying. Osric, we should leave this place. Now. Tonight.”