They obeyed. For a moment only the hiss of foaming ale broke the silence; then, another sound. A slow scraping as of wood against wood, a gentle thunk.

“That,” Skragdal said, “was the sound of the earl’s Men barring the stable door.” Tramping across the straw, he kicked a dozing Gulnagel in the ribs in passing, then began to rummage in earnest through his pile of arms and armor. “Get up, Rhilmar,” he said over his shoulder, donning his breastplate and buckling it. “All of you. Up and armed.”

They gaped at him.

“Now!” he roared.

There was a scramble, then; deep Fjel voices surging in dawning anger, metal clattering as armor was slung in place, arms were hefted. It was just as well. To Men’s ears, the sounds of Fjel preparing for battle would be indistinguishable from the sounds of Fjel at their leisure. Skragdal smiled grimly.

“What now?” a Nåltannen growled.

“We wait.” Watching the barred door fixedly, Skragdal settled the haft of his battle-axe on one armor-plated shoulder. “There’s no harm in it. We’ve waited this long, lads, and the Kaldjager will be keeping watch from the borders. We’ll wait until the earl’s Men show their hand. And then …” He bared his eyetusks in another smile, “ … we’ll see what there is for a Fjeltroll to learn here.”

They cheered him for it, and Skragdal’s heart swelled at the sound. His words had struck them where they lived, speaking to the old unfairness, the old hurt. Although his name might be forgotten in the annals of Men and Ellylon—no one would write down this night’s doings, and if they did, they would not record the name of Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel—if it was worth the telling, Neheris’ Children would remember the story.

It was a long wait, and a dull one. Outside, the stars moved in their slow dance and, in the west, the red star ascended over the horizon. Inside, the lamps burned low, and there were only the slow breathing of the Fjel, and the sound of straw rustling underfoot as this one or that adjusted his stance. Funny, Skragdal thought, that Men were so anxious to bar the door, yet so fearful to attack. If they had waited longer for the former, it might not have tipped their hand.

But it had, and the Fjel were patient. Even drunk, even sated, the Fjel knew how to be patient. Now they had shaken off their torpor. They were awake, waiting and watching. If it took all night, they would wait all night. One did not survive, hunting in a cold clime, without patience.

In armed silence, they waited.

And in the small hours, there were new sounds.