There were footsteps, and whispering and hissing. Men’s voices, tight with fear and urgency. Liquid sounds, splashing. Skragdal’s nostrils widened, inhaling the sharp odor of seep oil. It was the same oil used in the lamps, only more, much more.

“Boss …” someone murmured.

He hoisted the axe in his right hand and settled his shield on his left arm, General Tanaros’ words ringing in his memory. Keep your shields up! “Soon,” he promised. “Keep your shields high, lads.”

They were alert, all of them. The earl was a fool if he reckoned them slaves to their appetites; Skragdal’s words had done the trick. Words; Men’s tools. He had used them well. In guttering lamplight, Fjel eyes gleamed under heavy brows. It made him proud to see the determination in Thorun’s visage; a fellow Tungskulder, here at his side. Broad shoulders for heavy burdens; so Neheris had said when she Shaped them.

Krick … krick … krick …

“A flint-striker,” one of the Gulnagel said unnecessarily.

Outside, flames whooshed into the air, licking at the dry, oil-soaked tinder. Inside, there were only slivers of brightness, showing between the planks. Smoke, grey and choking, crept under the door. Someone coughed.

“Now!” Skragdal shouted, hurling his weight at the door.

He remembered, and kept his shield high. It hit the stable door with splintering force, the full might of his charge behind it. The door burst outward in an explosion of sparks, singeing his hide. They were minor wounds; he had endured worse when the acid rain fell over Darkhaven, an understandable expression of Lord Satoris’ ire. He kept his head low, letting his charge carry him into the courtyard.

“Who is first?” Skragdal bellowed, axe in hand. “Who is first to die?”