“Twelve,” one replied. He nodded at Blågen’s waterskin. “If we had those. Twelve and your three would be enough to sweep the Reach. Your smallfolk could not hide.” He pointed at the dead ram. “You see how we herd our prey.”

Others from Skragdal’s company began to arrive, straggling; Gulnagel, Nåltannen, the strapping young Tungskulder Thorun. Not taking part in the hunt, they had retained their arms, and their gear rattled and sloshed about them. Skragdal suppressed another sigh. He had hoped it would have ended sooner, more simply, but was not to be. He squinted at the sun, which seemed so bright after the Vale of Gorgantum. Although he misliked entrusting the task to Fjel he had not seen trained himself, too much time had passed to equivocate.

Anyway, old Mulprek was right. There were no better hunters than the Kaldjager. Although they were not as swift as the Gulnagel nor as strong as the Tungskulder, they were swifter and stronger than any of the other tribes. Kaldjager were strange and solitary for Fjel, living in roaming clans instead of proper dens, but they were unflagging in the chase, and utterly ruthless. Not even General Tanaros could improve upon their skills. If the Cold Hunters could not do it, it could not be done.

“All right, then.” Stooping, Skragdal picked up the ram’s corpse and slung it over his shoulder. Its head lolled, blood gathering to fall in slow drops from its gashed throat. It had seemed like a gift, this fine, clean kill, and now it was spoiled. Feeling obscurely cheated, he glared at the other Fjel. “Why is it so hard to kill these smallfolk?”

For a long moment, no one answered.

“Don’t worry, boss.” Blågen broke the silence with the fearless insouciance of the Cold Hunters. “We’ll find them.”

“You had better,” Skragdal said grimly. “It is the only thing his Lordship has asked of us.” He held Blågen’s gaze until the Kaldjager blinked. “Back to the clan’s gatheringplace,” he said. “We will share out our gear there.”

“Then we hunt?”

“Yes.” Skragdal grunted, shifting the ram’s corpse on his shoulder. “And we go to Neherinach to lay a trap.”

THEY WERE WAITING FOR HER in the great hall.

Sunlight blazed through the tall windows that surrounded it, glistening on the polished amber wood of the long table and the marble floor with its intricately laid pattern of white and a pale, veined blue. In the center of the table was a gilded coffer inlaid with gems. Between the windows, pennants hung from gilded poles. The clear windows were bordered with narrow panes of sea-blue glass, and the slanting sunlight threw bars of cerulean across the room.

It looked, Lilias thought, like a beautiful prison-chamber.