Bjarni’s eyes went to the white peaks again, and he thought of the canyons of the Columbia he’d passed, towering above like the walls of Valhöll above a river to rival the Mississippi itself, with the waterfalls cataracting down the cliffs.

“Yet all this land of Montival is a fit home for our Gods,” he said. “A giant’s country, made to breed heroes! I have my own land, but I honor yours.”

“For the which I thank you,” another voice said, in a musical lilt. “And it breeds fine horses too, of which it seems you have acquired one of the best.”

Bjarni started a little. Artos Mikesson was a big man, but so graceful and light of step that it was eerie sometimes. And any man who carried the Sword forged by Weyland the Smith beyond the bounds of Midgard had something of that about him anyway. Bjarni had heard the High One confer kingship on Artos himself, through the seeress his spirit possessed.

“Your Majesty,” Signe said, bowing.

“Lady Signe,” Rudi said in turn, returning the bow and hiding his slight amusement. “I’ve just come from reviewing your Bearkiller encampment. May the Dagda club me dead if I could find anything not in perfect order. And you were prompt. Mike Havel would be proud. Corvallis, on the other hand . . .”

The big fair man beside him snorted. “We’re all here, ten thousand of us. Fourteen hundred A-listers, eight thousand pikemen and crossbowmen, fifty field catapults. Plus the garrisons we’ve got over in the Cascade forts backing up the Clan’s troops. Corvallis was always a day late and a dollar short in the wars against the Association and they’re keeping up the batting average.”

The war-leader of the Bearkillers had the snarling red bear’s-head of the outfit Mike Havel had founded on the shoulder of his brown cord jacket; in that as in other ways Eric Larsson looked very much like a male version of Signe, which wasn’t surprising, since they were fraternal twins. The sign on a silver chain around his neck was a cross, though. His left arm ended at the wrist, to continue in an artificial hand of metal, which accounted—partly—for his nickname: Steel-fist.

“That’s not diplomatic,” Rudi said, slightly chiding. “And I have good friends in Corvallis. They’re just . . . a little slow, taken as a whole.”

“Not diplomatic, but it’s true though,” another voice said. “They surprised us in the Association unpleasantly a few times during the old wars. Turning up late can be effective if you’re so late you’re not expected to turn up at all.”

Rudi could see Bjarni blinking at that cool soprano, with its sound like water running over polished stones in some mountain stream. Then his eyes narrowed.

Yes, he’s a shrewd one, Rudi thought. Enough to take in something unfamiliar and not just stick to his first thought.