Beyong the Gap

Trasamund wasn't paying much attention to captives when Hamnet came up to him. He was directing the butchery of the mammoth Ulric had slain, and of the deer and horses that had fallen in the fight. "When we go off to join up with another clan, by God, we won't come empty-handed," he shouted. "We'll have meat for their larders, so much meat that they'll want us worse than we want them."

That was bravado. He had to know as much, too. But it was a bravado the surviving Three Tusk clansfolk needed. Along with the fallen men of the Rulers, Bizogots lay in the snow, cold and dead and rapidly getting stiff. The ones who yet lived had to be convinced the others didn't die for nothing.

The Bizogots were already starting to abuse the prisoners they'd taken. "We should question them, not torment them," Hamnet said.

Trasamund looked as if he hated him. "Easy for you to talk like that," the jarl growled. "They didn't wreck your clan."

"Not yet," Hamnet Thyssen answered, which brought the Bizogot up short. He went on, "If we learn all we can, we'll save other Bizogot clans, too. Or we can hope we will. Would you rather waste them? Think of them as food—for the sword."

That got home to Trasamund. Considering how the Bizogots ate every bit of every animal they killed, from snout to tail, Count Hamnet had hoped it would. The jarl went on scowling at him, but then turned aside and started bellowing orders.

And he needed to bellow. Having started in on some of their captives, the Bizogots had the rest trussed and waiting and watching. They didn't want to be deprived of the pleasures of vengeance.

Trasamund said, "If they tell us the truth, maybe we let them live, or at least give them a quick end. That will give them a reason to talk to us. If we catch them lying, then we do as we please."

"Some of them don't know any of our tongue," Gelimer said. "We might as well slay them—we can't talk to them."

"Keep them breathing for now," Trasamund said. "Maybe we can ransom them or make the Rulers do something to keep us from hurting them."

"You've spent too much time in the south," Gelimer said. "You're getting soft."

Trasamund hit him in the face. The jarl's mitten cushioned the blow, but it knocked Gelimer down even so. He got up smiling—Trasamund had proved himself still ferocious. Hamnet Thyssen would have thought that a perfect Bizogot attitude if he hadn't known Raumsdalians who worked the same way.

He went over and squatted down by one of the captives. "Tell me your name," he said in the Bizogot tongue.

"I am a dead man," the warrior of the Rulers answered in the same language.

Count Hamnet drew back a fist. "Tell me your name, I said." He wouldn't take nonsense from the prisoner no matter what.

Wearily, the shaggy, hatchet-faced warrior replied, "You can call me Karassops."

That wasn't quite the same as telling Hamnet Thyssen his name. But Hamnet accepted it; Karassops likely feared his real name, if he gave it, would be used in magic against him. "Why did you invade this land, Karassops?" Hamnet asked.

Wounded, battered, and captive though he was, Karassops eyed the Raumsdalian as he would have eyed any other fool. "Because we could, of course."

"It doesn't belong to you."

"Some of it does now. All of it will." The warrior spoke with frightening confidence.

"Much good coming here did you. You will die here," Hamnet said.

"I told you—I am already dead. All of us you captured are dead. You surprised us. You caught us. You disgraced us. We are dead. We ca

"If you are dead, you won't mind answering my questions," Count Hamnet said. "What harm can answering do the dead?"

Karassops made an argumentative corpse. Eyeing Hamnet, he said,

"Who are you? You are no Bizogot. You must be one from that other herd."

"Never mind who I am. You don't ask questions. You answer them," Hamnet said.

"One from that other herd . . ." Karassops followed his own line of thought. "Which one? We knew some of you were stupid enough to come back and stir up more trouble." He laughed. "I know! You must be the one who kept mooning over the woman he couldn't have any more."

Hamnet Thyssen hit him two or three times before even realizing what he was doing. Blood ran from Karassops's nose and started freezing in his mustache and beard. Hamnet looked at his hands in some surprise. They seemed to have minds of their own.

"My women are none of your business," he growled.

"I got the idea." Karassops turned his head and spat red into the snow. "And you were the one who didn't want to torture us."

"I didn't want you mouthing off, either," Hamnet said. "You'd better remember who won this fight and who lost."

"I am not likely to forget. I am disgraced forever." Karassops couldn't have looked any more forlorn. "I am outcast. I am outlawed. I can never take my place among the Rulers again. I am dead."

Now Hamnet wished he hadn't lost his temper and hit the man. If Karassops was dead to the Rulers, he might decide he could be alive and have a place among the Bizogots. But as things were, Hamnet didn't try to turn him. Even if Karassops said he would join the folk who'd defeated and captured him, how far could he be trusted? Not far enough, not now, the Raumsdalian thought regretfully. Maybe he or the Bizogots would have better luck with some of the other men from the Rulers.

Meanwhile, though, Hamnet could still learn from Karassops, even if he didn't try to get him to turn his coat. "How many of your folk came through the Gap?" he asked.

Despite the blood on his face, Karassops bared his teeth in a saucy grin. "Enough."

When Count Hamnet made as if to hit him again, he didn't flinch. He had courage. The Rulers seemed to. They were enemies, but far from cowards. "How many of your folk still dwell off to the north?"

Karassops's grin got wider. "More than enough. We are tigers. You are prey."

"It could be," Hamnet Thyssen said. That startled the warrior from beyond the Glacier. Hamnet went on, "We can build tiger traps, though.

Would you be here if we couldn't? You would be trying to squeeze answers out of me instead."

"You got lucky this time," Karassops said. Hamnet Thyssen feared he was right, but didn't say so. Karassops added, "How long do you think you can go on being lucky?"

"How long do you think it will be before the Bizogots join together and hurl you out through the Gap?" Hamnet returned. The warrior from the Rulers laughed in his face.

Shrugging, Count Hamnet got to his feet. Startled again, Karassops asked, "Aren't you going to kill me?"

Hamnet thought of Parsh after he lost the stand-down with Trasamund. He had killed himself to efface the shame of losing to a foreigner, to someone who didn't belong to the Rulers. The Raumsdalian noble gri

That struck home where nothing else had. The Rulers might disdain physical torment, but Hamnet knew he'd found a vulnerable spot even so. Karassops yammered at him in his own harsh, guttural language. Hamnet didn't understand him, but knew rage and fear when he heard them.

"You don't deserve to use that tongue any more, do you?" Hamnet said sweetly.

He thought he was only mocking the warrior, but Karassops took him literally. The captive bit down hard. He groaned in agony, then spat something pink and red into the snow. Blood poured out of his mouth. He gulped frantically, swallowing more so he wouldn't drown.

"You idiot!" Hamnet Thyssen cried.

You could bandage and close off a gash on an arm or a leg, maybe in the neck, maybe even, if you were very lucky, in the chest or belly. But on the tongue? How? Count Hamnet stared helplessly as Karassops's face went gray. The warrior slumped over. His eyes sagged shut. In a few minutes, he'd bled to death.