For me, the battle of Ac-Pass came down to the contemplation of dripping backs, while I listened to other men die. Those who fought in the front line, or who were more than a span and a half tall, had more to say. Wadd's cavalry, led by the vaïdogans, had come up from the left, at the bottom of the cliff and the walls, under the pouring rain and the poorly-adjusted shots of the archers. Their furious run had taken them well beyond the enemy line. After leaving the city behind, they had left the Breach at a full gallop, thrown their foaming mounts at the backs of our opponents, regrouped, and charged again. Hill's army had given way at that point, and our cavalrymen had turned their rout into a real massacre. Barely two hundred militiamen had managed to reach the gates of Ac-Pass, the rest were captured or killed. Faced with the spectacular rout of his army, Corin Gon had fled eastward, towards Hill. This would have been considered by all to be an impeccable victory, if the man responsible for it had not died.

Vittori had been found under his horse, his skull split to the teeth by a thick blade. No one had seen the seneschal fall, and his own men had lost sight of him among the cuirassiers during the second charge. His body now rested under the command pavilion awaiting transportation back to Bremen. Not even the Alessa surgeon had been able to make his remains look suitable, and he was oozing on the table on which he had been laid, pale and swollen, a macabre parody of the bright young man he had been in his lifetime. There had been other losses.

The imposing Rared Rotsakk had broken his neck when a lucky shot crippled his mare. The smiling Vassi who had died a few steps away from me, and a hundred others whose names and faces I didn't know. In spite of everything, in spite of the bad dreams and the grief, in many ways the death of the seneschal had more impact on me than all the other deaths put together. I thought of course of Katja when we burned her father, and of the laughter I had exchanged with him, but war turns men in on themselves and forces them into the urgencies of the present. The loss of Vittori brought chaos to our ranks and turned the lives of those who remained into an ordeal, while Rared scattered to the winds of the Thorns with no more hold on our world than the handful of tears that were shed as he left.

Command of the siege was now the responsability of legate Amon Carson, who soon made it clear to the vaïdoerk that he didn't share the seneschal's interest in Val tactics. Two days after the victory, Ofrid returned from the command tent with a strained look on his face.

"We talked" he informed us, over lunchtime's grub. "Carson will accept me on his war council so as not to disobey his primate, but he let me know that I will attend as a spectator. I went so far as to raise my voice, but he wouldn't listen. This man is acting like a stubborn fool, and while I admit that he's stubborn, he doesn't strike me as a fool. It bothers me."

Despite the prevailing gloom, Rared's death and Carson's disdain were treated by the vaïdoerk in the same way a carpenter treats his splinters: something to be taken care of later, when the work was finished. And for now, there was no shortage of work. The defenders of Ac-Pass had entrenched themselves behind their walls. Their liege still had more than enough men to hold them and, despite everything, legate Carson was not stupid enough to consider a direct assault on the city. We would have to starve out the Hillians, and for that, we'd have to build a fortified camp, able to contain any possible attacks. The war engineers set to work the next day, scratching at the mud with their measuring tools. A few pot-boys were sent out to test the range of the defenders' bows, and the first layouts were erected, about ten spans south of the Breach.

The orderly aspect of the thing stopped at this moment, because Carson reorganized the command, to the great displeasure of the noblemen who had accompanied Vittori in the hope of covering themselves with glory at his side. The legate placed his own liegemen in charge of the operations, and by the time they had reappropriated the seneschal's initial plans, the workers had already set to work in the most total confusion.

In no time, the Pass was strewn with chaotic trenches and half-finished stockades. The Vals grunted and shook their heads, while around them the diggers swarmed and swore under the conflicting orders of ten different men. Ulrick, wearing scars earned at the second siege of Fossin almost forty years before, had instructed the vaïdoerk to take the lead despite the confusion. He knew that we were at the critical threshold and that everything could still change with a well thought out counterattack. Carson may not have liked us, but as long as we didn't step on his toes, he couldn't stop us from doing what we wanted either. On the occasion of the first Ac-Pass folnwordd, it was decided that even if the workers had no idea who they were supposed to work for, or even what they were supposed to do, we could still protect them. We didn't get much sleep, but each crew had a permanent watch of vigilant cataphracts, who took turns day and night until things were back to normal a week later.

Then came the cold, a tidal wave that the snows soon followed. Under the scattered flakes, the earth was not yet frozen, but the men were grumbling while digging. In these few handfuls of days, the Pass had been devastated. There were no trees left for miles around, and the constant coming and going had turned the immediate vicinity of the camp into a filthy quagmire, strewn with trash and garbage. Carson had taken up residence in one of the abandoned farmhouses in the center of the defensive system, from which he would periodically emerge to monitor the progress of the works and yell at those responsible. Despite what the legate's invectives might suggest, our diggers worked fast and so did the woodworkers. For more than a mile to the east, trenches and stakes were now sewing up the ravaged land, blocking the road and prohibiting all traffic on the most practicable part of the pass. A similar network of trenches was being built to the north of the camp, facing the walls of Ac-Pass, whose dark line taunted from the cliff top.

Two towers dominated us directly from above, opposite the siege fortifications, and they had already inherited nicknames. The one on the left had been named "the owl", after the white owl that flew from its battlements at nightfall. The second one, the one on the right, was one level higher and was nicknamed "the spire" by the foot soldiers. A particularly gifted marksman took up residence there around noon, and the range of his longbow exceeded that of his comrades in arms by more than twenty spans. On the first night of the siege, he had killed a militiaman from the tower, then wounded a worker the next day who had come too close to relieve himself. Since then, the diggers have been reluctant to work in his shadow. Sven and I would sometimes go to the trench facing the spire, where we could exchange insults with the Hillians, and a few pot-boys would come and hang out with us. It soon became a sort of game between besiegers and besieged, and it seemed to me that the militiamen on the walls were waiting for these opportunities to break the boredom almost as much as we were. The archer, on the other hand, was watching in silence. When we shouted and no answer came, we knew the archer was there, and that it was better to keep our heads down and leave.

I also spent much more time with Ulrick since the siege began. We often patrolled together, he and I, two lone figures in the midst of the crowd, on the edge of the Breach or the eastern line.

With the rounds set up by the waddan soldiers, there was little reason to go around the fortifications, but Ulrick did it to exercise, I think, and I liked to accompany him. Since we had joined an even larger troop, I had retreated into the bonds I had already formed, as if, faced with the mass, I feared that I would dissolve into it and thereby lose all those who were close to me. Also, when we had burned Rared, I had become aware that, under his lamellar hauberk, Ulrick was not the immortal fighter that I had once pictured.

None of the Vals were. The illusion that I had enjoyed reviving - and maintaining - when the warrior had put on his armor after two years in the Highlands was beginning to have no effect. I noticed now how age was beginning to catch up with Ulrick, in his claudication and his grunts of effort. The pace of military life was making him more and more tired. We didn't talk about it, but I could see that he was thinking about it too, and we both knew that this would be his last campaign. I sometimes wondered what kind of man he would be in peacetime.

"Joining a vaïdoerk is the greatest honor and sacrifice a Val can make," he had told me on a late afternoon as we threaded our way through the stakes on the eastern boundary. "We never really go home. We fight for a changing idea, which fluctuates while we are away. Then we die, apart, respected but misunderstood. Strangers to all those people for whom we gave our lives. Some even don't approve of us and I think I understand them, more and more." I had sniffed and spat among the gently falling flakes. "Why did you choose this then?" I had asked him after a while. "Why didn't you stay home?" Ulrick had smiled as he smoothed his salt-and-pepper beard, a mischievous and bitter smile at the same time. "I could ask you the same question," he had replied.

I sputtered, searching for my reasons, which sounded more like coercion. "I'll tell you what," he said slowly. "You need to have left something to know how much it matters." He stared at me with his piercing eyes.

"But you may think you had no choice." He must have read on my face how close his remark was to my thoughts. "The truth is, Fyss, you could have left today. You could have even told me from the start that you didn't want this, and I would have dropped you off in Woody with what money I had left." I had a sardonic sneer. "And the assassin would have caught me a few days later," I added. "Yes," Ulrick said simply. "But you had a choice, and it can't be said that I didn't try to warn you. What's your excuse now?" I thought for a few moments, leaning against a muddy section of the stockade. "I don't have one anymore, I think," I finally admitted. My voice suddenly sounded very weary, weirder than I thought possible, for a boy my age. "I don't see any other way, I guess." With a distracted hand, I peeled back the bark of the rough trunk against which I rested.

The Val shrugged. "Then you've answered your own question." His eyes searched the horizon and he breathed in, looking as strange and pained as the time he had told me about the ogres. "I told you about my son, Gabor, once before," he finally said. "He was born when I returned from the Ab wars and died because of me. I could have given the horse to another warrior. But I kept it. I knew, deep down, that I would go back. I was no longer cut out for a life like that. I could no longer be satisfied with quiet. Not the way I wanted to, at least. His mother knew it too I think, even if we wanted to believe otherwise for a few years." A great, slightly confused sadness came over me at that moment, for the Val, for me, for the life he had led, and for the one that was taking shape before me. Ulrick saw it. He sat up coughing, as if awakening from a troubled dream, and awkwardly ruffled my hair. I don't know how he always managed to slip his big hand under my aventail, but I suspected that my horror at this particular gesture served as his main lubricant. "Don't listen to everything I say, okay?" he said in a lighter tone. "Those are the issues and questions of an old man. You have your whole life ahead of you to answer them. And in spite of everything I just said, I'm at peace, sort of."

The next day, to take my mind off things, I think, Ulrick had arranged for me to go get some food with Jask and Ringer. The woods to the west were full of game, although difficult to access when leaving the road. Jask had managed to find a hunting bow in the attic of one of the abandoned farms on the south side, along with a small quiver and two strings of woven nerves. Jask was a pretty good shot, but above all he was a good tracker. The highlanders were living a hard life in the foothills of the Horned mountains, from where they sometimes led raids on Fysses clans, or the tribes of Riga, but they were first and foremost hunters, and renowned trappers.

For this reason, most of the highlanders like Jask were assigned to supply work. I remember that it was a nice day and on the road, we passed a wine merchant with a spotted face, who was on his way to the camp to sell his barrels of Vidanch. People like him had been coming in for a few days, swelling the civil cantonment with their tents, so that, behind our rickety fortifications, a real small town was beginning to appear. You had to pay, of course, to have the right to settle down, and I had no doubt that Carson and his minions were filling their pockets.

Jask had managed to kill two large hares in spite of Ringer's incessant chattering, who had spent the day grumbling about the pay that still hadn't arrived. The sight of the hares had made my mouth water and we were all dreaming of a good stew, but the meat was intended for the cooks in the dining hall, and would accompany the evening's gruel. We had turned back after a few hours of wandering, because, even if patrols wearing Wadd's coat of arms were now roaming the roads, there might still be some Hillian militiamen around. Whether they remained loyal to their oaths or turned to banditry, in either case we had to be careful.

It was as we were coming back, under a cerulean sky that the sun was beginning to blaze on the other side of the Pass, that we came upon the first supply convoy from Wadd. The escort was suspicious as we emerged from the woods, our backs bent under the weight of armfuls of dead branches picked up along the way. There was a nervous exchange until one of the soldiers recognized us. He had been hanging around the training grounds in Garnear. We were allowed to put our load on top of one of the carts, and Jask and I walked behind the convoy, while Ringer took advantage of the only seat left, next to the driver.

The handler of the five carts bouncing toward the camp looked so much like Ringer that I had to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. He didn't have exactly the same nose, and his shiny head had even less hair, but his body proportions were identical and he chattered just as much. Even the taciturn Jask couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of them sitting next to each other. Ever since my exchange with Ulrick the day before, I had been feeling down without really knowing why. A session of insults with the Hillians hadn't changed anything, but the comical resemblance, those muffled laughs shared with the highlander, and the sun on my skin made me feel better. Neither Ringer nor the other seemed to notice anything.

As the two men exchanged from the driver's seat, our hilarity gradually bent us in half, so much so that Jask and I were left behind. We were soon walking all the way to the rear, clutching our ribs. "I'm finally going to get rid of him," chuckled the highlander in his raspy voice, with a yawny cat smile. "I always thought it would be a woman." The hilarity didn't suit Jask very well.

It was as if his features were already too stretched for that, or he didn't really know how to laugh. In fact, smiling made him look ugly. I laughed, despite the voracity of his grimaces. "They're definitely made for each other." The highlander chuckled again, then our laughter faded and Jask spoke to me in a curious tone. "There's a tribe in Stone forest, who believe men have another half in the world." His expression was not as smiling as before. "They're called Fysses." I nodded kindly, a little uncomfortable.

"I know who you are," the highlander suddenly said, in clan language. His eyes were squinting in the setting sun. He wasn't looking at me, but he knew very well that I understood him. I only managed to keep a semblance of composure in the face of this statement, and I became considerably flushed, my heart pounding. As my mind raced, I stiffened my step and slowly put my hand on the pommel of my dagger, regretting that I had not brought the spear, or my new short sword. Jask didn't notice, or more likely, didn't care at all. "You're worth a lot, for a young boy," he continued, still speaking in clanic. The sun glinted off the thin gold earrings he wore on his ear and did the same on the oiled rivets of his boiled leather. My gaze froze straight ahead, fixed on the distant outline of Hill's undulating lands, which the light was still flooding, on the other side of the Pass. I tried to breathe calmly, while wondering if I had a chance against the highlander, if I struck fast enough, before he could bring his spear to the left. I mumbled a weak protest in brownian, which the mercenary brushed aside with a raised eyebrow and a dismissive gesture. I didn't want to, I didn't understand why this was happening now, but my hand tightened on the knife.

"Ten years ago, I would have given it a shot," Jask said meticulously. "And now?" I croaked, in a voice that oozed tension. "No," came the answer without hesitation. "No. You're one of the Vals now. I don't like the Vals, but I'm not stupid. So we can stay good friends." I ruminated on this as I walked, my tremors fading and untangling the violence of my thoughts. "If it hadn't been for the Vals, would you have sold me?" I asked after a moment, when I was more in control of myself. "Of course," Jask said flatly. I spat on the road, a little disoriented.

"How can we be good friends, then?" I hissed in a more vindictive tone. In truth, my questioning was sincere. "Those are words," the highlander retorted. "I didn't sell you out, and I don't intend to. That should be enough." I nodded, but I had one last question. "Why did you tell me?" I asked, as we picked up the pace to catch up with the group. Jassk shrugged and ran his tongue over his teeth. I finally got used to the idea that he wasn't going to answer me, but then the sound of his voice took me by surprise, just as we reached the escort. "Because we're good friends," Jask said, in brownian.

I couldn't help but crack a confused but sincere smile, then Ringer, who had just jumped off the tail wagon, wiped it off my face.

"You heard the news from Brown-Horn?" he said, rubbing the back of his thick neck. "Not a good time to have blue blood these days." I shook my head politely, a lump of anxiety frozen in my gut. "Well, the carter tells me that there have been riots again and that this time primate Bard's dead! The whole town is on fire, so he says, and I don't mind having my dick cut off if it's not true." My heart tumbled in my shoes and left the road of the Pass in a violent twist, to fly, feverishly, towards Ronna's farm.

Horribly worried, I found myself begging the gods I no longer believed in so that nothing had happened to Brindy.