ULREM KNELT IN the mud, watching the Low Kings struggle to contain their men. The core of the crowd was Caolais’ own men, and though they spit their vitriol and shook their fists, they were there to hold back the rest. He watched brother vie against brother, cousins whose old hatreds were briefly annealed by a greater hatred of him. Of the Lion. Of the barbarian usurper who would claim their homes.

And he grinned, for he saw the rot that went to the core of the Luathi camp.

Dawn spread gold across the sky, promising a brilliant, cloudless day. A day forged for triumph, or naked bloodshed.

Wolves. He heard the ring’s whisper despite the clamor. His eyes swept the ranks of Caolais’ men, too engaged in their struggle to see what was really happening. He caught a glimpse of a silver-eyed wolf, black around the eyes and muzzle. And then it was gone. Culrann was surely not far away.

So, the witch’s words were true: he wasn’t alone. Ulrem only hoped that the wulvere had thought to bring other men with him.

The air was cold. Caolais’ men had stripped Ulrem to the waist, and it nipped at his flesh. He was eager to move, to summon the heat in his blood.

“Caolais!” Ulrem roared over the din. “King of Luathon! I am moved to mercy this morning!” Caolais stood opposite him, back turned, watching the Low Kings with his arms crossed. He wore a sword belted across his back, and a helmet of hammered gold. Beside him stood the headsman, Toir, arms crossed and belligerence gleaming in his bruised little eyes. Ulrem’s head had surely broken his nose, for it was swollen and red, and half the man’s face was an aching yellow.

The Low Kings turned, one by one. Around them, the crowd quieted, until Ulrem’s ragged roar carried over the whole of the enemy camp. Only the High King refused to face him.

“Caolais! Why do you hesitate? Where is the fire you showed, when you broke the oath of truce? Where is your honest blood?”

The headsman took three steps forward and smashed his fist into Ulrem’s face. His head snapped back and his teeth tore through his bottom lip. He tasted hot copper, and laughed. A second blow did not come.

“Stop.”

The High King of Luathon at last faced him. It was a stately, deliberate movement, befittingly dramatic. Yet Caolais kept his face carefully blank.

Still, Ulrem saw the uncertainty in his eyes. Here was a problem no petty squabble or clannish war could have prepared him for: how many thousands of eyes were on him? His War Council—rivals and allies of circumstance—no doubt weighed his every word. A smart move might consolidate the High King’s power for years—or, a foolish word might damn him. He held the moment, like a hand grasping a ripe fruit, but not yet plucking it from the tree. Caolais looked thoughtfully down at Ulrem.

The was a white heat on Ulrem’s finger, demanding he rise. Demanding he crush these worms whose heads bowed low under gaudy crowns and meager claims.

But not yet. There were more battles than this to win. There were more crowns to add to his chain.

However he might have answered Ulrem’s jabs, Caolais chose not to address his prisoner. Rather, he raised his voice for the crowd.

“Behold! Ulrem the Lion!” The crowd hissed. “A man mad driven by arrogance, pride, and lust. A reiver, a killer. A son of the seawolves across the channel. This fool claims he is Aertheril reborn! For his damn pride, your brothers bled! This man is no king!”

“Demon!” cried someone in the crowd. A few others took it up, but it guttered in the chill morning air.

“The Oron knew honor,” said Ulrem through a mouthful of blood. “Among my people, any man could challenge a king for the right of rule. Do you keep the old ways, Luathi?”

The headsman raised his fist, but Caolais stopped him with a sharp word. The High King held his hands clenched behind his back. One of the low kings moved over to speak with him in hushed tones. The soldiers watched back and forth, pale faces and little eyes measuring their leaders. The other man, thin and dark, shook his head. They gripped forearms as if in agreement, and the High King faced Ulrem again.

“You have no right,” Caolais answered. “You are a thief. Celba owes you nothing.” He drew his sword in a single, smooth motion.

“Then you speak as the king of Celba?” said Ulrem, feeling the chains shift around around his arms. Vora’s spell had loosened them; one great haul, and they would fly free.

“No man rules Celba,” said Caolais. “Make your peace with your gods, savage.”

“I hold no gods,” Ulrem said. The black-garbed headsman shifted behind him. “Will your dog swing the blade, then?”

“No. I will do it.” Caolais loomed over Ulrem, and raised his blade in salute to the sun.

“Then I grant you this, Caolais. You are a man among worms.”

Caolais ignored him. He raised his voice again and declared, “Here, before the Lords of Luathon, Caolais Dar’adarc ends the Lion’s war!” He twisted at the hips, bringing his sword around in a killing stroke.

Ulrem burst from the chains all at once. He moved quick as a panther, rolling clear. The crowd seethed, yet Ulrem heard the slither of a blade being drawn from its sheathe. He dove forward, narrowly avoiding the headsman’s blade.

“He is mine! Back!” Caolais screamed at the headsman.

“Good. Then we will settle this as men,” said Ulrem. He wrapped the chains around his fists and set the loose end to swinging.

“You will not escape,” the High King said, circling, his sword up like a wall between them. “I will have justice! For Oalein and Luathon! For all the good people your kind butchered on the altar of their pride! The Oron are dead and gone! Ulrem, Son of No One!”

“You mask greed with pretty words, Luathi. I know what you want. Come and take it, if you can.”

Caolais surged forward with a shout, but it was a feint. Ulrem ducked, evading the true blow. He moved with the fire of youth, his golden-eyes shining as he whirled around the King’s thrust whipped the chain across Caolais’ shoulders. The king cried out and stumbled forward.

Now the bodyguard leaped in, unable to hold himself back. He struck to kill from the overhand, but Ulrem got his arm up under the man’s wrist and stopped the blow mid-swing. They strained for a moment, but Ulrem was the mightier. His fingers crushed the bones of the headsman’s wrist until he could feel them grinding as sharply as the man’s screaming in his ear. He tore the sword free from the man’s nerveless grasp, and in a single stroke, lopped off his head.

Caolais roared, storming at him. Ulrem whirled and smashed the Luathi’s sword aside. He stepped into Caolais’ momentum and seized the king by the throat. Caolais hammered at him with the pommel, and got a good blow in. Ulrem dropped him with a snarl of pain, and the cold air rang with the sound of blades crossing in naked hate.

“This is the old way!” Ulrem roared. “This is how men once met their measure!”

“Raving pig!”

He drove Caolais back slowly, toward the Low Kings. He was no court sword, the Luathi High King, but neither was he fired by a lifetime of walking with death. He feared for his own skin. Ulrem pressed him, accepting a cut and a slash, dominating the weaker man with fearless assault. Caolais fought til his knees gave out, and he knelt heaving before Ulrem in the mud.

Behind him, Low Kings were spread out, faces blank. Calculating. Ulrem stood before the broken High King, his sword held out, ready to strike quick doom.

“Yield,” said Ulrem, turning his thunderous eyes to the others. “This war ends today. Luathon is mine.”

Caolais’ mouth worked around words he did not voice. The Low Kings stared back and forth, like sheep caught in a fold with a wolf.

“The hills!” cried a voice from the crowd. Confusion rode through the Luathi ranks as men turned to look east, where below the glaring eye of the sun, figures were appearing over the brow of the low hills. Rank upon rank of men, in black. The Lion’s banner flew at the vanguard.

Caolais saw them. The flock of dark-robed Low Kings pointed, fear in their faces.

A howl went up all around them: men and wolves. Any semblance of order among the Luathi crumbled as the soldiers realized they were surrounded, and began to bolt. But Caolais held his ground. He stood slowly, wiping his muddy hands on his robes.

“Was this your plan?”

“Not mine,” said Ulrem.

“The witch!” Caolais snarled.

Whatever else he might have said was torn from him with a hiss. A dagger burst from his chest, and was jerked clean. A scarlet rose blossomed on his breast. Caolais dropped his sword sank to the ground, shock on his pale face. Behind him, the tall king who had whispered to him stood by, clutching his bloody blade.

“Hawlith,” Caolais said, finding his killer. “Why?”

There was no answer. The six Low Kings closed around him like ravens tearing at carrion, jeweled knives rising and falling. Caolais gave a ragged scream, and vanished under their brutality.

Ulrem grit his teeth and spit. That was the way of it.

He caught sight of Culrann marching at the head of a column of soldiers. They leveled spears at the bellies of the remaining Luathi soldiers, who stared in round-eyed shock. Elsewhere, Ulrem could hear the sounds of killing and dying as Luathi clashed with his Celbans.

“Took your time,” he said to the wulvere, who eyed the crowd as nervously as his wolves did.

“Seemed to have it under control.”

Ulrem grunted. He turned to face the Low Kings, who threw down their daggers on the defiled corpse that had been their High King. One by one, they knelt and bowed their heads.

Slowly, as if in a dream, their men knelt as well, until the only men standing were Ulrem’s own. A dog barked into the nervous quiet.

“Luathon kneels to the Lion,” said the tall man. The one called Hawlith. The killer.

Ulrem took in a great breath, raising his voice to carry over the bent necks. “The Lion claims you!” “Celba will know no slaves. Every man an equal part, a son of the throne. This is the Lion’s law.” There was a muttering from the Low Kings at this, surprise and confusion.

“One law!” shouted the Celban soldiers. “One king!”

Ulrem spoke again, voice a roar. “Those who set themselves against me will feel my wrath. This is the Lion’s mercy.”

“One people! One king!”

The golden-eyed king spit on the ground before the Low Kings. They looked up sharply, six sets of ratty, fearful eyes.

“Arrest these butchers,” Ulrem ordered, “and build me six gallows.”

It took but a moment for the Luathi kings to realize what he meant.

“But we swore to you!” cried the youngest of their number. Others rose, shouting outrage and threat. Ulrem rounded on them sharply, baring his teeth. The bloody light in his eyes choked off their protests.

“So you swore to Caolais. I will not have oathbreakers at my back, nor vipers at my feet. One king. One law.”

“Like your father, then,” said the eldest. His pale, watery eyes were hard. He might have had eighty summers under his belt; perhaps more. Yet his head was unbent. “I fought him at the Crarroc. And I knew him for a hard man. Harder than iron.”

Ulrem closed his eyes, wishing he remembered his father’s voice. His face.

“We are what the world makes us, old man.”

“So we are.”

Ulrem turned his back to the Low Kings as his soldier seized them, ignoring their cries and their begging. Cowards they may be, but their debasement was shameful. Such wretchedness befit no man, king or common. Yet, he did not think the old man wept as he was led away. No. Not that one.

But the work was not done. He turned, searching for the one he could trust.

“Culrann? Find the witch.”