Many people instinctively followed the village chief's direction and surged toward the village entrance.
Einar's heart tightened. With no time to think, he wrapped his leather coat tighter around himself and, stepping through the half-frozen mire, stumbled after the crowd toward the village entrance.
By the time he reached the relatively open patch of ground at the village entrance, panting for breath, more than a dozen—nearly twenty—young and able-bodied men who had heard the news had already gathered there.
The village chief was on horseback, standing in the middle of the main road leading to the outside world, his face grave as he looked at the crowd gathering around him.
Most of these villagers had rough faces, with all kinds of old and new scars on their faces and hands. Their eyes held a mix of a hunter's vigilance and a warrior's ferocity as they silently surrounded the village chief, waiting for news.
Seeing that almost everyone had arrived, the village chief did not dismount. In his rough, hoarse voice, he roared tersely, "You all heard it? The tribe's horn sounded! We're going to war!"
A low stir ran through the crowd, but no one shouted. All of them pricked up their ears and listened.
"Where exactly we're going, who we're fighting—the people above haven't said clearly yet!" The village chief swept his gaze around, over face after face drawn tight from the cold and anticipation. "But sounding the horn at a time like this, nine times out of ten, means heading south to rob those damned Goldspur savages! Fat, oil-dripping lands, grain, women, treasure—plenty of it!"
"Rob the Goldspur!" The news made Einar's heart leap, and then an irrepressible wild joy surged up inside him!
As long as they were not going to gnaw on that hard bone of