“Yes, but . . .” Hamnet raised his voice: “Enough! Enough, by God!” He yelled loud enough to make the girl stop. She eyed him in surprise. “Enough,” he said once more. “We’re all one clan here, or we might as well be. You made him sorry for jumping you—fair enough. But don’t humiliate him. Save that for our real enemies—the Rulers.”

“Who are you, to talk about all of us being one clan?” the girl demanded. “You aren’t even a Bizogot.” You aren’t even a human being—she didn’t say it, but it was what she really meant.

“So what?” Hamnet Thyssen returned. “The way it looks to me, there are only two clans left: the Rulers, and everyone who hates them. Which side are you on?”

She thought about that. Then, roughly, she pushed the boy away from her. “If I get the chance to kill the Rulers, I will. If anyone says anything different, I’ll kill him.” She couldn’t have been more than eleven, but she plainly meant every word.

“Good enough.” Hamnet pulled a chunk of smoked musk-ox meat from his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it, stuck it in her mouth, and began to chew. Bizogots needed strong teeth; the dried meat was almost as tough as wood.

Liv and Audun Gilli and a captive from the Rulers came out of a nearby tent. Liv nodded to Hamnet. “By the racket the dogs made, I thought it might be you,” she said.

“If it’s not me, it’s an attack, and that would be worse,” Hamnet answered.

Liv nodded. She was a striking woman, with proud cheekbones, blue, blue eyes, and golden hair unfortunately hacked off short. It was also dirty and greasy, as Bizogot hair commonly was. (So was Hamnet’s. Washing during the winter on the frozen steppe was asking for chest fever.) She’d been the shaman of the Three Tusk clan till the Rulers smashed it.