The Witchwood Crown

  This is our land—our fathers’ and their fathers’. The Nabban-men should go back to their stone houses or die.

  As he neared the center of the village, where the chaos of animal noises and human screams was at its loudest, Fremur saw that a handful of his Crane clansmen had blundered down a passage between houses and now were trapped against the inner wall of the palisade by a dozen or so settlers wielding billhooks and hayforks, as well as two or three armored settlement guards with long spears. It was impossible to make out the clansmen’s faces in the smoky, inconstant light, but by the ribbons wrapping their horses’ tails he guessed they might be some of Tunzdan’s men. The Cranes were fighting desperately but they were hemmed in, and the long spears of the guards were forcing them farther and farther back toward the wall.

  Fremur hesitated for a moment. He owed nothing to Tunzdan, one of Odrig’s chief allies, but these were still his clansmen: how could he hold his head up as a man if he abandoned them to these land-stealing farmers? He spurred toward the angry mob. Before he could reach them, though, a great shadow swept past him like the Grass Thunderer himself.

  It was Unver on his black horse Deofol, the curve of his sword a red crescent against the sky. The tall man crashed into the rear of the settlers and several of them collapsed immediately, shoulders or necks fountaining blood. Others shouted in terrified surprise as their hunt of the clansmen fell into fatal disorder. It all happened so quickly that Fremur slowed to watch as the cornered Cranes, heartened by their enemies’ confusion, now plunged forward into the mass of settlers. The first to fall were the armored guards, and moments later the rest of the settlers were fleeing for their lives while the Thrithings-men, changed from quarry back to hunters in mere moments, shouted and sang with joy at their rescue and rode the stragglers down.

  Unver stood in his stirrups and pointed with his sword toward the center of the town. “There!” he shouted at the clansmen. “Find your brothers there!”

  And in that moment, with the leaping red blaze silhouetting him against the night sky, illuminating Unver’s sharp features and flapping cloak so that he seemed half-man, half raven, Fremur felt something squeeze at his heart, a strange mix of admiration and terror. Surely this wasn’t Unver any longer, but Tasdar the Anvil Smasher himself, one of the powerful spirits worshipped by all the grassland clans.

  “What are you staring at, you fool?” the godlike figure shouted at him. “It is almost time to ride home.”

  Fremur realized with a start that Unver was right—even Odrig would not wait much longer before retreating, not when they were so greatly outnumbered by the settlers. After all, this was not a killing mission but a plundering mission. He also realized with a sinking heart that he was going to be returning from the raid empty-handed. He knew what Odrig and his cronies would say about that, and it would not be kind.

  Fremur followed Unver as they rode toward the middle of the settlement, passing other clansmen driving the settlement’s animals in small groups toward the gate—here a Crane with a half dozen bleating sheep, there a pair of Cranes with several eye-rolling cattle. One of Bordelm’s cousins clutched the harnesses of two heavy plow-horses, which would never do as war-beasts but would serve admirably to pull a Thrithings wagon.

  As Unver and Fremur burst into the open center of the village, through screeching, heedless settlers and clansmen now eager to escape with their prizes, Fremur saw that the paddock fences had been thrown down, broken into splinters in places, and that all but a few of the valuable animals were already gone. As he spurred after a squawking goose, which hurried just ahead of him with its wings spread, he saw Unver dismount and then vanish into the shadowy doorway of a burning barn. He came out leading a huge bull, a magnificent creature with a rope hanging from its ringed nose. Unver’s usually grim face wore a lopsided smile.

  “Even late to the feast, look what I’ve found!” the tall man said. “And he was just about to overcook, too!”

  Fremur had never seen Unver look outright happy—not that he could remember. It was a strange sight, but even as he wondered at it, an arrow whizzed past his head and buried itself in a timber of the blazing barn. Some of the settlers still meant to fight back.

  Unver swung his long body back into the saddle in an instant, then he and Fremur led the bull toward the front gate. Many of the settlers were fighting back in earnest now with stones and the occasional bow and arrow, emboldened by the Thrithings-men’s retreat and hoping to pick off a few as they rode by. Fremur and Unver were not struck, but Fremur saw one of Tunzdan’s riders fall from his horse just a short distance away, an arrow in his leg; before he could regain his saddle he was dragged away into the shadows between houses by a mob of settlers.

  “Don’t,” Unver said as Fremur hesitated. “It’s too late for him. Ride now.”

  Fremur didn’t have to be told twice. He and Unver were among the last to flee the settlement; any moment now the gates would close and they would be trapped inside. Clansmen captured on raids were usually burned to death, and sometimes that was the most merciful part of their treatment. Fremur laid his head against his horse’s neck to offer a smaller target to any bowmen.

  Finally he saw the sagging gate before them. They went through at a trot, slowed by the trailing bull, and within moments the settlement began to fall away behind them, the smoke and flames and screams growing fainter with each hoofbeat, like a dream disappearing with morning light.

  “A good evening’s work,” said Unver, hunched low in his saddle, one hand still clutching the rope. The captive bull was being forced along at a pace far faster than it liked, lowing and snorting with discomfort. Unver was grinning, and again Fremur was struck by the strangeness of seeing the man happy. “A good evening!”

  They had reached the first rise, the walls of the settlement only a stone’s-throw behind them, when something struck Fremur in the head like a lightning bolt. For a moment he had no idea of what up was or down, or of anything except that the night was full of bursting white stars, then something like a giant hand stretched out and slapped him so hard the blazing white turned to solid black.

  When Fremur could think again, he was lying on his back and could still see the flaming walls. His horse was gone, Unver was gone, and he was helpless. He tried to roll onto his stomach, but could only get halfway there. Blood—it must be blood, he thought, because it was wet and dark—dripped from his scalp, pooling on his hands and making the dark grass even darker. He lifted his head, which felt as though someone was beating it like a drum, and saw three figures running toward him from the settlement gate.

  They shot me, was all he could think. They shot me in the head with an arrow. He reached back. His helmet was gone somewhere, but although the back of his head was slick with blood and complicated with tattered, stinging flesh, he could not find the arrow he had been certain must be sticking into his skull.

  The settlers were getting closer, half-running in their excitement at having brought down one of the hated raiders. Fremur could see they were Nabban-men, their upper lips shaved, their eyes bright with the excitement of revenge. One was already nocking a new arrow, while the other two carried billhooks.

  They’re going to cut me up like a spring lamb, Fremur thought, and it was almost funny, except that his head hurt so badly. But I’m not a lamb, I’m a man.

  Then something dark leaped over him, all but flicking his face as it went, with a rumble and roar of air like a thundercloud punishing the earth. It was a horse, rider low on its neck, but now the rider rose in his stirrups and lifted his curved blade, bright and deadly as a lightning-flash.

  Then it all faded and Fremur could no longer see anything, though he could hear men’s voices, shouting, some screams. Darkness was returning. Was he dying? Had some of the other clansmen come to help him? Fremur didn’t know, but he could not imagine that any of it mattered very much.

  • • •

 
For a long time after the sun rose he couldn’t get off his bedroll. Instead he lay with eyes closed and listened to the strange sounds of the living world, the living world that he seemed still to be a part of. Birds—so many birds! Warbling, whistling, chirping, fluting, their noise seemed deafening. Had it always been this way? Why had he never noticed?

  Something touched his arm. Fremur flinched and tried to roll over, but the sudden movement made his head hurt so badly that he groaned and gave up.

  Another touch, then a light stroke across his forehead.

  “Fre? Are you awake?” The voice was like a breeze, cooling him.

  “Kulva?” He opened his eyes, but just a little. The light was fierce, like knives.

  “I brought you water,” his sister said. “How is your head?”

  “Like a broken pot. I thought I was a dead man.”

  “Don’t say that! The spirits who saved you will be angry.”

  The light was a little less sharp now, so he decided to sit up—very slowly. “It wasn’t the spirits who saved me, it was Unver Long Legs.” He could see it now, Unver and Deofol leaping over him where he lay wounded, sweeping down on the settlers to savage them like a wolf among chickens. “It was Unver. He must have given up his bull to come back for me.” Fremur managed to prop himself on his elbows, which was as far as he could get before a wave of pain sloshed through his skull. Kulva’s worried face hung over him like a midday moon.

  “Unver is a good man, but you still should not tempt any spirits,” his sister said, frowning. “Here, drink.” She helped him put the cup to his lips and poured a little water in his mouth. He lifted his hand to take it from her but she pushed it away. “Just let me tend you. Always so proud!”

  “I’m a man of the Crane Clan. I was only wounded in a fight. I can take care of myself.” He knew he sounded like a child. “In any case, if the spirits want me to get better, they’ll make me better.”

  The beginnings of a smile twisted her lips, but she fought it down. “Oh, yes. Men on men’s business. Forgive me for trying to help you while you lay on the ground, moaning. Everyone else has been up for hours.”

  “By the Stone Holder!” He groaned as he sat fully upright. “Why did no one tell me? Is Odrig angry?”

  “He laughed.” Kulva clearly did not approve. “He laughed, then he went off to the lake with Drojan to hunt.”

  That was a relief. Fremur pulled himself up so he could sit cross-legged, which helped his balance. His head felt like a swollen bladder—if it got any more full, he thought, he would begin to piss out his ears.

  “What are you laughing about, Fre?”

  “I don’t know. My head hurts. Is there something to eat?”

  “I brought you bread.” She reached into her apron and pulled out a leaf-wrapped bundle.

  Fremur unwrapped the bannock and took a bite. Chewing seemed to make his entire head feel odd, like a precariously balanced rock that might roll away with a push. He took several bites, then suddenly found he did not want any more. Even with food in his stomach, he still felt strange. The colors around him, like the voices of the birds, seemed too strong—surely the world had never been so bright! The wagons of the clan seemed to gleam like jewels, and the colorful ribbons that decorated them were searing streaks of light. But when he closed his eyes, instead of darkness he saw Unver standing atop the wall of the settlement, made into a giant by firelight, the Anvil Smasher come to life. In that moment, the tall clansman had seemed to be touched by divine fire like a great thane—or like something even greater.

  “He saved me,” he said quietly. “Saved many.”

  “What did you say? Here, drink more water.” Kulva handed him the cup again. As Fremur drank, the colors began to seem less painful, less striking, but his sister was still a brightness hovering before him. She was not beautiful, not as the clanfolk reckoned beauty—she was thin, for one thing, and her hair was an indistinguished shade of brown too fair to be striking. Her skin was also freckled beyond any ordinary notions of comeliness, but Fremur thought her kindness and the honest steadiness of her eyes made her beautiful. When their mother had named her Kulva, which meant dove, their father had said, “Well, then she’s a bony, speckled dove, fit only for the stew-pot.” But when their mother died in his fourth or fifth year of life, Kulva had taken on the role of Fremur’s protector. Now he could scarcely remember their mother’s face without thinking of Kulva’s instead.

  Their father Hurvalt had never been kind, but he had never gone out of his way to inflict pain. Fremur thought Odrig had inherited the worst of the old man, but without Hurvalt’s love for his people, and although she would never say anything against the eldest brother who headed the family and the clan, Fremur knew Kulva felt the same way.

  “I have to get up,” he said.

  “Why? You should rest.”

  “I will speak to Unver.” A part of him was annoyed that a woman, even his dear sister, should question him. Men of the clans were not questioned, at least not by their sisters or wives. “I owe him my life.”

  “Unver will still be at his father’s wagon when you are fit to walk.”

  “No.” He got his legs under him, then rose to his feet, shaky as a newborn colt. “I am fit to walk now. I am a man of the Crane Clan.”

  Kulva sighed. “Of course you are.”

  • • •

  Zhakar, stepfather of Unver Long Legs, was sitting on the steps of his wagon, smoking his pipe and scowling at the clouds overhead, which was more or less what Fremur had expected. Zhakar was too old and lame now to be a threat to a grown man, but being unable to enforce his will with a fist or a strap had, if anything, only made his outlook on life more unpleasant. He had been a strong, handsome man once, at least so others in the clan said, but now he was little more than bone and sinew covered with wrinkled brown skin, like a hide left out in the sun and rain too long.

  “What do you want, boy?” the old man said. “Did your brother send you?” Thane Odrig was one of the few people Zhakar respected, which Fremur knew meant “feared.”

  “I’ve come to speak to Unver.”

  The old man took out his pipe and spat. “Speak to Unver? That clod scarcely has two words for anyone, and the spirits know he’s no use elseways. Went out on a raid and came back with nothing.”

  “He saved my life. That’s why he didn’t bring anything back.”

  For a moment Fremur thought the old man would get up, hobble toward him, and try to strike him, his scowl was so fierce. “Saved your life? By my wheels and whip, that makes him even more the fool. Your father should have drowned you at birth like a kitten, scrawny whelp that you are. As I should have done when mine was given to me, too.”

  “Where is he?” Fremur did not want to trade words with Zhakar any longer than he had to. His head still hurt, and the walk across the camp had made it worse. He was imagining what it would be like to shove a knife into the old bastard’s throat, and considering it just made him want to do it even more. No wonder Unver hardly ever spoke, if this was all he had to speak with.

  The old man spat again. “Tinkering with that useless pile of sticks of his. Which will never be anything but a pile of old sticks, cluttering up my paddock.”

  Fremur let his eyes rove slowly across the collection of broken pots, stew bones, and other rubbish strewn on the ground around the wagon. “That’s a shame.”

  Now Zhakar did start to rise, his face reddening, but thought better of it after a moment. “Don’t loose your tongue at me, boy. I’ll have it out of your mouth. I’m not so old I can’t teach a pup like you some respect. I still have my whip!”

  “May it give you much pleasure, then.”

  Fremur headed for the paddock out behind the ramshackle wagon. Unver’s big horse Deofol and the others were cropping grass at the near end. Unver was on the far side of the paddock, just outside the fence, hammering
ashwood spokes into a wheel hub to replace one that had cracked as it was being mounted. The rest of the unfinished wagon stood nearby in the shade of a paltry copse of aspens, axle-end propped on a stone while Unver made the new wheel. The wagon was still far from complete—once the wheels were all on, a season’s worth of careful ornamenting, polishing, and painting would still remain.

  Unver looked up from his pounding as Fremur approached, but did not speak. The younger man could not think of anything to say at first, so he stood and watched until words came to him.

  “Last night, Unver. You saved me.”

  The tall man took one hand off the maul and swept straight dark hair from his eyes. He had taken off his shirt and hung it from a branch, and his chest and long arms gleamed with sweat. He stared at Fremur for a moment, then shrugged. “I saw no purpose in letting you die.”

  “But you lost your plunder because of me. In fact, you came back with nothing.”

  Unver made a sour face. “You must have talked to my stepfather.”

  “You didn’t need to do it, but you helped me. And those others. Why?”

  “What is the point of leaving men to die?” Unver took up the maul and began pounding at a spoke with precise but powerful blows. “Are we clansfolk so many, then, and the stone-dwellers so few, that we should leave many dead behind just to steal a few horses and cattle? Nabban horses?”

  “But you could have sold that bull. That would have paid for all the paint and fittings you’re going to want.” No Thrithings-man could expect to set himself up as a true man of importance, to get married and be respected, without his own wagon. It was odd that Unver had waited so long to build one, but he had always been a strange fellow, private, even secretive.

  “Why do you care?” Unver demanded. “What does it matter to you, Fremur Hurvalt’s son?”

  “It’s my fault. You lost your prize because of me. You could have had all the paint and brass you wanted.”