With bile in his mouth, thinking the pukes and a dented helmet were cheaper than a shaved ear, he rose in the melee like a bear beset by hounds, sprang barehanded at the nearest enemy not looking his way. With his forearm across the man’s throat, using him as a shield, he struggled out of the thickest press.
While strangling his victim, he looked around. The remaining horsemen were drifting toward the forest. Only a handful from either side were still in their saddles. His own people, on the ground, were having the best of a more numerous foe. They were in their element, being infantrymen by trade. Here and there they were linking up in twos and threes. In a bit they would have a shield wall.
Things weren’t going that well atop the mound. He saw Elana now. She, Uthe Haas, and another man were trying to hold off three times their number and managing well enough that their attackers had not noticed their comrades withdrawing.
There was no one to send to the mound. Except himself. And he would be no use charging into that mess. Just fodder for the Reaper. But a bowman could help.
There must be a bow somewhere. His people all used them. He trotted over the litter of dead and wounded, andbroken, abandoned, and lost weapons. He found a crossbow of the type El Murid’s men preferred, but it was useless without a string. He had never gotten the hang of the things anyway. Then he found a short bow of the desert variety, a weak thing easily used from a horse’s back, but that had suffered the ungentle caress of a horse’s hoof. Finally, as he was about to snatch up a sword and go screaming up the barrow anyway, he found his hamstrung mare with his bow and arrows still slung behind her saddle.
He went to work.
This was the kind of fighting he preferred. Stand off and let them have it. He was good with a bow. Target plinking, he thought.
His fourth victim went down. Yes, much better than getting up toe to toe and smelling your opponent’s rotten breath and sweat and fear. And you didn’t have to look them in the eyes when they realized they were going to die.
For Ragnarson that was the worst part. Killing was damned discomfiting when he was nose to nose with the fact that he was ending a human life.
His sixth score broke the siege. The survivors followed their comrades toward the forest. Trotting, Ragnarson lofted a few desultory shafts to keep them moving, at the same time shouted, “Let them go!” to Elana and Uthe. “They’ve had enough. Let’s not get anybody killed after we’ve won.”
Elana sent a look toward the forest, then threw herself at her husband. “Am I glad to see you!”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, woman? Out here without even a helmet. Why the hell aren’t you at the house? I’ve a mind to... Damn! I will.” He dropped to one knee, bent her across the other, reared back to smack her bottom. Then he noticed his men gathering. Grinning, those who had the strength left.
“Well,” he growled, “you know what to do. Pick up the mess.” He rose, set a subdued Elana back on her feet. “Woman, you pull something like this again, I’ll break your butt and not care who’s watching.”
Then he hugged her so hard she squealed.
As often happened in a wild mixup, there were fewerdead than seemed likely in the heat of action. But virtually all his people were wounded. The enemy had taken some of their injured with them. The worst hurt had been left behind. Bevold Lif, still dazed, stumbled up to report four of their people killed. The count on the enemy wasn’t final. His men were still making corpses out of casualties.
“Damn!” Elana said suddenly. “How’s Rolf?”
“Rolf who?”
“Rolf Preshka. Didn’t you see him? They were chasing him. He was bad hurt.”
“No. Preshka? What the hell? Where’d he come from? Bevold! Take over here. I’ll be back in a little while.” To Elana, “Let’s catch a couple horses.”
Of those there was no shortage. The raiders had left most of theirs behind. The animals, once safe from the fighting, had begun cropping wheat sprouts. They would have to be rounded up or the damage they would do would cut into the plunder-profit from their capture. Good desert horses sold high.
“Which way was he headed?”
“Toward the house.”
“He didn’t make it.”
“You think they caught him?”
“Didn’t see any of them on the way down. No telling what happened.”
They had ridden a mile when Elana said, “Over there.” A riderless horse grazed beside the millstream.
They found Preshka not far away. He was alive, but barely. The arrow had penetrated a lung. It would take a miracle to save him. Or perhaps Nepanthe, if they could get her down from Mocker’s. She had studied medicine during her lonely youth, with the wizard Varthlokkur as tutor, and she had the magic of her family.
“Here,” Ragnarson said, “we’d better make a litter,” He drew his sword and set to work on some sapplings left to shade the creak. “Might be good fishing this summer,” he observed, spotting a lazy carp. “Maybe we can put some up for winter.”
Elana, slitting Preshka’s jerkin so she could look at his wound, frowned. “Why not just catch them when you get the taste? The rest will be there when you want them.”
“Uhn. You’re right.” He had two long poles cut, was lopping branches. “Thing like today put me in mind of times when there wasn’t no coming back. Talking about fish, what do you think of us putting a dam across the creek up where those high banks are?”
“Why?” She was too worried about Rolf to care.
“Well, like I told Bevold the other day, so we’d have water in a dry spell.”
“There was water last summer. The springs kept running.”
“Yeah, well.” He dragged the poles over. “What I was thinking about was stocking some fish. How the hell are we going to finish this thing?”
“Go catch his horse, stupid!” His poking about was frustrating. “He must’ve had blankets. And hurry.”
He ran off. And she was immediately sorry she had snapped at him. It was obvious his leg was giving him a lot of pain. He had claimed the wound was just a scratch. He didn’t like to cause concern.
“I’ve decided,” he said when he returned.
“What? Decided what?”
“I’m going to raise some hell about this. I mean, when we took the grant we said we’d do some fighting. In defense of law and order.” He sneered his opinion of the phrase. “But not to fight wars on our own. We kept up our end. I didn’t even cry about not getting any help the last time raiders came over from Prost Kamenets, even if the army should’ve been here. But by damn, having to fight El Murid’s regulars in my wheat field, a hundred miles north of Itaskia, is too much. I got to go down about the timber contract anyway, and pick up some things, so I’ll just go early and burn some ears. If them asses at the War Ministry can’t keep this from happening, they’re going to tell me why. In fact, I’m going to the Minister himself. He owes me. Maybe he can shake some people awake.”
“Now, dear, don’t do something you’ll be sorry for.” His friendship with the War Minister was pretty insubstantial, based as it was on a few secret, illegal favors done the man years ago. Men in such positions were notoriously short of memory.
“I don’t care. If a citizen can’t be safe at home, then why the hell pay taxes?”
“If you don’t, you’ll get troops up here quick, all right,” she replied. They rigged the litter between their horses, hoisted Preshka in.
“Well, I’m going down. Tomorrow.”
FOUR: The Narrowing Way
I) Return of the Disciple
Ragnarson did not leave for Itaskia next morning.
He woke to find the household in an uproar.
All his people had spent the night at the greathouse, vainly awaiting Mocker. He assumed Nepanthe, unwill-ing to let her husband out of sight, would come along and could be put to doctoring.
He went to see what was the matter.
Luck rode with him in a small, left-handed way. Bevold Lif, despi
te his bashed head, had risen early to go to the mill. He had started out afoot and had quickly returned. El Murid’s men were back, waiting for dawn.
Ragnarson quietly tried to get the animals back into the cellars, the building doused down, and weapons readied. If they had the confidence to return, the raiders had picked up reinforcements.
As false dawn lightened the land, he counted their horses. There were nearly thirty surrounding the house, at a distance demonstrating their respect for the Itaskian bow.
“You think they’ll attack?” Bevold asked.
“I wouldn’t,” Ragnarson replied. “But there’s nofiguring those people. They’re crazy. That’s why they did so well in the wars. That and being able to field every grown man. Iwa Skolovda and Prost Kamenets have the same problem on their Shara borders. Nomads don’t have to stay home to get the crops in. And they don’t use much equipment a man can’t make himself, so their cavalry doesn’t need a broad peasant base...”
“That’ll reassure everybody,” Elana said sarcastically. Bragi, as he aged, had developed a tendency to lecture. “Uthe and Dahl are in the tower. U the said to tell you they have a ‘shaghun.’”
“Uhn,” he grunted. “That’s not good.”
“Why not?”
“A shaghun’s a sort of priest-knight. They’re a fighting order like the Guild’s Knights Protectors. One with a group this small is unusual.”
“So?”
“They’re sorcerers too. Not big-time, but they’ve got some magic.”
“But I thought El Murid killed all the magicians...”
“Sure!” Ragnarson interrupted, sneering. “All that didn’t get religion. You ever hear of a priest who wouldn’t make a deal with his devil to get what he wanted? El Murid’s no different. He’s a politician first, same as all of them. He just started out with ideals. After reality kicked his ass a few times, he started compromising. The shaghun system worked for the Royalists-Haroun is supposed to be one, but he didn’t get much training before he had to run-so why not for him?”
Bragi was a cynic who disapproved of any organization structured for purposes other than warfare. His opinions of governments were as severe as those regarding priesthoods.
“What can we do?” Elana asked.
“About what?”
“About this hedge-wizard, you lummox!” Mornings they both could be bears.
“Oh. I’ll have to kill him. Or give up and see what he wants. How’s Rolf?”
“Still in a coma. I don’t think he’ll come out.”
“Grim. Where’s Mocker? And where’s that shaghun? If
I’m going to get him, I got to know where.” He sent someone to get Uthe from the tower.
Elana started to ask why he had to do it. She knew. It was his way. The more dangerous the task, the less likely he was to delegate it.
“Let’s go to the study,” Bragi said. He had a room of his own off the main hall where, supposedly, he attended to business. It was more a museum filled with mementos, and a library. “I hope he stays alive long enough to tell me why I’ve got El Murid’s horses trampling my wheat.”
“I’d like to see him live a little longer than that.” She revealed too much emotion. Bragi frowned puzzledly, was about to ask something when Uthe arrived.
The men went to four maps hung on a wall. One was of the west, political; another of the Itaskian Kingdom; a third was of the landgrant with inked notations about resources and special features. The last was of the area around the house, with large blank borders where the forest still stood. It was to this that Bragi and Uthe went. Haas pointed out the location of the shaghun, then of nearby horsemen. Bragi traced an approach route with one heavy forefinger.
“Did you see his colors?” Ragnarson asked. “Did you recognize them?”
“Yes. No.”
“Guess we couldn’t tell much anyway. Bound to have been a big turnover. Most of them died before El Murid gave up and went home. Well, I don’t know what else I can do. Wish I’d known he was out there when it was still dark.”
He grabbed Elana, kissed her swift and hard. “Uthe, if it don’t work, you take over. Wait for Mocker. He’s bound to come-though how much good he’ll be I don’t know.” He kissed Elana again.
II) His regiment arrives
The ground was cold. His leg ached. The dew on the grasshad soaked through his trousers and jerkin. A breeze from the south did nothing to make him more comfortable. His hands were chilled, shaking. He hoped they wouldn’t ruin his aim. There was little chance he would get a second shot. The shaghun would have a protective spell ready for instant use.
A hundred yards more, at least, before he dared a shot. And they the hardest since he had slipped out the tunnel from the cellars. There was no cover but a fencerow.
Where was Mocker? he wondered.
The yards slowly passed under his belly. He expected an alarm at any moment, or the cry of the shaghun ordering an attack.
It was light enough to storm the house. Why were they waiting?
From the end of the fence he would have to trust luck to cross five yards of naked pasture to a ditch.
They would get him there for sure.
A sudden outcry and stirring of horses startled him. He almost let fly before realizing the horses were moving away. He raised his head.
Mocker had come.
And how he had come. The column emerging from the forest, both horse and foot, was the biggest Ragnarson had seen since the flareup with Prost Kamenets. At their head, fat and robed in brown and astride his pathetically bony little donkey, rode Mocker.
They were not Royal troops, though they were disciplined and well-equipped. Their banners were of the Mercenary’s Guild. But Ragnarson knew few of their names could be found on Guild rosters. They were Trolledyngjans.
The desert horsemen, after first rushing toward the newcomers, retreated. Even a shaghun was no advantage against such numbers.
Their flight passed near Ragnarson. The shaghun, in a burnoose as dark as night, was an easy target.
One shaft, from a bow few men could pull, flew so swift its passage was nearly invisible. It burst through the shaghun’s skull.
For a long minute Bragi watched the riders gallop off.
In an hour they would have disappeared without a trace. They came and went like the sandstorms of their native land, unpredictable and devastating.
“Hai!” Mocker cried as Bragi trotted up. “As always, one believed old fat windy fool, self, arrives in nick, to salvage bacon of friend of huge militant repute but, as customary, leaguered up by nearest congregation quadra-plegic. Self, am thinking same should admit same before assembled host...”
“Speaking of which,” Ragnarson interrupted, “where’d you turn this crowd up?”
“Conjuration.” The fat man grinned. “Self, being mighty sorcerer, wizard of worldwide dread, made passes in night, danced widdershins round yew tree, nude, burned unholy incense, called up demon legion...”
“Never changes, does he? Blows hard as a winter wind.”
The speaker was a man even more massive than Ragnarson, mounted on a giant gray. He had the shaggy black hair of a wild man, and behind his beard a mass of dark teeth.
“Haaken! How the hell are you? What you doing here?” Haaken Blackfang was his foster brother.
“Been recruiting. Headed south now.” Without alcohol in him Blackfang was as reticent as Mocker was loquacious.
“Thought that was where you were. With Reskird and Rolf. Speaking of Rolf, he turned up yesterday, three quarters dead, with that gang after him.”
“Uhn,” Blackfang grunted. “Not good. Didn’t expect them to get excited this soon. Figured another year.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Rolf’s job to explain.”
“He can’t. Might never explain anything. Mocker, did you bring Nepanthe? We need medical help.”
Before the fat man could reply, Blackfang interjected, “He didn’t. I’ll loan
you my surgeon.”
Ragnarson frowned.
“He’s good. Youngster with a case of wanderlust. Now then, where to settle this lot? Looks like your fields have been hurt enough.”
“Uhn. East pasture, by the mill. I want my animals near the house till this blows over.” He wondered if there would be room, though. Blackfang’s baggage continued rolling from the forest, wagon after wagon. This looked like a volkswanderung. “What you got here, Haaken, a whole army?”
“Four hundred horse, the same afoot.”
“But women and children...”
“Maybe word hasn’t filtered down. There’s trouble in Trolledyngja. Looks like civil war. The Pretender’s grip is slipping. Fair-weather supporters are deserting him. Night raiders haunt the outlands. Lot of people like these, whether they favor him or the Old House, don’t want to get involved.”
A similar desire, after their family had been decimated in the civil war that had given the Pretender the Trolledyngjan throne, had driven Ragnarson and Black-fang over the Kratchnodians years ago.
“Had a letter from the War Minister a while back,” said Ragnarson. “Wanted to know why there hadn’t been any raids this spring. He thought something like Ringerike might be shaping up. Now I understand. Everybody stayed home to keep an eye on the neighbors.”
“About it. Some decided to try their luck with us.”
“What about the Guild? They won’t like you showing their colors. And Itaskia won’t want Trolledyngjans roving round the countryside.”
“All taken care of. Fees paid, passes bought. Every man’s a Guild member. At least honorarily. Doing everything by the book. We can’t leave any enemies behind us.”
“Will you explain?”
“Later, if Rolf can’t. Shouldn’t we put the doctor to work?”
“Right. Mocker, take him to the house. I’ll help Haaken get his mob camped. You travel all night?”