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?”
“Had to to get here in time. Thought about sending the horse ahead, but they couldn’t’ve gotten here before dark last night, and I didn’t figure anything would happen till morning.”
“True. True. You’re a welcome sight.”
III) Missive from a friend
Rolf came round briefly while the surgeon, who doubted there was much hope, was removing the arrow. He had ridden too far and hard with the shafthead tearing his insides.
Preshka saw the anxious faces. A weak smile crossed his lips. “Shouldn’t have... left,” he gasped. “Stu-pid... Couldn’t resist... one more try...”
“Be quiet!” Elana ordered while fidgeting, trying to make him more comfortable.
“Bragi... In kit... Letter... Haroun...” He passed out again.
“Figures,” Ragnarson grumbled. “This much going on, couldn’t be anyone else. Haaken, you feel like explain-ing?”
“Read the letter first.”
“All right. Damn!” He didn’t like this mystery piling on mystery, and nobody leaking any light. “I’ll hunt the thing up. Meet me in the study.”
The country, Haroun’s letter began, is Kavelin in the Lesser Kingdoms, among the easternmost of these, against the Kapenrung Mountains where they swing southwest out of the Mountains of M’Hand, and therein borders on Hammad al Nakir. In the southwest Kavelin is bounded by Tamer ice, in the west by Altea, and in the northwest and west by Anstokin and Volstokin. (I am assembling a portfolio of military maps and will get them to you when I can.) El Murid is an enemy, of course, though there has been no action since the wars, which Kavelin survived virtually unscathed. Altea
“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?”
“Had to to get here in time. Thought about sending the horse ahead, but they couldn’t’ve gotten here before dark last night, and I didn’t figure anything would happen till morning.”
“True. True. You’re a welcome sight.”
III) Missive from a friend
Rolf came round briefly while the surgeon, who doubted there was much hope, was removing the arrow. He had ridden too far and hard with the shafthead tearing his insides.
Preshka saw the anxious faces. A weak smile crossed his lips. “Shouldn’t have... left,” he gasped. “Stu-pid... Couldn’t resist... one more try...”
“Be quiet!” Elana ordered while fidgeting, trying to make him more comfortable.
“Bragi... In kit... Letter... Haroun...” He passed out again.
“Figures,” Ragnarson grumbled. “This much going on, couldn’t be anyone else. Haaken, you feel like explain-ing?”
“Read the letter first.”
“All right. Damn!” He didn’t like this mystery piling on mystery, and nobody leaking any light. “I’ll hunt the thing up. Meet me in the study.”
The country, Haroun’s letter began, is Kavelin in the Lesser Kingdoms, among the easternmost of these, against the Kapenrung Mountains where they swing southwest out of the Mountains of M’Hand, and therein borders on Hammad al Nakir. In the southwest Kavelin is bounded by Tamer ice, in the west by Altea, and in the northwest and west by Anstokin and Volstokin. (I am assembling a portfolio of military maps and will get them to you when I can.) El Murid is an enemy, of course, though there has been no action since the wars, which Kavelin survived virtually unscathed. Altea
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