my roof as long as you’re here. Mules too.’
Torvic smiled. He had an easy smile, not forced. ‘That’s kind of you, Arda Smithswife. When we’re back, we’ll talk a bit more about what we’ve seen.’ And the forge, she supposed. He’d talk about the forge and moving it and her and all of them up into the mountains again where Gallow had sent them three years back. She’d be buggered if she was going to let that happen a second time.
She nodded. ‘You do that, Torvic. I’ll be made of ears.’
Torvic took his Crackmarsh men and left the next morning, nice and early. The Vathen had had a beardless forkbeard among the slaves they’d taken but he hadn’t seen any need to mention that. Might have been Gallow, might not. Either way he reckoned Arda didn’t want to know and so he kept his peace and made sure the others did too. They all knew who Gallow was. They’d all followed the Wolf to Witches’ Reach and seen what happened there.
He sent two of his men north-west, scouting the fringes of the marsh in case the Vathen were doing the same. He kept the young one, Reddic, close, with his eyes for Arda’s daughter, and trudged up the north road towards Fedderhun until they picked up the trail of the Vathen from Hrodicslet. The Vathen were travelling too fast to catch on foot but Torvic followed them anyway until he was sure he knew where they were heading: north and west to the coast road and Andhun. Then he turned north and for anotherday they followed the winding waters of the Fedder. The winds off the Storm Coast fell away and the air grew still. A bitter cold drifted out from the Ice Mountain Sea and settled over the land.
By the time they slunk into Fedderhun, the ground was freezing at night and it was snowing again. They spoke to the Marroc there and kept their ears open but all they got was a name: Mirrahj Bashar, who’d taken her ride south to look for a passage around the far side of the Crackmarsh and had never come back. By the sound of things, no one had expected her to. Full of ghuldogs and Marroc bandits, the Crackmarsh. Torvic often wondered whether there might be some way to get the forkbeards and the Vathen into the Crackmarsh at the same time, have them kill each other in the swamps and water meadows and then let the ghuldogs finish them off while the Marroc just watched it all happen. Fat chance, but it was a nice dream.
The Vathen around Fedderhun helped themselves to whatever took their fancy and largely left the Marroc fishermen of the town alone. They didn’t seem to be doing anything much except kicking their heels and as far as Torvic could tell most of them didn’t want to be there at all. They wanted to be in their home pastures for the winter, curled up in their tents, not here in this godsforsaken outpost. They were here because someone had told them to be and so they were making the best of it until whoever that someone was allowed them home. Or so it seemed to Torvic.
They learned as much as they could, which seemed like it wasn’t much at all, and left after a couple of days, and they were hardly out of the town when the snow started again. It fell steadily all through the day, thick and heavy, covering the land with white and then, as the light faded, the clouds cleared away to the south and Torvic was looking up at a deep blue sky. They’d need more than a fire and some warm furs out in the open tonight, but it wasn’t much of a worry.Nice thing about moving through this part of the world: the farms were scattered and easily missed but they were there if you looked for them, and the Marroc who lived here were happy to share their fires and their shelter and even a little food to hear a few travellers’ tales. And there weren’t any forkbeards, but there were old friends here and there.
Torvic stopped at a house with a pair of small barns nestled beside it in a hollow, almost snow-bound already, and banged on the door. When a scar-faced Marroc opened it, Torvic
Torvic smiled. He had an easy smile, not forced. ‘That’s kind of you, Arda Smithswife. When we’re back, we’ll talk a bit more about what we’ve seen.’ And the forge, she supposed. He’d talk about the forge and moving it and her and all of them up into the mountains again where Gallow had sent them three years back. She’d be buggered if she was going to let that happen a second time.
She nodded. ‘You do that, Torvic. I’ll be made of ears.’
Torvic took his Crackmarsh men and left the next morning, nice and early. The Vathen had had a beardless forkbeard among the slaves they’d taken but he hadn’t seen any need to mention that. Might have been Gallow, might not. Either way he reckoned Arda didn’t want to know and so he kept his peace and made sure the others did too. They all knew who Gallow was. They’d all followed the Wolf to Witches’ Reach and seen what happened there.
He sent two of his men north-west, scouting the fringes of the marsh in case the Vathen were doing the same. He kept the young one, Reddic, close, with his eyes for Arda’s daughter, and trudged up the north road towards Fedderhun until they picked up the trail of the Vathen from Hrodicslet. The Vathen were travelling too fast to catch on foot but Torvic followed them anyway until he was sure he knew where they were heading: north and west to the coast road and Andhun. Then he turned north and for anotherday they followed the winding waters of the Fedder. The winds off the Storm Coast fell away and the air grew still. A bitter cold drifted out from the Ice Mountain Sea and settled over the land.
By the time they slunk into Fedderhun, the ground was freezing at night and it was snowing again. They spoke to the Marroc there and kept their ears open but all they got was a name: Mirrahj Bashar, who’d taken her ride south to look for a passage around the far side of the Crackmarsh and had never come back. By the sound of things, no one had expected her to. Full of ghuldogs and Marroc bandits, the Crackmarsh. Torvic often wondered whether there might be some way to get the forkbeards and the Vathen into the Crackmarsh at the same time, have them kill each other in the swamps and water meadows and then let the ghuldogs finish them off while the Marroc just watched it all happen. Fat chance, but it was a nice dream.
The Vathen around Fedderhun helped themselves to whatever took their fancy and largely left the Marroc fishermen of the town alone. They didn’t seem to be doing anything much except kicking their heels and as far as Torvic could tell most of them didn’t want to be there at all. They wanted to be in their home pastures for the winter, curled up in their tents, not here in this godsforsaken outpost. They were here because someone had told them to be and so they were making the best of it until whoever that someone was allowed them home. Or so it seemed to Torvic.
They learned as much as they could, which seemed like it wasn’t much at all, and left after a couple of days, and they were hardly out of the town when the snow started again. It fell steadily all through the day, thick and heavy, covering the land with white and then, as the light faded, the clouds cleared away to the south and Torvic was looking up at a deep blue sky. They’d need more than a fire and some warm furs out in the open tonight, but it wasn’t much of a worry.Nice thing about moving through this part of the world: the farms were scattered and easily missed but they were there if you looked for them, and the Marroc who lived here were happy to share their fires and their shelter and even a little food to hear a few travellers’ tales. And there weren’t any forkbeards, but there were old friends here and there.
Torvic stopped at a house with a pair of small barns nestled beside it in a hollow, almost snow-bound already, and banged on the door. When a scar-faced Marroc opened it, Torvic
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