Harald gestured towards the line of brush.
"The little meadow? We sometimes use it for fall pasture. Can I see?"
"After lunch. I like my fish fresh."
Fire from the buried coals took a few minutes blowing; dry branches gave only a little smoke, dispersed in the thick leaves above. Jon helped Harald clean the trout, a messy job with only one hand. By the time they were done the flames were mostly burned down. The boy helped him arrange a rough grill of peeled green sticks over the coals, spread out the fish.
"Tell me about the men looking for me."
"Say they're from the King, say they need to find you, money to pay for news. Went looking yesterday. Mail shirts. Swords. Both together. Up and down the path, brush around it. Not likely to come this far—we're most of a mile from home. Hear them coming."
"How close are your neighbors? If there's trouble with the men, will they help?"
"Downstream there's nobody till you get to the main road, valley people, strangers. Upstream old Olaf and his boy a good hour's walk. More people further up. Ragnar went for a soldier, fought in the big war six years ago. Has a sword. But there are two of them."
Harald thought a moment. Got up.
"Come see my horse."
The mare trotted across the meadow to them. Jon stood frozen, his mouth open.
"She's beautiful."
"Smart too." Harald pulled a wrinkled apple from somewhere, fed it to the horse. She lowered her head, sniffed for more. Gave up in disgust, walked over to Jon.
"I'm sorry. I could find some white roots, bring them tomorrow?" He shyly stroked the big head.
They sat for a while on the bank, feeding her handfuls of green grass.
"Will they notice you're gone?"
"Not till they want something. They'll expect the horses rubbed down this evening in the stable. Turned out the cow to make room. Took our bed, too."
"Do you want me to kill them?"
Jon looked up at him, startled. Hesitated a moment.
"Can you?" He glanced down at the broken arm.
"Probably. With your help. Not today."
"Yes. I'll come tomorrow."
"Better not to tell your mother. Easier to hide things you don't know."
Jon nodded. After he had gone Harald got out his bow, a handful of arrows, a length of leather thong. Stringing the recurve was tricky, but he had one hand, two legs and forty years of practice. That done he went looking for a convenient bank of earth. It had been a long time.
Late the next day Erik, the older of the two Wolves, saw the widow's boy coming out of the stable.
"Got 'em rubbed down proper, fed, watered?"
"Yes sir."
"Grain, not just hay?"
The boy hesitated, looked away.
"Yes sir."
"I'll come see. Don't go off."
The stable was dark. Erik was still blinking when the first arrow hit him. He looked down in astonishment at the feathered shaft sprouting from his belly, a hand's breadth above the belt, looked up, started to yell. Harald, sitting in the half loft above the stall, back to a post, bare feet against the bow, loosed the second arrow.
The door opened. Jon peered in, saw the crumpled body, stepped back, yelled.
"Come quick. Your friend's hurt."
Harald nocked a third arrow, drew it back.
By the time Harald had freed the bow from his feet, made his way to the ground, made sure both men were dead, Jon had joined his mother on the porch. She listened to him a moment, looked up. Harald faced her.
"My counsel, they left yesterday. The boy and I can deal with the bodies."
"The horses?"
"See if they're marked. Some way to sell them, no questions? Need be, I could take one when I go."
She thought a moment.
"I think I know someone who could sell them for me."
Harald whistled, waited. The mare came out of the woods, walked past Harald to Jon. Jon bent down, pulled something from the ground, gave it to her. His mother looked at the horse, smiled. Harald put on his best frown.
It took the rest of the evening to strip the bodies of the Wolves, load one onto the mare, the other on one of the geldings, and dump them a considerable distance off in the woods for their namesakes to deal with. The gelding was unhappy at the smell of blood, but Jon gentled him. By the time they got back, Jon himself was looking white. His mother hugged him, led him inside, came out again.
"I'll be back in the morning."
"Sleep here. I'll find blankets, make up a bed in the hay. You'll want dinner too."
He hesitated a moment, nodded, took the mare into the stable, himself to the well to wash off the worst of it.
Harald spent almost two months with them while the broken arm healed, paying for his board with fish, snared rabbits and, towards the end when he could again use a bow, two deer. Most of his time was spent in the woods out of sight, much of it with Jon. The boy, used to animals, took to riding like a Westkin child. The bow was too stiff for him to draw; Harald shaped one from a branch of ash, taught him to shoot from horseback.
"Come over the mountains some day, we'll get you a proper bow."
"What's wrong with this one? I like it."
"Longbow's fine on foot. Too clumsy on horseback. Aiming left, see an enemy right, what do you do?"
The boy tried to swing the bow across. The lower limb caught on the mare's neck; he dropped the bow. The mare looked up at him curiously.
"Horn bow that wouldn't happen."
"Is it really made of horn?"
"Belly horn, back sinew, a little wood to hold them together. Takes a year to make, lasts a lifetime. More if you're careful. Or careless. We learned them from the Westkin."
When Harald finally set off again on the mare, Jon walked him the first few miles up the trail into the mountains.
"Will I see you again?"
"Likely. Heading home over the pass, but I'll be back. Things to deal with near here. May take a while."
The boy stroked the horse's neck, his face buried in her mane.
"Expect she'll be back too."
"Promise?"
"Can't bind the world. Try."
He dismounted, gave Jon a long hug.
"Take care of your mother. When it's all over, come visit, meet my boys."
Jon nodded, said nothing.
It took Harald two days to make it up the valley and over, much of the time leading the mare, and work his way down the far side of the ridge to the head of the next valley north. Then west, following the stream that flowed down to the plains. Beyond plains the high pass, home.
That evening he heard voices, smelt a breath of smoke, turned the mare off the path and into the woods. A wide circle was cleared of trees, its center a mound, two men watching. A wisp of smoke came out; one of them put a clod over it. Harald quietly unstrung his bow, wrapped bow and quiver into the bundled bedding behind his saddle, rode out of the trees.
He spent the night with the charcoal burners, traded smoked meat for bread only two days from the oven. In the morning they sat watching the mound, sharing their cheese and bread, his sausage and dried apples.
"Come a long ways?"
"Fair. In the hills trapping, guesting, widow woman." Harald gave them a sidelong glance. The younger of the two grinned at him. Harald spoke again.
"I've got furs. Traders down valley, on the road?"
"Maybe at the inn. The path comes out of the hills, goes on a bit, crosses the road north. Big building, stable, picture of the sun on the sign. Pack trains come by with salt, pretty things from the city. Going back to your widow lady, maybe?"
"Maybe."
Stopping for lunch, a walnut tree caught his eye. A brief search unearthed half a dozen of last year's nuts, still in their dry hulls. A few stones, a coal from its bed of moss in his clay firebox, threads of bark, twigs, branches. His pan, filled with water from the stream, went over the small fire; he patiently shredded the walnut hulls into it.
Hair, beard and face. The creek provided a pool to rinse in, a still shallow for a mirror. More dye for patches of gray. He dumped out what was left, rinsed the pan, scrubbed it with sand. Fresh coals into the fire box, more moss. Water on the fire.
It was almost dark before he reached the inn, its yard crowded with pack mules being unloaded. A small coin persuaded the stableboy—a stall, hay, a little grain. When he had finished rubbing down the mare, Harald shoved saddle, saddlebags, rolled war coat onto the shelf at the end of the stall, the horse blanket over all, gave the mare a final pat and strict instructions, went off to the inn.
The big room was crowded, a fire at one end. Near the door a knot of Imperials, the chief trader, his assistants, two or three smaller traders traveling with him. One table was packed with the group's guards, still in armor, another had half a dozen of what looked like local farmers, one of the faces vaguely familiar. Harald slid through the crowd to the fire, put out his hands to warm them, stood looking at the flames, listening.
The Imperials were speaking Tengu, the Emperor's tongue if not quite to the Emperor's standards. The roads were muddy, bandits a nuisance, but the Kingdom's little court was buying, the weavers in the city were selling, and matters could, on the whole, be worse. The guards were talking what he suspected was Bashkazi, which might have been useful if he had grown up a few hundred miles farther east. The farmers were mostly complaining about the weather.
Harald spotted the innkeeper coming down the stairs from the upper rooms, drifted over to him, spoke in the nearest he could manage to the traders' dialect.
"The small room at the end—it is free?"
The innkeeper looked him over curiously.
"My master wishes me to arrange."
"Two silver pennies." The man held up two fingers.
Harald didn't blink.
"Moment."
He went past the crowd of traders, nodding familiarly at one, out the door. Back with a bundle on his shoulder.
"Arrange." He handed the innkeeper the coins, climbed the stairs. The room had a bed, a bar for the door, a window looking over the porch roof to the stable. Dinner a risk he could do without. With luck he could buy bread and sausage in the morning. With such a crowd, the innkeeper was unlikely to keep track of who slept where.
He woke before dawn, chasing a memory through dreams. A face. Blond hair. A farmer's tunic—no. He came suddenly awake. One of the farmers. The man who knew someone who was hiring mercenaries.
Nobody was up in the yard yet, but he thought he saw movement in the stable door. He pulled on the mail shirt, over that his cloak, gave one regretful glance at his blankets, swung the shutters wide, stepped out onto the porch roof, a short drop to the yard, two steps to the stable.
The boy looked up at him, startled.
"Help me with my horse; I have to get on the road early today, ahead of the others."
"I. I need to . . ."
Harald blocked the doorway.
"Help me with the horse. An extra coin for you."
The boy, nervous, saddled the horse, strapped saddlebags behind, Harald watching. He reached up for the bundle on the high shelf, tossed it to Harald, bolted for the door.
Seconds were a price that had to be paid. The hardened leather chest piece—all he had of the mare's barding. He pulled out bowcase and quiver, hooked them to the saddle, shrugged into the lamellar coat. Over that the cloak, for whatever good it did. Into the saddle. Harald burst out of the stable, headed for the north road, brought the mare to a full gallop.
Nobody in sight yet. He lashed down bow case and quiver, pulled out the bow, strung it. Hoofbeats, a horn. Three men at least coming out of the trees behind the inn, perhaps more. The light archer's shield to the outside of his bow arm; he checked the saddle mace, butt up in its pocket at the side of the bowcase.
Trees, more trees. The forest spread down the hills, out onto the plain; the North Road ran through it for miles. In the open, with a full quiver, he could deal with riders behind him, but . . .
The first arrow glanced off the flap guarding his thigh; he never saw the archer. Two more glancing, then a sharp pain in his calf; the mare broke stride a moment, was back in her gallop.
"Brave lady." He pulled the leg up, snapped off the projecting point; there was no time for more.
An archer rose from beside a tree, almost in front of him. In one smooth motion Harald drew and loosed. Yells behind. He saw an arrow coming from in front, knocked it aside with the shield, missed another—it caught in the cloak, stopped by the armor. He thought he heard the higher twang of a crossbow, felt something in his back.
The road broke out into a long clearing. Turning in the saddle, Harald put two arrows into the nearest pursuer. The man fell back, his hands still clutching the reins; the horse swung to one side, went crashing through the trees. His third caught the next rider in the throat, tumbled him out of his saddle. More behind, and men with bows coming out of the woods. Harald glanced ahead.
The clearing ended against a steep bank; the road swung left across its face. The archers were too close. He brought the mare to a sliding stop where the road turned, wheeled, back to the bank, face to the enemy.
Two riders died, the third reached him. He caught the sword on his shield's rawhide edge, felt it cut and catch, struck back with the saddle mace, felt the blow go home. The bow into its scabbard. The mare reared under him, turned, struck out with forehooves; the attacker on that side clutched his reins as his horse shied aside, tried to bolt. Harald jammed his shield into the man's face, struck once to cripple the shoulder, a second time to kill, felt a heavy blow on his helm.
For a moment the world turned black. Somehow he stayed in the saddle as the mare backed him free of the tangle. Then block and blow as the mounted Wolves swarmed around him. At least no arrows. A line of fire across his right shoulder, another over his ribs. He struck back, felt the strength draining from his arm. The world swung around him, the mace loose in his fingers.