Harald-ARC

by David Friedman

  Harald faded back into the night.

  The mare was less than enthusiastic about walking when she should have been sleeping; it took ten minutes of talk and two apples to change her mind. Harald crossed the road, east then north, a wide loop around the traders' camp. By an hour past midnight he was half a mile north of them.

  Dawn came too early. He packed, trimmed his beard, rode south. A sentry stopped him well short of the tents; Kari was earning his pay.

  Kari himself rode up while the traders were breaking camp. The two men talked; the guard captain rode back to talk to the traders. In a little while he returned. Gunnar had assured the traders that his friend Connor, if inclined to be solitary, was a good man in a fight. Food and shelter over the pass, a chance of pay if all went well, but no promises.

  Late that afternoon they made camp where there was still grass for the animals, well downhill from the hostel. Another pack train was there already; a third came in before dark. Camp rumor said one from the south provinces, the other out of Eston. It also said the camp just below the gateposts, horses and men, wasn't traders. Harald considered a nighttime ride through the woods and up, decided against; not all Wolves were fools.

  The chief trader spent most of the morning cursing the Wolves and their king in an interesting variety of languages. They appeared to be checking every man, beast and cart coming west from Eston and taking their time about it. It had never happened before; the air was full of rumors. Harald's favorite involved the King's cousin, his lady love, and a treasure in royal jewels. One of the traders, old in the ways of the world, offered a simpler explanation: the Wolves were holding things up until offered a suitable reward not to. The chief trader stopped cursing, thought a minute, and rode off to the hostel.

  Whether due to his efforts or not, by the time they finally got to the gateposts things were moving faster. One of the Wolves questioned the chief trader and the guard captain. The members of the train, men and beasts, were sent through in single file, a Wolf watching from each side. Harald looked curiously from side to side as they went through; neither Wolf looked familiar. One of the other guards said something rude in a strong south vale accent; the guard captain turned in his saddle to glare at him. Then up the road and into the woods.

  Late afternoon, a brush covered hillside. Ahead on the right a small camp, a dozen Wolves. Harald spotted three more spread across the slope. Gunnar edged his horse right.

  "Lost? The gateposts are that way."

  The nearest Wolf glared at him, made no answer. Two hours farther on they stopped to camp.

  One of the wagons was for food—convenient, at least until they reached the steep part of the pass. Harald filled a bowl with stew, a plate with bread, dried apples. He ate the stew standing by the mare, watching the fire where a sheep turned, tilted the plate to let its contents slide into the open saddlebag. Untidy, but he was tired of being hungry. He refilled the plate, collected a sizable chunk of mutton, noticed the chief trader's eyes on him.

  After dinner, Harald walked over to the feed wagon, got a sack of oats, fed some of it to the mare, absent mindedly dumped the sack with the pile of his gear outside the tent pitched for him and three of the other guards. He moved the mare to the side of his tent away from the camp, told her not to wander, carried his gear into the empty tent. As night darkened, most of the cats gathered around a fire to trade lies. The mule drivers and camp servants had their own fire, the traders the biggest tent; Harald could see lantern light through the walls, hear voices. He spent a few minutes considering the pleasures of a good night's sleep, then went to the back of the tent, tested the stakes.

  Kari's voice at the tent door:

  "Connor, you there?"

  Harald grunted assent; the guard captain came into the tent where he was spreading out his bedding.

  "Making an early night of it?"

  "Early up yesterday, not so young as I was."

  "Trader Boss wants to see you before you go to sleep. Not all traders are fools."

  "Wagons over the high pass?"

  "They come apart, go on the mules for the last bit."

  Harald revised his opinion of the trader, his hopes for a night's rest. The guard captain went out. Harald rolled the bedding back up, pulled out a loose tent stake, slid his gear under the edge of the tent, followed it, replaced the stake. Twenty minutes later he was moving through the dark.

  "Who's there?"

  "Connor. Boss wants me to check ahead a bit. Crazy, but it's too early to sleep and the beer barrel went dry." He moved off into the dark, uphill, towards the pass.

  By dawn he was on the downslope of the foothills, green forest in the distance, the main range beyond. He stopped briefly to let the tired mare graze, feed her oats, himself cold mutton. The road behind was empty. Traders might not like being tricked but they had little reason to do the King's work for him. Besides, anyone who had somehow worked out Harald's identity would surely have sense enough not to send cats after him.

  There remained the problem of keeping man and horse alive over the pass; half a sack of oats would not do it. He reluctantly stood up, called the mare.

  "Green grass down there, brave heart."

  Harald set off down the road; the mare followed.

  By nightfall things were looking a little better. Four hours in the shadow of the trees made up for at least part of the previous night. A supper of cold mutton and bread, then back to sleep.

  He spent the early morning dealing with his half of the food problem while the mare dealt with hers. Two rabbits, a fat bird, only one broken arrow. He had hoped for a deer, but not enough to spend the rest of the day looking; the pack train would arrive eventually and he preferred to avoid complications.

  He stopped early that day, spent the night at the west end of the wooded lowlands—the last good grazing east of the pass. In the morning, two hours in a field at the wood's edge, far enough from the trail to have been missed by the early caravans, provided a considerable bundle of grass. As he sat cleaning his sword, it occurred to him that it was the first use he had made of it on the trip. It was an old issue—on campaign, every pound mattered—but at least he had a new argument next time it came up.

  Another easy day's ride brought him to Cloud's Eye. Of the grass that rimmed the high lake little was left.

  Approaching the final narrow before the pass he stopped, fed the mare the last of the oats, brought out from a pocket of the saddle bags a folded piece of painted cloth. His lance was, presumably, still in the king's castle with the packhorse and most of the mare's barding. He tied the cloth to the end of a sapling, cut in the woods two days before, held it up. The wind took his pennon, spread it. He walked forward; the mare followed.

  Suddenly the cliff walls to right and left were no longer empty. The first came at a run, jumping from one invisible foothold to another.

  "Grandfather, you're back."

  "And my son's idiot child is as usual doing his best to break his neck."

  Harald caught up Asbjorn, pretended to try to throw him into the air, put him down again with a loud groan.

  "Grow much more and you'll be carrying me."

  The mare nuzzled the boy's shoulder. He fumbled in the saddlebag, came out with an apple.

  "Not only does he buy the beast's loyalty, he does it with my apples."

  "And whose gold did you fight the Emperor with?"

  Harald tried to look angry, failed. The two walked together up the path, the mare between them, to where the cats guarding the pass stood waiting.

  Book II: Payment Of Debts

  A man should be loyal through life to friends,

  And return gift for gift

  Unfinished Business

  It is always better to be alive.

  Harald's first day back was spent getting clean, apologizing to his wife, making much of his grandchildren—Asbjorn was the oldest—and telling the tale of his adventures to a steadily growing audience of relatives, friends and neighbors. The second was a c
ouncil of war, including Egil, Harald's eldest son, Hrolf, back the previous fall, the senior Lady from the nearby hold and several neighbors. Discussion continued the next day, now including the Greenvale paramount, who had been visiting kin halfway up Mainvale. Messages to Harald's friends—Harald had a lot of friends—went downvale on horseback, over the hills on foot. While waiting for replies, Harald sent two cats east with messages and found an excuse to visit the Order hold to see what his youngest son was looking so happy about. When he returned he discovered, not to his surprise, that Gerda had already satisfied herself on the matter.

  Niall looked up at his father's step, back to brushing his horse.

  "I visited Valholt yesterday."

  Niall said nothing.

  "Will she stay or go?"

  He looked up, puzzled.

  "Will she marry you—gods know Gerda could use another woman of sense about the place—or stay in the Order? She can't do both."

  "She. ... We ... I don't know."

  "You know their customs. A Lady can take a lover, can bear him a child. But if she marries she is no longer a part of the Order. Sometimes the Order rears the child—most often daughters—sometimes father's or mother's kin. There's always room here; one more in the pack we'd hardly notice."

  "I don't think she would leave the Order. Not now, at least. I've thought ... It hasn't come to that yet. She's not ... "

  Niall was still looking at the horse, not his father. Harald didn't think he had ever seen his son blush before.

  "You don't have to decide today, but you do have to decide. She is a brave lady, you love her, and she, for some odd reason, seems to love you. Get a chance, talk to your sister."

  Harald gave his youngest son a brief hug, walked back to the hall.

  During the next week the woods about Haraldholt filled with men; supplies poured up the vale on the backs of horses and mules. Twelve days after he came home, Harald was off again, east over the high pass with two cacades of cats, two hundred mounted archers, at his back.

  Like Harald and Hrolf a year earlier, the force reached the forest above the campground in four days, made camp at dark. Two hours before dawn the column, minus a decade with the remounts, filed silently along the final mile of trail to take up their positions hidden in the forest edge uphill from the campgrounds. At first light they began to move—two decades on the right of the line heading south and east on a wide sweep to cut off escape, the rest of the force coming down like a wave on the Wolves' camp.

  On the porch of the hostel a warden saw them and ran into the building. Men came out, most in sleeping robes. Voices, a stir in the pack train camped below. In the Wolves' camp a sleepy sentry looked up, yelled, died. The first man out of his tent, eyes blinking, clutching a sword still in its scabbard, faced a ring of mounted cats, bows ready. He considered the situation briefly, dropped his sword. Not all were so prudent. A dozen Wolves together, swords drawn, tried to break out of the ring. None made it.

  While the prisoners were being disarmed and bound, Harald rode over to the hostel to apologize for the disturbance, down to the traders' camp, then back. One of the cats had a fire going. The prisoners, arms bound behind them, were crowded in the middle of the campground while cats went through the tents making sure all were empty. Harald rode out to them.

  "The King's Messengers are dissolved. Some of you may be of some use for something. You will be branded"—he gestured to the fire—"with a cross on your forehead so that I will know you again, dispersed unarmed about the countryside. If I discover a man of you under arms, I hang him."

  One of the bound men stepped forward: "We are the King's men."

  Harald looked him up and down. "Murdering the King's friends is his concern. Murdering my friends is mine."

  "I appeal to the King's justice."

  "I will remember to mention the matter when next I see His Majesty."

  "Now do you cut my throat?"

  "If I judged plain speech so, I would have slit my own these many years past. Carry your complaint to the King if you will. But you go unarmed and on foot."

  The first group of Wolves were given two days food out of their own supplies, one day's water, directions to a spring a day's walk north and a village two days beyond that, and sent up the north road unbound, disarmed and on foot with two cats for escort. The next group went south. The cats took most of the remaining supplies to replace what they had used coming over the pass. Some of the captured horses were loaded with weapons and armor and sent out to villages in the plains and up into the western valleys; Harald did not think their lords would object. The remaining horses went back over the pass in care of a pack train boss from the vales.

  Early afternoon they started east, the prisoners on foot. The next morning the remaining Wolves were sent north and south. The men would not starve; summer labor was always scarce.

  Three days later the high hill. Harald camped his men at the bottom, a long bowshot from the walls for courtesy's sake, sent a few into the town at the hill's bottom to see what could be bought. He was not surprised, half an hour later, to see a rider coming down the path from the hilltop.

  "My lord asks what brings you into his province in arms?"

  "When last I visited His Majesty, he expressed surprise that I traveled without escort. Having discovered his advice to be good, I have followed it."

  Stephen's man looked slowly about the orderly lines of small tents, a lance with pennon flying at the end of each.

  "I do not think you need fear bandits."

  "We met some impeding trade over the pass and dispersed them. Now I travel to Forest Keep to thank the good Yosef for his hospitality, offer him aid if he has need."

  "Lord Stephen visited Forest Keep some weeks ago. The attackers were gone. He left a few men. How long do you remain here?"

  "We leave tomorrow." Harald gestured to where half a dozen cats were driving a small herd of sheep and several burdened pack horses. "We eat well tonight. If any wish to join us, I would gladly repay some part of the debt for past hospitality."

  "I will tell my lord."

  The messenger rode back up the hill; Harald walked back to where his decade was camped. Egil had their tent up. He unrolled his bedding and took a nap.

  * * *

  "Father, a guest."

  Harald opened his eyes, stuck his head out of the tent, followed it. Sniffed.

  "I smell dinner. Will you join us?"

  Stephen nodded, accompanied Harald and Egil over to the small fire. One of their companions had brought a large pot of porridge, a leg of mutton balanced on top. The cats filled their plates and bowls and, at a glance from Harald, wandered off.

  Late the next day the force neared Forest Keep. Harald left them a little distance off, rode up with only Egil. Yosef met him in the courtyard; the two embraced.

  "Yosef, this is my son Egil. Egil, Yosef, Castellan of Forest Keep."

  A small figure came running out of the stable, wrapped itself around Harald.

  "And his son Henry." Harald carefully detached Hen, peeled back his tunic neck, felt the arrow wound.

  "You'll do."

  He turned back to Yosef. "I've brought some friends."

  "Your friends are welcome to my castle."

  "Quite a lot of them. Travel having become so dangerous, I crossed the high pass with two cacades of cats. By your leave they camp outside your walls. My son and I will gladly accept your hospitality within."

  "Told you."

  Harald turned to look; it was Kara who had spoken. The two had come out of the stable after Hen and were standing there listening. He walked over to them, spoke to Elaina.

  "Are you well enough to ride? To fight?"

  She nodded.

  "Can you two find your sisters? I was planning a hunt, and they may know where the game is."

  Kara looked at him curiously; Elaina put it in words. "What do you hunt?"

  "Wolves."

  Kara nodded, turned, went back into the stable. Hen
followed her, leading the mare.

  At start of dinner they were missing both Kara, who had ridden off in search of friends, and Hen, who had last been seen heading out of the gate in the direction of the cats' camp. When they were half done, he came running into the hall to his father.

  "Father, there are hundreds of them. Horses, lances, tents, ... It's an army."

  He stopped, looked at Harald, back to his father.

  "Father, Harl, he's ..."

  Harald spoke.

  "Harl was what the Westkin named me, back when I was a little older than you are now. I think your father has figured out the rest of it."