by David Welch
“Ride safe,” the lord called over his shoulder as he trotted away. Then, to his soldiers, he said, “Bring Hovral back to the hall. I’ll deal with him. And make sure Rasi’s father knows what he got tangled up in!”
The soldiers trotted off towards distant Harlonth. Gunnar released a relieved breath and looked towards Kamith.
“I didn’t want to,” she said immediately. “There were too many to fight. I thought if I went along and got outside the town, I could find you.”
He nodded, unable to feel anger at the woman. He loved her too much. Kamith slumped in her saddle anyway, riding away from his gaze. She paused above Tankareth’s body and spat on the corpse.
“You thought I would just open my legs for you because you were from my tribe?” she screeched. She spat again then rode away from the last man of the Red Horse. She galloped over to Burden, taking his reins and calming the great horse.
Gunnar moved to follow. They walked the horses slowly eastwards.
“You still think we’ll find a place to winter in the forests?” she asked.
He nodded, saying, “Heard some of the kingdoms there were hiring mercenaries. Make some money, stay out the winter somewhere with food and warmth.”
“Hopefully better than this town,” she grumbled.
A long moment of silence passed between them, a torn expression taking hold of Kamith.
“I wouldn’t have gone to his furs,” she said. “Even if I hadn’t found you, I would’ve ridden away.”
There was a desperate plea in her voice.
“I know, love,” he replied.
She halted her horse.
“What did you call me?” she asked.
“‘Love’,” he said, smiling and riding on. Kamith sat stunned in her saddle for a moment, then she galloped to catch up. They rode east, the high, midday sun on their backs.
Wolves of the White Wood
“I don’t like this.”
Kamith spoke the words for the fifth time in as many hours. They rode through thick forest. For just over two weeks, they had ridden east, crossing vast stretches of the Great Grasslands. Gunnar had avoided stopping and staying with locals, even when they were inviting. He’d heard word of the kingdoms on the Great Freshwater Seas hiring mercenaries, and he figured it was a good way to pass the winter. A place to stay, money in your pocket, the warmth of a building and a fire; much better than wandering about in the snow. He’d spent enough winters cold, miserable, and one deer away from starvation.
But Kamith was a child of the grass, used to endless expanses where you could see forever. The only forests she’d seen had been the small lines of trees clinging to the shores of rivers and ponds, and the open pine woods of the Stone God Mountains. Those forests hadn’t exactly helped her grow accustomed to the woods, seeing as she’d nearly been sacrificed within sight of them.
“There’s a thousand places a person could be hiding,” she remarked, gripping tight on the reins of her horse.
“You’re assuming somebody is trying to kill us,” Gunnar said, riding a few steps ahead of her.
“Somebody usually is,” she griped.
He let her fume. The forest here was young. Harvest season had ended, so little underbrush remained alive in the chill, but the trees were thick in and of themselves. A hundred yards brought them out of the younger trees. Their horses strode under a towering canopy of white pines and hemlock, stretching two hundred feet into the gloomy, gray sky. Gunnar felt reassured; somebody was either harvesting trees or planting in this area, otherwise all of the forest would be made of these towering giants.
Unless, of course, there’d been a fire a few years back. He had no way of knowing which was the case, but he settled on farming, mostly because it was the most optimistic option.
They rode on, surprising a small group of forest caribou as they went. Kamith instinctively grasped tight on the long, leather lead than ran back to their packhorse, Burden, who trailed behind with gear and armor. The caribou darted away beneath the towering trees, their hooves crunching brown needles underfoot. So far, they were the only life Gunnar had seen. Between the weather, the fading daylight, and the cool breezes that whispered of winter to come, everything seemed dead and still.
A mile passed and so did the mature trees. They came into a large clearing. It wasn’t a meadow or a farm, though; it was a cut clearing. Rows of stumps, so meticulously aligned that only a human hand could have seeded them, ran off for a quarter mile or so. Each stump was two feet across, give or take a few inches. Nothing stirred in the small patch of wasteland, and they kept riding.
They entered another forest, a rather particular one. Trees, all of them with trunks just shy of two feet across, ran from the trail in ordered rows. Gunnar cocked his head at this, examining them closely, noticing that all the trees were exactly the same as the one next to them.
They looked like maples or oaks, with stout trunks and branches that sprawled away, creating a dome-shaped spread of foliage, but this was no broadleaf tree. Tiny, needle-like leaves stood clustered on its branches, clearly those of an evergreen. This tree, important for some reason to whoever lived here, wasn’t particularly tall or large. Certainly not the type you’d want if you were looking to make some coin on timber. Yet they were everywhere. As they rode on, the trunks of the trees got smaller and smaller, shrinking every mile or so.
“They’re harvesting the trees,” Gunnar thought aloud.
“Trees? You can’t eat trees,” Kamith said, unease still thick on her voice.
“You harvest them for wood,” Gunnar explained. “See how every so often they get smaller? They’re rotating, cutting a band each year and then replanting so they’ll have more in the future.”
Kamith looked around.
“They’re all the same tree,” she finally noticed.
Gunnar rolled his eyes but bit back his words. He’d grown up amidst a forest, as grand and almost as dense as this one. Kamith probably would’ve been rolling her eyes if she’d known that when he looked across the great prairie all he saw was ‘grass’.
Gunnar turned back to the trail, seeing a blur of movement behind a line of trees.
“I wonder who planted them,” she said.
“Probably that guy,” said Gunnar.
He pointed ahead, where the blur had resolved itself into a man. He stood fifty yards away, staring coldly at them. He wore dark-brown, leather pants and a green, woolen tunic that ran to mid-thigh, more a long sweater than anything else. The dark forest hues made it perfect for blending in with the surrounding woods. Gunnar wondered how long he’d been watching them. A knitted cap, also green, rested atop his head. He had gray eyes and light copper skin, a shade or two lighter than Gunnar’s own. A scruffy black beard clung to the man’s face.
Most impressive, though, was the bow in the man’s left hand. Gunnar blinked to make sure he saw clearly. The stave, strung and ready, stretched nearly as tall as the man himself. It was a thick bow, and a long arrow with a narrow, metal head waited on the string.
The man made no move to fire. His arms, chest, and back bulged with muscle, visible even through the thick wool. He simply watched them for a long moment then shouted something in a strange language.
Another man ran up; an older fellow who wore no hat and sported graying hair. His bow was not nocked, but he too had massive muscles coating his upper body. The fellow darted up to them, looking from one to the other. He looked more curious then wary.
“Hello,” he said in Trade Tongue. Across the world, it seemed everybody knew some version of the language. “What brings you here?”
“Passing through, looking for work,” Gunnar replied.
The man eyed his sword and shield, seeming to marvel at the sight of them.
“You’re a warrior?” he asked.
“When I need to be,” Gunnar replied. “Was a soldier for seven years in the armies of Harmon.”
“Harmon?” the man asked.
“A kingdom far to t
he west, past the grasslands, under the icy peaks,” Gunnar explained.
Amazement returned to the man’s eyes.
“Past the Ocean of Grass?” he asked, jaw gaping. “Never met anyone who’s been that far!”
“My name is ‘Gunnar’, this is Kamith,” he said, gesturing to his lover. Wariness still tightened her face, cooling some of her natural beauty.
“‘Kamith’, eh? Never heard that one before,” he said. “Or ‘Gunnar’, either. But you traveled far, so why should I?”
“Where exactly are we?” Gunnar asked.
“The lands of the Duahr!” he said proudly. “Just a short ride from Aguaiadain! Southernmost town of the lot!”
The first bowman’s face darkened as the information spilled; clearly a less trusting type than his friend.
“And we got work for soldiers!” the man exclaimed, eyes brightening as he remembered Gunnar’s words. “You got to see the mayor! He and the war chief told us to ask any man with the look of a warrior to stop in, talk with them. Amazing luck, my friend, coming here looking for work and all! Weniho must be smiling upon you!”
“‘Weniho’?” Kamith asked.
“Ah!” the man said, smacking his forehead. “Our god; can’t expect you to know about him, being travelers and all. Please, come with me! You can speak to the mayor, rest at the inn, plenty of space this time of year. Don’t get many visitors after harvest.”
He waved them on, walking down the path. They passed the other guard, who still had an uncertain look on his face. He melted back into the rows of trees as they went.
“I’m Noke,” the graying man said. “Born and raised here. Seen lots of folks come through, mostly from the south, though. Not many from off the plains. Most of those folk don’t seem to like the trees.”
Kamith nodded at the words.
“Don’t have to worry here, though,” he went on. “Bears and cougars and wolves stay away from the town; smells too much like man and dog. Plenty to hunt, though, once you get used to the trees. Deer, moose, caribou, rabbits, all sorts of tasty creatures!”
The trail widened into a small road, flanked by saplings on each side.
“These trees,” Gunnar remarked, “they’re all the same.”
“It’s a bow tree!” Noke declared proudly, slapping the bow in his hand. “Strongest bows in all the world! And that’s all from the tree. You never heard that? I heard word of our bows has gone out all over this here earth.”
“I’m sorry, no. We hadn’t heard,” Gunnar informed him.
“No matter! We grow ’em and shoot ’em and keep the Bailor away. Goes right through their fancy armor like it was parchment!” Noke continued.
The saplings grew smaller and smaller before fading away altogether. Kamith released a joyous breath as they rode into a vast clearing that stretched far ahead of them. Grass grew tall, feeding large herds of sheep and shaggy, long-horned cattle. The animals milled about and fed. Near each herd, a shepherd walked, many with longbows slung across their backs. Each shouted orders at packs of large dogs, which corralled and directed the herds.
“They look like you,” Kamith said to Gunnar with a smile, noticing his gaze.
He gave her that. The dogs, big animals nearly three feet at the shoulder, were covered in long, rusty-red hair. But unlike his, their hair fell past their eyes. How they could see at all was beyond him.
For about three miles, they rode through pasture, Noke regaling them with stories of big bulls and one bawdy tale of what they’d caught one of their teenagers doing with a sheep. Then, the pasture stopped abruptly. Wooden fences rose from the cleared ground, tight and high to keep deer away. They walked through a small gate into farmland. It was brown and dead, having already been harvested.
“Barley and corn and wheat and oats, we grow ’em all!” Noke boasted. “Best whiskey of all the villages, right here.”
Gunnar got the impression that the village of Aguaiadain had the best of everything, but said nothing. It was hard to be critical of a man who was so cheerful. They rode on and listened to the talkative fellow a bit more. A lake broke the farmland, and Noke led them south of it to a hill that rose on the western shore. The village of Aguaiadain spilled down its slopes. They stopped to take a look, Gunnar realizing that this middle-aged man must’ve just walked six miles without stopping to take a breath.
“There she is!” he declared. “Got another lake on the other side, can’t see it from here, just as pretty.”
Kamith stiffened instinctively at the sight of the town. Gunnar put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, remembering the trouble the last town had caused her.
Aguaiadain was built from the forests that surrounded its lands. Wooden buildings, one and two stories high, sat high on the slopes. The hill itself wasn’t very tall, maybe a hundred feet above the flat expanse of the surrounding farmland, but it was a long and broad ridge. Wide roads ran between the buildings, and small kitchen gardens grew behind most of the homes. Near the top of the hill rose a dense cluster of larger buildings, culminating in a tall, wooden keep attached to a long hall. The keep was five stories tall, and it and the adjacent hall were surrounded by a palisade. At the base of the hill ran another palisade, twenty-foot-tall tree trunks sitting atop a ten-foot earthworks that encircled the entire village. An allure, or wall walk, ran around the inside of the palisade. He could tell because the upper torsos of men made their way along the wall. Where the town reached the waters of the lake, the berm pinched in, allowing for a grassy beach and a boathouse.
They rode towards the southern gate. Tall, wooden towers flanked it, each with a bowman sitting about lazily. Noke waved to them as they entered. The three of them followed a broad street up the spine of the ridge, their guide greeting almost every person they passed. Men and women watched, some wary, others curious. Most of the men were as large and muscular as Noke, their bodies toned from years of drawing back on their greatbows. Children followed, the most fearless of the bunch. Most of the townsfolk wore knitted wool, each tunic and sweater graced with the unique patterns of the hand that made it.
At the top of the hill, they reached the second palisade. It had no towers, but two men stood on a platform that ran around the inside, watching. Noke led them up to the front door of the great hall. Some children – the mayor’s, Gunnar figured – scurried about in play. A young boy with a small bow fired blunted staves at the palisade, aiming for a splotch of blue paint. They all stopped to watch the strangers pass.
Gunnar and Kamith tied their mounts to a hitching post near the door then made their way inside. Like most of the great and not-so-great halls Gunnar had seen, it was mostly empty space; a long room running some distance. No doubt it was perfect for feasts and musters and whatever gatherings the ‘mayor’ required. Tables were scattered about, unused. Woolen banners hung from the rafters, painted with scenes of life, hunting, and war amongst the Duahr people. There was no throne at the far end, just a long table with a dozen chairs. A tall man with iron-gray eyes, his frame thin except for the bulky muscles of his arms and back, stared at a long map on the table.
“Thoam!” Noke cried as he approached. “Got visitors. You’ll like ’em; one has got a sword and everything!”
Thoam raised an eyebrow, eying the man and woman before him. Gunnar nodded respectfully.
“Where’s the mayor?” Noke asked.
“Here, cousin,” a man’s voice said. A thick-set figure emerged from a door behind the table. The mayor couldn’t have been much more than five feet, but his shoulders were nearly as broad as he was tall. Thick black hair topped his head. His face bore a family resemblance to Noke’s, though he was probably a decade younger. A pair of toddlers scampered out after him. He tousled their hair affectionately and watched them dart off into the hall. A young woman darted out behind him, a beautiful girl with ice-blue eyes and hair the color of coal. She scowled at the mayor then followed the twin boys as they explored the vast chamber.
“These two ju
st rode in off the plains,” Noke said. “This here is Gunnar, and this one is Kamith.”
“Hello,” Gunnar said simply.
Kamith nodded but said nothing.
“Hello,” replied the man, in Trade. “My name is ‘Edahr’, mayor of Aguaiadain. What brings you to our lands?”
“Work,” Gunnar said simply.
“Said he’s looking for a job, can fight with a sword,” explained Noke.
“Really? My war chief is looking for somebody who can handle getting up close with an enemy,” Edahr said.
“Well, I can do that,” Gunnar replied.
“What you say, Thoam? Will he do?” the mayor asked, turning to his war chief. The tall man examined Gunnar.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Thoam said.
“Sword and shield use different muscles than a bow,” Gunnar replied. He pulled his sword from its sheath and laid it on the table. The war chief picked it up reverently, grasping it firmly but without the familiarity of a man raised on the weapon.
“So much metal…” he whispered, then he put the sword down. Gunnar sheathed the weapon and met the war chief’s stare.
“Well?” Mayor Edahr pressed.
“I want to test him,” Thoam replied.
“Test me?” asked Gunnar.
“Test him?” came Kamith’s worried voice.
“Against Frad,” Thoam said. “Tonight.”
“That’ll convince you?” Edahr asked. “We can’t be passing up every soldier who comes through.”
Gunnar got the distinct impression that more was going on than he knew, but he said nothing.
“Tonight,” the war chief repeated. “We’ll see if he’s up to the task.”
***
They’d settled in at Noke’s house. The man had offered them a place to stay minutes after the war chief’s words. He, who had talked up the village’s only inn on the ride in, now wouldn’t even hear of them staying there. He’d said the house was lonely since his youngest went off to the next village to marry her lover; that he had a whole room and nothing to do with it. So they’d settled in, meeting Noke’s wife; a wizened woman who’d seen forty-eight winters. Eugen wasn’t the prettiest woman the world had seen, but she’d been more than welcoming. Gunnar had watched her cast knowing glances at Noke as her husband, who turned out to be a few years younger than her, moved about like an excited child. Gunnar got the distinct impression that she was the anchor that kept her man’s boisterousness from consuming the town in a white-hot blaze.