by Wil McCarthy
Tom snorted. “Now you say. Are you having second thoughts?”
“Not at all. This is worth trying! I think it’s actually a pretty good idea, but who knows? Orr-oxen are feisty creatures.”
Argur emphasized the point by whipping out his leverthrow, loading a spear onto it, and hurling it at the image of an orr-ox painted in yellow on the inside of the castle wall. It struck, of course, right where the heart would be.
The wall’s inner surface was decorated with all sorts of images: trees and flowers, suns and moons, clouds and rivers and oversized leaves of important medicinal plants. But mostly it was animals, and mostly the men used them for target practice. And since the wall was made of sharpened logs lashed together, this had a tendency to weaken and fray it much faster than weather alone. This caused some grumbling among the carpenters, who had to splice in repairs several times a year. But since the carpenters were also hunters, and also used the wall for target practice, the grumbling was mostly good-natured. Mostly.
“Nice shot,” Tom said, with no more than routine enthusiasm.
Then he fired a spear or his own through the eye of a red-painted mammoth, and Jek landed his own spear right up against Tom’s, and then everyone was killing imaginary snow leopards and wooly rhinos, and Timlin even attempted a long shot at a boolis, and very nearly hit it.
There were compliments and other chatter as the men gathered up their spears, and some cursing as Gower realized he’d broken the tip off his. Some time was lost as he ran back to fetch a replacement, but soon enough they approached the castle gate, guarded by a sullen-looking boy and a resigned-looking old man, who set about opening it without being asked.
* * *
Based on these animal drawings, Harv immediately revised his estimate of how far back he’d gone this time. If there were wooly mammoths around here, then he was in the Ice Age for sure, at least as old as Kingdom and The City, and probably older. But now he was confused about the place, because these people were black. Well, medium brown, but they had a definite African-ish appearance, and there were leopards and rhinos here. But nothing about the scenery here reminded him of Africa.
The opening of the gate involved fishing a loop of rope off of a pole with a tall stick, and then lifting the gates on their creaky rope hinges and walking them out. Each half of the gate was about half as tall as the wall itself, and made from trees about half as wide as the wall’s own timbers. It was a rickety setup, and even a very small battering ram could knock it to pieces with a couple of hits, but Harv supposed battering rams weren’t considered an important threat. Overall, he couldn’t help being impressed. The gate’s timbers were just as pointy as those of the “castle” wall, and climbing over any part of the fortifications would be quite dangerous, assuming these Knights of Ell ever gave you the chance.
The word “knight” was an approximation in Harv’s mind; this language was wholly unfamiliar, and it didn’t contain concepts like “soldier” or “warrior” or “elite,” or anything like that. The word for “fight” and “fighter” were both “bork,” and the word for hunt/hunter was “heezh.” The descriptor for the fighters of Ell was “makla,” which also meant “stick,” or perhaps “club” or “spear.” “Ell” itself was some sort of proper name that conferred respect, though in a not-entirely-serious way. He supposed it was like calling themselves the Spears of Uncle Sam, or the Bludgeons of Saint Gerome.
And yes, there was some inherent respect in the way the old man and the boy opened the gate for these knights, but that wasn’t why they were opening it. It was simply morning, and time for people to start coming and going. There wasn’t really all that much inside the castle except tromped-down, vaguely muddy soil, which the residents had covered here and there with straw. Most of the daily business—hunting and gathering, apparently—would be elsewhere in the valley.
* * *
And here, Harv’s mind seemed to blur into Argur’s own, for Argur seemed to be thinking similar thoughts. It was time for the daily in-and-out traffic to begin, and indeed, Argur’s gray-haired parents waved and nodded to him, lining up for their daily fishing trip.
“Good hunting today,” said Argur’s father, Urdo.
“And you,” Argur said back warmly.
“Oh, I can only dream,” Urdo mused. “These bones won’t carry me fast enough, or flick a dart. I’m done with hunting, or it with me.”
“Nonsense. Someday soon you should come with us.”
Unlike Urdo’s father—Argur’s beloved grandfather, Kostna—Urdo himself had never been a Knight of Ell. He was capable, but never interested in the time commitments or the organization. The spirits within him were too restless for that. He had been a skilled and avid hunter, and a skilled and avid carpenter, but for the past four years he’d been settling for a net and a fishing spear instead.
“Fish don’t run,” he said. “They don’t fight back, they’re not heavy, and they taste just as good as any mammoth or orr-ox. I’m content, boy.”
“As you wish,” Argur told him.
Argur’s mother, Ilga, added, “And he can bring me with him. What man doesn’t want his wife at his side all day and all night, telling him how to do things?”
“Indeed!” Urdo said brightly.
Argur nodded. Yes, all right. As you wish.
Nismu, the Wizard of Sunrise Castle, was walking around with a smoldering stick and a handful of feathers, nodding at people.
“Spirits guide your journey. Spirits guide your journey. Spirits…”
Dala’s gather group was also assembling nearby, with scythes and baskets and feather-woven sun visors. Off to harvest grain, it appeared, and perhaps some turnips—both staples of the Nog La diet.
Argur had suggested many times to Dala that she scatter some of the grain outside the castle, in hopes that it might grow there. What could it hurt to have some growing close by? But no, she never liked that idea. The soil wasn’t right, and it wouldn’t get enough water or light or whatever, and no it didn’t make sense to break the soil up with a stick, because blah blah blah. The simple fact was, she liked getting out into the meadows with her “cattail females” and holding forth, away from the ears of men and children. Sometimes their laughter could be heard from a long way off.
* * *
It seemed a rather slow affair, for the men to shuffle out of the gate. They didn’t stride out confidently like masters of their environment, and they certainly didn’t cower or shirk, but there was a certain staged caution in the way they moved, the way they looked around, like a SWAT team exiting a building. A rather lazy and good-humored SWAT team, not expecting any trouble but still ready for it in some vague, habitual way.
* * *
Per tradition, Argur was the last man out of the gate, and took point after that. For several minutes they traveled in formation, spiraling outward around the castle, alert for tracks and droppings that didn’t belong. Alert for smells and sounds, for wheeling vultures in the sky, and anything else that might indicate trouble. The full complement of Ell didn’t always patrol the area first thing in the morning. Sometimes it was only two or three of them. Sometimes it was small groups of ordinary hunters, or even bands of well-armed women, when the Knights had their own matters to attend. Indeed, it would be inconvenient to arrange things any other way. But still, Sunrise Castle was situated within easy walking distance of the mouth of Ketlan Pass, which threaded its way uphill to the High Vales, where monsters dwelt, and it was never wise to be too lax.
Just last winter Argur and Tom had killed a snow leopard lurking right outside the castle walls, and two summers ago the Knights had stumbled on a freshly excavated den of gray hyenas. Not right outside the castle, but a bit too close for comfort. They’d ended up skewering and braining half of the stoop-shouldered beasts, and chasing the rest far into the mountains—hopefully instilling in them a fear and hatred of all things human. Because that was how Nog La was kept safe for the children, and for the adults.
“A
ll clear,” said Jek—nearly always the first to sound off.
“All clear,” said Nortlan soon after, perhaps believing his opinion was sought.
“All clear,” said Tom a little while after that. And this meant something, for Tom was a thorough and careful man. After that, the rest of the men gave their final suspicious glances this way or that way, and sounded off one by one. And again per tradition, Argur was the last to sound, and the loudest. “ALL CLEAR!” he shouted back toward the castle gates. And so the women spilled out in a laughing mob, a few of them mocking the voices of the men.
“All silly!”
“All self-important!”
“All headed off on some crazy errand!”
Nortlan didn’t like that; here he was, among men, being treated (more or less) like he belonged there. This disrespect reflected poorly on him, and it showed in his face. “All shut up!” he called back to the women indignantly.
This brought chuckles to the lips of the men, though not for the right reason. “Ho! That’s telling them.”
“Good, work, Nort.”
“You know, some of us have to go home to that.”
But then, after a bit of standing around, it was time to get down to business. The air was cool and damp, the sun just about to break clear of the groves of trees that presently hid it.
“Where exactly are we headed, Headman?” Jek wanted to know.
To which Snar said, “There’ve been orr-oxen down by the lake for the past several days.”
“Mating,” Gower replied, adding a rude hand gesture just in case he wasn’t understood.
Argur laughed politely and then said, “It’s actually the calving ones we’re concerned with.”
“The ones who mated ten moons ago,” Gouch explained, making the same rude gesture.
Nort made the gesture, too, for some reason.
And then, after a bit of nodding and shrugging they were all off as a group, whistling as they marched down toward the lake.
The valley of Nog La was broad and long; it would take a strong man all day to walk its full width, and three days to march its length, to where Sunset Castle protected its other end. The land was about evenly divided between meadows and woods, and Round Lake sat more or less in the middle of it all, taking up a quarter of the valley’s width, and was one of the main reasons hunting was always so good here. When Snar indicated there were orr-oxen down by the lake, he meant simply that they were by the part that was close to the castle itself. There were always orr-oxen somewhere around its shores. And bison, and giant elk, although the bison tended to roam farther out into the grasslands, and the elk into the forests. There were also voles and hares and ponies scattered so plentifully throughout the valley that even a pair of lazy hunters could be assured of catching dinner for their families.
There were also carrots and cabbages in the summer, and turnips and parsnips enough to fill any pot year-round, even if the lazy hunters came home empty-handed. And there were grains aplenty; wheat and rye and barley that the women cut with scythes, and shook in fat sheaves onto threshing blankets. That was what Dala and her cronies were doing today, and it meant that in a few days’ time there would be ogabred—a delicacy that had been invented right here in the valley, that visitors were always anxious to sample. A sort of hard-baked porridge, it was solid as a piece of fruit, and yet dry and fluffy inside, unlike any other food in the world.
The only real problem was rats. There were plenty of those in the valley as well, and they could gnaw their way through a basket and lay their filth all over everything they didn’t eat. They seemed particularly attracted to ogabred, so you had to eat it quickly, or they would find it and do it for you. Or the mold would get it. But anyway, fresh from the fire it was warm and delicious and full of love.
“I’m looking forward to the smell of baking,” Nortlan said, as if reading Argur’s thoughts.
“Maybe some girl will even let you eat,” Jek said. Some of the men laughed at that, for Nortlan’s mother did not participate in the harvesting or grinding or baking, and smells might be all Nort could expect from the venture.
“Come to my house,” Argur told him. “We’ll have some extra for you.”
That raised some raucous suggestions about Argur’s daughter—would she feed Nort by hand? Would she stroke his hair while he ate? Would she drink gargo with him, and go all swoozy in his arms?
Gargo was another grain product, not invented in Nog La but arguably perfected here. Wetting and rotting it was a fickle process that often left nothing more than jars of putrid gruel, but the women of the lake villages were particularly adept at it, and often traded gargo to Sunrise Castle in exchange for ogabred. The castle women were always complaining that it was too much work, and that the men drank it all too quickly, that it led to…indiscretions.
These insinuations of course required Argur to throw some punches to defend his family honor, and to receive some punches in return, as the men he’d punched defended their own honor. Sometimes these things flared up into genuine brawls—the Knights of Ell were proud men!—but today it settled down quickly enough, and they all decided to lie down in the dewy grass and rest for a while, and watch the clouds turn into different shapes. Why not?
“I see a mammoth,” Tom said, settling down with his hands behind his head.
The men laughed at this, because Tom said it literally every time he looked up at the sky, day or night. He seemed incapable of seeing anything else up there, or unwilling, or else just really running on forever with a tired joke.
“I see pine trees,” said Timlin.
“I see wolves,” said Max, pointing to a particular spot in the sky. Argur had to agree; the clouds looked very much like wolves, at least for a moment. And then the conversation trailed away.
“Your daughter is very beautiful,” Nortlan said, after a seemly interval had passed.
“My daughter?” Max exclaimed, drawing fresh laughter, for his daughter was only three years old.
“No!” Nort said indignantly. “Argur’s daughter.”
“Ah. She is beautiful,” Argur agreed.
“And kind.”
“Indeed.”
“And funny, and a good provider. She can gather and weave and sew.”
“All true.”
Argur waited to see whether Nort would press the point at any further. Part of him wanted to say, “Stay away from my baby girl.” He’d always figured Dele would end up with a Knight, or at least a hunter, and Nortlan showed little inclination in those directions. What right did he have to come sniffing around, with nothing to show for himself? Another part wanted to test the boy, to see how strong he was in other ways. Was he a good fowler or craftsman, weatherman or peacemaker? Could he sing and dance? So far, none of the usual talents had made themselves apparent, except perhaps a slight gift for fishing.
But who could fail at that? He rarely even used a net and spear, but built traps out of vertically driven stakes, like little castles with entrances that were wide and then narrow and then wide again. Fish and craw-pincers would find their way in and get confused, unable to find their way out, and Nortlan would simply go and harvest them, like gathering turnips from a tended patch. Was that clever, or was it lazy? Nort wasn’t generally a lazy boy—in fact, he could be surprisingly energetic—but he was a boy nevertheless. What could be made of him? His father, Pock, was lazy, and tended to tag along with hunting groups so he could claim a share of the kill, and spent the rest of his time sleeping and tossing pebbles and borrowing things. Nort’s mother, Nanka, was about the same.
Well, at least Nort was popular with old people and little children. That was a start, and perhaps here among Knights and hunters, he would find a bit more of himself. Weirder things had been known to happen.
Still, a third part of him wanted to ignore the problem and get down to business, and it was this part that won out. “Enough rest. Enough clouds,” he said. With a grunt, he was up on his feet again, and the Knights were up wi
th him, brushing grass and dirt off their tunics and trousers, and break time was over just like that. Soon they were on the path again, whistling and marching and throwing pine cones at one another, and generally having a good time.
2.2
Life hadn’t always been this easy in Nog La. Argur’s grandfather used to tell stories, passed down from his own grandfather, of a time before Knights and castles. A time when monsters outnumbered human beings, when trolls and giant bears roamed the valley freely, when villagers were routinely dragged away by leopards and lions without warning. “This place used to belong to the trolls,” Granddad would say, “and the beasts of the forest knew better than to mess with them, when it was so much easier pluck off humans like raspberries anytime they liked.”
This, of course, made Argur wonder why humans have ever bothered to settle here, if it was so dangerous. He knew, in a vague sort of way, that at the beginning of time they had lived in a much warmer, much safer place, with no requirement for Knights. But they’d been forced to vacate because of snakes or fruit or something, and had wandered for ten generations. He supposed the whole world must have been very dangerous indeed, for his ancestors to have thought this a haven! And it made him wonder, too, how many generations of brave, hard work it had taken to push the trolls and monsters out of here. Or mostly push, for Argur knew of at least one troll who was sometimes spotted at the edge of the valley, hunting small game and turnips when the light was dim. Sunrises and sunsets and rainy days, mostly.
As the men walked, a hare bounded right through their midst, barking in dismay. A silver fox was soon spotted running in the same direction, and at first it seemed the fox was chasing the hare, until it overtook it and kept on running in its sly, foxy way, flowing like water between the trees.
“Alert,” said Tom quietly.
The Knights of Ell tensed, readying weapons and turning to look in the direction the two animals had vacated.