forest, both horse and foot, was the biggest Ragnarson had seen since the flareup with Prost Kamenets. At their head, fat and robed in brown and astride his pathetically bony little donkey, rode Mocker.
They were not Royal troops, though they were disciplined and well-equipped. Their banners were of the Mercenary's Guild. But Ragnarson knew few of their names could be found on Guild rosters. They were Trolledyngjans.
The desert horsemen, after first rushing toward the newcomers, retreated. Even a shaghun was no advantage against such numbers.
Their flight passed near Ragnarson. The shaghun, in a burnoose as dark as night, was an easy target.
One shaft, from a bow few men could pull, flew so swift its passage was nearly invisible. It burst through the shaghun's skull.
For a long minute Bragi watched the riders gallop off.
In an hour they would have disappeared without a trace. They came and went like the sandstorms of their native land, unpredictable and devastating.
"Hai!" Mocker cried as Bragi trotted up. "As always, one believed old fat windy fool, self, arrives in nick, to salvage bacon of friend of huge militant repute but, as customary, leaguered up by nearest congregation quadra-plegic. Self, am thinking same should admit same before assembled host..."
"Speaking of which," Ragnarson interrupted, "where'd you turn this crowd up?"
"Conjuration." The fat man grinned. "Self, being mighty sorcerer, wizard of worldwide dread, made passes in night, danced widdershins round yew tree, nude, burned unholy incense, called up demon legion..."
"Never changes, does he? Blows hard as a winter wind."
The speaker was a man even more massive than Ragnarson, mounted on a giant gray. He had the shaggy black hair of a wild man, and behind his beard a mass of dark teeth.
"Haaken! How the hell are you? What you doing here?" Haaken Blackfang was his foster brother.
"Been recruiting. Headed south now." Without alcohol in him Blackfang was as reticent as Mocker was loquacious.
"Thought that was where you were. With Reskird and Rolf. Speaking of Rolf, he turned up yesterday, three quarters dead, with that gang after him."
"Uhn," Blackfang grunted. "Not good. Didn't expect them to get excited this soon. Figured another year."
"What're you talking about?"
"Rolf's job to explain."
"He can't. Might never explain anything. Mocker, did you bring Nepanthe? We need medical help."
Before the fat man could reply, Blackfang interjected, "He didn't. I'll loan you my surgeon."
Ragnarson frowned.
"He's good. Youngster with a case of wanderlust. Now then, where to settle this lot? Looks like your fields have been hurt enough."
"Uhn. East pasture, by the mill. I want my animals near the house till this blows over." He wondered if there would be room, though. Blackfang's baggage continued rolling from the forest, wagon after wagon. This looked like a volkswanderung. "What you got here, Haaken, a whole army?"
"Four hundred horse, the same afoot."
"But women and children ..."
"Maybe word hasn't filtered down. There's trouble in Trolledyngja. Looks like civil war. The Pretender's grip is slipping. Fair-weather supporters are deserting him. Night raiders haunt the outlands. Lot of people like these, whether they favor him or the Old House, don't want to get involved."
A similar desire, after their family had been decimated in the civil war that had given the Pretender the Trolledyngjan throne, had driven Ragnarson and Black-fang over the Kratchnodians years ago.
"Had a letter from the War Minister a while back," said Ragnarson. "Wanted to know why there hadn't been any raids this spring. He thought something like Ringerike might be shaping up. Now I understand. Everybody stayed home to keep an eye on the neighbors."
"About it. Some decided to try their luck with us."
"What about the Guild? They won't like you showing their colors. And Itaskia won't want Trolledyngjans roving round the countryside."
"All taken care of. Fees paid, passes
They were not Royal troops, though they were disciplined and well-equipped. Their banners were of the Mercenary's Guild. But Ragnarson knew few of their names could be found on Guild rosters. They were Trolledyngjans.
The desert horsemen, after first rushing toward the newcomers, retreated. Even a shaghun was no advantage against such numbers.
Their flight passed near Ragnarson. The shaghun, in a burnoose as dark as night, was an easy target.
One shaft, from a bow few men could pull, flew so swift its passage was nearly invisible. It burst through the shaghun's skull.
For a long minute Bragi watched the riders gallop off.
In an hour they would have disappeared without a trace. They came and went like the sandstorms of their native land, unpredictable and devastating.
"Hai!" Mocker cried as Bragi trotted up. "As always, one believed old fat windy fool, self, arrives in nick, to salvage bacon of friend of huge militant repute but, as customary, leaguered up by nearest congregation quadra-plegic. Self, am thinking same should admit same before assembled host..."
"Speaking of which," Ragnarson interrupted, "where'd you turn this crowd up?"
"Conjuration." The fat man grinned. "Self, being mighty sorcerer, wizard of worldwide dread, made passes in night, danced widdershins round yew tree, nude, burned unholy incense, called up demon legion..."
"Never changes, does he? Blows hard as a winter wind."
The speaker was a man even more massive than Ragnarson, mounted on a giant gray. He had the shaggy black hair of a wild man, and behind his beard a mass of dark teeth.
"Haaken! How the hell are you? What you doing here?" Haaken Blackfang was his foster brother.
"Been recruiting. Headed south now." Without alcohol in him Blackfang was as reticent as Mocker was loquacious.
"Thought that was where you were. With Reskird and Rolf. Speaking of Rolf, he turned up yesterday, three quarters dead, with that gang after him."
"Uhn," Blackfang grunted. "Not good. Didn't expect them to get excited this soon. Figured another year."
"What're you talking about?"
"Rolf's job to explain."
"He can't. Might never explain anything. Mocker, did you bring Nepanthe? We need medical help."
Before the fat man could reply, Blackfang interjected, "He didn't. I'll loan you my surgeon."
Ragnarson frowned.
"He's good. Youngster with a case of wanderlust. Now then, where to settle this lot? Looks like your fields have been hurt enough."
"Uhn. East pasture, by the mill. I want my animals near the house till this blows over." He wondered if there would be room, though. Blackfang's baggage continued rolling from the forest, wagon after wagon. This looked like a volkswanderung. "What you got here, Haaken, a whole army?"
"Four hundred horse, the same afoot."
"But women and children ..."
"Maybe word hasn't filtered down. There's trouble in Trolledyngja. Looks like civil war. The Pretender's grip is slipping. Fair-weather supporters are deserting him. Night raiders haunt the outlands. Lot of people like these, whether they favor him or the Old House, don't want to get involved."
A similar desire, after their family had been decimated in the civil war that had given the Pretender the Trolledyngjan throne, had driven Ragnarson and Black-fang over the Kratchnodians years ago.
"Had a letter from the War Minister a while back," said Ragnarson. "Wanted to know why there hadn't been any raids this spring. He thought something like Ringerike might be shaping up. Now I understand. Everybody stayed home to keep an eye on the neighbors."
"About it. Some decided to try their luck with us."
"What about the Guild? They won't like you showing their colors. And Itaskia won't want Trolledyngjans roving round the countryside."
"All taken care of. Fees paid, passes
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