end of it, and of him.
Once he got in among the trees, he breathed easier. He couldn’t see the spot where the crystal lay buried anymore, which took a weight off his mind. And none of the redheads could see him anymore, either, even if they were looking for him. That was also a relief.
For a while, he didn’t have to use the axe much. A lot of big branches had simply fallen off their trees, torn from them by the weight of ice they’d had to bear through the winter. Garivald just needed to trim them and stuff them into the leather sack he was carrying. He found some fine lengths of oak and ash that would burn long and hot in the hearth.
He was trimming the smaller branches from one of those lengths when, all at once, he whirled around, the axe ready to swing. He couldn’t have said what had warned him he wasn’t alone any more, but something had, and, whatever it was, it was right.
Bandits and brigands prowled the woods. That was what the Algarvians called them, anyhow: Unkerlanter soldiers who hadn’t surrendered after Mezentio’s men overran them. Some of them were nothing but bandits; others kept up the fight against the redheads. At first, Garivald thought this fellow came from that latter group. But the soldier--he was plainly a soldier--was too neat and clean for one of those men. And Garivald had never seen a hooded white smock like the one he wore. It was too thin to give any warmth; its only possible purpose was concealment.
Realization smote. “You’re a
The fellow in the white smock chuckled. “Well, so I am,” he said. “And what are you, friend? For that matter, what village are you from?”
“Zossen,” Garivald answered, pointing back through the trees. Eagerly, he went on, “Are we going to be running the Algarvians out of here soon?”
To his disappointment, the Unkerlanter soldier shook his head. “No such luck, pal. I squeezed through the redheads’ lines for a look around, that’s all. How big a garrison have they got in your village?”
“Just a squad that’s been there since they took the place,” Garivald said. “But they’ve had other men coming through--a lot of’em moving west lately.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” the soldier said with a grimace. “The hope was that they’d run out of men, and that we’d be able to roll ‘em up and clean ‘em out before the good weather comes back.”
“Powers above make it so!” Garivald exclaimed. “Powers above make our powers grow. Powers above make the redheads go.” More and more these days, he thought in doggerel. Sometimes it came out of his mouth, too.
“Well, I have to tell you I don’t think it’s going to happen,” the Unkerlanter in the white smock said. “The cursed Algarvians didn’t quite shatter the way we hoped they would. We’ve got a lot more fighting to do before we’re finally rid of ‘em.”
“Too bad,” Garivald said, though that sounded likely to him, too.
“And you’re the fellow who makes songs, aren’t you?” the soldier said. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Have you?” Garivald didn’t know what to think of that. His whole life in a peasant village had taught him that drawing notice was dangerous. But, if no one ever heard his songs, if no one ever played them, what good were they?
“Aye, I have,” the soldier said. “That’s one of the reasons I came this far east--because I’ve heard of you, I mean. Keep writing them, that’s what the officers say. They’re worth a regiment of men against the Algarvians.”
Garivald’s heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever felt prouder. “A regiment of men,” he murmured.
“Well, I’m on my way now,” the soldier said, turning his face back toward the east. “Have to see if I can make it past the redheads going the other way. Shouldn’t be too hard; they still don’t know what to do in snow.” Off he went, as used to the snowshoes on his feet as if he’d been born wearing them.
“Worth a regiment of men,” Garivald repeated once more. But then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t so glad the Unkerlanter in white had come looking for him. If that fellow knew where to find the peasant who made songs, how long would it be before the Algarvians figured it out, too?
He finished filling the leather sack with wood. Then, bent almost double under its weight, he staggered back toward Zossen. As he neared the village, he saw the man he least wanted to see. And,
