There had been days when they had not made a mile. Like yesterday. After burying Soren in the hard earth, they had fought the snowy mountain till exhaustion had forced a halt.
Sigurd had passed almost a month ago. The crossing had taken two months.
“Can’t make it,” Haaken gasped. “Go on without me.”
He had suggested it before. “We’ve got it whipped now, Haaken. All downhill from here.”
“Tired, Bragi. Got to rest. Make it while you can. I’ll catch up.”
“Come on. Step. Step. Step.”
The foothills were hot compared to the high range. The boys camped there a week, regaining their strength. Game was scarce.
They had begun to encounter signs of the foothill tribes. Once they passed the ruin of a small log fortress. It had been burned within the month.
“We should be near Itaskia’s Duchy Greyfells,” Bragi said around a rabbit’s leg. “This trail should run into the highway Father called the North Road. That’s a straight run to Itaskia the City.”
Itaskia the kingdom and its capital bore the same name. This was the case with several states. Each had grown round a strong city-survivor of the Fall.
“Wish you’d stop being so damned optimistic,” Haaken grumbled. He attacked the rabbit like a starved bear. “We can’t even speak the language. And we’re Trolledyngjans. If bandits don’t get us, the Itaskians will.”
“You should ease up on the pessimism. Damned if I don’t think all you’d see is a hernia if we found a pot of gold.”
“Can’t go through life expecting everything to work out. You expect the worst, you’re ready for anything.”
“What do
“I stopped making plans when Father died.”
Bragi had no plan either, beyond following his father’s sketchy suggestions. What happened after they found this Yalmar?
“Haaken, all I know is what Father said.”
“Then we just have to keep on till something happens.”
It happened next morning.
Haaken paused to urinate. Bragi ambled on ahead and was alone when the hillmen leapt out of the brush.
Their stone-tipped spears turned on his mail shirt, which his father had told him to wear whenever he traveled. They pulled him down and drew knives.
Haaken arrived, axe whining. He slew two before the others realized he was there.
Bragi scrambled away, regained his feet, finally used his sword.
A survivor tried to flee. Sword and axe stopped him.
“What the hell?” Haaken gasped.
“Meant to rob me, I guess,” Bragi wheezed, shaking. “That was too close.”
“I warned you.”
“Let’s ditch them and get out of here.”
“Listen!”
Hoofbeats. Approaching.’
“Into the brush,” Bragi said.
“Up a tree,” Haaken countered. “Ragnar said people never look up.”
Within a minute they were high in an old oak. Their packs seemed weightless during the climb.
The dead still lay scattered on the trail.
Six horsemen appeared. An officer, four soldiers and one civilian.
“Itaskians,” Bragi whispered.
“What the hell?” the officer demanded, reining in. The youths did not understand Itaskian, but guessed his meaning.
The soldiers drew swords. The civilian dismounted, examining the battleground.
“Majneric’s men. They ambushed two travelers. Within the past few minutes. The travelers are in a black oak about thirty feet to your left.”
“Who’d be out here when Majneric’s loose?”
“You’ll have to ask. Use bows. They shouldn’t resist the invitation.”
“Just so. Sergeant.”
The soldiers sheathed their blades, readied bows. Bragi and Haaken exchanged looks.
“Nobody ever looks up, eh?” Bragi growled, looking down four shafts. The scout beckoned.
