When Bragi reached the ground he found his foster brother with axe in hand, defiant.
“They’re just pups,” the sergeant observed.
“These were the two?” the officer asked.
“The same,” said the civilian. “Look like Trolledyngjans. They teach them young up there.” The woodsman held out his palms. “Let’s talk in peace,” he said in accented Trolledyngjan.
“What’s going to happen?” Bragi asked. Shakes threatened to shame him.
“Depends on you. What happened here? What brings you south?”
Bragi told it all. The scout translated.
The Itaskians chattered briefly, then the interpreter said, “Sir Cleve is inclined to generosity. Because of those.” He indicated the dead. “We’ve been after their band for weeks. We deliver their heads to the Duke, we’ll get off patrol for a while. But he doesn’t know about this Pretender. He wants to look in your packs.”
Haaken growled softly.
“Easy, son. We won’t rob you.”
“Do what he says, Haaken.”
A minute later, “Good. Now move back five paces.”
The leader examined their things. Bragi’s heirlooms generated questions.
“Our father gave them to us before he died. He told us to take them to a man in the City.”
“What man?”
“Someone named Yalmar.”
The officer asked, “You think they’re telling the truth?”
“Too scared not to. This Yalmar probably fences for the coast raiders. Their father probably saw this succession crisis coming and made arrangements.”
“What should we do with them?”
“We have no quarrel with them, sir. And they’ve done us a favor.”
“They’re Trolledyngjans,” the sergeant observed. “Ought to hang them as a warning to the next bunch.”
“A point,” the officer agreed. “But I’ve no stomach for it. Not children.”
“These children killed four men, sir.”
“Majneric’s men.”
“What’s going on?” Bragi asked nervously.
The scout chuckled. “Sergeant Weatherkind wants to hang you. Sir Cleve, on the other hand, is willing to let you go. Provided you let him have these bodies.”
“That’s fine by us.”
“Watch that sergeant,” said Haaken. “He’ll get us killed yet.” The soldier was arguing something with his commander.
“He wants Sir Cleve to confiscate your packs.”
“Friendly sort.”
“He’s from West Wapentake, where the raiders strike first every spring.”
“Look out!” Haaken dove into Bragi’s legs.
But the sergeant’s arrow was not meant for his brother. It brought a howl from down the trail.
Twenty hillmen charged from the forest.
The youths and scout braced for the charge. And Bragi marveled at the way it melted before the Itaskians’ arrows.
It was a lesson he would not forget.
A few of those hillmen bore stolen weapons, mail and shields. The first to reach Bragi was one such, and skilled with his blade. Haaken’s axe, screaming across after slashing a spearman, saved Bragi.
While Sir Cleve and his soldiers sorted themselves out, the youths and woodsman dropped three more hillmen.
The remainder scattered before the horsemen, who harried them into the forest. “Finish the wounded before they escape,” Sir Cleve called back.
“This is some day’s work,” the scout observed once the grisly business ended. “A quarter of Majneric’s men dead within an hour. Makes a week spent chasing them worthwhile.”
“Why?” Bragi asked.
“What? Ah. Hard times in the hills. Majneric brought his bucks down to raid. Can’t really hate them for it. They’re trying to take care of their families. At the expense of ours. We caught them near Mendalayas, killed a dozen. They scattered. We started hunting them down. Have to make this raiding too expensive for them.”
The soldiers returned. They had corpses across their saddles and prisoners on tethers. Sir Cleve spoke.
