Reaching level ground he tried to skirt the revellers. There were maybe thirty people in the group, roughly dressed, many of them with bright scarves around their heads. Two of the men saw him and called out. Huntsekker ignored them and plodded on. But he heard them run after him and turned to face them.
‘It is customary for strangers to visit our fire,’ said the first man, with a wide, challenging grin. He was powerfully built and tall, maybe twenty years younger than Huntsekker. A red scarf was tied around his head, and he wore a heavy topcoat of faded crimson. The second man was leaner. He too wore a red scarf, and sported a thick, shaggy black beard. He had moved a little to Huntsekker’s left, and his hand was resting on the hilt of a knife at his belt. Some things never change, thought Huntsekker wearily. He would be invited to join them. They would ply him with drink. At some point he would be asked to pay for his enjoyment. The amount – curiously -would be exactly the number of coins in his money pouch.
‘I am not the stranger here,’ he said coldly. ‘You are. Now go back to your fire and your women and leave me in peace.’
‘We don’t like your tone,’ snapped the second man.
‘Do I look like I care, rat breath?’ said Huntsekker.
‘Well now,’ said the first man, his smile fading. ‘It looks like we have someone here who thinks he’s tough. Is that what you think, fat man?’ he asked, stepping in close.
Huntsekker smiled. Reaching up he idly tugged the spikes of his beard. Then his left fist snapped forward, slamming into the big man’s face. Dropping his staff Huntsekker followed this with a right cross that spun the river man from his feet. He lay there unmoving. Lazily Huntsekker turned towards the second man who was staring in stunned amazement at his fallen comrade. The man swallowed hard, glanced back at the watching people by the fire, then reached for his knife.
‘Do not be foolish,’ said Huntsekker, so softly that the crowd could not hear. ‘You are gutless and frightened. You know that if you draw that blade I will kill you. So pick up your friend and take him back to the fire. Then ask some of the others who did this to him. When you hear my name try not to piss in your breeches.’
The man swallowed hard. His hand came away from the knife. Huntsekker gathered up his staff and walked on to Powdermill’s house. He was angry now, and his neck felt stiff and sore. In the old days throwing a punch would have loosened him up. Now he had pulled a muscle. Still, the headache had gone.
Coming to the front door he rapped on it with his knuckles. ‘Who is it?’ called a thin, reedy voice.
‘A real wizard would know already,’ replied Huntsekker. ‘But then you’re just a miserable fake.’
The door swung open and a small man peered out. He had long white hair, thinning at the crown, and small, button blue eyes. He gave a wide grin, displaying two golden teeth. ‘I don’t use my powers lightly, Huntsekker,’ he said.
‘Or cheaply. Invite me in. It’s damned cold out here.’
Aran Powdermill stepped aside. Huntsekker eased past him, removed his bearskin coat, and strode across to a deep chair by the fire.
‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ said the little man. Huntsekker gazed around the room. Books and manuscripts filled the shelves, and littered the long table by the only window. Powdermill dragged a second chair to the fire and sat down.
‘You are looking old and tired,’ he said.
‘I am both,’ agreed Huntsekker. ‘So let us cut to the chase.’
‘The Moidart is troubled,’ said Powdermill, before Huntsekker could continue. ‘His son is threatened, and he wants to know the nature of the enemy.’
‘Makes no sense to me,’ said Huntsekker. ‘You don’t know who is at your door, but you know the thoughts of a man twenty miles away.’
‘Life is a mystery,’ said Powdermill, with a gold-toothed grin.
‘It is that, right enough,’ agreed Huntsekker.