The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

“Tossi,” Macurdy said, “would you take a room at the inn for Jeremid, Melody and me? But not for you three?”

The dwarf gnarled his brows. “What have ye in mind?”

“I’m not sure. But it may be I’ll want you to take a place in town for yourselves.”

“In town?”

“Can you make swords?”

“What?!”

“You told Kittul Kendersson you wanted adventure. It might be we’ll find some here. If I decide it’s the thing to do, would you hire a room at the inn for the three of us?”

“Aye, I would. But as for making swords . . . We could, any of us, but they’d not be of first quality. Better than tallfolk make, but . . . Every dwarf lad is taught to work metals, from gold to iron, but we’d rarely be called on to do it without a master smith at hand to supervise.”

“Good enough. Making swords would only be an excuse for hiring a place in town. Let’s leave our remounts and pack animals at the stable here and ride in. We won’t take rooms yet; I have to see what’s going on first.”

At the town gates, Macurdy felt the sentries eye his spear, and those of the two Ozians, but didn’t stop them. The dwarves, he decided, had been their pass. Inside the stockade, the cobbled main street was wide enough for wagons to pass easily, though buildings overhung it. The six visitors walked their mounts briskly, the quickstepping hooves of the dwarves’ ponies a sharp counterpoint to the louder clopping of the horses, and shortly they came to the town square.

It was decorated with the bodies of men dead or dying, or soon to be—fourteen of them, standing or hanging with their wrists lashed overhead, the sun beating on them. Above each was a sign in blood red: REBEL. Two were conspicuously dead, had begun to swell, and flies swarmed on them. Six others were either dead or too weak to stand, hanging on their tethers, their hands swollen and black. Another six stood grimly, their weight on their feet instead of on their wrists. Three guards stood by. Most bypassers avoided looking. A stray dog, in slinking mode, approached one of the dead and sniffed. Spear leveled, one of the guards ran it off.

“Stay here,” Macurdy murmured to the others, and dismounting, walked up to a guard. “We’re strangers,” he said. “From the Kingdom of the Diamond Flues.” He gestured toward the posts. “What sort of men are these?”

The guard looked sourly at the posts, then at Macurdy’s discolored face, but his speech was civil. “They’re from the hills off north,” he said. “Part of a rebel band.” He wrinkled his nose. “The dead’ll be cut down this evening.”

Macurdy thanked him and returned to the others, to continue slowly on around the square. Here and there were benches, mostly unoccupied. Macurdy looked over the auras of the few who sat there, and shortly pulled up and dismounted again, walking over to a man who was old by Rude Lands standards, his mouth a sunken, lipless crease.

Sitting down near him, Macurdy spoke quietly. “A hard way to die, on those posts.”

The old man said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard.

“We’re from over west of the Great Muddy, traveling east to the Silver Mountain. Came in to buy some goods, and saw those poor devils hanging by their wrists.”

Still nothing.

“Why would men rebel, in a country as fertile as this? Surely there must be plenty to eat.”

The toothless mouth seemed hardly to move, but words came from it now, low and monotone. “There are kingdoms where men are pressed down by cruelties and demands. Where the man who swings the scythe may have too little bread to eat, and where he’d best not have a pretty wife or daughter. Or pride.”

“Ah. Then why so few rebels?”

“The commons have no generals, no strong and able leaders. Nor weapons, most of them, nor any place to hide.”

“And yet those men . . .” Macurdy gestured.

The old man took a slow breath. “They’re Kullvordi—hillsmen from off north. Their not-too-distant grandfathers were tribesmen who lived in their own way. Even now they have bows and spears; some even have swords. And forests to hide in, where soldiers hardly dare to go. But if a rebellion grows troublesome, the soldiers burn some farms, drive off their livestock, and kill hostages. And after a bit, the rebellion dies as if it never was, leaving only a few hard men living off what game they can shoot, and by thieving. Until someone gives them away for a purse.”

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *