Thus we started out, some two hours after sunrise. The wagon rocked beneath my seat. The trail was rutted and pocked with holes and stones. The axles groaned as the old, grey-haired drover tapped at the oxen with a long, flexible switch and nickered encouragement. Ahead, the hills rose and fell. Early spring leaves on the scattered trees had recently broken bud, and flowers belied the hidden dangers lurking amid the shadows.

Adarc the acolyte was taking his duties as guide to heart. "This is the village of Dúnsciath. The fort on the hill overlooks the Gasirad River." He spoke of the well-used wagon-trail upon which we traveled, the Trígrian trail, as he called it. "It connects us, here at Dúnsciath in the far west of the kingdom, with the central and northeastern lands of the Droma kingdom..."

As the oxen plodded on, the acolyte walked beside the wagon wheel. I learned from him that the King had only recently taken his throne. "His older brother, Lórcan, was king a-foretimes, but an accident left him maimed." Adarc held up his left hand and folded down the two smallest fingers. "Sure and it's the tradition in our land that no blemished man can be king."

I remembered the three-fingered man who'd said the sage was in his employ. "Lord Lórcan? He was at the court?"

"Aye, that's him. He's captain of the king's Company of the Shield."

We passed through croplands. A ploughman and his ox-goader struggled to drive a team and their ard-plough through a fallow field. It had been cold overnight. No doubt the soil was partly frozen. Adarc told me it was hard work, but they might plough at least an acre that day.

Elsewhere, cow-herds mustered cattle through pastures and dogs barked and nipped at the herd to move it toward the best grazing.

The land rose as we passed through the village fields, bearing east into the hills of Droma. We could look down on the king's village behind us. It wasn't much more than a ramshackle collection of thatch-and-daub mud hovels clustered on a wide, shallow bend in the river. The tower was impressive, a three-story shell-keep on a tall hill, but otherwise, I'd seen much more civilized mud-holes.

Adarc went on about his home. "A river village of three hundred souls that take advantage of river trade."

It seemed bucolic enough, as did many of the lands through which we'd traveled. I'd never seen so many shades of green, from the fields to the hedgerows to the trees. Yet, I'd also never heard of such bloodthirsty bandits, nor a people so inclined to war amongst themselves. Beside any bole, beneath any branch, behind any hedge, there might skulk masterless warriors, brigands, and ferocious tribesmen, intent on killing us all for the cruel pleasure of it.

We lapsed into watchful silence. There were no roads in Iathrann that could truly be called safe, but the farther we'd ventured from the palisades of the Sea-Wolf settlements, the more deadly the roads had become. Stragglers were picked off. Wanderers were murdered. Extortion was demanded in exchange for passage that could hardly be called 'safe.'

A breeze bore down on us from the northwestern mountains and I clutched my fur cloak tight against the chill. The sky was clear save for some high white clouds, but my breath misted before me. Could a sudden snow beset us? It seemed cold enough for that, if only the clouds conspired against us. "How is the weather here?"

Adarc shrugged, walking along beside my ox-drawn wagon. "It's the moon of Fearn. That typically means warm winds and rain from the Samrabensian Sea to the south." He swept his hands north and east toward the mountains. "That usually blesses us with such an abundance of rain that the streams flood, to the consternation of our farmers and river-men. High Spring is still a few weeks off."

"But it is cold this morning, and the wind, it is from the north?"

He pointed to some lingering icy patches in the shadows of the landscape. "And we had some snow yesterday." The lad shrugged. "It's early spring yet. If you don't like the weather, just wait a few minutes. It'll change." He grinned.

I silently cursed him and prayed there'd be no snow. I'd seen enough of that already in Difelin. "The winter, how was she here?"

He grew quiet. "We should have done well. The farms turned a surplus in the autumn."

"But...?"

He grimaced. "You heard the Lord-Drymyn. We've had some trouble with bandits."

I leaned my elbows on my knees. "Tell me more of these bandits."

"It was a hard winter for many." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Trade on the High-King's Road to and from the mountains was treacherous at best." He told me a bit of his hedge-king's difficult winter. Bandit gangs had harassed the kingdom for weeks, robbing and raping. They'd even kidnapped a noblewoman.

Ahead, a farmer approached with a bundle of sticks on his back. Adarc hailed the fellow. "How now?"

The farmer scratched his head and regarded the skies. "Well, we ain't seen no floods yet."

The fatalism of the farmer oozed through his words. When he'd passed, I went on questioning my guide. If the bandits were still a plague on honest folk, perhaps their spies already knew of the cargo we carried. I put my hand on the box behind the seat. I felt a knot in my throat. "What is the mood of the people?"

Adarc looked up and shrugged at me. "The banditry and hunger stirred discontent in the north and southeast of the kingdom. But the king held together the tribe lands to the east and along the southern stretch of the river. At last, he beat back the bandits. For a while, anyway." He twirled his blackthorn stick. "It could be worse. It rains. It snows. It shines. The crops grow. The streams flood." He shrugged once more. "We adjust."

Looking back down to the river, I could see the settled lands were a-bustle with activity. On the water, fishermen pushed off from rickety wooden docks in round wicker coracles and netted fish in the most precarious fashion. Farmers drove sheep to pasture. Craftsmen, peddlers, and tinkers made stalls ready for business in the market and the civilized hustle of trade.

And I'd be risking life and limb in the hinterlands, victim of the gods only knew what.

###

At first, the trail tended east by southeast, through the fields and pastures. Before long, we passed the boundary stones that marked the village-lands and turned northeasterly into the grassland hills. The sun shone upon us, providing some warmth though it was still early. Adarc waved farewell to the farmers and villagers as we passed them.

To pass the time, I had taken up the tale of Luis, the wealthy, elderly knight who decided to marry, and the beautiful young virgin Saille. "Luis wants to fulfill the wishes of the gods, that man and woman should marry, ja? He wants a son to inherit his estates. So he calls together his friends to tell them his plans and hear their—how you say—ragin—advice? Ja? So, to hear their advice. His close friend, Garaihts, argues against marriage, for the women, they are notoriously unfaithful, ja? But the knight's other friend, Sibjis, argues that Luis should decide for himself..."

We hadn't gone far before we came upon a handful of men, hurrying west along the trail toward the town. They were carrying two other men between them.

Adarc grumbled from his place at the wagon wheel. "Migrant workers." He raised his blackthorn stick to greet them. "Hail there, friends! What seems to be the trouble?"

One of the men, a burly sort with dark hair, narrowed his eyes at us. There were five of us altogether. The two guards, Jôkull and Corvac, moved to stand with the acolyte as my drover reined the oxen to a stop. I got down from the wagon, fingering the hilt of the broadsword at my belt.

The burly, black-haired man spoke for the rest. "Me mates 'ere are 'urt. We 'eard there was a chirurgeon 'ere what might 'elp 'em?"

"I'm the Lord-Drymyn's acolyte. What's happened?" Adarc handed me his travelling stick and approached the men, signaling for me to wait with the wagon. I moved closer anyway.

"Robbers, on de trail to Ruakhavsa." The man looked angry. "Took all we 'ad, dey did. We was just lookin' fer work, 'eard dey migh' need miners."

Adarc waved for the other men to put the wounded men down. There were eight of them altogether, two carrying each of those that were hurt, and two others who carried what little they all still owned. Adarc moved in close to examine the victims. "Where are you from?"

I could see blood now. One seemed to have a gash on his head, the other had the stump of an arrow protruding from his left shoulder. As Adarc looked at the wounds, he deftly reached into the formless bag hanging across his chest, pulling forth herbs and compresses.

"We's from Ivea, Master. Jes' poor common folk lookin' fer work, Master." He held his cap in his hand and tugged up and down at the back of his breeches.

"Hold this against the wound." Adarc placed the hand of a nearby man on the compress he'd applied to the head wound. He pressed hard. "Like so." Adarc glanced up at the dark-haired spokesman as he moved to the other injured man. "And you say this happened on the trail to Ruakhavsa?"

"Aye, Master. 'Tween Monóc's Hostel and Maladarach we was. Dey jus' come outta the bushes and stop us. This fool give 'em lip." He gestured to the man with the head wound. "Dey clubbed 'im down. Den Cathal dere tried to 'elp an' an arrow come out from da trees. We din't give 'em no more trouble affer dat, an dey took all what we 'ad, food, beer, shoes, an' a few drychids we'd saved up 'twixt us."

Adarc nodded as he examined the arrow wound. "So you came south on the High-King's Road to Monóc's Hostel? When, this morning?"

"Yes, Master. We come south from Midachath yesterday an' camped outside Monóc's Hostel last night. Dat's where we 'eard dey might 'ave work fer us at Ruakhavsa." The man twisted his cap in his hands and rubbed his nose.

"Isn't there any work where you come from? Haven't you got homes and a lord in Ivea?"

"Our lord died last month, Master, an' 'is boy is still jus' a boy. Dere was fightin' over the boy's in'eritance, and our late lord's brother, 'e burned us outta our homes, Master." The black-haired man gestured to his injured friends. "Dey gonna be alright, Master?"

Adarc nodded. "As well as can be expected. This arrow needs to be removed before it festers and poisons the blood." He made a gesture over the two men, tracing a circle in the air and muttering holy words, then finished his ministrations and stood up. "The chirurgeon in Dúnsciath is a woman named Lennavair, she lives just down there." Adarc pointed down the trail toward the village. "Ask anyone, they'll point you in the right direction. Tell her 'Adarc sent you' and she'll take care of your men."

"We ain't got nothin' what ta trade, Master..." The man looked sheepish.

Adarc shook his head. "Just tell her I sent you. I'll make good for you."

The man knelt and took Adarc's hand, kissing the knuckles. "A thousan' blessin's on ye, Master! A thousan' blessin's!"

"No, thank you, that's fine, no problem at all." Adarc got his hand back and brought the man up to his feet. "Once you've seen the chirurgeon, seek out the king's constable and tell him what you've seen. He'll treat you well."

It seemed to me the man was about to burst with gratitude, but Adarc went on. "No, really, it's fine. Once your friends are on their feet, try looking for work on the docks of Hafren, to the south on the High-King's Road. Fishermen and traders always need help loading and unloading the river-barges that stop there."

The migrants could not express their gratitude, stammering and bowing as we took our leave. They soon had their fellows up to carry them on to the village.

Adarc finished closing up the satchel hanging around his chest as we went.

"That was good of you to stitch them up like that."

He shrugged once more. "Hard times all around. Migrants on the back-country trails. Bandits in the border country. It's a bad sign." He rubbed at his hands with a rag, wiping off the men's blood, then took his traveling stick back from me. "Probably refugees from the uprising, burned out of their villages in the north."

"Who? Those men?"

"The lot of them, robbers and migrants both. Wouldn't be surprised if they were all neighbors back where they come from, sure and I wouldn't. They'll steal work from Droma-men and spread dissent into the bargain." Adarc shook his head. "My master says it's a bloody shame. When warriors clash, it's the commoners that get pinched between them, he says." Then he waved a stern finger at me. "But the next time I tell you to stay back, you stay back, you hear me? There's no telling they weren't bandits themselves. Sure and they might have tried to rob us themselves."

—33—

Will bandits trouble Corentin's mission? What new risks lie ahead? And will Adarc ever shut up?!

Tune in next week for more of this Continuing Tale in the Matter of Manred: A Merchant's Tale.

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