Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy (81 page)

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Authors: Robert Silverberg

BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy
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Rubbing his side, Alex said, “I won’t do that again, you can bet.”
“See that you don’t,” said Hamish. The old soldier motioned for Drogen, his senior guard, to come over. “Pass the word that the bastards seem touchy. Must have something to do with the war. Just make sure the lads know to keep polite and do whatever they’re told.”
Drogen nodded and ran off. Hamish turned to inspect Alex again, then said, “Get off with you. You’ll live.”
Dirk helped Alex for a few steps. Then the man’s legs seemed to steady and Dirk let go of his arm. “They don’t seem to take kindly to any sort of greeting,” said Dirk.
“I think keeping your eyes down or some such is what they want.”
Dirk said nothing. He was scared most of the time when he was around the Tsurani and didn’t look at them for that reason. That was probably a wise choice, he judged.
“Can you take the wood?” asked Alex.
“Sure,” said Dirk before he realized that he was being asked to carry wood to the Tsurani quarters. Dirk picked up the fallen bundle and wrestled with it a moment before getting the unwieldy load under control. He moved to the door of the outbuilding and hesitated, then rolled the wood back on his chest and reached out to pull the latch rope.
The door opened slightly and Dirk pushed it open with his foot. He entered, blinking a moment to get his eyes used to the darkness inside.
A half-dozen Tsurani warriors sat on their beds, speaking in quiet conversation as they tended their arms and armor. Upon seeing the serving boy enter, they fell silent. Dirk went to the woodbox next to the fireplace, situated in the center of the rear wall, and deposited his load there.
The Tsurani watched him with impassive expressions. He quickly left the room. Closing the door behind him, he could hardly believe
that just weeks before the bed in the farthest corner had been his own. He and the other workers had been turned out to the barn, except for the house staff, who now slept on the floor in Lord Paul’s kitchen.
There was little need for wood save for cooking, as the warm nights of summer made sleeping fires unnecessary. The Tsurani used their fires primarily for cooking their alien food, filling the area nearby with strange yet intriguing aromas.
Dirk paused a moment and glanced around, taking in the images of White Hill; familiar, yet cast in alien shadow by the invaders. Mikia and Torren, a young couple engaged the week before at the Midsummer’s festival, were approaching the milking shed, hand in hand, and the invaders could be invisible for all the distraction they provided the young lovers.
From the kitchen, voices and the clatter of pots heralded the advent of the noon meal. Dirk realized he was hungry. Still, he needed to carry firewood to the other buildings before breaking to eat, and he decided the sooner started, the sooner done. As he turned to the woodshed, he caught a glimpse of a soldier in black and orange moving toward the barn. He idly wondered if the time would come when the invaders would be driven from White Hill. It seemed unlikely, for there was no news of the war, and the Tsurani were settling in at White Hill as if they were never leaving.
Reaching the woodshed, Dirk opened the door and saw Alex in back of the shed cutting more wood. The still-bruised man said, “You can carry, lad. I’ll cut.”
Dirk nodded and went in the shed, to get another armful of firewood. Dirk sighed. As youngest boy in service, the worst jobs fell to him, and this would just be another task added to his burden, one which would not free him from any other.
Before coming to White Hill, Dirk had been nothing, the youngest son of a stonecutter who had two sons already to apprentice. His father had cut the stone for Lord Paul’s home, and had used that slight acquaintanceship to gain Dirk a position in Paul’s household.
With that position was the promise that eventually he would have some sort of rank on the estate, perhaps a groundsman, a kennel master, or a herdsman. Or he might gain a farm to work, with a portion of his crops going to his landlord, even eventually earning the rank of Franklin, one who owned his own lands free of service to any lord. He
had even dared to imagine meeting a girl and marrying, raising sons and daughter of his own. And perhaps, despite the Tsurani, he still might.
Reminding himself that he had much to be thankful for, he lifted the next load of wood destined for the fireplaces of the invaders.
 
F
all brought a quick change in the weather, with sunny but cool days and cold nights. Apples were harvested and the juice presses were busy. The Tsurani found the juice a wonderful delicacy and commanded a large portion for themselves. A portion was put aside for fermenting, and the air around the kitchen was spicy with the smell of warm pies.
Dirk had gotten used to hauling wood to the Tsurani, and now was the one designated to keep all the woodboxes on the property filled, while Alex still did most of the chopping. Everyone began calling him “Wood Boy,” rather than his name.
Dirk also worked the woodpile, and the constant work was broadening his shoulders and putting muscle on him by the week. He could now lift as much as the older boys and some of the men.
He found that as the nights cooled his workload increased, for now he had to help plan for the coming winter. The sheep pens were repaired. The herd needed to be kept close, as starving predators would come down from the mountain to hunt. The cattle would be brought down from the higher meadows as well.
Fences needed repairing and the root cellar and springhouse needed stocking. The winters in the foothills of Yabon came quickly and the snow was often deep after the first fall, lasting until the thaw of spring.
Dirk worked hard and enjoyed those infrequent moments he could steal to relax, joke with the older boys and young men, and talk to Litia, an old woman who had once been in charge of the poultry and lambs. She was kind to the awkward boy and told him things that helped him understand the world that seemed to be changing around him by the day.
Dirk now was faced with the realization that life’s choices were down to a precious few. Before the Tsurani’s arrival, he had stood a chance of learning to be a herdsman or farmer, and perhaps meeting a girl and starting a family on the edge of Lord Paul’s estates, having land and a share of the harvest. Or he might save the tiny sum allotted
him over and above his keep and someday attempt to start a trade of his own; he knew the rudiments of cutting stone and perhaps might pay a mason to apprentice him.
But now he feared that he was doomed to be a servant until death took him. There was no payment of wages above his keep; the Tsurani had taken all of Lord Paul’s wealth—though it was rumored that he had two parts in three safely hidden from the Tsurani. Even if the rumor was true, he wasn’t about to risk hanging to pay a lowly servant boy his back wages.
And there were no girls his own age on the estates, save Lord Paul’s daughter.
The Midwinter’s festival was supposed to be the time to meet the girls from town or the nearby estates, but the Tsurani had forbidden such travel for the Midsummer’s festival, and Dirk doubted they would change their minds for the winter festival. Lord Paul’s household had celebrated Banapis on Midsummer’s Day by themselves, with little enthusiasm, because of the poor food and drink, and the isolation.
At least, thought Dirk, Midwinter’s Day was likely to be a little livelier, as there was a good supply of fermenting applejack laid in. Then, remembering how morose his father could get when drinking, Dirk wondered if that was a good thing. Hamish had been known to drink himself into a dark and blind rage in the depths of winter.
Putting aside his own misery, he attacked the tasks the day put before him and was judged a hardworking if unremarkable boy by those of the household.
 
T
he festival was a pale shadow of its former self.
Traditionally the towns turned out, with those living on the neighboring estates coming in for the parties. A townsman would be selected to play the part of Old Man Winter, who would come into town on a sled pulled by wolves—usually a motley collection of dogs pressed into playing the part, often to comic results. He would pass out sweets to the children, and the adults would exchange small gifts and tokens. Then everyone would eat too much food and many would drink too much wine and ale.
And many young couples would be married.
This year the Tsurani had forbidden travel, and Dirk stood at the edge of a small crowd in the barnyard watching Mikia and Torren
getting married under the watchful eyes of Lord Paul and his daughter. The Tsurani had let Dirk travel to the shrine of Dala and return with a priest of that order, so that the wedding could be conducted.
The couple looked happy despite the frigid surroundings, made slightly more bearable by the large bonfire Dirk and the others had built earlier in the day. It roared and warmed whichever side was facing it, but otherwise it was a cold and bitter day for a wedding, with low grey skies and a constant wind off the mountains.
The meal was the best that could be managed under the circumstances, and Dirk had his first encounter with too much to drink, consuming far too much applejack and discovering that his stomach would inform him of its limits before any of his friends would. The other boys stood around in amusement as Dirk stood against the wall behind the barn, sick beyond belief, his head swimming and his pulse pounding in his temples as his stomach tried to throw up drink no longer there.
He had somehow managed to find his way back to the loft in which he now slept. Because he was the youngest boy in the household, he got the worst pallet, next to the hay door, which meant a drafty, frigid night’s rest. He passed out and risked freezing to death without the other boys’ warmth nearby.
Late that night, he stirred as a shout from outside rang through the silent darkness. Dirk stirred as did the other boys, and Hemmy said, “What’s that?”
Dirk pushed open the hay door. In the moonlight a drunken figure stood waving a sword with his right hand, while holding a jug of applejack with the left. He shouted words that the boys couldn’t understand, but Hemmy said, “He’s fighting some old battle, for sure.”
Suddenly Alex said, “The Tsurani! If Hamish wakes them with all that shouting, they’ll kill him. We’ve got to get him to shut up.”
“You want to go and try to talk to him while he’s waving that sword around,” said Hemmy, “you go ahead. I’ll take my chances up here. I’ve seen him drunk before. Puts him in a dangerous dark temper, it does.”
“We’ve got to do something,” said Dirk.
“What?” asked Hemmy.
“I don’t know,” admitted Dirk.
Then two Tsurani ran into view and stopped when they saw the
drunken old soldier in the moonlight, his breath forming clouds of steam in the frigid night air.
“You stinkin’ bastards!” shouted Hamish. “You come on and I’ll show you how to use a sword.”
The two Tsurani slowly drew weapons, and one spoke to the other. The second man nodded and stepped back, putting his sword away. He turned and ran off.
“They’re going to get some help,” whispered Dirk, afraid to be overheard by the Tsurani.
“Maybe they’ll just make him put up his sword and go to bed,” said Hemmy.
“Maybe,” echoed Dirk.
Then a half-dozen Tsurani, led by the officer, came into view. The officer shouted at Hamish, who grinned like a grizzly wolf in the stark white moonlight. “Come and sing to me, you sons of dogs!” shouted the drunken old man.
The Tsurani officer seemed more irritated by the display than anything else, and said something briefly to the men. He turned and walked off without a glance back.
“Maybe they’re going to let him alone,” said Hemmy.
Suddenly an arrow sped through the darkness and struck old Hamish in the chest. He looked down in disbelief and sank to his knees. Then he fell off to the right, still holding his sword and jug of applejack.
“Gods!” whispered Dirk.
The Tsurani turned as one and walked away, leaving the dead bodyguard lying in the moonlight, a black figure against the white snow.
“What do we do?” whispered Dirk to the older boys.
“Nothing,” said Alex. “Until the Tsurani tell us to get out tomorrow and bury him, we do nothing.”
“But it’s not right,” said Dirk, fighting back tears of frustration and fear.
“Nothing is right these days,” said Hemmy, reaching out to shut the hay doors.
Dirk lay in the loft, huddled against a cold far more bitter than winter’s night.
 
 
Let me help you with that,” said Drogen, as Dirk tried to close the kitchen door with a kick. The wind outside howled and this had been Dirk’s fifth trip to the woodbox.
Dirk said, “Shut the door, please.”
The new bodyguard to Lord Paul did as Dirk asked, and Dirk said, “Thanks. I’ve got to get this to the great hall.” He hurried with the heavy bundle of wood and made his way through the big house. He entered the great hall, where Lord Paul ate dinner with his daughter Anika.

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