Chapter 13 – Hidden

CY 579, Planting 5 (Waterday)

Askyrja jolted awake with the explosive row of a rooster in the rafters. Coming from directly over her head, at that range the noise was shattering and she scattered her bed of straw as she sat up.

She'd paid a copper penny to sleep in the high loft of a barn at the back of an inn near the South wall, unexpectedly full to bursting. The innkeep had taken some persuasion, but not too much once she'd seen Askyrja's face and read her disconsolate mood. 'You go on ou' back, dearie, an' keep the horses sem com-pany,' she'd said, sounding kindly, although she hadn't mentioned the rooster. The animals were quiet enough, but there was a certain stink and her nearest neighbour directly below was a sheep with a leaky eye. She'd made a little prickly but very warm bed up there and settled down for the night.

Askyrja located the rooster, then snatched up her boot and hurled it; she missed and the bird strutted above her, peering down truculently.

She brushed the straw off, found her boot and dressed. Then she lowered the ladder and climbed down; she wasn't such a fool as to have left it in place while she was asleep, even though she was a very light sleeper by nature. That was a help, in Orvung's hall.

Once out of her makeshift bed she immediately registered the chill of the air. Moving carefully to avoid disturbing the animals, she eased past a horse – someone's riding mare; she whickered and shifted slightly– to see through the open stable windows that snow was falling outside, soft and silent.

'Now what?' she said aloud. The mare looked her in the eye and whickered again, shaking her head.

She stayed in the barn for a few nights. It was open but isolated and well-hidden: surely no one would think to look for her there. If they did, it was as well to be trapped in a room as in a hayloft; and she could jump from a hayloft to escape. Her few belongings she always carried with her so that she feared not thieves. When she left her makeshift room to eat or look around, she would slip out of the barn through the inn's back yard into an alley behind the street, always wearing her hood and careful not to raise her eyes, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Also, instead of the loose hair of an unmarried Sueloise she braided her hair like a married woman, though she did not think she looked too different.

She wondered whether the mysterious Suel man was still searching for her, and where he was now. She almost wanted to find him, to ask him what was happening in the homeland, but knew that such a move would be not only dangerous, but useless: he could not possibly have sailed before she'd arrived in Verbobonc and would know even less of what was going on at home than she did.

Unless messages had been sent by bird, or by magic. Then he – and others – might well know all. She shuddered and looked around her, reading sinister intent even in the placid faces of the Verboncians.

But that was nonsense; the people of the South Side of Verbobonc seemed less open and more… seedy, perhaps, but they tended to ignore her by and large. She sensed little ill will and she'd always been good at reading people and guessing their minds.

So what to do now? She wanted to seek work, but would it attract attention? Could she afford to be known? She'd been lucky at the Coster – she only had contact with a few people. She didn't think she'd be so lucky a second time. She could use a fake name, but her description would get around, and she could hardly pretend to be local with her accent. She could not take the chance.

But without work, her money would dribble away and one day she'd be on the street. Then someone would grab her, or stab her, or maybe she'd just starve or be snatched up by a brothel house. There were slavers even in Verbobonc, she'd heard. Anything could happen. She must do something. But knew how to be a charwoman, a maid, maybe even a tavern wench; these were more than possible. But ever since she'd met Bjorn she'd wanted something more: and she could get it. She was free, and she would stay that way.

She could evade those searching for her by going to live in the woods. After all, wasn't that what she'd been trained for? But there too sooner or later something would get her: she'd run into a pack of goblins, or a bear, or just catch sick. And what would the gods think of her then, the daughter of Jarl Orvung, hiding out in the woods? That was not the way of destiny; the Norns would laugh at such a scheme.

So, what then? Stretch her purse out as long as possible as she contemplated life on street – or maybe as a robber? Or worse, to be found by the Suel stranger?

Then she'd heard something that sounded like a solution to all her problems.

CY 579, Planting 6 (Earthday)

The inn itself was located almost at the south side of Verbobonc's wall and its common ale room served a less refined clientele than the Eel, or even the Maiden. She avoided the commons by night but ate there by day sometimes. By night, it was rowdy with soldiers, a handful of ruffians, some shopkeepers and merchants, and a few of what they called 'working girls'. She suspected she knew what work it was they did. Once she'd passed by after dark and glanced into the common room to see a score of drunken patrons – two of whom were busily punching each other in the face as the others cheered them on. It reminded her of the revels of her father's hall.

This morning she woke as usual and immediately felt her stomach rumble. She had to be careful with money, but still there was no reason to starve herself, and so she'd gone to the ale room to see about breakfast. The place was, as usual, musty and the floor was of dirt rather than boards covered with straw or rushes. There was a lamp burning there despite last night's late carouse and a few patrons here and there quietly keeping to themselves or talking in low tones or sprawled unconscious over a table, but no one she recognized; the south side was very different to the rest of Verbobonc.

She slipped into a chair near the back where it was dark, and only there did she lower her hood. A serving maid sauntered over. 'Food and drink?' Askyrja asked. The girl nodded perfunctorily and departed, leaving Askyrja sitting with her thoughts. Minutes later she was gnawing on a stale meat pie, grinding down the tooth-breaking crust with her back molars and nursing a cup of watered wine.

She was just wondering about slinking back to Orvil and begging for her old job back – maybe the Suel visitor would not return, or maybe she'd just misunderstood – when two merchants next to hers struck up a conversation after shouting for ale and breakfast. For long minutes they talked only of business – freight costs, rising gate tariffs, the relative speed of river transport. Strangely, given her previous job, much of their talk was actually familiar.

The constant refrain for one of them – a tall thin man with a spadelike nose, dealing in dry goods – was that the cost of everything was going up: there was more danger on the roads and that meant more security, more guards – mercenaries, even. 'Trouble down south,' he said morosely.

'Where?' asked the other – a heavyset and unkempt Suloise with a marked Northern accent; Urnst or the Bandit Kingdoms, she thought. She'd learned to recognize regional accents and he sounded like a Suel from there. He was heavyset with thick arms and a scar over his right eye, his blond hair twisted into a loose, untidy top-braid, the sides of his head shaved – suggesting that he was not entirely a merchant – and his beard twisted into crude plaits. He wore a fish-scaled leather cuir bolli with a short leather kirtle to protect his groin, and a green tunic under a ragged bearskin cloak, a sword on his belt and a long knife strapped to his leg.

'Near the Lortmils,' said the first one. 'That whole area at the crossroads. You know: where it used to be. The trouble's coming back,' he said direly.

It? The trouble? Her ears perked up despite her own problems, wondering if he meant the Temple that Colson had referred to. Her mind wandered for a moment and she wondered what he was doing. 'They say that every year,' the other merchant said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he leaned back in his creaking chair. 'But it never does.'

'This time is different,' the first insisted. 'Bandits and worse. It's getting grim down there.'

'There are always bandits,' the other scoffed, taking a steaming board of food from a wench.

'And Emridy Meadows wasn't that long ago,' the first chided. 'Heironeous' Hand, my uncle was there. He was in the second party through the gate at the moathouse.'

'And they destroyed everything. It's all gone: slain or burned or knocked down, or whatever they did.'

'Buried isn't gone,' the first man reproved him. 'There's more. Proof, even, an' you call it that.'

'Proof,' the other repeated sarcastically as he shelled a hard-boiled egg with a dirty thumbnail.

The first man leaned close, talking so low that Askyrja had to lean over a little too just to eavesdrop. 'People have seen goblins in the woods. I talked to a minstrel from Penwick who said a woodcutter and his group was chased by an ogre or something bigger just south of Hommlet. Said they were chased all the way to the town, then whatever it was just vanished back into the woods.'

'That is convenient,' the other said skeptically, dunking his egg into a salt notch on his board and popping it into his mouth. 'An ogre that vanishes.' He licked his fingers noisily.

'That's not all,' the first went on more loudly, dismissing his companion's skepticism. 'Harlan Ayles. One of his caravans disappeared last month – and him with it.'

The Suel looked up. 'This is true?'

'Disappeared without trace. I saw him a month ago and he's gone.'

'Perhaps another will be needed to make the run to Narwell,' the Suel mused.

'And he isn't the first. A run coming along the River Road disappeared a month before that, and another last Fireseek. And that's just the ones we know of. There's a caravan assembling now at the South Gate heading down the Southway to Hommlet; big one and armed to the teeth. Heading out tomorrow, I hear.'

'So, what is going on?'

'Missing carts, trouble down south; Goblins in the woods, bandits! Something's stirring around that damned temple – something unnatural. And those lost caravans aren't vanishing into clear air; goods go places and money doesn't just disappear. Someone, somewhere – maybe even in that old temple – is getting rich, of course, and seeding chaos into the bargain.'

He went on: 'And that money would be used to make things worse still. More men, more weapons. If that place is coming up again, that'd be what'd happen.' He leaned in. 'But there'd be plenty left. Place like that could be filled with enough treasures and trinkets for a hundred men, all for the taking.'

'And death enough for two hundred men. Or else what would be left to take? But perhaps they need weapons?'

'You'd sell arms to bandits?' the other said, horrified.

'One man's bandit is another's liberator,' the second man shrugged.

'You astound me. But I know there are mercenary companies there that are hiring all kinds of people. And there's a castle going up. They have a garrison, but they're desperate for more: I guess they take it seriously at least,' he chided. 'Maybe there's a profit to be made in protecting farmers.'

'Mercenaries, hah! People I cannot sell. Or at least not openly.' The Suel sucked the meat from a chicken bone and threw it aside to the floor, smacking his lips as a small dog darted in for the scrap, avoiding his boot.

Askyrja's mind was alight. She had heard the ominous tales of the goings-on in the Southland before, but this was interesting! They needed mercenaries? She could do what they did! She could shoot, track, hunt and swordfight! She could be of great use fighting evil and doing heroics in the South – and collecting treasure, of course! Her father had always scorned such men, but for her this would be perfect! And the small villages of South Verbobonc would be a great place to hide. Now she had a plan! She merely needed to seize upon it. She felt her purse; she still had her money.

She ran through a list in her head. She would need weapons, food, waterskins, a mail hauberk, a horse; no, she could not afford a horse. Could she steal one? No, that was a dangerous idea, and she supposed that it was not really good to steal anyway, even from foreigners. So how to get there?

Of course – the caravan! She could become a guard, work her way down to this Omelet place, leave them there and become a mercenary! Now she had a perfect plan! She smacked her hand on the table and was inordinately pleased by her wooden plate jumping and clattering before her.

Something fierce and powerful stirred in her soul then. This was what was meant by destiny. This was what Fate wanted. She would go to the South – not as some lost, hapless clerk-girl, but as a proud warrioress, exactly as Bjorn had trained her! While, of course, also leaving behind the suddenly dangerous grounds of Verbobonc.

She slapped two silver pennies on the table and hurried towards the Street of Steel.

'That is as much as I can afford,' Askyrja said, pouting, then leaned across the counter. 'Are you sure of this price? It seems so much. Can you not do better?' She had asked for a full hauberk, then found after her weapons and other things that she was short. Now they were negotiating for a mere byrnie, a mail shirt that ran just to her upper thighs and mid-bicep, and now she wasn't even sure she could get that. 'Please?' She grinned at him, flashing bright white teeth in a coy smile.

'Hah! Good try, girl!' the armourer sneered, instantly throwing off her wiles. 'Seventy-five sheaves for the chain mail byrnie. Do you have the gold or not?'

She pursed her lips and frowned a little resentfully. 'I do not.'

'Then out with you. Go to the leatherworkers next door. See if they can help you.'

Scowling at the big bald man, she turned on her heel and left.

Well, if some people would not be moved by her entreaties or charms, fine. Her morning had been busy and she had a great many necessary things already: pouches and pack, a wide-brimmed hat, some rope and fine strong cord, three torches, a tinder box, waterskins, some dried rations and an assortment of small things without any luxuries. She had sought out a herbalist's run by an old woman named Shara Glan, who she knew from deliveries with Walder's Wains. There she had bought small pouches of several dried herbs including comfrey, woundwort, Juniper berries and henbane for wounds, herb truelove for poison and a few small bundles of cloth and sphagnum moss for bandages. They cost her dearly but could be useful and there would be no others for months; besides, she reasoned, she could make up the money in the summer. Visions of her skipping out into the wilderness and returning with bags of valuable herbs month after month danced in her head.

Weapons there were in abundance. She bought herself a hand-and-a-half sword of the kind that Bjorn had trained her with – here, they called it a bastard sword, which was a darkly amusing name in her case. Maybe, she reflected, Bjorn had trained her as a kind of joke, but it was the weapon for which he was most renowned and so that was the sword she knew best. Had been renowned, she corrected herself. Had been. To that she added a knife, and a stout shirt of hard leather that would turn blows – mostly, anyway.

She'd wished she'd had enough for a scale shirt or a chain-mail byrnie, or even something really impressive like a heavy suit of plate mail; a nightmare in steel. But, having a bow had been paramount, and bows were expensive, so that a leather jerkin was all she could afford.

She'd first gone to the town's bowyer – a rangy and needlessly suspicious half-elf. He'd watched her like a hawk as she tried out a wide selection of items: short, long, and curved reflex bows of the kind that faraway people used, heavy and light crossbows, and wide, recurved staves that made her think of gull's wings. She examined them relentlessly, bending and flexing them over her knee, stringing them and testing their draws until the bowyer was nearly in fits.

Finally she settled on a beautifully-made longbow of elm as tall as she was, polished to a glossy finish with beeswax, with a leather bowcase to protect her precious bowstave and strings from the wet. She bought two sheaves of arrows; mostly regular yard-cloth shafts but a handful with special broad, razor-sharp heads for killing that the southerners called 'deer arrows'. They seemed brutal, but brutality was a thing innate to the North and she admired their lethal promise.

After the bow, she had startlingly little remaining: a few gold coins, some silver, some copper. It was little enough, but her plan was in motion and she consoled herself by knowing she must stick to it. She spent all the next day checking her things, sharpening her weapons to a wicked edge with her new whetstone, including the arrowheads. By that evening, she felt she was ready.

The following morning, she filled her waterskins from the inn's well, donned her leather jerkin, belted on her sword, shouldered her pack and bowcase, and set off towards her new life.

CY 579, Planting 7 (Freeday)

Askyrja smiled to herself as she sauntered out the South Gate towards where she'd been told the caravan was assembling; a passing soldier had said it was on the south green on Low Run Road. The more she thought about it, the better and better her idea seemed: there would be money, and she would be on the move, away from Verbobonc City and probably untraceable.

They would be eager, even desperate to hire her, she knew; she had her own gear, she was smart, she could swordfight, was a fair woodswoman and an excellent shot with the longbow. Besides, it was Freeday, and that was like the name of her patron goddess, Freyja, and that was a good sign. And it was a sunny day, too – sort of – which was the sign of Freyja's brother Frey: all the signs were in her favour! She could not fail!

She'd seen the big caravan assembly area once with Colson as they dropped off a load of textiles from Hardby destined for Korbin, remarking that all sorts of cargos were taken away south by wagon and cart from there. Most such cargos tended to be large, bulky items or livestock headed for Penwick, Korbin or the Kron Hills, since the western tributaries of Verbobonc's rivers were generally too small for boat transport, but land shipments still went on right along Nigb's Run for those costers that couldn't afford the sometimes exorbitant river transport fees, or didn't trust the waters. So, large armed caravans assembled here to safely proceed through the south of the Viscounty.

There weren't enough cargo vessels all told anyway, and those that worked the waters were increasingly subject to the depredations of pirates plying their own trade. Some of those hunted up and down the Velverdyva, concealing their ships in cunning blinds and backwaters, but many were said to lurk in Imerdy's Run and there were even rumours of corsairs hiding in the nooks and byways of the Nigb. Like the roads, the safety of the waterways had been depreciating in the increasingly unsteady hold of the aged Viscount Wilfrick. Askyrja wondered where it all would end.

She could see ten wagons waiting on the green, with another slowly trundling that way on the roundabout dirt road leading from the east docks and it was clear they did intend to leave on the morrow; she'd arrived just in time. There were men there, too: what she guessed were merchants standing around talking amongst themselves, cooking breakfast or boiling kettles on small fires beside their vehicles. All seemed well-dressed and wealthy, which was good, since obviously no one wanted to work for a poor merchant. 

There were also a number of warriors – a couple score at least – at their leisure on the grass, eating, throwing dice or performing trivial tasks with their equipment. They had a mix of arms and armour – swords, maces, flails, pole arms – and Askyrja knew at once that they must be the caravan guards. They did not seem very… organized. Or, clean. Or, sober, probably. Well, that was no matter; she must take what she could get. The merchants stood off a ways from them, seeming to prefer each other's company.

As she walked up, she realized with a start that she was the only woman present both among the guard and the merchants. A few eyes strayed her way; she must look quite different from any woman they had seen before, in her equipment. Again that was no matter now: she was a girl of the North, a proud warrioress, and she would show them what she could do.

The biggest of them – a bald, barrel-chested, sun-weathered man with a patch over his left eye – was sitting on a log bench by the road, sharpening his sword with a stone. A mail shirt hung over the back of the bench beside him. Feeling sure that he must be the leader of the guards, she adjusted her swordbelt, bowcase and pack, took a deep calming breath and strode up to him. 'Greetings,' she said with a nod, though she stopped herself from curtseying. 'I am Askyrja. I would like to join your guard… troop.' She frowned, not knowing the exact term.

'We don't need no scullions,' Patch-Eye grunted in a thick Verboncian accent, then looked up, did a double-take and studied her from head to toe, his approval evident; Askyrja grit her teeth, nearly able to physically feel his gaze crawling over her. 'Could use a camp woman, though,' Patch said, chuckling. 'But yer don't need all that gear for that job. In fact, the less the better.'

Her face flushed hot. 'I am not a scullion,' she said flatly, 'nor a… camp woman,' as his eyes continued to study her face and form as if trying to commit her to memory.

'You sure? Could make a pretty penny, girl like you. And there'd be plenty of room for you,' he suggested.

'I am looking for work as a guard,' she patiently re-explained, unwilling to be deflected let alone consider his rancid… offer. 'I am an archer: a good one. I will show you how well I shoot.' She unslung her bowcase and undid the lid strap, starting to extract the long elm bowstave.

Patch waved her off, his irritation plain. 'No, no – don't bother with all that. We don't hire little girls; the rest of the company wouldn't wear it.' Some of the other soldiers were listening to them and a few rude comments lofted her way while a few traders watched the exchange.

'I am not a little girl,' she said firmly, gritting her teeth as her frustration mounted. 'I am an archer and a very good one. I would be of use, you would see.' This was not how it was supposed to go at all.

'Like I said, you'd be of use all right, but not as a guard, girl,' Patch grunted. A man nearby snickered.

Askyrja flushed red. 'I am not a whore!' she insisted, fist clenched. 'I am a warrioress and – '

The men burst out laughing. 'A warrior?! Her?' one sneered. 'This little thing? Next she'll be a bishop!' The others hooted and catcalled her.

'I can prove my words!' Askyrja shouted fiercely in protestation, thrust into a general argument with the troop. 'I can shoot! Name a target and I will – '

'I don't care!' another of the mercenaries snapped, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple, wincing as if he had a big head. 'You heard him and he's said it three times! Gerrout of it! We don't hire bloody women – stupid little jumped-up slattern!'

Her Common was far from perfect but she could guess at the word's meaning and in the moment it stung harder than it should have. She pressed her lips tightly together, shooting him a burning glare.

'Ohh… look at those eyes,' Patch said patronizingly. 'Never you mind old Red there – he's a harsh one. Just take all that off and get over to my tent. I'll see you when I'm done here.' He grinned brown teeth at her.

'As I said,' she insisted more loudly so as to be heard by the merchants standing nearby, her teeth bared, tears of rejection already starting to burn in her eyes, 'I am not a camp woman, nor a washer of clothes and cups. And I can shoot better than any of you!' She turned directly to the traders, gesturing entreatingly. 'At least let me try!' she cried to them. 'Let me show you! You will see!'

One of them turned away and shook his head as another one chuckled. 'Tom decides who joins the guards, love,' he called, gesturing at Patch. 'It's up to him and we ain't about to change.' One of the other men leaned in and whispered something, sending both of them into bouts of laughter as their eyes swept lecherously over her.

She shook her head, struck unavoidably and unexpectedly powerless. 'But I can fight! I can do as you do!'

'Yeah? All right, what would you do if a great big giant ran out of the woods right at you, right now, big club in the air – eh, cupcake?' One-Eye, who was evidently Tom, demanded. 'Go on. Tell me then.'

Aska blinked, frowning. '… shoot it,' she replied after a moment. 'Shoot it again and again, until it dies.' She hefted her bowcase for emphasis.

All the guards roared with laughter. 'Just shoot it, huh?' Tom scoffed. 'Just shoot it. Just shoot a twenty-foot giant.' He waved his hand at her. 'Go on, girl; you don't know what you're about, think you can use some piddly little bow to kill a giant.'

'But – that is obviously sensible – ' she protested angrily, about to cite her people's history in dealing with giants when the man called Red interrupted again. He looked sick to his craw, skin pallid and greasy hair sticking out every which way like a boiled owl. 'Get her out of here, Tom!' he barked, protesting her very presence. 'I can't take her bloody shrilling no more! Send her on! Now!' Askyrja looked to the merchants again for help but, unwilling to take a stance in the ongoing drama, they walked away.

'Yeah, I've heard enough too,' said Tom, getting up and wiping his oily hands on his trousers. 'If you're not fit for my bedroll, you ain't fit for nothin' else here. We ain't takin' no little girl just to cry and moan all the day and just get herself killed the first time somethin' happens,' he explained, as if to a wayward child. 'So get gone!' he suddenly barked, making a shooing motion that made her take a couple steps back despite herself. 'And don't come back, or I'll take a switch to you like your daddy shoulda done before! Won't be as smart-mouthed with a bloody arse, I can tell you that!'

Her father? Her father? How dare they? Idiots! Woman-haters! Stupid men! Face burning, she shot a scowl at Tom so savagely regal that it actually brought him to a halt. Then she whirled and stormed back towards the City, cursing the rude, ignorant men and their stupid coster, white-hot fury burning in her head.

Did they think her weak? She would show them! She would do as they did, but better! She repressed the impulse to break out the bow and just sow chaos among them with some shooting. That would serve them!

But instead of casual murder, a different idea suddenly came to her in a blazing moment of utter clarity. She already had everything she needed: arms, equipment, food and water. In fact, everything she owned was currently on her back. She could walk there – it was not so far – but a better plan came to her mind: simple, effective and – in its way – vengeful.

She grinned and headed back to her loft, congratulating herself for her cleverness.

And that had been that.

***

A day later, the convoy, lately assembled, began to roll out: eight long wagons packed with manufactured tools, refined ingots of steel, tin and copper, tack, salt fish, and even heavy barrels of whale oil drawn from the great beasts of faraway Woolly Bay. Askyrja watched them patiently as they ponderously collected into line, then, after much unnecessary talk and delay, slowly trundled out until they were small shapes along the distant road.

Bright green eyes watched from behind a nearby hedge and Askyrja smiled triumphantly to herself. Suddenly a sunburst shot through the low clouds, scattering golden beams over the cleared plain south of the City, glimmering in the grey morning haze.

The sign of Freyr! Her voyage was blessed by the very gods!

With a sudden burst of confidence, she slipped out of the hedge where she'd been waiting and started off along the Southway in the direction of the sun, following the convoy.

At long last, she was on her way.

END Act 1