Eldest
Page 85
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They stopped at Carvahall’s north end and waited to see who would join them. A minute passed, then Birgit approached from the side, accompanied by Nolfavrell and his younger siblings. Birgit greeted Horst and Elain and stationed herself nearby.
Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the animals.
“Good thinking!” replied Horst.
Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family; Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile; and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed, like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the mountain peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.
Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Roran. He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to restrain.
“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lifting his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave. Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children, so . . .” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”
“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”
“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”
Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who remained.
A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congregation and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness, but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therinsford. They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.
Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering. Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”
“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in opposite directions.
Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts. She stopped, wheezing for breath. “Iam sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First this one, then that one.”
A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”
Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth. “Whereis he?”
Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”
Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara, who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.
“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed them or—”
With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food. Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few extra meals. You’ll see.”
As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s.I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right. There’s no sense in waiting longer.”
Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.
Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”
“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base. “I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have need of it.”
Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful. . . . Thank you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.
Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the animals.
“Good thinking!” replied Horst.
Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family; Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile; and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed, like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the mountain peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.
Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Roran. He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to restrain.
“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lifting his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave. Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children, so . . .” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”
“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”
“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”
Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who remained.
A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congregation and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness, but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therinsford. They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.
Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering. Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”
“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in opposite directions.
Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts. She stopped, wheezing for breath. “Iam sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First this one, then that one.”
A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”
Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth. “Whereis he?”
Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”
Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara, who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.
“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed them or—”
With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food. Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few extra meals. You’ll see.”
As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s.I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right. There’s no sense in waiting longer.”
Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.
Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”
“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base. “I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have need of it.”
Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful. . . . Thank you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.
