the boy said bitterly.
The father’s sigh could be heard clearly across the water. “Please, my son, we must get this field planted and let me think about it.”
The traveler murmured softly to the horse, “Jago, it may be that this will be an interesting place.”
A small village appeared ahead of them. It was laid out haphazardly as though it had simply grown over the years rather than being the result of a plan. The buildings were constructed from rough-hewn lumber of varying sizes, and the roofs were thatch. There were few windows and the doors were small. From the coloration and aging of the wood, the cabins were obviously of different ages; few were new. The others varied so greatly in age that they seemed to be from separate eras.
A short distance apart from the village, on a small hill, stood a tiny church, very different from the other buildings. While the buildings in the village were in good repair and showed the effects of care, the church was neglected. Weeds and shrubs grew high around it. Windows were broken, and the door hung off its hinges. Part of it had been damaged by fire.
Six children played a game with smooth, round stones in the road. To the traveler, it seemed that the purpose of the game was for one player to cast a large stone a short distance ahead, and for the rest of the players to attempt to hit it with smaller stones they tossed. The four boys and two girls were engrossed in their play, squealing gleefully when a small stone struck the large one.
Suddenly, an argument broke out and one of the boys grabbed the stone of the smallest girl and tossed it away from the playing area. The stone skipped down the road, striking the traveler’s boot. The children grew silent except for the small girl, who cried softly.
The man stopped, reached down, and picked up the stone. The stone and the children at play cracked through the normal tight control of his emotions and brought back a painful memory.
As a small boy, he had watched other children playing. They took turns tossing little, round vertebrae from a marlot, a large rodent, toward a line they had drawn on a rock. The purpose of the game was to see whose cast came closest to the line. When each player had made a cast , the game began anew. Björn the boy watched.
“Come, Björn, that is not for you,” a tall man said to the boy. The man turned and walked up the path. When the boy did not follow, he spoke again. “Come, Björn,” he repeated. The boy reluctantly followed.
One of the players teased the boy. In a falsetto voice, he mimicked, “Come, Björn. Come, Björn.” The memory was still alive for the traveler.
“Mister, can I have my stone?” the small girl asked. When he did not respond, she repeated, “Mister, can I have my stone?”
The traveler started as his mind was yanked back to the present. Squatting, he held out the stone to the child, who took it with a small “Thank you.” As they resumed their game, the traveler stayed in a crouch, watching them for several long moments. The long-forgotten memory brought with it strange feelings, feelings he found disturbing. He stood, shook himself like a dog shaking water from its coat, and continued down the road into the village.
Except for the children playing in their strange fashion, the only people to be seen in the village were two elderly women sitting on a log in front of a small cabin built into the side of a hill. One of the women smoked a long pipe while she stripped husks from a basket of corn, and the other worked on a small piece of material in her lap. From the look of it, she was creating a small garment. Neither woman spoke, each working diligently at her task, one smoking with small streams of smoke coming from both her mouth and the bowl of the pipe while the other sewed. With downcast eyes, they furtively watched the stranger.
The traveler and his horse stopped in front of a building different from the rest. While built in the same casual style with the same rough-hewn wood, and obviously ancient; it had two stories rather than one, and was wider than the other buildings. It looked like some sort of community building, and it squatted as though it had been built and then dropped into place rather than being built where it stood. Its heavy door hung open, as if the last person in had forgotten to close it.
The man gave a small movement of his left hand to the horse. The horse stopped and stood still, and the man moved through the large door and stepped quickly to the left against the wall.
The room was huge. To the traveler’s left was a store with items displayed ranging from clothing to farm equipment to produce. Ahead and to his right, a massive bar ran to the right wall, and rough tables and matching chairs were scattered aimlessly on the dirt floor in front of it. Seven men sat at a round table in front of the bar, several drinking from large mugs. They stared at the stranger expectantly.
A giant of a man with his back to the bar rose slowly and deliberately to his feet, as if the movement pained him. His heavily muscled arms hung loosely at his sides. His large head and its blunt features matched his body. A shaggy thatch of black hair hung to his shoulders, but it was not quite enough to hide the fact that he had no ears, which appeared to have been severed from his head. There were numerous scars on his face, hands, and arms. Even though he was an extremely big-boned man, he was almost emaciated.
“Can we help you, stranger?” he said.
“You sent for me.”
“You are the Northlander?”
“Yes, I am Björn.”
“I am Thane. Can I get you something?”
“No,” Björn said tersely. “Tell me what you want.”
“Do you want to sit?”
“No.”
Thane dropped back into his chair painfully. The other men stared at the stranger, and one of them blurted, “You do not look like much.”
Thane raised a threatening fist in front of the man, and he cringed and was silent.
“We have long been a happy people,” Thane said. “Because the mountains cut us off from the outside world, we are not involved in the wars or intrigues of that world. Occasionally, travelers and peddlers stop here, and they keep us aware of what is going on beyond the mountains. That is the way our people have lived as long as anyone can remember peacefully with each other and with few troubles.
“This is good land,” he continued. “While there are sometimes poor crop years, we have always lived well. We have never bothered anyone else and because of where we are, few have ever bothered us.
“There is a castle near here that has long been abandoned. According to legend, it was the home of a great king, but it was so long ago none of us remember. Some years ago, a cult of cruel people moved there. We know not from where they came, but they worship gods that are foreign to us. These gods are evil, as are the intruders; they took control of our village and the countryside. Some of us fought back, but it was hopeless.” Thane’s voice became angry. “We are not soldiers and we have no real weapons. The newcomers are armed warriors. They forced some of our people to make repairs on the castle, while from others they took furniture and other goods. Most of the grain and animals we raise they take for their food. They have taken some of our children, who have not returned.
“They have also taken many of our women over the years. Many have returned, but some have not. Those who return tell stories of being raped and beaten. We live in terror of these monsters, and we now live in poverty. Over the years, we have been able to save a little that we hid from them, and when we heard about you, we sent
