Hrafn was sharing the support of a thick log with Bjorn. The young giant seemed to have taken a liking to him, and had been following him and making conversation through a good part of the journey. They had already been on the road for six days and it would still take six more until they arrived, at least if the weather kept allowin
Hrafn was sharing the support of a thick log with Bjorn. The young giant seemed to have taken a liking to him, and had been following him and making conversation through a good part of the journey. They had already been on the road for six days and it would still take six more until they arrived, at least if the weather kept allowing it. Up to that point, nothing truly abnormal had happened, there were a few crawlers here, some beasts of the day there, and the only constant enemy had been the cold and the bad food of the journey.
"So why did you not bring any servants?" Bjorn asked. "Not even your butler. He seems excellent."
"To make sure."
"There is your ill will toward fate again," the blacksmith answered. "Nothing has happened for six days. We are getting close and have not seen a single problem worthy of fear."
"Exactly," Hrafn answered, without much patience.
The fellow seemed to be a decent man, but he was also inconvenient a good part of the time. Always talking about honor and glory, at other moments he talked about women, there was an entire afternoon when he started talking about blacksmithing with such enthusiasm that Hrafn wished he were deaf.
"Why did your instructor let you come?" he asked.
"He did not let me come," Bjorn answered. "I volunteered. I wanted to experience the fights and the cold on my own."
Hrafn turned his head a little to look at him, thinking once again that the fellow had more muscles than brains. He was not quite a Briorn, but he was closer than he should be.
"Did you tell him?" he asked, just to make sure.
"Ah, no. I found out one day before and volunteered in a hurry, I ended up forgetting..." the other answered, and stayed there looking at the field covered in snow and the small bonfire they had lit. "I should have told him, right?"
"Brilliant," Hrafn answered, laughing in disbelief while biting into his own dried meat. "I should have dragged Edvard."
"Did you not say you wanted him safe?"
Hrafn bit off a little more, chewed, swallowed half and spat out the rest. "I do not anymore."
"I think it is possible to buy something with more flavor from some soldier," Bjorn said, pointing toward the camp set up a little farther ahead.
Despite it being night there was plenty of activity, the fire never went out, and most people stayed awake taking turns. Sleeping at night in winter was already a danger in itself; outside the walls it was almost courting death. The soldiers talked and moved to drive away the cold, others sharpened iron, and a few, the ones Bjorn pointed at, kept iron pots over their fires.
"So you think sometimes after all?" Hrafn said. "Curious." he concluded. And braced himself to get to his feet.
"First, go fuck yourself," Bjorn answered. "Second, you should pay my part, the idea was mine."
"That is fair," Hrafn said. "Rare events should be celebrated."
He then raised his arm to the blacksmith to pull him up, Bjorn looked at the hand, grunted, slapped it lightly and got to his feet on his own. The two then headed for the busiest part of the camp, to one of the bonfires with the largest iron pot, and as they approached they could recognize some familiar faces. Grim was among them, as was old Ari, who was minding the soup.
"One coin for your stew," Bjorn said, arriving behind the cook.
"Two," the old man answered.
"For soup?"
"For demand."
"Demand?" Bjorn asked, not understanding why that made the price go up.
"Two is fine," Hrafn said. "For one large bowl."
"Small is all you will have," the old man answered. "I already sold the rest."
"The pot looks big," Hrafn said. "And this bunch already looks pretty fat too."
"Small."
"Then forget it,"
"Fine," the old man said. "Medium then." And raised his hand backward. "Payment in advance."
"I did not know you were such an eager bargainer, Hrafn," Grim commented from the side, laughing and a little drunk.
"I did not know you drank at night," Hrafn answered.
"Whites can cure the state of drunkenness at any moment," Grim said with slurred speech.
"Of all the advantages," old Ari joined in, "that is the most unfair one you have. Do you know how hard it is for my old bones to face this winter without a good rum?"
"We do not," Grim answered. "None of us yet has white hair on our ass to know what it is like to be that old."
"You are older than me, grandpa," the cook shot back, pointing the spoon at Grim.
Hrafn actually liked the atmosphere, some laughed and others only grumbled, right after that the food was served. From time to time he stretched his sense toward the world around him and got little back, rationally that should have calmed him. But he only felt more and more uneasy and apparently he was not the only one.
"There is something very wrong in a convoy of a thousand men moving through the kingdom with so little happening," the old man said after setting his bowl aside and lighting a pipe. "The first four days? Very well. Up to there all right, near the capital, nothing too far out of the ordinary." He inhaled deeply, thought a little and let the smoke out slowly. "But we have already left the safer routes two days ago."
"Another pessimist," Bjorn pointed out.
"No, boy," Ari answered. "I have been traveling these roads for forty years. A thousand men and we have drawn nothing worthy of note, with the only miserable one who died having died because he was too stupid."
"Do not insult the dead," Grim said.
The old man only grumbled in response, and tapped the pipe on the ground to renew the ashes. Then he raised his eyes to the darkness beyond the circle of fire. "I say it is too quiet. Which may be luck, since a cold like this is bad even for the creatures of the night..." he paused. "Or..."
"It may not be," Hrafn finished for him.
The sentence fell and stayed there, the wind passed over the snow, pushed the smoke from the bonfires to the side and made the nearest horses move restlessly. Hrafn opened his senses to the world once more, and received back the same silence as before, as if the night around them were standing still listening.
g it. Up to that point, nothing truly abnormal had happened, there were a few crawlers here, some beasts of the day there, and the only constant enemy had been the cold and the bad food of the journey.
"So why did you not bring any servants?" Bjorn asked. "Not even your butler. He seems excellent."
"To make sure."
"There is your ill will toward fate again," the blacksmith answered. "Nothing has happened for six days. We are getting close and have not seen a single problem worthy of fear."
"Exactly," Hrafn answered, without much patience.
The fellow seemed to be a decent man, but he was also inconvenient a good part of the time. Always talking about honor and glory, at other moments he talked about women, there was an entire afternoon when he started talking about blacksmithing with such enthusiasm that Hrafn wished he were deaf.
"Why did your instructor let you come?" he asked.
"He did not let me come," Bjorn answered. "I volunteered. I wanted to experience the fights and the cold on my own."
Hrafn turned his head a little to look at him, thinking once again that the fellow had more muscles than brains. He was not quite a Brion, but he was closer than he should be.
"Did you tell him?" he asked, just to make sure.
"Ah, no. I found out one day before and volunteered in a hurry, I ended up forgetting..." the other answered, and stayed there looking at the field covered in snow and the small bonfire they had lit. "I should have told him, right?"
"Brilliant," Hrafn answered, laughing in disbelief while biting into his own dried meat. "I should have dragged Edvard."
"Did you not say you wanted him safe?"
Hrafn bit off a little more, chewed, swallowed half and spat out the rest. "I do not anymore."
"I think it is possible to buy something with more flavor from some soldier," Bjorn said, pointing toward the camp set up a little farther ahead.
Despite it being night there was plenty of activity, the fire never went out, and most people stayed awake taking turns. Sleeping at night in winter was already a danger in itself; outside the walls it was almost courting death. The soldiers talked and moved to drive away the cold, others sharpened iron, and a few, the ones Bjorn pointed at, kept iron pots over their fires.
"So you think sometimes after all?" Hrafn said. "Curious." he concluded. And braced himself to get to his feet.
"First, go fuck yourself," Bjorn answered. "Second, you should pay my part, the idea was mine."
"That is fair," Hrafn said. "Rare events should be celebrated."
He then raised his arm to the blacksmith to pull him up, Bjorn looked at the hand, grunted, slapped it lightly and got to his feet on his own. The two then headed for the busiest part of the camp, to one of the bonfires with the largest iron pot, and as they approached they could recognize some familiar faces. Grim was among them, as was old Ari, who was minding the soup.
"One coin for your stew," Bjorn said, arriving behind the cook.
"Two," the old man answered.
"For soup?"
"For demand."
"Demand?" Bjorn asked, not understanding why that made the price go up.
"Two is fine," Hrafn said. "For one large bowl."
"Small is all you will have," the old man answered. "I already sold the rest."
"The pot looks big," Hrafn said. "And this bunch already looks pretty fat too."
"Small."
"Then forget it,"
"Fine," the old man said. "Medium then." And raised his hand backward. "Payment in advance."
"I did not know you were such an eager bargainer, Hrafn," Grim commented from the side, laughing and a little drunk.
"I did not know you drank at night," Hrafn answered.
"Whites can cure the state of drunkenness at any moment," Grim said with slurred speech.
"Of all the advantages," old Ari joined in, "that is the most unfair one you have. Do you know how hard it is for my old bones to face this winter without a good rum?"
"We do not," Grim answered. "None of us yet has white hair on our ass to know what it is like to be that old."
"You are older than me, grandpa," the cook shot back, pointing the spoon at Grim.
Hrafn actually liked the atmosphere, some laughed and others only grumbled, right after that the food was served. From time to time he stretched his sense toward the world around him and got little back, rationally that should have calmed him. But he only felt more and more uneasy and apparently he was not the only one.
"There is something very wrong in a convoy of a thousand men moving through the kingdom with so little happening," the old man said after setting his bowl aside and lighting a pipe. "The first four days? Very well. Up to there all right, near the capital, nothing too far out of the ordinary." He inhaled deeply, thought a little and let the smoke out slowly. "But we have already left the safer routes two days ago."
"Another pessimist," Bjorn pointed out.
"No, boy," Ari answered. "I have been traveling these roads for forty years. A thousand men and we have drawn nothing worthy of note, with the only miserable one who died having died because he was too stupid."
"Do not insult the dead," Grim said.
The old man only grumbled in response, and tapped the pipe on the ground to renew the ashes. Then he raised his eyes to the darkness beyond the circle of fire. "I say it is too quiet. Which may be luck, since a cold like this is bad even for the creatures of the night..." he paused. "Or..."
"It may not be," Hrafn finished for him.
The sentence fell and stayed there, the wind passed over the snow, pushed the smoke from the bonfires to the side and made the nearest horses move restlessly. Hrafn opened his senses to the world once more, and received back the same silence as before, as if the night around them were standing still listening.