Chapter 21
The road north to Melmet was strangely empty. No traders joined her, no pedlars, no journeymen laden with toolbags or laughing groups of women carrying wicker boxes full of chickens. Where had everybody gone?
Gone to fight, thought Yaret, or else gone into hiding. She urged Poda on fast all day and by the time she reached the rolling borderlands she was tired and aching. All the same she took the trouble to rub the horse down properly before she slept in a deserted cow-byre.
Next day she rode into Melmet town. She had travelled this way several times, and although she had not stopped for long she had always liked the look of the place. It was not too far from her grandmother’s homeland of Ioben, which was further north again; both places shared the same old-fashioned feel. Melmet town was solidly built, yet its builders had been fond of curves: arches and domes and roofs that undulated with a gentle smile. There were even a few antique roundhouses, though not so many as Ioben held. The streets used to have a tranquil, muted air, hoofbeats muffled on the earthen roads.
Now the tranquillity was gone. There were sentries set along the wall and she was stopped by armed men at the gates. When she told them she was looking for a group from Gostard they nodded and told her to try the Broc, before letting her ride through. They were on guard for armies, not solitary horsemen.
And here Yaret needed to be a horseman, not a horsewoman. She tried to think herself back into the male mode which had not been required in the wilderness, nor at the Gostard Inn. It was difficult to put on the assurance. Every right to be here, she told herself. A touch of swagger. Look severe, preoccupied. That wasn’t difficult.
The town was much busier than Gostard had been; crudely-armed men roamed the streets in purposeful groups. Many looked at her with narrow-eyed attention and she quickly realised that their interest was raised not so much by her as by the horse. Most of the horses she saw here were small and rough-haired, some hardly more than ponies, and Poda was conspicuous indeed.
As Yaret rode her war-horse through the town, at the far end of the main street she saw the Broc rise up before her like another sentry. A squat circular fortress whose defensive function had been symbolic for many years, it was now once more the mustering place for soldiers. A couple of hundred men were gathered within the Broc’s outer wall – which was no more than two feet high, having been used as a source of building-stone for centuries – and she quickly spotted the burly, balding figure of Jerred with his companions. There seemed to be about twelve or fifteen in the group from Gostard, some of whom she recognised.
Jerred didn’t recognise her at first, however. It was the horse that drew his gaze as she approached the group. Not until she dismounted did his eyes widen in realisation.
“Yaret the weaver! What the stars are you doing here? And on that horse?”
“Jerred. How goes it? I’ve been searching for you.” Then she explained her mission briefly, in the terms that she had used to Rud: her grandparents killed, the farm burnt down. “So I’ve come here to fight. I’d like to join your troop here, if you’ll let me,” she finished.
“You came alone? Nobody else here with you from Obandiro?”
She shrugged. “I’m used to travelling alone. Others may follow, I suppose.”
Thankfully, despite a disapproving shake of his head, Jerred didn’t question that. No doubt he put her decision down to female wrong-headedness.
But the femaleness, she saw immediately, was a problem. When she repeated her request to join his group, his expression told her that he was going to say no. The other men who knew her and her grandfather also looked surprised and wary. Although they’d been on friendly terms over the past years, this was a different time; a different situation.
She nodded to them. “Bred. Hansod. Morad. Good to see you. I hope your families are well?” A couple of them smiled, which was a start. “I understand your reservations about me joining you,” she went on. “But I’m here to avenge my grandfather Ilo. I have no doubt that he’d approve of what I’m doing. He’d have wanted to have come here to fight himself, bad hip and all.”
“He was a fine old man,” Bred offered.
“Indeed. If I join you, I’ll give you less trouble than Ilo would have. I’ll make no special demands or hold you up on the march. I’ll look after myself and I don’t expect anyone to look after me.”
“We all look after each other here,” said Morad; he was the miller whose apprentice had given her such a surly rebuff back at the Gostard mill. Morad himself was not surly, but seemed undecided. “We’re grateful for all the men we can get. But…” He grimaced.
“But not women? The thing is, I’ve come here to fight the stonemen, and fight I will, one way or another, but I think I’ll be safer amongst you than with men that I don’t know.”
They all looked at Jerred.
“Nice horse,” he said. “Yours?”
“Yes.” She wondered if he coveted Poda: if that would be the price for her admission to his troop. She did not feel inclined to pay it, for Poda had been a precious gift and she did not want to give her up.
Jerred ran his hand across his stubbly head, still frowning at the horse.
“We’ll take a vote,” he said. “In favour?” Seven hands went up, six of them men she knew. “Against?” There were three. Three had not voted. Jerred nodded. “Very well. That’s in your favour. But ultimately it’s not my decision – I’ll have to put it to Grusald. He’s in charge.”
“The Baron? Where is he?” She had never seen the Baron of the Broc in person.
“That’s him over there.” Jerred pointed to a short, grizzled man standing fifty yards away. With a weathered face and a determined set to his jaw, he was busy giving orders to the surrounding men. He looked like an old soldier, which was mildly reassuring.
“I’ll go and have a word with him,” continued Jerred. “He’s labelled me official captain of our group. And he looks as happy right now as he ever does, which isn’t a whole lot. Come with me. Bring the horse. Stand next to it and don’t say anything unless you’re asked. And as little as possible then.”
So she followed Jerred. As the men around the Baron parted to let them through, she heard murmurs about the horse and speculation about herself. Had the peasant stolen it? Found it strayed? Or won it in a bet?
The Baron himself eyed her with cold scepticism, while Jerred bowed and muttered in his ear. She could not hear any of the words that were exchanged until Grusald said,
“Step forward.”
She did so.
“I’m told you are a pedlar from the east and that you wish to join us. But you are… a stranger to us. We do not know if you can fight.”
“I do not know if I can fight,” said Yaret. “But I can try.”
“Sword skills?”
“Rudimentary.”
“Archery? I see you have a bow.”
“Fair. I hunt. I don’t draw a great deal of weight, but I’m accurate.”
“Have you any experience of warfare?”
In answer she drew her sword and stabbed at her false leg with its point.
“This is wood,” she said. “A stoneman’s axe cut off my foot last year. I’d like the chance to take revenge.”
That made Grusald pause – and not just Grusald. Jerred looked taken aback too. The Baron studied her a little harder, and then frowned at Poda.
“Where did you get the horse?” he demanded. “That’s not a pedlar’s steed.”
“It was a gift.”
“From whom?”
“From someone whom I rescued, after he was pursued by a darkburn.”
“A darkburn.”
“By one of the creatures that set the fires–”
“I know what they are,” cut in Grusald, “but I have not heard many people call them by that name.” He considered: she waited.
“I’m not against your joining us,” he said eventually, “so long as you keep your foreign ways to yourself. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“You may enlist in my service as an archer. But the horse is a problem. It is unsuitable for an enlisted man. That is a commander’s horse.”
“Ah.” Now she understood the price that would be paid: not to Jerred, but to the Baron.
“We’ll make an exchange. Devald here will find you a horse more suitable for your rank.” Grusald beckoned to the man next to him, giving him instructions.
Yaret bowed, although she felt slightly sickened at the realisation that she would have to give up Poda. But it was necessary. She followed Devald round the Broc to the stables at the back, and there unloaded Poda of her gear.
“Leave the saddle,” Devald told her, so she merely stroked Poda for the last time and murmured words of thanks to her. Meanwhile Devald untethered a horse and walked it over. “You can have this one,” he said. “I’ll get you a saddle that’ll fit her.”
This certainly wasn’t one of Grusald’s horses; the Baron would never have ridden this scruffy mare with her patchy coat and ragged ear. Yaret felt down the mare’s legs and looked in her mouth. She was old. On the other hand, she was docile.
“Her name’s Helba. She’s only shedding because it’s spring,” said Devald.
“What’s her wind like?”
“Oh, she’s sound enough. Just don’t expect to do too much galloping.”
“All right,” said Yaret, since she didn’t seem to have a choice. Resignedly she led Helba away to where the Gostard horses were corralled. Helba looked scruffy even in comparison to them.
But now she was in, that was the main thing: she was accepted. And she had got here just in time. For now she learned that the next day they would all march west to fight.