Kumul grunted, but could not deny the sudden joy in the cries of the Chetts around him.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a prophecy or something foretelling Lynan would appear like this,” Ager continued.
“If not,” Kumul said, “we can always make up one.”
They watched Lynan stand in the firelight, holding up the Key of Union for all in the two circles to see. Korigan stood beside him, her relief obvious in her expression. Gudon moved to stand beside the pair, a grin as wide as the Gelt River across his face. But both Ager and Kumul were watching Eynon; it was his reaction that would determine what happened next.
Eynon surveyed the second circle, listening to the cheering and excited cries. He approached Lynan and an apprehensive silence fell across the meeting.
Lynan stood his ground, looking haughtily at the chief. When Eynon was no more than two paces, the chief bowed his head. For a moment nothing else happened, then Akota and Herita stood before Lynan and bowed as well. Then each of the chiefs in the first circle paid obeisance. When the last chief had bowed, every Chett in the second circle bowed as well.
“Impressive,” Ager muttered under his breath.
“It is,” Kumul admitted, and could not help but feel great pride in what Lynan had achieved. “It is not the way I would have done it, but it is the way it should have been done.”
Jenrosa put an arm around Kumul’s waist. “You are used to the ways of the east, of the royal court. Lynan seems to know instinctively how to behave with the Chetts.”
“Well, that might explain his lack of success back in Kendra,” Ager said. “Lynan is a barbarian at heart.”
Ager’s words sent a shiver down Kumul’s spine. “For the kingdom’s sake, I hope you are wrong.”
Chapter 8
Freyma was scattering the last bale of feed in the pad-dock when he saw the group of horsemen approaching along the south road. He thought quickly, and realized he would not be able to reach his house to get his sword before they arrived. There was a pitchfork in the barn, though, and that might be handier than a sword against a mounted foe. He called to his five cows and they lazily lumbered across the paddock to pick at the feed. Pretending to be as casual as his beasts, he sauntered to the barn, opened just one of the old, creaky wooden doors, made sure his pitchfork was within reaching distance, and waited for his guests.
One rider galloped ahead of the rest. He saw Freyma but ignored him at first, instead riding around the yard, looking through windows and around corners. He was dressed in good leather gear, the chest piece hard and shiny from boiling; a long cavalry sword was in a scabbard attached to the saddle. When at last he halted in front of the barn, he looked down on Freyma with something like curiosity.
“Hello, friend,” Freyma said.
The rider nodded but did not reply.
“I hope you’ve just come for water or to buy some eggs.”
The rider shook his head, and pointed to the rest of his group, six riders, now passing the farm gate.
Can’t do much against seven, Freyma thought. But if I take this one out now, I’ll make at least some account of myself.
His leaned against the barn door and grasped the pitchfork in his right hand. “One of your horses is lame,” he said. The stranger looked over his shoulder, and as he did so, Freyma quickly moved forward, bringing the pitchfork up and around.
“Hold it, Freyma!” cried a harsh voice, and the farmer hesitated. The rider Freyma was about to impale whipped around, his sword already in his hand. Before Freyma could do anything the pitchfork was spinning out of his grasp.
“God’s death, you’re fast,” Freyma said, and waited for the sword to bite into his neck. But the rider just grinned down at him.
By now, the other riders had reached the barn. One of them dismounted and slowly took off a pair of black gloves. “Age has slowed you, my friend,” the man said.
Freyma stared at him in surprise. He recognized the voice, the well-muscled frame and horribly scarred face with its crooked nose. “I don’t believe it. Jes fucking Prado.”
Prado put his hands on his hips and roared in laughter. “You should see the color of your face. You’d think I was a ghost.”
“I thought I was going to be a ghost,” Freyma said. He waved at the other riders. “Who are your friends?”
“My escort.”
“Escort? Since when does a farmer in the Arran Valley need an escort?”
Prado shook his head. “News still travels here slower than a corpse. I’ve been gone from the valley for over half a year.”
“Gone? Where? Who’s looking after your farm?”
Prado snorted. “I never thought I’d hear you sound so concerned over a few square leagues of dirt.”
“It’s how we feed ourselves, remember?” Freyma said resentfully. He looked at Prado’s companions again. “Or did. You’ve obviously moved on.”
“How much do you make here, Freyma?”
“None of your business.”
“After you’ve paid your taxes, and for transporting your milk and grain and eggs. How much? A dozen gold pieces a year?”
“Still none of your business.”
“And how much did you make when you rode with me? Some campaigns you made a dozen gold pieces a day.”
“Those days are gone, Jes. I’m just a farmer now.”
Prado grinned and put his arm around Freyma’s skinny shoulders. “I’m here to tell you that those days are back again.”
Freyma did not have enough food for all seven guests, so Prado paid him three gold pieces straight off for one of the cows. For that amount Freyma said they could have the vealer, and three hours later they were eating rare fire-roasted beef and downing a few flagons of his best cider and mead.
“So you’re actually working for the Rosethemes now?” Freyma shook his head disbelievingly. “I never thought that’d happen. Not in a thousand years.”
“That’s right. I’ve even got her commission.”
“They made you a captain?”
“A general,” Prado said. “I want you to be my captain.”
Freyma’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, Jes, I’ve got my farm.”
“I’ll pay you three times what you get from your farm. And there’ll be booty.”
“Slaves?”
Prado shook his head. “No. Areava’s munificence won’t extend that far. But there’s plenty of rich takings in Haxus, and the Strangers’ Sooq.”
“That’s true,” Freyma admitted. He rubbed a pockmarked cheek with a long finger. “How long does this commission last?”
“Six months, a year. Until we do the job.”
“You goin‘ to stretch it out?”
Prado’s eyes hardened. “I want Rendle dead. I want Lynan dead. The only thing I want to stretch are their necks.”
Freyma’s brow creased in thought.
“I know what you’re thinking, you dog. You can be my captain, get rich, and be back here before next summer.” Prado chuckled. “Well, that’s fine by me, if that’s how you want to play it. But I have a feeling there’ll be more work for us after this job is done.”
“I haven’t got many good years left in me, Jes. I don’t want to die with a sword in my hand.”
“None of us is young anymore. I reckon if I recruit most of the old company, and take on their sons and daughters who can ride and use a sword, we’ll be back to almost full strength.”
“You’ll need more than that to take on Rendle, especially if Salokan’s backing him.”
Prado nodded. “I hear Black Petra settled his company near Sparro.”
“That’s right. I ran into some of them at the Sparro fair this autumn past. But Black Petra’s dead, Prado.”
“Gored by one of his bulls, no doubt. He liked farming, too, I seem to remember.”