The winding road down to the valley was much more pleasant for the wind no longer clawed at them and the view was promising. Azkun could see the road ahead snaking down towards a cluster of buildings by the river, his first view of an Anthorian settlement.
Menish sent Drinagish on ahead towards the village, Drinagish seemed oddly excited but Azkun did not know why. He was surprised to see such a village past the border. He had thought the Anthorians never lived in one place but followed their herds across the plains and lived in tents.
Now that they were sheltered from the biting wind the sun grew warm. Althak lifted his winged helmet off his head and tied the straps to his arm. Menish bundled his fur cloak into his saddle pack and loosened his jerkin. Hrangil did not seem to notice the change in temperature.
“We seem to be high up,” said Keashil.
“Yes, we're looking across the valley of Cop-sen, or Amsha as the Relanese call it where it flows through their land. Our road crosses the river at a village that we can see from here. It's called Kronithal, the ‘iron camp’ in the Anthorian tongue, for this is where the Relanese first traded in iron with the Anthorians. We'll sleep there tonight.”
The village, when they reached it, was much like those they had seen in Relanor, though smaller than most, and there was no encircling wall. The flat land around the village had been ploughed but lay fallow. The road wound between the fields and the houses towards the river where two imposing, stone buildings stood.
Azkun had seen buildings like this in Relanor, especially as they drew close to the Lansheral. There was a ground level that seemed to be for housing animals, and two levels above that. The first floor had a wide stone terrace with steps leading up to it. Menish led them towards the nearest of the buildings where, tethered outside, stood Drinagish’s horse.
“They’ve arrived! Here they are!” cried a voice.
A large, wooden door burst open, erupting with people who swarmed out of it, across the terrace and down the stone steps. Most of them were children and their elders in a more dignified fashion followed them.
“Corith! Take your uncle’s horse. Romeryal, take the sorcerer’s beast.” A stern looking man stood in the doorway giving orders that he was obviously used to having obeyed.
“Greetings, Menish. It's good to see you again.” He smiled and his sternness vanished in a maze of wrinkles.
“Holdarish, I'm glad to see you so well.”
Drinagish appeared in the doorway behind him with a woman who was a similar age to Holdarish. She had her arm across Drinagish’s shoulders and Drinagish seemed uncomfortable about it.
“Come inside and be welcome. There's meat and bread for you.” Corith, a lad who looked a lot like Drinagish, held Menish’s horse until he dismounted, then led the animal away.
Inside the house they found a hall faced with stone and a big fireplace along one wall. Something was turning on a spit over it and Azkun looked away. The stone walls were largely hidden by woven rugs that hung on them. Most were plain, woven wool dyed one colour, usually brown or yellow. But on the north wall was a patterned rug, or a tapestry. It showed figures with swords and beasts. Azkun could not make any sense of it in the dim light but it plainly depicted something.
The floor of the room was laid with skins and straw and a few of the large Relanese cushions. On these Mora, Holdarish’s wife, bade them sit. Servants brought them food and Holdarish poured ambroth. This was Anthor, there was no talk of ‘medicinal purposes’ for ambroth here.
“How is Sonalish?” asked Mora as they ate.
“Still keeping up her sword practice she told me,” said Menish through a mouthful of meat. “Though she was making some embroidery as well.”
“Does she still ride?”
“Not often. Remember the Relanese never did approve of women riding horses. They had some idea they would lose their virginity.”
“But she's married! She has four children!”
“Yes, but they always thought it unseemly for women to ride anyway.”
Mora looked concerned.
“Is she happy? Menish, is she really happy?”
Menish laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Mora, your daughter is happy. You should go and see for yourself.”
“No, it is she who left us, it is she who must return. I'll not go chasing after her into Relanor. Especially if they're going to frown at me riding a horse.”
“It's been eight years,” said Menish.
“What has Drinagish been doing?” asked Holdarish, changing the subject.
“He's acquitted himself well,” replied Menish with a smile. Drinagish fidgeted with his drinking horn. “We were attacked by pirates on our voyage south from Lianar. Drinagish’s sword put the fear of Anthor into them. It was he who found Keashil and Olcish on the pirate ship.”
“Don’t drink it so fast, boy,” muttered Holdarish, nudging Drinagish when he took a mouthful of ambroth.
Menish carefully ignored the parental rebuke and reached for more food. There was tsamba, a favourite of all Anthorians: butter rolled in toasted barley flour. He kneaded a bite-sized piece of butter between his finger and thumb and dusted it in the bowl of flour.
“How are things here? I feel I've been away for so long it seems all summer has passed away.”
“We've had little trouble with the wolves, though it's hardly cold enough to send them south yet.”
“Many raids?”
Holdarish shook his head. “Not my herds, and I've other things to do than go raiding myself nowadays. I leave that for the younger ones. It's forbidden to Drinagish now, of course.”
“That's true, the king and his heir may not raid herds, and no one may raid theirs.”
“Hmm, perhaps we could gift our herds to Drinagish now that he's your heir. Then we'd be immune from raiding.”
“Then you'd be beholden to him for your income-”
“Do I hear you correctly?” interrupted Keashil. “You're talking of raiding cattle aren't you? Stealing each other’s cows and sheep?”
“And camels,” said Holdarish around a mouthful of tsamba.
“Yes, that's right,” said Althak. “They do it for sport in Anthor. I was surprised when I first found out too.”
“Not merely for sport,” Mora corrected him. “Raiding is a way of getting rich.”
“Or getting killed, of course,” said Menish.
“Any venture that may produce profit will have an element of risk.”
“Rumour of this came to Golshuz, but no one believed it. It is lawful, then, to steal cattle in this land?”
“Of course. Anyone who does not have the wits to guard his animals would lose them to the wolves anyway,” said Mora.
“There are rules,” said Althak. “No more than half of the breeding stock may be taken. The camp itself may not be raided and only those actively involved in defending the herd may be attacked. Otherwise there would be a danger to children and the infirm.”
“How… civilised,” said Keashil. “But those defending the herds may fight and kill each other?”
“Oh yes,” Menish said, speaking like the father of an unruly child that he indulges in spite of himself. “They fight, they duel, they feud. Every small matter must be resolved by violence. There are families that have been at each other’s throats for generations over some trivial matter. That absurd feud between the Rithyar and Romarbol clans has been going on for more than a hundred years as far as I can tell. It started when one sold the other a sick sheep which died the next day.”
“And they raid each other all the time?”
“Not all the time,” said Drinagish. “No one raids or feuds a month either side of the spring games.”
“And of course at the spring games you will see members of the Rithyar clan and the Romarbol clan buying each other drinks and swapping stories,” put in Holdarish.
Keashil laughed. “You are a strange folk.”
“And formidable fighters,” said Mora.
“Those that survive are,” muttered Menish.