“Uncle Merrit!”
The red-haired woman broke away from the others and ran into the field. A tall, thin man turned just in time to catch her. She clung to him and began to cry.
“Jessa?” He wiped his muddy hands on his clothes and put an arm around her shoulders. “What are you doing here, child? Who are these people?”
“Mother and Father. Pirates killed them. Everyone's dead. Harron, Dennet, Ulden...” She tried to point toward Oliver. “He saved us. He got us away from them.”
With her uncle's arms around her, she no longer had to hold anything back. The other women began crying too. Ceryn stood among them with nobody to run to. Apart from the woman whose sister had married into the village, the others could offer one another little more than the comfort they had already shared on the road.
Merrit brought his niece out of the field, removed his hat, and bowed.
“Thank you, ser. Thank you for bringing her back. May I ask where you've come from?”
Oliver had considered the question back at the shore. He gave the account he had prepared.
“Oliver Evans. I'm a knight from the Fingers. My apprentice and I were traveling from White Harbor to Braavos, until a disagreement aboard ship got us put ashore.” He indicated the women. “We found their village while we were looking for somewhere to stay. Then we took the road inland and came across Ceryn with pirates chasing her. They can tell you the rest.”
Merrit looked at the women. They understood the question without his having to ask it.
“It's true, Uncle Merrit. What Jessa said.”
“Is my sister here? Jana, of the Berricks?”
“He killed the pirates. We left them in the woods, beside the river.”
Their answers crowded over one another. Merrit couldn't follow every word, but the women knew this man and trusted him. It was difficult to imagine a deception that began with pirates killing so many of their own men to support it.
He bowed again. “May the old gods watch over you, ser. You've avenged my brother and his wife.”
“Not yet.” Oliver pulled on the rope, and the captive stumbled forward. “These were the men left behind with the prisoners. He says there were ninety in the whole raiding party. That leaves more than eighty still out there.”
Merrit's attention sharpened.
“I kept this one alive. He's in charge of a few men, and he knows more than he's told me. Have you someone who can question him?”
“No sworn sword in our village. But some of us have fought in wars.” Merrit narrowed his eyes at the prisoner. “You can leave him with us.”
Us. Oliver took another look at the half-bald farmer and the calluses on his hands. Perhaps the hoe wasn't the only thing that had put them there.
“All right.” He passed over the rope. “Is there somewhere we can sleep? We've been on the road for days.”
Merrit's expression warmed at once. “A tavern. Good ale, brewed here, and two rooms upstairs. Small, but clean.” He beckoned to a boy who had been watching. “Alric, go and find your brother. Tell him pirates destroyed the coastal village. These women survived, and this gentleman saved them. Ask him to get food ready.”
He gave the boy a brisk tap on the back of the head. Alric stumbled, recovered, and ran for the village.
Other workers had begun gathering around them. Those who had heard the first account repeated it to the newcomers. Older women took off their outer garments and wrapped them around the survivors, drawing them aside with red eyes and quiet voices.
“This way, ser,” Merrit said.
They had nearly reached the village when a dozen armed men burst from the earthen wall. Some carried swords or hammers. Others had pitchforks. Leather armor creaked as they ran.
“Pirates! Where are they?”
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Oliver's hand went to his sword. Surely they weren't going to be that stupid.
A man in a horned helmet and leather vest lifted a hammer and charged straight at him.
Strong, Oliver thought. Slow.
As the hammer came down, he moved half a step back and pushed the man's shoulder. The attacker lost his balance and sprawled in the dirt.
“Brenner, you idiot!” Merrit kicked the fallen hammer away. “He saved Jessa! He isn't a pirate!”
A tall, fair-haired man with a thick beard stared from behind the others. “Merrit, what's going on? Alric said pirates were coming.”
“Alric.” Merrit's voice brought the boy out reluctantly. “What did I tell you?”
“To find my brother. Pirates were coming, and he should get ready.”
“The other village was attacked. He saved the women. I asked your brother to get food ready.”
Silence spread through the little crowd. Brenner left his hammer where it lay and edged behind the other men.
Their leader removed his helmet. “I'm sorry, ser. We acted without thinking. If you'd been hurt after what you've done for our people, the Wall wouldn't have been punishment enough.”
Oliver looked at the discarded hammer, then back at him. Starting another fight would get him neither a bed nor a meal.
“No harm done. Buy me a drink. I'm told there's a tavern here.”
The fair-haired man stepped forward eagerly. “Mine, ser. I'm Garrik, Alric's brother. I'd be honored to have you.”
Within a few more exchanges, the misunderstanding was over. Garrik led Oliver and Kellan toward a small two-story tavern at the eastern end of the village. The others scattered, taking the story home with them.
* * *
The room downstairs held three or four heavy tables and occupied less than forty square meters. A wooden staircase at the back led to two upstairs rooms with their doors open.
Their room had a low ceiling, two beds, and a shelf supporting a basin held in place by a leather strap. The beds were bare except for wooden pillows.
Oliver was delighted. Beds. Actual beds.
He had just got his armor off when Garrik and Alric came in with armfuls of dry hay. They spread it over the bed frames.
“Last year's cut, ser,” Garrik said. “Had months to dry. You'll sleep well on it.”
Oliver waited only until they had gone before throwing himself down. Dust rose with the smell of dried grass. He pulled a worn quilt over himself and pointed vaguely at the other bed.
“That one's yours, Kellan.”
He was asleep before there was much chance of an answer.
Late in the day, he woke and refused to move. He was still too comfortable to get up when someone knocked.
“What is it?”
“Ser? Elder Warrin and Uncle Merrit want you downstairs.”
Oliver frowned into the pillow. That was Alric again. Did people here normally summon a guest as though he were late for work? He had been inclined to stay exactly where he was when a sharp smack sounded outside.
“I sent you with a message,” Merrit said. “What sort of message was that?”
Then his voice came through the door, flustered and apologetic. “Forgive him, ser. Our elder was hoping to speak with you after you'd rested. Whenever you're ready. We'll wait downstairs.”
That was better.
“Give me a moment.”
Oliver pushed himself upright. Someone had filled the basin with clean water. He splashed his face, let himself finish waking, and went down.
Merrit sat with the man who had led the armed villagers. Oliver pulled out a stool opposite them.
“I was expecting an old man with a white beard and a stick,” he said. “Not you.”
“Elder's a title. I'm ten years younger than Baldy here.” The man offered his hand while Merrit endured the remark. “Warrin. Village elder and captain of the militia. I wanted to thank you. The coastal village was started by people from here a little over ten years ago. Our families. Ceryn says you buried the dead.”
“Yes. It was no trouble.”
“A grave for dozens of people is trouble.” Warrin turned toward the counter. “Garrik, three ales.”
The tavern keeper brought large wooden cups filled with a yellow-brown drink under white foam. Oliver tasted his. Sweet, faintly sour, with a flavor that reminded him of kvass.
“What do you make this from? There's wheat in it. It's good.”
“Dry bread left over here,” Garrik said, with a shy smile that sat oddly beneath his beard. “And a few things my family taught me.”
“Thank you.” Oliver raised the cup to him.
When Garrik returned to his work, Warrin continued.
“What happened there is a warning for us. Remember Old Eda's stories, Merrit?”
“Of course. Summer evenings, she'd bring her chair outside and work while she talked. Skagosi, always. Great big men, bloodthirsty. Ate people, if you believed her.”
“Her husband and eldest son died fighting them.” Warrin lifted his cup. “May she rest. She spent her life warning us, and after enough peaceful years, everyone thought she was just trying to frighten children.”
He set the cup down.
“They arrive, take what they can, and leave before anyone knows where to find them. I've put the militia on guard while people work the fields, and we'll keep a watch at night. But Grayfold has only a little over two hundred households. A dozen militia. Perhaps seventy people who could hold a weapon, and most have never fought.”
Oliver drank and waited.
“We've sent warnings to the other villages, and to Roderic,” Merrit said. “It may be a few days before we hear what he means to do. If you've nowhere you need to be, we'd like you to stay.”
“Your room, food, and drink would be provided for you and your attendant,” Warrin added. “If the pirates come, we'd ask you to help defend the village. We'd agree payment then.”
Oliver considered it. A few quiet days would suit him. Traveling with Kellan while more than eighty raiders remained unaccounted for was not especially inviting, either.
Leaving the price open made sense. None of them knew whether the village would be attacked, or by how many men. A fixed sum now could leave either side regretting the bargain later.
“All right,” he said. “We'll stay.”
Warrin and Merrit exchanged a quick look, apparently surprised to have reached agreement so easily. Then they offered their good wishes for his time in the village.
Oliver raised his cup. “Thank you.”