The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (9 page)

*                            *                            *

It would have been an interesting question to ask them.  The problem was they weren’t gurvani. 

Gurvani stand four to five feet high and have black fur from head to toe, like a furry twelve-year-old.  They are also cunning and vicious warriors.  They are also
nocturnal.
They don’t move around in the sun voluntarily unless their dark master compels them, or their shamans provide cover from the overbright sun.  This band was in direct sun, and didn’t seem bothered.  That was my first clue.  The group that the soldiers had surrounded was not human, true, but the fur that covered their bodies was also not black.  It was various shades of
brown.
 

The soldiers were a simple escort company of militia, local fellas from around Wilderhall quickly conscripted and armed for duty as soon as the harvest could spare them.  They had the same basic accent as the Nirodi.  They had been ordered escort their train to Tudry in support of the war effort, but they were young and eager for battle.  They were ready to avenge their human brethren from Alshar who’d been slain in the war.

Only these brave stalwarts from the Castali Wilderlands had cornered . . . a harmless band of terrified River Folk.  I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

The River Folk are typically smaller than gurvani, with few reaching four feet tall and most adults being around three feet to three and a half, the females being a few inches shorter.  What they lacked in height they more than made up for in girth, however: River Folk are
fat.

That’s not exactly fair – River Folk are built differently than humans, and their proportions do not match ours in several ways.  Because of this, a healthy adult looks to human eyes to be scandalously overweight, if he were human.   They have proportionately wider hips and narrower shoulders, their hands and feet look larger than they should be, attached to stubby little arms and legs.  And their heads are half again as large for their shoulders as a human’s. 

Add to that their
actual
fat – and the River Folk can pack it on, a defense against lean times – and their course, fluffy coat of brown fur, and the over-all effect is a kind of enormously obese rodent who happens to enjoy eating and getting drunk and smoking and carousing more than life itself. 

That was one reason the River Folk had such a bad reputation in their native Riverlands.  Booze.  They knew the art of brewing like my dad knows baking, and they practiced it with the enthusiasm that would make the drunken folk of the Pearwoods envious. 

While the advantages of having a colony of River Folk near your village were clear, since they were such ideal smallholders and consistently produced large surpluses, the disadvantages were fairly clear as well: left to their own devices, they usually became purveyors of liquor, wine and beer, and could leave a human peasant village thoroughly bankrupt and demoralized. 

Worse, they bred like the rabbits they kept in such abundance.  River Folk mature into adulthood early, compared to humans, in a mere ten years (although they are not considered ‘mature’, socially, for another ten).  They also produce multiple births at an alarming rate when there is a sufficient food supply.  It seems cruel, but the only way to keep them at a reasonable population is by curtailing their victuals. 

If they bred faster than goblins, they were also longer-lived than the gurvani.  Instead of a mere forty years before dotage, they could go twice that or more. 

The Riverlords of Alshar and western Castal loved the huge surpluses the River Folk brought to them in tribute, but they hated the problems implicit with taking them on as vassals.  You couldn’t conscript the River Folk, for instance, like you could a human peasant.  You could put a sword in their hand (a very
small
one), but their stature, slowness and their short limbs made them easy targets in battle against humans. 

At most they could use small bows, or man crossbows or man fire-duty stations in a siege, but even that was against their generally-peaceful nature.  That meant that in inter-fief wars the River Folk were often the first raided and slaughtered, and rarely was any thought given to their defense – if even a few survived, then they would be back to productive levels in just a few years. 

Affairs between them and their lords were handled communally, with a single representative (sometimes misleadingly called a River Folk Lord) handling the negotiations for the whole burrow.  When the population in a burrow gets too large – over a hundred, say – then it splits off and forms a new burrow.  If it is allowed to settle too closely nearby, then rivalries inevitably begin between the two. 

While open warfare between burrows is almost unheard of in civilized parts, their intricate codes of family honor and filial responsibilities permit some pretty nasty duels, and property damage in fights is always a problem.  There are even occasional riots.  Human lords largely leave such matters to the burrow’s leadership to deal with, unless it involves a human subject. 

There were places in the Riverlands where human lords had devoted large areas to River Folk cultivation – but they also had to devote a significant amount of time and energy in managing the colonies, or risk almost continual chaos.  It takes a strong hand and a fair nature, for the little people have a very distinct sense of justice, but if you had the temperament for it, landing the River Folk could be a profitable enterprise for a lord.

I’d seen a few of their villages in my travels.  Their burrows are great, circular structures, often built partially up against a south-facing hill or even deep into it, depending upon the size and age of the colony.  There is almost always a courtyard in the center, often with a spring, well, tree, or rock formation forming the center-point. 

This was the communal gathering place for the entire colony, a kind of nonstop marketplace and tavern.  Each family held a section of wall, apportioned by lot or vote or consensus, depending on the local culture, and was responsible for both developing it and maintaining it.  As their families grew with new litters, they would expand outward and down, into the earth. 

The burrows themselves were constructed with cunningly-woven strips of bark through an elaborate and geometrically intriguing wooden structure, the entire thing covered with a layer of thick clay or mortar.  Then it was gently backfilled with soil which formed little terraces.  It was on these terraces that the River Folk worked their magic.

Potatoes, carrots, onions, rutabagas, varnas, yams, turnips, garlic, lutils, parsnips, any kind of root vegetable was their servant.  River Folk could get
twice
the yield out of their burrows than a human family could out of a peasant’s vegetable garden.  And herbs – the crests of the burrows were often thickly planted with a wide variety of medicinal and culinary herbs.  If a burrow was old enough and large enough, then the courtyard might also have additional garden space, and a really old one might have orchards of fruit and nut trees.  All out-producing the groves of their human neighbors.

But they didn’t always mix well with peasants, who resented them their yields and used their greater strength to bully them.   River Folk were often commonly accused of thievery, and while most established colonies were properly horrified by such charges, there was also what can only be described as an unsavory element amongst them that was, indeed, free with other people’s property.   Sometimes those problems could develop into ugly feuds that lasted generations.

Where the two actively cooperated, the human peasants usually focused on grain cultivation and animal husbandry, while the River Folk concentrated on vegetables, poultry, smoking herbs and such.  Since the River Folk love bread and cheese as much as humans love plump vegetables and tasty smoke, a mutually-beneficial a relationship could evolve.  Stallburrow, in Gilmora, was a famous example, as were the Gadz Cantons in Alshar.  In those cases the River Folk usually adopted human culture, including language, dress, and social structure.

More often they were alienated and marginalized from human society.  In
those
cases, the River Folk lapsed into their root culture which emphasized survival above all else.  I’ve heard that a feral River Folk colony could be a dangerous nuisance to a human village.  Sometimes they would even throw in with human bandits and outlaws.  There were even tales of whole large colonies that had “gone wild” in remote, secret locations in the Wilderlands, where they had adopted human custom to the extent of facing their exterior walls with stone for defense, and took to using poisoned arrows like the Alka Alon do.

One thing you couldn’t fault them about, though: they were
incredible
cooks.  Their palate is far more developed than ours, and their large noses can smell things a bloodhound can’t.  Many western Riverlords employed as many as half a burrow to run their kitchens under the direction of human servants, one of the things that lent to the Gilmoran reputation for rich hospitality.  And their small hands were adept at weaving and needlework of all kinds.  While they knew metallurgy, they were poor blacksmiths, favoring carved wooden tools if iron could not be purchased.  They did, however, excel at the art of glassblowing, far in advance of human craft. 

But they were also just as vulnerable to catastrophic events like goblin invasions as their human counterparts.  This group was clearly a band of refugees, about a score, a third of them women and children.  The males had taken up arms, if you could call it that, using pruning hooks, staves, cudgels, mattocks, small hatchets and long knives to defend themselves. 

They were unarmored but not naked, dressed in the roughest of homespun wool or linen dyed a number of garish but faded colors – colors a gurvani wouldn’t be caught
dead
in.  Many had broad-brimmed, mushroom-shaped felt hats, but there was not a helmet  or shield among them – unless you counted a couple of pot-lids quickly repurposed for the task.  But they were as defiant in protecting themselves as they were terrified.

“Hold!”
I bellowed, as two of the human soldiers began to attack the band, shields and swords at the ready.  They faltered and stood back at the sound of a commanding human voice, but were wary of turning their backs on the River Folk.

“What is it?” one of the helmeted spearmen called impatiently.  “We can
take
them!”

“Stand
down!”
I continued shouting, dismounting from Traveler in a hurry.  “Back off, lower your weapons!  That’s an
order!
”

While they didn’t exactly comply with the order, they didn’t advance any further, much to the terrified River Folk’s relief.  One of the slightly older soldiers – he might have been eighteen – sauntered over to me, his helm off and his mantle thrown back.

“And who are
you
, my lord, to be giving
my
men orders?” he asked, his wide peasant’s face revealing a mouth full of broken teeth.  He had a sneer on his face I didn’t like.  He wore the same livery as the rest – black surcoats with a white wolf bearing a red paw, rampant – but he also wore a red sash that told him out as an Ancient.

“I am
Sir
Minalan,” I said, almost forgetting my new title, and then emphasizing it with some relish.  “And I am counted a Marshal of Alshar and Castal by the Duke, himself.  Which empowers me to command any lawful warrior of the Duke’s – of both Dukes,” I amended, since the news of Duke Lenguin’s death probably hadn’t gotten this far yet, “in a time of war.  This is a time of war.  I’m telling you and your men to stand down.”

That took him aback.  He looked me up and down while his men looked around quizzically.   Finally he shook his shaggy head.

“You don’t
look
like a lord, or even a knight,” he said, cautiously.  “I see no signet, no seal, no chain of office.  Your armor is for shit, you look more like deserters than lords, and that bag of bones you rode in on—“

Rogo Redshaft chose that moment to plant three arrows between the boy’s legs, a handbreadth apart, within a blink of an eye.

“
I’ll
vouch for Magelord Minalan –
Marshal
Sir Minalan, to be precise. 
I
accept his authority, as I’ve done for a season and a half, and I’d advise you to do likewise.  You fellows are from Barlandon, are you not?  You wear the Baron’s livery,” he observed coolly.  He hadn’t nocked another arrow, but he didn’t need to.  The soldiers had been shocked by how quickly he’d drawn, nocked and let fly – and from horseback. 

“From Garstad, actually,” another soldier said, more calmly, walking past the Ancient with quiet humor.  “In southern Barlandon.  I’m Balst of Garstad.  This blustery fellow is Kinsey.  His daddy is a Yeoman, so he gets to play Ancient.  A pleasure to meet you, my Lords,” he added with a decent bow.

“Thank you for your courtesy, Balst,” I said, nodding.  “I can show you my credentials if you insist, Ancient Kinsey, but I think that can wait until we’ve sorted this situation out.  Don’t you?”

“What’s to sort out?” asked Kinsey, irritated.  “We found some scrugs, we’re going to take care of them!”

“You found some
puds
, you idiot,” Balst said derisively, shaking his head.  “I
told
you.  Those
aren’t
Mountain Folk.”

“Your friend is correct,” I agreed.  “Those are River Folk.  Not gurvani.  Puds, not scrugs,” I said, using the derisive terms that most human peasants had for the various nonhumans.  “This obviously
dangerous
and
cutthroat
band of potato farmers, Ancient Kinsey, aren’t as combative as genocidal gurvani.  Believe me, I’ve seen enough of the latter to know the difference.  Order your men to stand down,” I repeated.

He did, grudgingly, then plucked the arrows out from between his feet and returned them to Rogo.  I’ll grant him this, he hadn’t blinked at the threat.  Brave and stupid are frequent bedfellows.  “So what do we
do
with them, then, my Lord?” he asked.  “They were blocking the way, and we’ve wagons to escort.”

“You ask them
politely
to move out of the way,” Rogo instructed with a chuckle.  “You don’t threaten to slaughter them.”

“You know I believe I mentioned a
similar
strategy myself—” began Balst, but his Ancient was having none of it.

“Shut up!” Kinsey said, angrily.  “You happy, Balst?  You
won
, all right?  All those damn creatures look the same to me, anyway!  Bunch of stinking animals…”

“Perhaps,” I nodded, “but it might do you well to learn the difference, lest you buy an onion from a gurvan by mistake.  Have your men withdraw to the other side of the road for the moment, and I’ll speak to our little friends.  I think this would be a good spot for lunch, anyway,” I said to Rondal and Tyndal, who nodded and dismounted to make preparations.  “We’re well-provisioned -- I think we can manage to share our rations with these poor unfortunates.  Some hardtack might be appropriate.  Or some porridge, or soup.  Yes, on a cool day like today, as bright as it is, soup would be wholesome.” 

“And I believe we have a skin of wine or two to soothe any ruffled feelings,” Rogo agreed.  Apparently he’d dealt with puds before, himself.  A cup of wine and they’d forgive you violating their . . . okay,
not
a thought I wanted to complete.

“Oh, just shoo them down the road and have done with them if you aren’t going to kill them!” complained Ancient Kinsey.  “They
stink!
”

“So does death,” Rogo said, dismounting himself and giving his men silent signals to do likewise, and to set up a picket perimeter.  “The River Folk stink of vegetative decay, not rotting corpses.  I’ll gladly exchange the one for the other.”

“As you will,” Kinsey said, sour and defeated as he turned to give his own men their orders.  “We were going to stop here, anyway.”

*
                            *                            *

Once I explained to the River Folk that they were under my protection and had nothing to fear from the soldiers any more, they relaxed, their chittering quieting noticeably.  Their leader, a squat little fellow with a broad yellow hat and enormous buck teeth, approached me, his big nose sniffing cautiously.

“Don’t be afraid, little master,” I said, quietly.  “They mistook you for
gurvani
.”

That got the whole crowd of them quiet . . . and then they burst out into snorting, raucous laughter.  The laughter of the River Folk sounds like . . . piglets at a party?  Drunken guinea pigs?  Rabbits at a wake?  Something like that.  Kinsey turned red, and kicked the dirt with his boot until the inhuman laughter died down.

“In any case, where are you headed, little masters?”

“South, east, wherever the roads take us
away
from the gurvani!” squeaked the leader in passably-good common speech.  “I am Nug Loblolly, my Lord, and this is the Loblolly Burrow.  Or what is left of it,” he said, sadly.  I looked a little closer and saw several of the River Folk bore fresh bandages, and a few walked with staves for support as much as defense.  “Gurvani took our burrow two weeks ago.  We were fortunate – the rest were not.  Now we flee, far and fast.”

“So do many
humani
,” I nodded, sadly.  “They are just as afraid as you are.  We fight the gurvani, you know.”

“Well, you’re
big!
” he said, like it made all the sense in the world.  “You can
do
that.”

“Sometimes,” I sighed.  “We are going to stop for lunch here.  You are welcome to join us.”

That made them all smile big, toothy smiles, like I’d mention the visit of a passing demigod.  I don’t know why, but it made me uncomfortable.

We broke to a clearing on the north side of the road for no better reason than it was a bright, clear autumn day, and the sun shone full on us.  The rest of the Barlandoni soldiers, more than a score of young lads in all, brought up their wagons and hobbled the horses, strapping on bags of oats before they took their own meal.

They were an earnest group.  Mostly peasant lads conscripted in a hurry, but some had basic militia training and two – Balst and Kinsey – had seen actual battle, of a sort.  They had been detailed to escort these wagons to Tudry, as part of the supply train from Castal, but the rumor of war had put them on edge.  They had all been ready for goblin ambush every step away from Wilderhall.  When they saw the puds . . .

“Most of the gurvani are far to the west or north of here,” I explained to them, as we sat down with the soldiers while Tyndal passed out hunks of hard bread (I’m pretty sure he pocketed a flask in return) to the grateful River Folk, and Rondal rather showingly kindled a quick fire by magic for porridge and soup that impressed the hell out of the militiamen and the River Folk alike.  “After the Battle of Timberwatch, the surviving gurvani legions fled north.  If we
hadn’t
prevailed . . . well, those River Folk could have been the gurvani vanguard as they prepared to march on Wilderhall.”

That got their attention, and they begged to hear our tale of the battles they’d barely heard of.  Rogo and I sat back and enjoyed listening to Rondal and Tyndal’s versions of events, augmented by a few of the Nirodi who had a clearer understanding of the warfare involved.  They went on for half an hour, interrupting and correcting each other, until they came to their – our – triumphant knighting.  The men were suitably impressed with our exploits, if skeptical.  But it was the only news from the front they’d had since the initial report of victory and they were eager for it.

“And now we’re headed back to Wilderhall, to claim our reward.  The army can hold the field through the winter, at least.  I’ve got to get to my wedding, actually.”

“Are you
sure
there aren’t any goblins about?” Kinsey asked, dismayed.  “Not even
scouts?
”  He looked disgusted.  He thirsted for battle, eager to prove himself.

“Absolutely sure, but . . . Tyndal, why don’t you scry the area, and prove to the lad that we’re safe?”

Tyndal grinned, and began to showily wave his hands back and forth.  He was summoning magesight – far more flamboyantly than he needed to – and I knew that the magically-drawn scrying map was floating in front of him even if I didn’t bother with magesight to see it.

“See?” I said.  “There’s—”

“Master?”
Tyndal said, hesitantly.  “Um, there
is
something.”

“What?” asked Kinsey, suddenly alarmed.

“What?”
I asked, surprised.

“There are gurvani . . . within
two miles
of here,” Tyndal pronounced, seeming to swim in the air with his hands until he had focused.  “And, uh, Master?  There’s not just gurvani . . . there’s also . . . here, maybe I’m doing it wrong, you’d better check.”

I glanced at Rondal, and he gave me a meaningful look in return.  In seconds we both had summoned the scrying spell, so much easier now with the power of irionite.

Damned if he wasn’t right.  It took a while to pinpoint, but there it was on the invisible map.  There was a knot of gurvani, it seemed, how many exactly was unsure, but there was a group of them congregating at a point within a brisk afternoon’s walk of here.

“Damn!” Rondal swore.  “Master . . .
shamans!”

He was right, too.  I brought the area into better focus, trying to ignore the common soldiers who were leaping about ready for an attack around us as I concentrated.  There were three I could see, all bearing irionite shards.  And there was something else . . . something that
didn’t
seem to want to manifest on the magemap.