At the Marshaling Camp

Soon after those documents were delivered, marshaling camps were set up along the major roads: thanes opened up prison cells, uncoupled wrist-clamps, sent miscreants off to the war—whips drove them down the byways, spurred them on toward the marshaling camps. They sent spare martial supplies, contributed rusty mail, dull sword-blades, nicked spears to those war-marchers. On Ud's stead-lands, various troublemakers, reluctant workers, real grumblers, marched to the nearest camp. Etheomere was among them; he marched quietly, paid no heed to the shouting horsemen, whip-holders, that escorted them to the camps. After some time, that disdainful group arrived there; they registered with the battle-veterans, took severe oaths before their stern eyes—those were death-oaths, impossible to break. They were promised freedom, complete pardons, some money in exchange for martial service—it was not an option. After that, each man was assigned gear. Etheomere himself was girt in old mail, a torn-up jerkin, a leather helm; a sword was strapped about him, it was an old thing, red-tinted; it was a rusty blade, a betrayer for sure. Those soldiers stayed at that camp for two days—that place swelled with troops, filled to the brim with hooligans and leering soliders. During that time, they engaged in training; they clashed swords, bashed shield against shield; then, Etheomere's strength began to show, he did well in arms training, knocked a few opponents off their feet. At night, outland wenches prepared meals; they served meat—venison and beef-- and low-quality beer, moved about the feeding tent, did their job quietly. Among those kitchen-servants was Meredeth hawk-beak; at that time, she was still ignoble, not well-known at all. Still, even at that time, she was wont to whisper in the evening bunk, when the day's labor had ended; her bunkmates felt vigour, their tempers stirred upon hearing her words. She was a speaker, a propaganda-maker; although then it was unknown, she would one day become a whisperer against Etheomere; her bitterness became famous, her rankling pride-wound the subject of scop songs for many years—that was an abstruse feud, who knew the true cause? After the evening meal, men were wont to boast, speak lofty words, really play-up their battle abilities. Even the soldiers, real guardsmen, freely boasted of their deeds, bragged about honor they would win in the upcoming squirmeshes, clashes with Abrecan and his foreign mercenaries, coin-bought thugs. Through all that, Etheomere listened, felt the battle-words stir anger, heat-up that common room with flaring temper-fires; ever and anon, word-grapplers pushed back from the table, challenged each other with fists, stung each other with insults, voice-blades. In those occasions, Etheomere watched, responded when one of his table-companions turned, spoke these words to him: 'Ya know, this reminds me of the fuckin' rutting season out on the ranch. These guys butt heads just like horny goats—what's the point?' Etheomere laughed, derisive. He responded like this: 'yeah, I dunno. Why don't they save it up for the real fight, whenever the hell that is.' The other spoke up over the boasting-din, rattling crocks: 'By the way, I'm Rudrik, from Thrugs homestead, how about you?' 'I'm Etheomere. I work in Ud's fields, now.' The other laughed, really started chuckling: 'Etheomere? I've heard of you! You're known far and wide as a lay-about—a real lazy ass. I guess I shouldn't be surpised to see you in with this rabble.' Etheomere frowned, gripped his crock-handle; he responded, at length. 'What do ya mean by that?' Rudrick chuckled, 'and not so sharp, either, right? Did you sign up for this? Did you volunteer for the job? Neither did I, and what does your sword look like? Mine's cracked across the blade—it was a gift from some generous land-holder. I'm sure it'll break across the first shield it meets—we're dead men, Etheomere. We don't stand a fuckin' chance.' That ruddy guy took a swig, drank from his crock; he choked and laughed: 'It could be worse, I guess. At least we'll bite it in battle, and not die in the fields, worked to death during harvest season or something.' Then that fellow stood up, clapped Etheomere on the back; he belched and walked away from that place at the table, laughing. After that, Etheomere fumed, his face grew ruddy: he twisted his beard-braides, tugged at them a bit. Next to him, a heafty man burst out laughing, fell from his chair, mead-tipsy: his companions jeered at him, kicked at him with their boot-tips; at that time, a serving wench approached, bearing good beer for the battle-captains sitting round a nearby table. That fat fellow extended a hand, gripped her leg about the ankle. He pulled her down on top of him; beer pitchers toppled, thumped onto the soil floor. He hugged her tight, gripped her like that—he laughed as that wench contested his arm clasp. Beer puddled on the dirty ground, soaked that man's worn-out cloak: Etheomere pushed his chair aside, stood up; he seperated himself from that unseemly scene. Nearby, at the captain's table, wrothful men stood, approached the tumbling pair. Their gloved hands clutched weapon-hilts, prepared to draw swords from the scabbards. At that, the fat fellow unlocked fingers, losed his grip; he finally let that serving girl go. She stood and fled, hurried back to the kitchen tent; some men guffawed, threw food, pegged her with sloppy meal-scraps as she hurried away. Then, those battle-capitans pulled that miscreant to his feet, gripped his arms; one dour chap made a fist, struck him in the face, knocked him back; he reeled, stumbled backwards into Etheomere, really piqued his anger like that. Etheomere pushed him forward, lost his composure completely. At that, that fat man turned, struck Ethomere a solid blow, split his lip, drew life-water from his mouth and nose; Etheomere fell down, it was an unexpected blow! His eyes blurred, filled up with water; he ran off, left that tent behind. For a while, he stood outside in a shadowy place; the night was sable, pitch-black; the vault was splattered from end to end with sky-blazers, twinkling night-gems. Wind rustled the grass, blew through the fields out beyond the farthest tents; it was a big camp; it extended off into the grassy distance. Here and there, leaves spun on the air-currents, dust twisted up and down the Wending road. Etheomere wandered off, walked past the make-shift stables, horse-houses; those beasts were quiet, caught up in night-rest. In other places, near the sleeping-tents, campfires blazed; bright tongues drove off the shade, lit up faces. At length, Etheomere reached the camp's edge. At that point, a voice adressed him, spoke up from somewhere nearby: 'not thinkin' of wandering off, are you, boy? That'd be a big mistake.' Etheomere spotted a camp-guard, war-girt, standing beside the last sleeping-tent; behind him, a campfire blazed; light glinted on polished rings, mail-bearing soldiers; they looked his way. The soldier: 'I think I know you. Come here, will ya?' Etheomere walked toward the soldier, took three steps that way. That guard laughed, slapped his knee: 'Yeah, yeah, I thought so! I saw ya kill your first man, and with a rock! Remember that? That was, oh, let me see, out near the Giant's flank, nearly a year ago. You're beard's a tad longer and a bit thicker, but hell! I knew it was you.' Etheomere thought for a bit, spoke up then: 'You're one of the river guards, right?' The other grinned, split his beard; he showed teeth 'That's right. I'm Alfric, by the way. What's your name?' The other responded, said, 'Etheomere.' The other chuckled, stepped forward; he shook Etheomere's hand, pumped it up and down. 'Come on, let's have a seat by the fire. We've got some beer to share, and it isn't that swill they're serving in the food-tent, either!' Then those two went to the fireside, sat down on the ground; the fire was warm, it really drove off the chill. One guard passed Etheomere a flagon, he took a long swig, passed it on—it was good beer. Alfric, to the others: 'boys, this is Etheomere. He's got a good story to tell, don't ya, Etheomere?' Etheomere didn't speak right away, he locked up his words, sealed his mouth; at length, Alfric spoke up: 'you're not much of a braggart, are ya Etheomere? Shit, anyway, Etheomere here killed a bandit with a rock, from um about 20 yards away. Dropped him, just like that. Caved his head in. ' The others nodded, seemed impressed; one said 'Is that so, boy? That's a hell of a throw, if it's true.' Etheomere nodded. 'Yeah, it's true,' he chuckled a little, took a deep swig of beer, 'that was the first time I killed somebody.' An older chap, a gray-beard, nodded his head, took the beer-flagon. He spoke up, saying 'I guess that's not a bad start. You just wait 'till you do it up close. It's a whole different thing, ain't it, boys?' Alfric laughed, 'yeah, wait 'till you feel the blood splatter on ya—it's pretty nasty.' Etheomere: 'I guess I'll get the chance soon enough, eh?' 'Yeah, that's right,' said a dour member of the group, 'hope you can handle things in a fair fight.' Etheomere glowered, didn't issue any response to that. Another fellow, a real crooked-nose, said 'Did ya do it on purpose? I mean, did ya mean to kill him, or did ya just get lucky?' That chap snorted, ended that statement derisively. Etheomere accepted the beer-flagon, drank from it, passed it on; he flushed, his word-former turned down, tightened into a bloodless beard-line. Then, he laughed, ' I was lucky. Course, I meant to stop him. He was coming at me with a knife and all I had was a fuckin' pile of rocks. What was I supposed to do, eh?' Alfric spoke up, addressed his crew: 'you're all veterans, aren't ya? hell, everybody knows luck's got a hand in any victory--big deal if it helped that rock crack that poor bastards noggin. It doesn't denigrate the deed, that's for damn sure.' The others jostled about, grunted. The dour fellow spoke up, issued gruff words: 'well, we'll see how things go up there in the hills—sure as hell hope that luck sticks around for ya.' Etheomere nodded, said: 'what the hell are we doin', anyway? I haven't heard much about this whole thing—I guess we're fightin' Abrecan, that's about all I know.' The crooked-nose answerd that question, responded like this: 'Abrecan's got himself in a hell of a mess—apparently, he raided fuckin' Steogorot's Crown and killed a whole bunch of Hiturwolf's men, includin' Grom—Hiterwolf's dear old pal.' The dour fellow shook his head, disagreed. 'Nah, that ain't it at all. The problem's that Abrecan was behind all of them killin's up there in the hills—includin' what happened at Autumn fort. Didn't you hear about that?' Etheomere shook his head; Alfric stirred the fire, sent little sparks riding upward on the air-column. One of the others—a fellow with a mustache —set a log on the ember-pile; flame-tongues licked it. The dour chap laughed. 'I guess you poor slobs don't get much news, eh? Well, let me tell ya—it was a slaughter up there. Maybe, uh, fifty or sixty merchant men and women were killed and left to rot. The way I hear it, Abrecan killed kids, even.' The others assented, muttered, ' yeah, that's right.' Alfric said, ' nothin' better than putting some thug in his place. When we're through, Abrecan won't have a copper coin to his name.' The old fellow, the gray-beard, spoke up: 'hell, he'll be lucky if he escapes with his neck. I reckon there're lots of hot-bloods 'round here lookin' for braggin' rights.' The crooked nose passed the beer flagon, handed it off to Etheomere. Then, he bushed a hand through his hair, 'I wouldn't mind getting a hold of him, myself. Can't tell ya what I'd do to him.' The dour fellow grunted: 'I'd cut his head off.' The other guardsmen chuckled, seemed to agree; Etheomere shifted, stretched his legs out. He belched. Alfrik opened his jaw, formed words; he adressed Etheomere: 'What do ya know about Abrecan, Etheomere?' The other shook his head, returned words: 'Not much.' The crooked-nose laughed, but didn't speak. Etheomere divined his thoughts, guessed his unformed words. 'they don't tell us much about the affiars of thanes. I guess no one thinks that debt workers need to know about that stuff.' 'Yeah,' said the crooked nose, 'they're probably right.' The dour fellow spit into the fire; that mouth-water sizzled on the embers, disappeared; he spoke up. 'He's an asshole.' Alfric laughted at that; the others followed suit. Then, he stirred the embers, roused some flames; 'He's got a pretty bad reputation 'round here, actually ' Etheomere asked,' yeah? Why's that?' It was the gray-beared that answered. First, he drank from the flagon, drained it, wiped beer from his lip-hair; he said: ' you know Therick horse-breeder, right? His property is near Ud's, er, a bit to the south, I think.' Etheomere nodded at that, Therick was a famous name, well known about the West Sward. Verily, his horses were well-bred, strong beasts; in fact, oft Steogorot's Crown purchased stallions from him; they were real ground-pounders! The gray-beared, again: 'well, Abrecan crossed him big-time. He tried to buy some horses from Therick, but he had none to sell at that time. See, they were all set aside for another buyer. Abrecan offered to pay extra for the steeds, but Therick refused. A deal's a deal, right?' At that, the crooked-nose started speaking: 'somehow, Abrecan found out who was gonna buy the horses. The fucker sent some of his thugs to threaten him—they beat the piss out of him. Broke his ankle, even; as I understand. ' Alfric said, 'uh-huh, that's right. Finally, the buyer cancelled his order—under duress, of course. A few days later, some people showed up at Thericks place. They offered about half the price for the same horses. What a rip-off, huh? Yeah, anyway, somehow they convinced him to take the offer. Abrecan got his horses, and that was that.' For a minute, no one made words; the fire crackled, popped now and again; hands passed beer flagons around. Etheomer drank deeply, especially. From far away, wildland-lopers howled, shouted abstruse words to their companions; then they were silent, hushed in the dark out there. The wind rustled the grass a bit; cloud-shreds passed over blazing stars. The sky was tattered like that. Etheomere, finally: 'but, weren't there complaints? I mean, why the hell didn't Thedrick make claims with Hiturwolf? Abrecan fuckin' broke the law, didn't he?' The other fire-sitters laughed. Then, Alfric spoke up, answered that quiery: 'Ya know, it's just politics, that's all. Look, what do ya know about Hiturwolf's table, exactly?' Etheomer shrugged, drank some more brew-water; he passed that beer-holder along. He said; 'Hiturowolf's battle-friends sit at his table. The give him advice, help him make the really tough decisions.' The others roared, really split their sides; Etheomere's face blazed, reddened. 'Nah,' said Alfric, 'nah, that's not it at all. They're not all his friends.' Etheomere made a question, inquired: ' who're they, then?' 'The government!' said the gray-beard, laughing. Alfric spoke, again: 'Look, all of the big thanes have some kinda representation up there at that table. It's a way to make sure that their interests are protected, at all times. When Hiturwolf tries to instigate a new policy that's contrary to their interests, they raise a ruckus—I mean, they really stir up some trouble. Half the time, they've got somethin' to hold over Hiturwolf's head-some old debt or feud or whatever.' The gray-beard, with a grunt: 'that Hiturwolf's tied up hand and foot by those thanes. Pathetic.' Crooked-nose: 'It'll be damn good to do away with Abrecan. That'll be one less problem fer everybody.' Before more words were made, tossed about, the lopers howled again; they barked fiercely, made some real wild battle-sounds. The sound came from the near distance; those fire-sitters turned their gaze, pointed head-windows off toward the loper's speech. 'Coyotes,' said the Crooked-Nose. 'They're loud tonight.' 'Yeah, out hunting,' said the dour fellow. 'they're plenty of connies 'round here.' That beer-crock went around again; Etheomere finished it off, belched; then he set it aside. Alfric hand-gripped the beer-holder, stood up; close by, there was a wagon with beer barrels on it; he went there and filled the crock up to the brim. While he was away, doing beer-duties, that fire side was quiet: the fire popped and snappled, flames licked along dried limbs, split tree-chunks; the Crooked-Nose added more wood, dropped the last few bits onto the campfire. Etheomere spoke suddenly, addressed the others: 'so, are you river-guards, too?' Some grunted; others remained silent. The dour fellow stirred the embers, poked the fire a bit. 'How'd you end up mixed up in this?' The gray-beared: 'Ya mean, besides for the pleasure of doin' away with Abrecan?' 'All of us owe some money,' said Alfric, returning: he passed the crock on. 'Yeah, course, we get treated well enough, money-wise, I mean. Still, this is a good opportunity to erase those old debts, so, why the hell not? Same goes for you too, right?' 'Yeah,' said Etheomere to that. 'I think so, anyway.' The Crooked-Nose stated: 'You'll be in the front lines, ya know. Have ya ever marched in the van? You getta have the first go at Abrecan's defenses. They say his mead-hall is easily defended—better watch out for the archers!' Etheomere: 'Is that so?' 'This is how thanes get rid of the riff-raff,' said the dour fellow, he added a shoulder shrug. Alfric laughed. 'You'll be all right. Look, either way, you'll end up debt free, right?' Etheomere didn't respond to that; he drank from the crock, wiped beer-froth from his lips; he stood up, weaved about just a little bit. He said, 'I've really gotta piss. I'll be right back.' The others shrugged, carried on. At that, he walked away, went past some boisterous beer-drinkers, passed between moribund fire-patches. At that point, the hour had grown late—some mead-drinkers had fallen asleep, were beer-sleeping beside the fire; others had stumbled off to the bed-tent, fell asleep there. At length, Etheomere stepped into the shadows, promptly put all of that camp-sound behind him; he opened his trousers, relieved himself into a tussock, a dry grass-patch. Away ahead of him, vague shapes strolled through the grass, loped about, panting. Etheomere strained his eyes, scarcely percieved a pack of lopers gathered together; those shapes worried at some fallen thing, produced a disquiting rumor of savage meal-taking—the sounds of rending and cracking came from that rural congress; little columns of life-heat drifted upward into the air. Etheomere creeped forward, approached that banquet; many eyes glinted among the grass-stalks, threw light now and again; animal flanks wagged to and fro, teeth snapped, tails thrashed the dry grass. That group of eaters issued strange words, animal sounds; yelps and growls and murmurs filled the air up. Then, one feaster sniffed the air, perked its ears; that grass-loper looked at Etheomere, saw him standing there; at that, the beast issued a warning sound, yelped to the others. Etheomere stepped back, receded just a bit; then that spotter squated, hunched down, excreted some old meal. Just that way, a grass eater returned to the grass, nourished the earth's field again; the coyote trotted off, returned to the frenzy, while Etheomere remained, watching those field-beasts fulfill their part in life's cyclical nature, spurred onward by the law of cause and effect. Soon after, another animal sniffed about, emptied itself near that spot; it was a natural thing, a universal life-urge to give back to the earth like that. An animal growled; a voice called out, shouted Etheomere's name. His mind recalled faery words, redrew old encounters; his thoughts flickered upon those time-bleached memories as he walked toward the flickering firelight in the camp before him.