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Chapter 67

Among the Herdsfolk

Please forgive me my look into Black Madonna, and especially into why she hadn’t been burned as a witch at the stake. These words that follow are not my words, and due to bardic license, are as suspect as those of the previous chapters.

Kismet was in shock; not due to the violence she had seen displayed against her friend, for the offenses of mankind against near-mankind stretch back to the times of the First Men. Rather, her shock was that it might be time for her to rescue her friend. Her extremely durable friend, who had nobility mixed in with all of what she thought of as warrior nonsense.

Right. So Madonna would probably not be working toward that same goal, and certainly not by the same means. There was a thwang, and a distant bird was struck down by one of the hunter’s arrows. “I can carry that.” She offered, and began plucking off the feathers as she walked.

Not that Rhishi wasn’t a good forager, but for someone with the Hunter class, he did very little actual hunting. I suspect he has bad vision, and just doesn’t want to admit it.

.....

But enough about HIS flaws, I needed to think on my situation.

“Hey, when was the last time the colonists rose up against the Norvik oppressors?” I asked.

“We oppressed ourselves just fine before they came.” Said one

“Life is actually better under the Norvik. As long as we pay our taxes, they stay out of our part of the island.”

“I’m not in favor of the number of trees they cut down each year, that’s been increasing.” Said the one who brought down the bird.

“We’ve got more now than we had then, my da says.”

“True enough. And we get hard coin for our labors, not just a pair of chickens or something.”

I tried again. “So the current Jarl is a just and fair leader?”

“Oh, he favors his own people.”

“And he’s a right royal bastard.”

“Still, better than his uncle was, and better than that shit brother of his would have been.”

“Ah, true enough.”

“I’m new here.” I said, “which brother, Olaf or Victor?”

“Ah, you don’t know. Olaf is the son of the old Jarl, and cousin to the new. Victor is the older brother, but lost the throne in a feasting contest.”

“You’d think one of them would want the throne, but instead they’re among his strongest supporters.” Bird-Slayer said. Kismet realized she needed names for people, or she was going to get very confused.

“Aye, that’s perhaps the best sign of a good ruler, is the ability to make enemies into friends.”

I tilted my head. “But that’s not what he’s doing with other families, like the Siverts.” I said.

“Neh, give that up. Who’s blood to who among the Norvik isn’t something even the Norvik know.”

“But blood is always thicker than water.” Bird-Slayer said.

“I’m sorry.” Kismet said. “But I’m thinking of him as Bird-Slayer, you as Historian, and you as Likes-Coins. What are your actual names?”

Her captors enjoyed a round of laughter at that.

Bird-Slayer pointed to Historian. “That man is no historian, though he has a way with words. That is Romulus, son of Hunin. His dad was some minor blood of the Norvik, but he means well, and his wife hasn’t slit his throat yet.”

“You’ve an eye toward my sisters, Marcus, and you know it.”

“I yield the obvious. Your ma and sisters are worth looking at.”

“When they’re worth cherishing and taking care of, maybe ma will let you marry one.”

“For shame! One sows one’s wild oats before settling down for life.”

“I would cherish Brunhilde.” The third of her captors said.

“You don’t cherish yourself! How can you cherish another?”

“I work hard. I could keep a wife.”

“You could be kept BY a wife.” Marcus said.

“Especially by Brunhilde.” Romulus agreed.

“Anyway, this one is Thaddeus. He’s not swift on the uptake, but if you need a sheep thrown to the ground and tied, he’s got a natural talent for it.”

“I’m not a slouch when it comes to shearing them.” Thaddeus said.

“Your sister is faster.” Romulus said.

“Not so much faster as me as I am to either of you.”

Marcus smiled. “I yield the truth of that. I’m fast enough with a bow, but anything heavier and I’m as bad as any other man.”

“Save for Decius.” Romulus said.

“Oh, I’m sure Decius is better than me at something. I can’t think of it right now, but he’s got to be good for something.”

“His pottery is better than yours.” Thaddeus said.

“Pottery is a woman’s craft.” Romulus said.

“Oh, that brings something up. What work is mine to do?”

Romulus looked embarrassed. “Well, mostly fetching of water. We’ve cooking and cleaning, but we’ve got women such as know those things.”

“There’s sewing.” Thaddeus said. “Not much, but some. We have wool and flax, but most of it goes into the city.”

“Do you have any sewing skills? We might just keep you instead of the coin.”

“Sorry.” Kismet said. “Maidservant and Herald, levels three and one. Oh, and I’m close to my first level of Merchant.”

“Those seem kind of low.” Thaddeus said.

Kismet shrugged. “My System gave me one thousand development bonus rather than development points.”

“Bugger your System.” Romulus said.

“Nah, I’ve learned to live with it. Besides, it keeps me from purchasing stuff I don’t really need.”

“That’s a good outlook.” Marcus said.

“Optimism. Plus one to Charisma up to a maximum of five.”

“How’d you get that?” Romulus asked. “The one listed in my System only goes up to a maximum of three.”

“Born with it, I guess.” She felt no need to tell them hers HAD been a maximum of three, and she’d learned how to raise that maximum. Nor other things she’d learned about traits. A woman, she had learned, needs to keep her secrets, after all.

#

By the time they reached the tent village that serviced the herders and hunters, Kismet was carrying two birds and a gutted rabbit. With just a few vegetables, they had a meal for six.

“What are you doing?” one of the women asked.

“I’m mixing things together for the stew.”

“Oh, no. There will be no stew. Skewers.” She said, holding up metal spikes.

“You have metal skewers? I’ve only ever cooked with the wooden ones.”

“Oh, it’s the same thing, you set them close, like so, and let the flavors mingle.”

Kismet made an appreciative noise, surprised at how hungry she was.

“Not so much meat on a single skewer, or the menfolk will grab them all. They know how they should eat, and like children just want what they want.”

Kismet thought almost immediately of Madonna. “I know of some women like that as well.”

A child came up and pulled on her pants leg. “How do you keep your hair out of the food?”

“Anya!” her mother rebuked.

“It’s okay.” Kismet said. “I have a variety of brushes, and I brush myself VERY THOROUGHLY to make sure that all of my loose hairs are out. Do you think that you and your friends might help me with that after dinner tonight?”

“Mommy, may I?”

“How many will you need helping you?”

“Oh, I’d like three, but there are brushes for up to six.”

“I have four good friends!”

Her mother looked at her. “You’d best gather those friends before their mothers line up other tasks for them.”

“Okay!” said Anya, taking off at a run.

.....

Kismet blinked. “That one has a hunter’s blood in her.”

“I think my husband has the blood of some manner of animal in him.” Anya’s mother said. “But come, Anya left most of an onion unsliced. Let’s finish these.”

“Mm. I don’t like onions on their own, but I gotta admit, many things taste better with onions.”

“Good, then two of these skewers are yours.”

Kismet’s stomach grumbled. “Maybe three?”

“Try to take food from my children’s mouths and you’ll lose a hand.”

Unbidden, the image of Shadowfur taking off Rhishi’s arm came to her mind. She didn’t blame herself for the other hand, that was human cruelty. But the other hand – that had been him saving her from her carelessness.

“Don’t worry. I’m willing to help gather my share of berries and such.”

“The children fetch berries. How are you with a shovel?”

“Ooo. Herbs and roots?”

“Herbs and roots. You know how to spot wild potatoes?”

“Willing to learn.”

Anya’s mother tossed a chip of onion into her mouth. “Well, these bobs aren’t going to cook themselves.”

Kismet had been used to the skewers being suspended by the ends over the fire, but the herdsfolk placed them into metal bowls, and then the bowls into the fire itself.

“Mmm, what do we do with the juices in the bottom of the pans?”

“Those go to the herding dogs.”

“We could soak those up with pieces of bread.”

“We aren’t farmers, to be making bread. And the herd dogs earn their share.”

Rhishi would have made flat bread, she thought. Oh well, at least she wasn’t in chains.

#