Shrugg stepped back into the village. “Are you two out of your gods-loving mind?” asked Stenn.

  “You said you needed time,” said Missus Bickert. Stenn rewarded her with a reproachful look.

  “How far along are the wagons?” asked Shrugg.

  “Just ready,” said the man with the farmer hat, hammer in one hand, board in the other and a mouth full of nails.

  “That’s well,” said Gramma Bickert. “Go help with the other thing.”

  Stenn, wearing chain mail now and with his sword belt buckled over it, approached Shrugg. “This plan,” he said, “It might not work.”

  “It might, though,” said Shrugg.

  “Not for me,” said the man. “I won’t make it. I can draw their fire.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Shrugg.

  “I think I do,” said Stenn. “I took the Scarlet, and we don’t run even from bad odds.”

  “You’re an old fool,” said Gramma Bickert, bustling up to butt in. “The Scarlet don’t stand around and die, either.”

  “I can’t hold on, Becky,” said Stenn through clenched teeth, indicating his empty sleeve. No one had an answer for that.

  Shrugg nodded mutely and turned back to the knot of villagers. Missus Bickert followed and had another go at Stenn with her stick. Stenn caught it in his good hand like he was expecting it. He brought his face close to hers and spoke quietly. She thumped him with her other hand. They continued to speak quietly. Shrugg could not hear what they said.

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  ***

  “Ho there!” Shouted Captain Ludwick. This time he had brought a detachment of riders as well as archers for cover. Wary of a trap, he did not come into the village. What are they doing? Building a siege engine? “The day is getting on! We must conclude our business! Come out, come out, whatever you are!” His men chuckled.

  The hammering stopped. An ox appeared, an apple dangling from a stick in front of it. It drew a two-wheeled cart that looked quite heavy. A stained tarp lay over bundles shaped like barrels and sacks. There was no driver, just the apple and slack traces draped over the box seat. It passed the post house. The ox raised little clouds of dirt in the still air with every step. Its progress was slow, steady and implacable.

  Captain Ludwick held up his hand. “Stay,” he said to his bandits. He watched the cart advance. Can’t show fear in front of the men. He craned his neck, looking for more carts and people and not seeing them. “Where is the rest of it?” he shouted. “You have more than this!”

  “Yes! Yes we do! Right here!” shouted the voice of the traveller. Another oxwain appeared, heading off to the south along the river path. Like the first one, it was driverless and laden with goods under cover. His archers covered it with their bows, awaiting orders.

  The wood of the heavily laden wagons creaked at every movement. The oxen strained to pull them forward. The dust hung in the air, not settling back to earth. Silence. Stillness.

  His second-in-command Bugge leaned toward him. “Where are the slaves, Ludwick?”

  Ludwick glanced at him, then back at the village. “Don’t know, Bugge.”

  The oxen plodded. The dust hung.

  “Send out the slaves!” shouted Bugge. There was no answer. “Send them now or we put fire to the village!” Nothing.

  Ludwick noted restlessness among his troops. “Ready the torches!” he shouted. The brands were sparked back into life and held high. “Is there wind?” he asked, remembering his training at the hands of his mentor, Rickard.

  “No wind, sir,” came the distant answer.

  Captain Ludwick took a last look and pursed his lips before taking a dose of snuff. Rickard would be disappointed, he was sure of that. “You’re right there,” said the old man’s voice in his head. Would Ludwick ever be free of his memories of his mentor? He grimaced.

  “Advance!” ordered Ludwick. “Advance and burn!”