An hour later Ridmark walked to Dun Licinia’s northern gate, staff in his left hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a pack of fresh supplies on his back. The men-at-arms he had confronted earlier gave him wary glances, but Ridmark ignored them. He stepped through the gate and gazed north, at the flowing River Marcaine, the cultivated fields, the tree-choked slopes, the narrow road…and the great dark mass of the Black Mountain. A mile tall, the Black Mountain stood like a dark fist thrusting from the earth. The high elves of old had considered it cursed, along with the orcs and the beastmen and the halflings and the manetaurs and every other kindred to cross through the lands that became the High King’s realm of Andomhaim.
And Brother Caius had gone to that mountain, intending to preach the word of the Dominus Christus to the orcish tribes living in its northern foothills.
Ridmark shook his head, half in admiration, half in annoyance, and started walking. The road lead to the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance, burned during the civil wars of the Pendragon princes fifty years past. It was a logical place for Caius to make camp, though bandits or orcs or other renegades might have taken shelter in the ruins.
He kept walking, and the fields began to thin out, patches of bristly pine forest appearing here and there. Ridmark supposed hardly anyone took the road north. Dun Licinia was the very northern edge of the Northerland, and beyond lay the vast Wilderland, with all its unknown lands and dangerous creatures.
Only a madman or a fool ventured into the Wilderland.
So Ridmark kept walking.
“You!”
He stopped, left hand tightening around his staff.
A stocky middle-aged man in the rough clothes of a freeholder climbed onto the road, his face red with anger. He carried a spear, its head worn but still sharp. The man held his weapon competently, but it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Ridmark to swing his staff and break the freeholder’s wrists.
Instead he said, “Have I wronged you in some way?”
“You’ve been taking my pigs,” said the freeholder.
“I have not,” said Ridmark.
The freeholder sneered. “Aye, you have. I’ve seen you lurking in the woods, snatching my pigs when my back is turned. Outlaws, I knew it! Sir Joram’s constable wouldn’t listen to me. Well, they should have listened to Peter of Dun Licinia! I have captured an outlaw! You will come with me now…”
Ridmark sighed, stepped forward, and thrust his staff. It caught the spear just behind the head, and sent the weapon tumbling. Peter’s eyes went wide, and Ridmark rested the end of his staff on the freeholder’s throat.
“Or,” said Ridmark, “you could admit that I did not steal your pigs, and let me go on my way.”
“Or that,” said Peter.
Ridmark frowned. “How many pigs have been stolen?”
“Five. Prime hogs, too.”
“When did this start?” said Ridmark.
“Two days ago,” said Peter.
Ridmark nodded. Caius had departed Dun Licinia two days ago. Had the dwarven friar gone bandit?
Or, more likely, whatever had killed and eaten Caius was now stealing and eating Peter’s hogs.
There were far worse things than pagan orcs in the Wilderland.
“Your pen,” said Ridmark. “Show me.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “So you can steal my hogs?”
“God and his saints,” said Ridmark. “It’s a pigpen. If I wanted to find it, I suspect I could just follow my nose. But I think I know what’s been stealing your pigs…and if it’s not stopped, it might start eating your family.”
That got Peter’s attention. “Some horror from the Wilderland? An urvaalg?” He swallowed. “An urdmordar, as the Swordbearers of old faced?”
Ridmark had faced an urdmordar ten years past. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat, but he doubted one of the great spider-devils was stealing Peter’s pigs. “Perhaps. Lead on.”
Peter nodded and led Ridmark off the road, through a patch of pine trees, and to his farm. A low wall of field stone enclosed perhaps thirty pigs of varying size, their hides marked with a brand. A half-dozen young men, ranging from twelve years to Ridmark’s age, busied themselves with various tasks. Peter’s sons, no doubt.
Ridmark walked in a circle around the stone pen, ignoring the ripe smell. He examined the muddy ground, noting the mosaic of footprints and hoof marks around the pen.
Some of the tracks led away from the freehold, towards the forested hills.
“What are you doing?” said Peter, following him. “It’s mud! Do you think…”
Ridmark lifted his staff, the length bumping against Peter’s chest.
“Hold still,” said Ridmark, still looking at the ground.
“Why?” said Peter. “You’ll…”
“If you move,” said Ridmark, “you’ll disturb the tracks.”
“But…”
“Hold still,” said Ridmark.
He followed the tracks leading away from the pen. The land was churned into wet spring mud, with hundreds of footprints, but Ridmark had spent years wandering the wilderness. Given that his meals often came from whatever he had been able to shoot with his bow, he had grown quite good at tracking.
Hunger was a marvelous teacher.
He saw the tracks of three men and two pigs leading into the woods. To judge from the state of the tracks, he suspected the thieves had been here no earlier than midnight. Were they simply common highwaymen, raiding the local freeholds? Perhaps they had taken Caius hostage, and hoped to sell him for a ransom…
Ridmark picked up a slender thread from one of the tracks. It was a long black hair, thick and tough. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and tossed it aside.
“What is it?” said Peter, “What have you found?”
“You should arm yourself, master freeholder,” said Ridmark, “you and all your sons. Orcs from the Wilderland have taken your pigs.”
“Orcs?” said Peter.
“Do exactly as I tell you,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at the freeholder. “Arm yourselves, and keep watch over your fields. And send someone to Dun Licinia to warn Sir Joram. Do you understand?”
Peter nodded and shouted instructions to his sons, and Ridmark drew his cloak about him and walked into the woods, following the trail of the orcs and their stolen pigs.