Read Glyphpunk Page 10


  Chapter 9

  Hadlaug hated horses. Smelly, foul-tempered, they never did as they were told. He could always have hired one of the glyph-powered horseless carriages, but even renting them was expensive, and where he had to travel there'd be the danger of them getting stolen. And people looked ridiculous in them.

  So he traipsed across the backwoods of Vorek, towards what had become one of the refugee towns.

  The country had been an eager adopter of the glyph technologies available to help farms They’d even allowed the Alliance to take some farms over to develop the techniques. They had improved things in terms of allowing them to produce more and make more money. But the changes meant fewer people were needed to do the work. With only a handful of farms the problem had been easily ignored. As most of the countryside became more efficient, the numbers grew noticeable. And since technological advances in cities had caused similar problems there, farmhands who wandered to urban areas looking for work found less than hospitable receptions.

  The rulers, having little use for the itinerants – urban or rural – had shipped them to abandoned towns in the rougher lands skirting the southern mountain range, where the ground wasn't as good for farming. Directed to develop the land, most produced barely enough to live off. So people had turned to the old mines which had been abandoned over the centuries.

  Most mining operations were funded from outside, backers arranging for supplies to be brought in for the settlements. It had been one of those Gudrolf had worked at, last Hadlaug had heard. Illegal no doubt, so something must have panicked whoever ran the place into stopping operations. If the mine had simply run dry they'd have left without doing anything.

  Not that he knew for certain what’d happened yet. That was the only reason he'd venture out here. They'd been raised up north, in Thulvus, and he'd been happy to get away from the farm and to civilization. Gudrolf had been too, for a while. Until he realised the mercenary life wasn't for him. He'd slinked off back to a life on the land. No way would Hadlaug ever return to that.

  Sharing an island, Thulvus and Vorek were called the twins by outsiders due to their similarities in outlook, produce, and landscape. The locals denied the similarities, but Hadlaug had never seen much difference himself. They were mainly farmers and horse people, and he’d been happy to get away from both.

  The town – barely more than a village – was everything he'd expected. Less than half of it was lived in, and even the occupied buildings looked on the verge of collapse. The surrounding fields showed signs of clearance, although the growth was nowhere near what they should be able to manage, even with this ground.

  Judging by the number of men loitering in town as he passed, he suspected their lack of attention would be a factor in the poor growth. They had plenty of drink though, with many the worse for it despite the hour. Presumably part of their payment for the last illegal job had arrived in barrels.

  Most were content to stare sullenly at him in passing. The likelihood of getting help from them was meagre. But unless he found someone who looked to be in at least marginal possession of their faculties, he'd have to start asking at random.

  The limited reaction to his presence continued until he approached what passed for the village square. The unruly patch of brown grass more closely resembled the mud pit at the centre of a sty, not that the locals seemed to care.

  A handful roused to greet him, a couple with makeshift weapons.

  The horse shied slightly at their approach. He let it pace nervously, keeping the idiots at bay.

  'You got work for us?' one asked.

  'No,' said Hadlaug. 'Only questions.'

  This gained a derisive snort. 'What're you intending paying for answers with?'

  'Coin's all I have,' said Hadlaug.

  'They're worth little out here.'

  His initial impulse was to issue threats, but that didn't look like it'd be productive. If he couldn't get anywhere without them he'd have to go there, but he'd restrain himself until it became necessary.

  The spokesman's eyes shifted to the horse, all but licking his lips.

  'And the horse ain't available for dinner,' said Hadlaug, resting his hand on his sword hilt. Were they desperate enough to attack him? Even if all of them mobilised he was sure he could deal with them. He had a few glyphs about him, and they didn't have much in the way of weapons or training. He wasn’t walking back to civilisation.

  A couple backed away, but the others sized him up. Viewing him through a lens of desperation, he couldn't be sure what they'd see.

  'Enough, Slogi,' said a cracked voice from a nearby doorway.

  Slogi glared at the speaker. Leaning heavily on the doorway, the heavy-set man looked less desperate than the others. Grey of hair and beard, his laboured breathing didn't diminish the steel in his eyes as he regarded Hadlaug. While they held no more welcome than the others, they lacked the hostility or fear.

  'But he's a...' Slogi tried to protest.

  'You've no more idea who or what he is than I,' said the old man. 'And if you push, he'd kill you with as much concern as spitting. Go back to your drinks, before someone tries taking them.'

  There were some glares the old man's way, mixed with relief from most at a way out of the situation.

  Hadlaug met the old man's gaze, recognizing a warrior behind the winters. The old man nodded at him to come in.

  'Slogi,' the old man called after the departing men. 'Make sure nobody touches the horse.' He didn't wait for a response before disappearing inside.

  Dismounting, Hadlaug tied his horse's reins to a post and followed him.

  The place wasn't as bad as he might have expected, and some effort went in to keeping it clean. He joined the old man at the table, not dropping his guard. He wouldn't let his guard down till he was a good way from here.

  'Name's Arvard,' said the old man.

  'Hadlaug.'

  'Sorry about the lads. Only people come here tend to want to take advantage. You ain't one of them, are you.' That hadn't been a question.

  'I just want answers.'

  'About.'

  'My brother, Gudrolf. I understand he used to live hereabouts?'

  'Aye,' said Arvard. 'Don't see much of a resemblance.'

  'Not since our teens. His hair started going paler, my face started getting broken more often.'

  Arvard grunted. 'Haven't seen him for a few weeks. Not since the trouble at the mine.'

  'I heard he'd been killed there.'

  Sighing deeply, Arvard gave a light nod. 'Wouldn't be surprised. You heard?'

  'You know Danar?'

  'Aye. He was a friend of Gudrolf. Also went missing. He said this?'

  'That's the word that reached me.' Searching for Danar had proved fruitless. He'd been lucky to find the name of the person spreading the rumours. The fact he'd been a friend of Gudrolf lent credence to the story.

  'Sorry for your loss if he was. They'd been run off in all directions, some taking wounds. Many came back here after, but a few didn't. There was blood about, but no bodies. Hoped most had made for softer pasture.'

  'Any survivors still around?'

  'Gone to look at other mines, I think, but might be back later. I questioned them closely though, for all they knew.'

  'What do you know about what happened?'

  'One of the usual operations. Some business type with guards comes up, offers supplies and stuff for men to work one of the old mines. They bring equipment, and collect what's expected every so often. Once what's expected isn't met as regularly they stop sending much up, and that's that. This time they didn't wait. Some mercenaries came up, forced everyone out.'

  'You sure they were sent by the ones who'd organised the mine?'

  'Place is boarded up. They came up here just to do that. To me that says the owners wanted the operation closed down quick.'

  It sounded reasonable. Hiring that many mercenaries to come out here wouldn't be cheap. If they'd simply lost interest in the mine they'd have stopped
sending collections and supplies.

  'What were they mining?' asked Hadlaug.

  'Precious stones. There're a few mines like that in the area. Mainly emeralds.'

  'Don't suppose you know who was in charge of working the mine?'

  'You know how it goes. The one we saw probably didn't even know who’d hired him. Just a middleman paid a little better than the lads here. And if we're paid, we don’t ask questions.'

  'They didn't leave bodies though. Why take them?' He knew he was being overly hopeful. Animals could easily have taken care of them before this lot ventured back.

  'None in sight. But there're deep holes around they could've dumped them down.' That'd make more sense than wild animals. It'd be a convenient way to hide evidence. 'It'd take a while, and the right equipment, to check them.'

  Probably less work to hunt down those responsible and ask. He could always come back when he had a better idea where Gudrolf's body was.

  'What about the mercenaries?' asked Hadlaug. 'Any company markings?'

  'The lads were too shaken to notice. More focussed on their weapons. Sound expensive, though. Gilmir said one had this double headed axe with a glyph. Said one head was ragged, made to look like flames. From some descriptions it almost sounded like they were Society lads, except the tactics were too slapdash. Making noise to scare folk away is one thing, but they definitely did damage to some, and I'm not surprised to hear there's dead. You want to look at the mine?'

  'There anything to see?' asked Hadlaug.

  'Not really.'

  'Probably not much point. I’ll see if the axe leads anywhere. I'm assuming they rode here.'

  'More than likely,' said Arvard.

  'Horses would have likely been hired rather than owned. Even if not, that many travelling together would have been noticed.'

  'You’re determined to find them?'

  'They killed my brother. What else can I do?'