As the invaders calmly marched into view, it was obvious that any resistance would have been quickly crushed. Paul had a personal bodyguard and a score of hired mercenaries who acted as wagon guards and protection against roving bandits. But they were a poor band of hired cutthroats next to the highly disciplined command that marched across the estate. The Tsurani wore bright orange and black armor, looking like lacquered hide or wood, nothing remotely like the metal armor worn by the officers of the Natal Defense Force.
Paul repeated the order that no resistance was to be mounted, and when the Tsurani commander presented himself, Paul offered something that resembled a formal salute. Then, with the aid of a man in a black robe, the leader of the invaders gave his demands. The property of White Hill, as well as the surrounding countryside, was now under Tsurani rule, specifically an entity named Minwanabi. Dirk wondered if that was a person or a place, like a Kingdom Duchy. But he was too frightened to imagine voicing the question.
The leader of this group of Tsurani—all short, tough-looking veteran soldiers—could be differentiated from his men only by a slightly more ornate helm, graced with what Dirk took to be some creature’s hair. The black fall reached the officer’s shoulders.
Dirk tried to guess what the role of the black-robed man might be; the officer seemed extremely polite and deferential to him as he translated the officer’s words for him.
The officer was called Chapka, and his rank was Hit Leader or Strike Leader, Dirk wasn’t sure which.
He shouted orders and the black robe said, “Only the noble of this house may bear arms, and his personal man.” Dirk took that to mean a bodyguard. That would be Hamish. “All others put weapons here.”
The estate guards looked at Lord Paul, who nodded. They stepped forward and put their weapons in a pile, slowly, and when they were done they stepped back. “Any other weapons?” asked the man in black.
One of the guards looked at his companions, then came forward and took a small blade from his boot, throwing it in the pile. He stepped back into line.
The officer shouted an order. A dozen Tsurani soldiers ran forward, each searching the now unarmed guards. One Tsurani stood, holding up a knife he had found in a guard’s boot, and the officer indicated that the man be brought forward. He spoke rapidly to the man in black, who said, “This man disobeyed. He hid a weapon. He will be punished.”
Lord Paul slowly said, “What shall you do with him?”
“The sword is too honorable a death for a disobedient slave. He will be hanged.”
The man turned pale. “It was just a small one; I forgot I had it!”
The man was struck hard from behind and collapsed. Dirk watched in dread fascination as two other Tsurani guards dragged the guard—a man Dirk hardly knew, named Jackson—to the entrance to the barn. A hoist hung over the small door to the hayloft—there was one at each end of the barn—from which a long rope dangled. The unconscious man had the rope tied around his neck and was hoisted quickly up. He never regained consciousness, though his body twitched twice before it went still.
Dirk had seen dead men before; the town of Walinor, where he grew up, had known a few raids by bandits and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, and once he had stumbled across a drunk who had frozen to death in the gutter outside an inn. But this hanging made his stomach twist, and he knew it was as much from fear over his own safety as from any revulsion over Jackson’s death.
The black-robed man said, “Any slave with weapon—we hang.”
Then the officer shouted an order, and Tsurani warriors ran off in all directions, a half-dozen into the master’s house, others into the outbuildings, and still others to the springhouse, the barn, and the root cellar. Efficient to a degree that astonished Dirk, the Tsurani returned in short order and started reporting. Dirk couldn’t understand them, but from the rapidity of the exchanges, he was certain they were listing what they found for their officer.
Others returned from the barn and kitchen carrying dozens of commonplace items. The officer, with the aid of the black-robed man, began interrogating Lord Paul about the nature of various common household items. As the master of the estate explained the use of such common tools as a leather punch or iron skillet, the Tsurani officer indicated one of two piles, one on a large canvas tarp. When two of the same items were displayed, one instantly went into one pile, while the other might join it or be separated.
Old William, the gardener and groundskeeper, said, “Look at that,” as two Tsurani soldiers picked up the tarp, securing the larger of the two piles, and carried it off.
“What is it?” whispered Dirk, barely loud enough for the old man to hear.
“They’re queer for metal,” softly said the old man with a knowing nod. “Look at their armor and weapons.”
Dirk did so, and then it struck him. Nowhere on any Tsurani could a glint of sunlight on metal be seen. Their armor and weapons all appeared to be hide or wood cleverly fashioned and lacquered, but there were no buckles, blades, or fasteners of metal in evidence. From their cross-gartered sandals to the top of their large flared helmets, the Tsurani appeared devoid of any metal artifacts.
“What’s it mean?” whispered Dirk.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll find out,” said the old man.
The Tsurani continued their investigation of Lord Paul’s household, until almost sundown, then they were ordered to gather their personal belongings and move them into the barn or kitchen, as the Tsurani would be occupying the servants’ quarters. In a move that puzzled Dirk, the Tsurani officer stayed in the same building with his men, leaving Paul and his daughter alone in the big house.
It was but the first of many things that would puzzle Dirk over the coming year.
Alex lay curled up, his face a mask of pain while Hamish shouted, “Don’t get up!”
The Tsurani soldier who had struck the young man in the stomach stood over him, his hand a scant inch from the hilt of his sword. Alex groaned and again Hamish shouted to the young man to remain still.
Dirk stood near the entrance to the barn while those servants nearby stood anxiously watching, expecting the worst at any moment. The Tsurani had revealed themselves as strict but fair masters in the two months since arriving at White Hill, but there was occasionally some breach of etiquette or honor that took the residents of White Hill by surprise, often with bloody consequences. An old farmer by the name of Samuel had gotten drunk on fermented corncob squeeze a month earlier and had struck out at a Tsurani who had ordered him back into his home. Samuel had been beaten senseless and hanged as his wife and children looked on in horror.
Alex continued to groan but did as he was bid by Hamish until the Tsurani soldier seemed satisfied that he wasn’t going to move. The soldier said something in his alien language, spat in contempt upon the workman, turned, and walked away.
Hamish hesitated a moment; then he and Dirk hurried over to help Alex to his feet. “What happened?” asked Dirk.
“I don’t know,” said Alex. “I just looked at the man.”
“It’s how you looked at him,” said Hamish. “You smirked at him. If you’d looked at me that way, I’d have done the same.” The burly old soldier inspected Alex. “I had my fill of smirking boys in the army and knocked down a few in my time before I retired. Show these murderers some respect, lad, or they’ll hang you just because they can and it’s a slow day for amusements.”
Rubbing his side, Alex said, “I won’t do that again, you can bet.”
“See that you don’t,” said Hamish. The old soldier motioned for Drogen, his senior guard, to come over. “Pass the word that the bastards seem touchy. Must have something to do with the war. Just make sure the lads know to keep polite and do whatever they’re told.”
Drogen nodded and ran off. Hamish turned to inspect Alex again, then said, “Get off with you. You’ll live.”
Dirk helped Alex for a few steps. Then the man’s legs seemed to steady and Dirk let go of his arm. “They don’t
seem to take kindly to any sort of greeting,” said Dirk.
“I think keeping your eyes down or some such is what they want.”
Dirk said nothing. He was scared most of the time when he was around the Tsurani and didn’t look at them for that reason. That was probably a wise choice, he judged.
“Can you take the wood?” asked Alex.
“Sure,” said Dirk before he realized that he was being asked to carry wood to the Tsurani quarters. Dirk picked up the fallen bundle and wrestled with it a moment before getting the unwieldy load under control. He moved to the door of the outbuilding and hesitated, then rolled the wood back on his chest and reached out to pull the latch rope.
The door opened slightly and Dirk pushed it open with his foot. He entered, blinking a moment to get his eyes used to the darkness inside.
A half-dozen Tsurani warriors sat on their beds, speaking in quiet conversation as they tended their arms and armor. Upon seeing the serving boy enter, they fell silent. Dirk went to the woodbox next to the fireplace, situated in the center of the rear wall, and deposited his load there.
The Tsurani watched him with impassive expressions. He quickly left the room. Closing the door behind him, he could hardly believe that just weeks before the bed in the farthest corner had been his own. He and the other workers had been turned out to the barn, except for the house staff, who now slept on the floor in Lord Paul’s kitchen.
There was little need for wood save for cooking, as the warm nights of summer made sleeping fires unnecessary. The Tsurani used their fires primarily for cooking their alien food, filling the area nearby with strange yet intriguing aromas.
Dirk paused a moment and glanced around, taking in the images of White Hill; familiar, yet cast in alien shadow by the invaders. Mikia and Torren, a young couple engaged the week before at the Midsummer’s festival, were approaching the milking shed, hand in hand, and the invaders could be invisible for all the distraction they provided the young lovers.
From the kitchen, voices and the clatter of pots heralded the advent of the noon meal. Dirk realized he was hungry. Still, he needed to carry firewood to the other buildings before breaking to eat, and he decided the sooner started, the sooner done. As he turned to the woodshed, he caught a glimpse of a soldier in black and orange moving toward the barn. He idly wondered if the time would come when the invaders would be driven from White Hill. It seemed unlikely, for there was no news of the war, and the Tsurani were settling in at White Hill as if they were never leaving.
Reaching the woodshed, Dirk opened the door and saw Alex in back of the shed cutting more wood. The still-bruised man said, “You can carry, lad. I’ll cut.”
Dirk nodded and went in the shed, to get another armful of firewood. Dirk sighed. As youngest boy in service, the worst jobs fell to him, and this would just be another task added to his burden, one which would not free him from any other.
Before coming to White Hill, Dirk had been nothing, the youngest son of a stonecutter who had two sons already to apprentice. His father had cut the stone for Lord Paul’s home, and had used that slight acquaintanceship to gain Dirk a position in Paul’s household.
With that position was the promise that eventually he would have some sort of rank on the estate, perhaps a groundsman, a kennel master, or a herdsman. Or he might gain a farm to work, with a portion of his crops going to his landlord, even eventually earning the rank of Franklin, one who owned his own lands free of service to any lord. He had even dared to imagine meeting a girl and marrying, raising sons and daughter of his own. And perhaps, despite the Tsurani, he still might.
Reminding himself that he had much to be thankful for, he lifted the next load of wood destined for the fireplaces of the invaders.
Fall brought a quick change in the weather, with sunny but cool days and cold nights. Apples were harvested and the juice presses were busy. The Tsurani found the juice a wonderful delicacy and commanded a large portion for themselves. A portion was put aside for fermenting, and the air around the kitchen was spicy with the smell of warm pies.
Dirk had gotten used to hauling wood to the Tsurani, and now was the one designated to keep all the woodboxes on the property filled, while Alex still did most of the chopping. Everyone began calling him “Wood Boy,” rather than his name.
Dirk also worked the woodpile, and the constant work was broadening his shoulders and putting muscle on him by the week. He could now lift as much as the older boys and some of the men.
He found that as the nights cooled his workload increased, for now he had to help plan for the coming winter. The sheep pens were repaired. The herd needed to be kept close, as starving predators would come down from the mountain to hunt. The cattle would be brought down from the higher meadows as well.
Fences needed repairing and the root cellar and springhouse needed stocking. The winters in the foothills of Yabon came quickly and the snow was often deep after the first fall, lasting until the thaw of spring.
Dirk worked hard and enjoyed those infrequent moments he could steal to relax, joke with the older boys and young men, and talk to Litia, an old woman who had once been in charge of the poultry and lambs. She was kind to the awkward boy and told him things that helped him understand the world that seemed to be changing around him by the day.
Dirk now was faced with the realization that life’s choices were down to a precious few. Before the Tsurani’s arrival, he had stood a chance of learning to be a herdsman or farmer, and perhaps meeting a girl and starting a family on the edge of Lord Paul’s estates, having land and a share of the harvest. Or he might save the tiny sum allotted him over and above his keep and someday attempt to start a trade of his own; he knew the rudiments of cutting stone and perhaps might pay a mason to apprentice him.
But now he feared that he was doomed to be a servant until death took him. There was no payment of wages above his keep; the Tsurani had taken all of Lord Paul’s wealth—though it was rumored that he had two parts in three safely hidden from the Tsurani. Even if the rumor was true, he wasn’t about to risk hanging to pay a lowly servant boy his back wages.
And there were no girls his own age on the estates, save Lord Paul’s daughter.
The Midwinter’s festival was supposed to be the time to meet the girls from town or the nearby estates, but the Tsurani had forbidden such travel for the Midsummer’s festival, and Dirk doubted they would change their minds for the winter festival. Lord Paul’s household had celebrated Banapis on Midsummer’s Day by themselves, with little enthusiasm, because of the poor food and drink, and the isolation.
At least, thought Dirk, Midwinter’s Day was likely to be a little livelier, as there was a good supply of fermenting applejack laid in. Then, remembering how morose his father could get when drinking, Dirk wondered if that was a good thing. Hamish had been known to drink himself into a dark and blind rage in the depths of winter.
Putting aside his own misery, he attacked the tasks the day put before him and was judged a hardworking if unremarkable boy by those of the household.
The festival was a pale shadow of its former self.
Traditionally the towns turned out, with those living on the neighboring estates coming in for the parties. A townsman would be selected to play the part of Old Man Winter, who would come into town on a sled pulled by wolves—usually a motley collection of dogs pressed into playing the part, often to comic results. He would pass out sweets to the children, and the adults would exchange small gifts and tokens. Then everyone would eat too much food and many would drink too much wine and ale.
And many young couples would be married.
This year the Tsurani had forbidden travel, and Dirk stood at the edge of a small crowd in the barnyard watching Mikia and Torren getting married under the watchful eyes of Lord Paul and his daughter. The Tsurani had let Dirk travel to the shrine of Dala and return with a priest of that order, so that the wedding could be conducted.
The couple looked happy despite the frigid surrounding
s, made slightly more bearable by the large bonfire Dirk and the others had built earlier in the day. It roared and warmed whichever side was facing it, but otherwise it was a cold and bitter day for a wedding, with low grey skies and a constant wind off the mountains.
The meal was the best that could be managed under the circumstances, and Dirk had his first encounter with too much to drink, consuming far too much applejack and discovering that his stomach would inform him of its limits before any of his friends would. The other boys stood around in amusement as Dirk stood against the wall behind the barn, sick beyond belief, his head swimming and his pulse pounding in his temples as his stomach tried to throw up drink no longer there.
He had somehow managed to find his way back to the loft in which he now slept. Because he was the youngest boy in the household, he got the worst pallet, next to the hay door, which meant a drafty, frigid night’s rest. He passed out and risked freezing to death without the other boys’ warmth nearby.
Late that night, he stirred as a shout from outside rang through the silent darkness. Dirk stirred as did the other boys, and Hemmy said, “What’s that?”
Dirk pushed open the hay door. In the moonlight a drunken figure stood waving a sword with his right hand, while holding a jug of applejack with the left. He shouted words that the boys couldn’t understand, but Hemmy said, “He’s fighting some old battle, for sure.”
Suddenly Alex said, “The Tsurani! If Hamish wakes them with all that shouting, they’ll kill him. We’ve got to get him to shut up.”
“You want to go and try to talk to him while he’s waving that sword around,” said Hemmy, “you go ahead. I’ll take my chances up here. I’ve seen him drunk before. Puts him in a dangerous dark temper, it does.”