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He threw back the hood of his cloak. It was a typical English winter day of the better variety: fleeting patches of sun, interspersed with gray overcast and occasional chill drizzle. He'd almost prefer a hard freeze and some snow, but that didn't happen often in southern Hampshire. It was amazing how cold the Nantucket-made armor and underpadding were, when you thought of how uncomfortably hot they could be in warm weather. He'd be glad to change over to the set of fancy duds in the leather trunk the pack-horse was carrying. The fields were a sodden sort of green, patched with brown and occasional puddles. Mud sucked at the horses' hooves, coating their lower legs and spattering the trousers of their riders. The smell was rich and earthy, mixed with damp wool from their cloaks. Those were woven from raw fiber, unfulled, with the grease still in it; he was surprised at how well they shed water, almost as good as a rubber slicker.
There were other changes around Daurthu
The heads nailed above the hall doorway were very much in the local tradition, though. None of them had had time to weather down to skulls.
Cuddy nodded to the gristmill. "Great what you can find in books, isn't it, boss?"
Walker gri
He'd suggested they use horses here on the mill when he built it for them; that would be quite practical with the new harness he'd introduced. Everyone had looked at him as if he'd recommended eating their own children. Odd people, the Iraiina.
"You know, if we did stay here, we could be ru
The former machinist grunted and looked around at the trampled mud, pigs rooting for slops, a blue-fingered girl in a tattered shift milking a scrubby little cow into a bucket carved out of a section of log.
"This?" he said. "Run this, boss?"
"Well, Walkerburg's already a lot better. Not as much already built as in Greece, yeah, but less opposition, too."
"You thinking of changing the plan, boss?"
"Just a notion. The climate here sucks dead dog farts, I give you that. I'll think about it."
They swung down out of the saddle, armor clanking. He'd kept the conversation with Cuddy quiet; Ohotolarix was picking up English fast, and there were things he preferred to keep private. Retainers came up to take their beasts, and two unsaddled Bastard and led him gingerly off to the round corral where the hobbled mare waited. By the time they got there they were being dragged by the horse, rather than vice versa. His enraged squeal cut through the air.
There were a lot of horses in the other pens, and four extra chariots stood in a wicker-walled shed. Well, well, he thought, drinking off the ceremonial horn of beer that marked you as a guest. Another tribe, ready to talk alliance with the Iraiina. Our efforts are bearing fruit. And some Tartessians were there, lounging about the entrance, trading warmth for fresh air.
"Good to see you again, blood-brother," Isketerol said, shaking wet from his own cloak; by the look of him, he hadn't been here long. "We should talk, later."
"That we should, later."
The rahax's hall was thronged with warriors and guests tonight, heavy with the smells of woodsmoke and cooking and beer and damp dog from the hounds that lay growling amid the feasters' feet. Daurthu
Easterners, an embassy from one of the Kentish tribes. Looking rather sullen, but polite enough. Or scared.
A huge platter of smoking roast pork was borne in before the rahax. He directed the server to carry a portion of the loin to Walker. The American smiled at her; she was Daurthu
As he reached for the meat, someone shouted. Walker looked up sharply.
"No! No!"
It was an Iraiina, one of Daurthu
"No! Why should this outlander get the hero's meat? Let him eat husks with swineherds!"
The whole hall was thrown into confusion. Men stood, yelled into each other's faces, shook fists as pro- and anti-Walker factions coalesced. Some of the women were screaming too with excitement, and the easterner guests weren't bothering to hide their smiles. Daurthu
"You shame your rahax by insulting his guest! The man he has made wehaxpothis, a chief among our tribe. You shame the brave warriors who have sworn to follow him."
Ohotolarix certainly seemed to feel so; he was half off the bench, fingering his eating knife and glaring blue-eyed murder. Walker reached out and put a hand on his arm, gently urging him back to his' seat.
"No, this is good," he murmured. "Wait-remember what I told you. Anger is like fire, a fine servant but a poor master. The fool will fall on his own words."
Daurthu
"No!" the strongman declared. "He is nothing but a wizard. He offends against old custom and law, his slant-eyed wife is a witch, and the gods and Mirutha will shun us for harboring them, stealing our luck. Send him away, lord, or better still, cut his throat in the grove and make a bonfire of his goods and followers, to appease the Mighty Ones."
More uproar, with Daurthu
He waited until the shouting had passed its peak, then rose to his feet. "Hear me, lord," he called, not raising his voice much but pitching it to carry through the swell as if it were storm-roar at sea.
"Hear me. This fool and son of slaves-"
Tautanorrix roared again, wordless, his face turning purple.
"-has offered you offense by breaking the peace of your hall, like a ma