Tales of Mithgar by Dennis L. McKiernan

Author:Dennis L. McKiernan
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780451454393
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1995-11-16T06:00:00+00:00

Jorn watched as the tall, rawboned, ginger-haired youth came chuffing up the slope through the snow, haling hard on the reins of a flop-eared jack laden with deadwood, the beast of burden reluctantly and stiff-leggedly lagging behind, balking, their breath blowing white in the bleak winter cold, the lad swearing at the mule, his voice drifting up through the icy air and to the top of the tor. “Come on now, you misbegotten son of an ass, stop being so cursed stubborn.”

Jorn smiled unto himself at this contest of wills, and after a quick glance through the window slits to north and south, east and west, he turned to the inside of the room atop the stone watchtower and set aside his lute and took up his winter cloak. Stepping to the trapdoor and opening it, he pulled on his winter gloves and clambered down the ladder, swiftly reaching the base and stepping through the door and out upon the crest of Beacontor.

In the open, the winter air was crisp, a slight breeze blowing chill from the east, and a shiver shook Jorn’s frame as he strode among the squat stone buildings and toward a great mound of wood stacked under a simple pole shelter to protect it from the weather. In that same moment, the youth and the mule came through the low rock-and-mortar wall be-ringing the hilltop—not a defensive wall, but one instead that merely marked the traditional boundary of the hilltop where quartered the sentinels—and headed toward the pile as well.

“Ho, Aulf,” called out Jorn, “is old Ironhead giving you trouble?”

Aulf, a lad of sixteen summers, looked up at his uncle and shook his head in me. “Had to drag this pigheaded jackass all the way back,” he declared, still haling hard on the reins.

As if he understood, Ironhead decided then and there that he would not take another step, and he stopped cold in his tracks. And by neither strength nor threats nor promises could Aulf get the mule to move.

“His feelings are hurt,” said Jorn, grinning, moving downslope to come to his sister’s son. “What this needs, my young nephew, is the sure hand of age and experience. Here, let me. . . .”

Aulf turned the reins over to his uncle, a common Man of average height, a Man in his middle years, some forty winters old, yet hale, his dark brown hair showing but a few strands of silver.

“Coo now, Ironhead,” soothed Jorn, mimicking the accents of those who dwell in the Jillian Tors along the shores of the Boreal Sea, where Jorn had campaigned in his youth, for Ironhead had come from that far north Land. “Wouldna ye like t’ ha’e a wee taste o’ th’ oats?”

As if utterly disgusted, Ironhead sat down, the bundles of firewood lurching back, individual branches and small logs sliding loose from their lax rope bindings, clattering onto the ground, some to roll a bit down the grade, both Aulf and Jorn exploding into laughter at the sight of the thoroughly offended mule sitting in the snow.

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