The Turquoise Queen, Pedro Urvi [e book reader android txt] 📗

entered the main street, the people looked at him curiously. Lasgol nodded to a couple of them to show that his intentions were honest, then went on to the central square. As he was clad in a hooded cloak and was carrying two bows on his back, the villagers looked at him suspiciously. He could not blame them; he would have done the same himself. He was a stranger, coming armed into their village. He noticed that even though its center was ancient and built of stone, the houses around were humbler and had been built in rectangular blocks. This showed that the village was growing, which was a good sign, even though the war had brought development and expansion to an end. Many of those who had fought for the West in the militia were from that region, and there must have been many casualties among the village’s inhabitants.

He signaled to Trotter to move forward slowly and went on into the main square. At once the blacksmith, the carpenter, the butcher and the other craftsmen who were at work stopped what they were doing to look at the new arrival. Lasgol did not mind the scrutiny, which he was growing used to. He could not blame them for wanting to make sure the stranger had no evil intentions, since bandits took advantage of troubled times like these and preyed on honest workers.

He stopped Trotter and stroked his neck, looking for someone to ask. Those who had turned to look at him had gone back to their tasks and did not seem inclined to conversation. He thought about dismounting and approaching the blacksmith, who would presumably pay attention to him, since he had a horse and the blacksmith must need work in a village of farmers with few horses. At the same time, he noticed one of the farmers, an elderly man, who was loading a sack of grain on to an old mule. It was hard to tell which of the two was older. He decided to ask him without dismounting.

“I’m looking for the chief of the village.”

The farmer raised his head and squinted to get a better view of his face. Lasgol had the feeling he must have problems with his elderly eyesight.

“Chief Dolstar?”  he asked in a raspy voice.

Lasgol nodded. “He’s waiting for me.”

The farmer now looked him up and down and noticed the two bows slung over his shoulder.

“I don’t know you. You’re not from around here. Have you come about the trouble?”

“The Chief sent for me,” Lasgol said evasively.

“A question deserves an answer,” the old man pointed out grumpily.

“All right, then … I’m a Ranger.”

“That’s much better,” the villager said, and half-smiled. “I hope you can sort out the problems we’ve got.” He pointed north. “It’s one thing for a few sheep or a cow to go missing, but a few men have vanished too. That’s not normal, however much Dolstar insists that it must be some hungry brown bear. It doesn’t smell good to me.”

Lasgol was surprised to hear this. He had not heard anything about missing people. The mission had mentioned trouble with a wild beast.

“It could be. Some bears attack humans when they’re hungry.”

The old man touched the side of his nose. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve got a feeling there’s something else.”

Lasgol remembered another of his father’s sayings. “Usually, the simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”

The farmer twitched his nose. “I have a sense for these things, and about storms. I always know when they’re coming before they do. The Ice Gods blessed me like that.”

“That’s a useful asset,” Lasgol said. He was beginning to regard the old man as something of a character.

“He’ll be in his house,” said the old man. He pointed to a long house with a steep roof. “He doesn’t go out much these days. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either if I were him.” He shook his head.

“Thank you,” Lasgol said, surprised by the comment.

The man waved his hand, making light of it, and went on down the street with his mule.

The locals stared at Lasgol in surprise as he went over to the Chief’s house. Although the war was over, times were not good and any foreigner tended to arouse suspicions in the hearts of those good people.

I’ll be right back. Wait for me, he transmitted to Trotter, and tethered him to a post under the porch of the house. He knocked twice at the door.

“Just a moment!” came a man’s strong voice from inside.

The door took longer than normal to open. When it finally did, Lasgol was confronted by a man leaning on a pair of crutches. His left leg had been amputated at the thigh, and it looked as though he had not yet fully recovered from the dreadful wound. He was big and strong, as was to be expected of the chief of a village, but now looked weak and gaunt. Lasgol noticed his feverish eyes.

He gave his visitor an unfriendly look. “Who are you?”

“I’m looking for Chief Dolstar. I’m the Ranger he asked for.”

The man’s face changed at once. “They listened to me?”

Lasgol smiled, doing his best to look friendly. “It looks like it.”

“I can’t believe it. Come in, come in.”

The interior of the house was a complete mess, and very dirty. It reminded him of Ulf’s, except that this one was three times as big and solid.

The chief indicated some chairs beside a table which was obviously used for meetings. “Sit wherever you can,” he said, and collapsed clumsily into the chair at the head of the table. A grimace of pain appeared on his face.

“Thanks,” Lasgol said. He sat down, sweeping aside a change of sweaty clothes as he did so.

“Everything’s a mess, I know. I haven’t had the strength