Hahlgrim traced the tip of his dagger along a crack in the tabletop. “First we must weaken the Chaos close at hand,” he said. “Bolthor’s people are healthy, yet their Chalana Arroy priestesses are paupers. I suspect that the minions of the Mother of Disease are here, though her priests might stand within spear-thrust of us and we would not know it.”
We all glanced around the sleepy inn. “Ketil, you prepare a party of only the healthiest men, and guard old Torvald the Healer. Seek with him the work of Mallia—he will know the signs.”
Ketil departed, taking with him Oddi the Keen, Hahlgrim’s brother. Hahlgrim replaced the dagger in its oiled sheath, and we left also.
We gathered the peasants of the area before him. They were a sorry lot, exhausted, and with fear-haunted eyes.
Hahlgrim related his history and origin. “In my land,” he said, “the people do not tolerate the slow death, for we know the power of the Healing Mother and uphold her. You must foreswear your sacrifices to Mallia. Rely upon the Healers.” The crowd had been shuffling, as uncouth peasants will, until he spoke Mallia’s name. Then they fell as silent as stone.
“Easy for you to say,” scowled an old hag at last, “but for us there is life to be lost and life to be gained; why should we forsake one who keeps her filthy word, for the
White Goddess, who seems weaker?” And many nodded at this, yet without passion; the pride of these farmers had been hobbled.
Hahlgrim studied the hag. Her wares were baskets, and under his gaze she shrank a little behind them, as though they were a wall which could dim the blaze of his
eyes.
“It is the duty of the old to speak wisdom,” he replied, “not fear,” and she shrank back a little further. “What worth are your offerings, Basket Woman, when broos hobble past your doors with plague dripping from spear points? Your prayers and offerings strengthen the broos, and Ralzakark their king fattens his folk on your power!”
Not a few in the crowd made signs to ward off that King of the Broos, of fearful Dorastor.
“You speak that name lightly, O mighty Lord from Far Away,” the old woman said sorrowfully. “Whom would you have us strengthen?” She paused. “It may be there is
little difference between the kick of a broo and the kick of a nobleman.”
“So it might seem, yet I will show you differently. Hear me: each who trades for a spell from Chalana Arroy will receive a small pig from my temple, or its equal value in
barley or beer. From my own purse will I in addition pay for each spell you gain from the priestess of the White Goddess, whether one or many, nor will I demand you use
of these great cures. All this is yours if you promise never again to worship Mallia, and that I swear by the mighty Air itself!
The crowd gasped at his gifts, and so they were gifts, for never in all their lives could these poor pay back half of what Hahlgrim would give them that day.
“My gracious lord,” the old woman said, trembling, “may all the mercies of the gods be yours for your promise. Forgive me that I spoke harshly,” and Hahlgrim did there
forgive her.
“This is more than our own king, Burpey Bolthor, ever would swear. I see truly why you displease him, and know why your people wait upon your word,” said a burly youth, and the crowd came near. Three places of festering plague were found. Hahlgrim gave orders for their removal, then called for wine. I write this description that all may know of his great generosity and believe it, for even Ketil could not understand at first the gifts of our lord to these humbled people.
“Giving farmers gold?” he cried. “How should anyone give a thousandth of that for the promise of a peasant?”
“There is a time for sacrifices,” replied Hahlgrim, studying the sweep of the valley beyond. “I have no need of gold if what I cherish grows freely and proudly.”
Hahlgrim left soon thereafter, to seek a shaman in the wilds who could protect the farmers permanently. To let Ketil learn humility and charity, he ordered him to administer the giving of the gold to a hundred whining farmers. While Ketil counted gold and swore, I played the flute outside, in the warmth of the afternoon.
