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    Ebook70 pages1 hour

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    By Erik Harssan

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    About this ebook

    An unseasonal snowfall creates good conditions for chasing thieves in the high country.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherErik Harssan
    Release dateApr 2, 2015
    Unsaved
    Author

    Erik Harssan

    Slayer of windmills

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      Book preview

      Unsaved - Erik Harssan

      Unsaved

      by

      Erik

      Harssan

      Copyright 2014 Erik Harssan

      Smashwords Edition

      A front of tall clouds sailed in from the north. It lay wide as the sky and drove warm airs away with strong, cold winds, ending the long summer’s day in wintry dusk. As the last strip of clear sky closed in the south, the rain arrived. Misty veils dragged over the near ridges, and shadows filled distant ravines and valleys for the coming night. Light drizzles swept in first, then built to drenching gusts that bore down on the simple camp in the foothills.

      Four tents stood pegged and tethered to the windswept turf, where the grassy foothills met the heathered mountains. A brow of low crags warded off the worst gusts, and the sturdy tents held their ground, even as the storm yanked vigorously at their cords and smacked untied flaps around with vicious slaps.

      Early in the night, the tallest tent flopped a wall in and out with big airy blasts. It brought out a gaggle of men in hooded coats. Some of them sat on the lower tent-flaps, and held them down while others lashed the canvases tighter together. With the wind in their backs, the men hauled out a bulky spread of deer hides, and let the storm unfurl it and plaster it against the north side of the tent, and they hustled about, tying the corners and sides with many ropes.

      Inside the same tent burned two fires out of stone-ringed pits. The wobbling lights warmed a rugged assembly of road workers and mountain guards, bundled up in bedrolls and blankets. Some watched the dancing flames, and some took occasional sips from steaming bowls in their laps, and they all listened to the wind. Powerful gusts howled by and snapped the side-sheets and whistled madly through frayed seams. The wooden tent poles leaned and bent as best they could, while their tied joints ground and creaked together, and they always righted themselves when the gusts relented.

      Where did summer go? lamented a worker in a long fur hat. He stuck his gloved hands under his blanketed knees.

      It’s not gone, said a muffled voice, from inside a mound of covers. It’s just what passes for summer up here.

      The hatted worker meant to say something, but swiped his watery eyes instead. Foggy layers of thick smoke swirled steadily lower, and yet no one complained. They would rather deal with stinging eyes than the cold, and kept the flue-flaps shut, trapping every bit of heat inside, along with the smoke.

      Then came the icy sprays. The seeping rain had soaked parts of the canvas, and when the wind shook the top sheets they cast off short, frigid sprays, sprinkling the men underneath.

      This isn’t worth fourfold wages, swore a paunchy man in a hammock. He kicked off his quilted covers and swung two stubby legs over the side. The hammock sagged under his seat, until he pushed off. The plank he landed on gurgled into the ground, and slurped up slightly at the other end. A grimy gown covered his portly front, and twisted with him as he surveyed the lair around him; a motley jumble of blankets, bedrolls and cloaked bodies. Overhead hung a web of clotheslines, weighed down by steaming damp garments.

      No work tomorrow! announced the paunchy man, shouting over the storm, and a tent-full of unshaven faces looked up at him. We do more damage than good when the ground’s wet. Our wagons sink in and tear out tracks that turn into rivers. And a river can dig out a whole hill if they go the wrong way, and take our road with it.

      A couple of heads nodded.

      And we've come far enough from the city we don’t risk any unscheduled inspections.

      He smiled and nodded at the few grinning faces he saw in the audience.

      Two toasts to be had by all, he added. One for a swift death to the storm, and one for bright fires till dawn.

      His speech stirred up a gradual movement around the tent, and the floor boards sighed and burped under the shifting weights. Blanket-clad men shuffled in from the darker edges, and others joined them as they converged on an upright cask by the roasting pits. Each man waited his turn, and when it came he dipped a mug in, and some of them stayed and huddled in groups. They chatted in low voices and took slow swigs of a black oily brew.

      When the paunchy man crawled back into his hammock they toasted to his health.

      To never-breaking bones, chanted one, and others chimed in cheerfully.

      An ever-full gullet; a never-filled grave.

      Swig by swig the mugs emptied, and the drinkers drifted back to their bedrolls. One fellow, well-wrapped in blankets took over as fire-guard, and soon shoved more logs into the roasting pits.

      Outside whooshed the wild winds, flailing against the walls and lashing them with flurries of flat rain, and inside swirled slow icy drafts through the smoky space.

      Only one man watched the flames more carefully than the fire-guard; a man in the far back,

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