Free Book 1 - The Tyranny of the Night by Glen Cook

Choosers of the Slain just drop in?"
    "Oh. No. I get you. But I do reckon they picked us six mainly so they could get
us out of town."
    So Sigurdur was blind in one eye but could see out the other. Shagot had not
realized that the old folks might have chosen this group so he and the others
would not be hanging around causing trouble.
    Those assholes Trygg and Pulla would pull that kind of shit, too. Old people did
not like chaos, confusion, tumult, or excitement. They wanted life calm, quiet,
and predictable.
    Shagot thought he must be getting old himself since he had no trouble
understanding why the old people wanted him out of the way.
    "Let's just catch these guys, then get our asses on home." Of a sudden, Shagot
found himself able to consider Snaefells special. Found that he could think of
the village as home. He was amazed.

    SHAGOT THE BASTARD WAS NOT ABLE TO CATCH THOSE Missionaries. Those ferocious
southerners who did not believe in raising a hand against their fellow man. Day
by day, hour by hour, he and his companions gained ground, but never, ever, did
they actually catch up.
    Shagot's band was a scant thirty yards behind when they reached the shore of the
Ormo Strait, at a village called Ara. Hallgrim and Finnboga both wasted arrows.
Naturally, they missed. Shagot barked, "Quit it! You might hit the ferryman in
the fog."
    The boat the fugitives had chartered was small, manned by a single oarsman who
must be a true man's man, for the strait was fourteen miles wide here. Ara was
not the customary jump off for those who wanted to cross. That was Grynd, thirty
miles southeastward along the coast. Commercial ferries ran there, making the
four-mile journey through treacherous currents to Skola on the tip of Friesland.
    Grynd and Skola were too civilized. Shagot could not go there. Erief's enemies
and King Gludnir's friends were much too common there.
    Unstringing his bow, taciturn Finnboga observed, "If we need proof that those
two are villains, this is it."
    "Because they chose a smugglers' crossing?"
    The boatman would conduct his passengers to Orfland, a swampy, sparsely
inhabited, totally impoverished island off the west coast of Friesland. The
fugitives would have to traverse Orfland on foot, then cross to the mainland
from Orfland's nether end—without ever attracting the attention of anyone who
mattered in Friesland.
    Sigurdur said, "I'm not comfortable leaving Andoray on foot."
    That was such a dumb thing to say that Shagot just nodded. "You guys go scare up
another boatman."
    There was no boatman to be found. There was no one in the village. Not a soul.
But the evidence said Ara had been a busy little town until a few hours ago.
    Sigurjon said, "I don't like this, Grim. Something weird is going on."
    "I think you're right. Let's wait here. When that boat comes back we'll go
across. Keep your bows strung. Just in case." He made sure his sword was loose
in its scabbard. It was a fine old blade that had come from a monastery in
Santerin, probably left there by some noble trying to bribe the local god.
    Hallgrim asked, "What do you make of this fog? Fog usually burns off by this
time."
    "We're at the mouth of the Ormo Strait. There're strange currents and tides and
fogs here all the time."
    Hallgrim did not talk much. Shagot wished he would give up the vice altogether.
When he did speak he always brought up something disgusting. Often he belabored
the obvious when everyone else did not want to be reminded.
    He did not shut up. "Will we all fit in that boat? It didn't look that big."
    Shagot grunted. His brother Svavar asked, "You want me to hit him on the head?"
    "He might not notice. Besides, it's a good question. And I think we will fit
What I'm wondering is, how long will we have to wait? I didn't see a mast or a
sail. And at the wrong time of day the current is going to be vicious."
    The Ormo'Strait joined the landlocked Shallow Sea with the Andorayan Sea, to
the west. The