Free The Warrior King: Book Three of the Seer King Trilogy by Chris Bunch Page B

served in Maisir. But there’s a hard wind abroad, and there’ll be no man permitted to sit the fence or plow his own furrow ‘til Numantia’s ruled by its own.
    “Come on, friend,” he cajoled. “Forget the hard times and the lost comrades, and remember the good times, the comradeship, the pride of your uniform, and the glory of marching under the emperor’s banners. These boys haven’t known that, haven’t had their share of glory yet, but they’re for it, they’re true Numantians all.”
    Honestly, in spite of the horror I knew war to be, I felt a bit of truth in Tagagne’s words, and remembered the fierce joy of being Tenedos’s warrior. But I also remembered … other things.
    “No, Sergeant,” I said. “But I’ll think well of you for offering.”
    “I’ll not press my cause,” Tagagne said. “There’ll be others who come to you, in other times, and maybe you’ll remember my words, and then join us, join us in making Numantia free.”
    He didn’t wait for a response but turned to his charges. “Come on now, you men, for we’ve a long road to go before night.”
    Obediently, they tramped off. I watched them over the hill. At its crest the last boy looked back and waved. I waved back, then went on my course.
    No, Numantia was not free, and sooner or later there must be a fight.
    But that must no longer matter to me.
    • • •
    The village, unlike some others, was neat, and smoke curled from some chimneys. Its fields were plowed, fat cows grazed in them, and I saw women tending a fishpond on its outskirts.
    I’d just happened to spot the settlement, about a sixth of a league from the road, almost hidden behind a rise, and, tired of my own cooking, decided to ask for a night’s shelter for a day’s work.
    The track to the village was somewhat overgrown, as if few travelers came. Then I saw the village had been skillfully fenced with bamboo stakes, and the path was closed off with a log spiked with bamboo spears.
    “Halloo the village,” I hailed, and two women trotted out of a building. One carried a bow and quiver, the other a spear.
    “Stand where you are.”
    I obeyed, knowing what would come next — they’d see my sword and the remnants of my uniform, and order me away, fearing me as a marauder.
    A third woman came from another hut as the two stood to either side of the log, weapons ready. She was a bit older than I, slender, and carried herself like a noblewoman.
    “Who are you?” she demanded.
    “A traveler,” I said. “Call me … Nurri. I would like a meal and will work for it.”
    She stared hard, and I felt her gaze pierce as the emperor’s had and knew her to be a seer of some power.
    The other two women waited for her decision.
    “He means no harm,” she said. “Let him enter.”
    Without argument, they uncoiled ropes, dragged the log out of the way.
    “Thank you …”
    “I am Gunett,” she said. “I have been chosen village elder.”
    “Thank you, Gunett. What jobs do you have?”
    “We could do with some wood hewed,” she said.
    “Gladly.”
    “And after that … there might be other tasks.”
    She smiled mysteriously, and one woman giggled.
    • • •
    I enjoy a simple chore like cutting wood, although when you’ve been away from the woodpile for years, it’s not quite as simple as it appears. But each time the ax comes down, you remember a bit of your old skills, and in time you’re able to put the blade precisely where you want it, with exactly the right amount of force — and not cut off your foot.
    There was a lot of wood, but what of it? I stripped to the waist, shut off my mind, and became mechanical. I prided myself that I seldom needed the maul to split a log, and, as time passed, remembered the knack of splitting a log with a single blow.
    Near the end of the pile, I became aware I had an audience. Two girls in their late teens were watching. I now had a duty to perform well and sent the last piece of wood spinning high to land atop the