years back? And then the logical part of her mind turned to the dragon. Watching over the destruction of the village and its vessels. Destroying their dam. Hating it was a relief. It meant that she didn't have to carry the blame. She'd just stay here for a bit until Wulfstan calmed down, or, more likely, until the drink made him fall over and vomit.
Even if she wasn't to blame, it didn't stop her feeling vastly sorry for herself. She'd tried to help them! Tried her best. Meb sniffled. She was tired enough to cry herself to sleep in a patch of sun between the low prickly bushes.
She didn't realize just how tired she'd been, obviously, because when she woke again, hungry and thirsty, the sun had already slipped so low that she was in deep shade from the ridge. She got up hastily. Now they'd call her lazy for not helping. She ran hurriedly back to the village.
Only—when she got there, there was no one in it.
She walked between the burned-out shells of houses, calling warily. Had the raiders returned again and she'd slept through the attack?
Then she saw a face peeking around the shell of his cottage. Not a particularly welcome face under normal circumstances, but right now, any familiar face was a relief. "Roff. Where is everyone?" she asked the net-maker.
The net-man looked suspiciously at her. "Who are you, boy, and what do you want?" His hands were black and he had a wooden spade with him.
"I just want to find everyone. Mikka and Hrolf. Where has everyone gone?" she asked humbly.
"Tarport, boy. This place is history. It's finished. Lord Zuamar himself let them wipe us out. Our boats are ash. Our water, he destroyed himself. Some of the women saw him do it. Our homes are burned. Nothing left for us here. Now get away with you, snooping around our sorrow."
Gone! Gone to Tarport, the big harbor some miles up the coast . . . Well, it made a kind of sense. With their boats burned, there was no way the village could feed itself. In Tarport there was always a call for crewmen, at worst. And after the attack, she wouldn't mind being inside a bigger settlement herself.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" demanded Roff. "Get along with you, boy. Your friends have gone. Go."
He plainly didn't recognize her. Good. He'd repeatedly tried to lure her into that smelly croft of his. He presumably had something hidden there he wanted to dig up. Village rumor had always made him out to be rich, but mean.
Meb simply turned away and began walking, almost blindly. It was a good nineteen miles to Tarport. She'd never get there before sundown. And she was both hungry and thirsty.
She walked along the rutted track the carters used to fetch the salted fish, wishing that she'd first gone to wherever they'd buried Hallgerd. The fishwife had been as shrewish as could be, and a hard task-master. But she'd taken Meb in, given her a home and food, and in her way, loved her.
The ruts were deep enough to follow even in the growing gloom of twilight. And walking was at least doing something. Behind her was the ruined remains of her home. Her whole life. It seemed that she'd lost what family she had. At least Hallgerd's two sons might be in Tarport. Might be. Roff had not said anything about them. She crossed a stream just before total darkness fell, and was able to slake her thirst. By then she wished that she'd kept the half-dried fish.
At length, walking on, following the ruts in the light of the risen moon, she spotted lamp-light through a chink in a shutter. It was a snug little farmhouse. Meb wondered if she dared to go and beg for shelter. But they'd probably set their dogs on her at this time of night. There was a hay rick, however. That had to be better—and warmer—than out here. Tired, hungry, scared, and very much alone, Meb burrowed into it. It was prickly, ticklish—and out of the night-breeze. At least it wasn't raining. It was coming on for the time of year when the
Even if she wasn't to blame, it didn't stop her feeling vastly sorry for herself. She'd tried to help them! Tried her best. Meb sniffled. She was tired enough to cry herself to sleep in a patch of sun between the low prickly bushes.
She didn't realize just how tired she'd been, obviously, because when she woke again, hungry and thirsty, the sun had already slipped so low that she was in deep shade from the ridge. She got up hastily. Now they'd call her lazy for not helping. She ran hurriedly back to the village.
Only—when she got there, there was no one in it.
She walked between the burned-out shells of houses, calling warily. Had the raiders returned again and she'd slept through the attack?
Then she saw a face peeking around the shell of his cottage. Not a particularly welcome face under normal circumstances, but right now, any familiar face was a relief. "Roff. Where is everyone?" she asked the net-maker.
The net-man looked suspiciously at her. "Who are you, boy, and what do you want?" His hands were black and he had a wooden spade with him.
"I just want to find everyone. Mikka and Hrolf. Where has everyone gone?" she asked humbly.
"Tarport, boy. This place is history. It's finished. Lord Zuamar himself let them wipe us out. Our boats are ash. Our water, he destroyed himself. Some of the women saw him do it. Our homes are burned. Nothing left for us here. Now get away with you, snooping around our sorrow."
Gone! Gone to Tarport, the big harbor some miles up the coast . . . Well, it made a kind of sense. With their boats burned, there was no way the village could feed itself. In Tarport there was always a call for crewmen, at worst. And after the attack, she wouldn't mind being inside a bigger settlement herself.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" demanded Roff. "Get along with you, boy. Your friends have gone. Go."
He plainly didn't recognize her. Good. He'd repeatedly tried to lure her into that smelly croft of his. He presumably had something hidden there he wanted to dig up. Village rumor had always made him out to be rich, but mean.
Meb simply turned away and began walking, almost blindly. It was a good nineteen miles to Tarport. She'd never get there before sundown. And she was both hungry and thirsty.
She walked along the rutted track the carters used to fetch the salted fish, wishing that she'd first gone to wherever they'd buried Hallgerd. The fishwife had been as shrewish as could be, and a hard task-master. But she'd taken Meb in, given her a home and food, and in her way, loved her.
The ruts were deep enough to follow even in the growing gloom of twilight. And walking was at least doing something. Behind her was the ruined remains of her home. Her whole life. It seemed that she'd lost what family she had. At least Hallgerd's two sons might be in Tarport. Might be. Roff had not said anything about them. She crossed a stream just before total darkness fell, and was able to slake her thirst. By then she wished that she'd kept the half-dried fish.
At length, walking on, following the ruts in the light of the risen moon, she spotted lamp-light through a chink in a shutter. It was a snug little farmhouse. Meb wondered if she dared to go and beg for shelter. But they'd probably set their dogs on her at this time of night. There was a hay rick, however. That had to be better—and warmer—than out here. Tired, hungry, scared, and very much alone, Meb burrowed into it. It was prickly, ticklish—and out of the night-breeze. At least it wasn't raining. It was coming on for the time of year when the
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