Prologue

Djoh cupped his hands over the butt of the rake handle and rested his chin on them. The raking had fired up all the old familiar pains. Now they were radiating out from his bad knee, up and down his right leg.

The pile of manure was taller than a horse and as wide as four of the stalls. At the moment the dung heap seemed to be the most he’d accomplished in years. Djoh grimaced. What have I done with my life?

The job of chief handyman on his rich father-in-law’s farm didn’t strike him as anything to be proud of. Certainly his wife, Marthuh, would have agreed. Granted, his game leg made him nearly useless for most farm work. Granted, his skill as an archer, a rider, a storyteller didn’t count for much in Oskah’s Book of Life. (But then, Oskah had never had much affection for his son-in-law from the first.)

Djoh hadn’t even been a very good carpenter, except on finish work. By the Sacred Caterpillar, how much call was there for fine joining and shaping in a town like Blue Springs?

So after his parents died in the fire that destroyed their house, he’d had to hire assistants for the heavy work, more than the shop could support. By the time he gave up the shop to dower his sister Nee, he was far in debt. He’d practically had to indenture himself to his father-in-law, just to get the man to take him, Marthuh, and his baby sister Lilia in!

It didn’t help, either, that many of the townsmen didn’t care about the warning his mindspeak had given about the river pirates, twelve years ago. To them, that mindspeak still meant he was the Witchboy who could read their innermost thoughts and sins. . . .

Some of them even thought he could use his mindspeak to force them to do things he wanted. Ha! If that were true, what was he doing raking horse manure in his father-in-law’s barn? The mindspeak was a gift, and with it came certain responsibilities. One of these was to keep his mind out of other people’s business. His mother, Behtee, had passed on that message from his mysterious real father, Bard Willee. The prairiecat Iron Claw had reinforced it.

But try to explain that to a bunch of farmers and townies!

The squeak of hinges brought Djoh out of his reverie. For a moment he thought the massive woman coming through the door was his mother-in-law.

No such luck. It was Marthuh, bloated and misshapen by the useless years and her sour life with him. There wasn’t much left of the graceful, winsome girl he’d married twelve years ago.

“Wastin’ Pa’s time again? It’s bad enough we have to take his charity and board. If you were any kind of a man, we’d have our own house. Why couldn’t I see past your pretty face? Look what it’s gotten me!”

Djoh had heard much worse than this from Marthuh. He made a polite grunt. “Whatcha want?”

“Some of your drinkin’ pals from the militia are out here to talk to you. Old Scratch only knows why. You

ain’t much of a hero anymore, just a half-breed cripple!”

Djoh no longer took offense at Marthuh’s words. They were just there, like the manure he had to rake. Certainly they’d had bad luck in the matter of children—one daughter, stillborn, and she’d been barren afterward. A curse of his Witchblood, according to Oskah. They hadn’t been man and wife much after that, and not at all for several years. It might have been even harder here for Marthuh than for him, under Oskah’s reproachful eye. He’d never been the beautiful daughter who could have had any man she wanted!

“Where are they at?”

“Pa told ’em to park their carcasses on the front porch and wait for the no-count there.”

Djoh slowly and deliberately placed the rake back on the rack. He squelched the urge to use the handle on his wife’s ample buttocks.

“Last time you went off to a militia muster, you came back stinkin’ dog drunk,” she went on. “You do that again and I’ll break one of Ma’s rollin’ pins over your head!”

“Marthuh, enough is enough! I don’t ask you where you spend your nights when you go to town to ‘visit your sister Aldora.’ So don’t ask me things I don’t ask of you.”

Djoh was surprised to see his wife blush, a sight he hadn’t seen in years. Her weekend visits to town had started about a fortnight ago. He knew from her high color and good spirits when she came back that something was going on.

He also didn’t give a damn anymore. Anything or anybody that got her out of the house and off his back was a blessing. Just as long as she didn’t rub it in his face. Their marriage was as dead as their daughter, and if there was any other way but death to end it she’d have put him out like an unwanted kitten years ago. Can’t blame a mare for itching a mite.

“What do you know about that?” she snapped. “Did Aldora say something?”

“No,” he said, trying to control his temper. “But I’m no kind of fool. A man can see when his mare’s in heat.”

“You son of a bitch! If you weren’t crippled in more’n your leg, you might do something about it!” Before he realized what he was doing, Djoh’s hand snaked out. It stopped a hair short of Marthuh’s face.

“Why don’t you hit me, lizard guts? ’Fraid my pa might finally throw your ass off this farm? Then where’d you go, Witchboy? You stole my heart and then you killed my baby—”

“Shut the fuck up and get out of my sight, woman! Or I’ll skin you like a rabbit!”

Something must have shown in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He’d never seen her move so fast. In an eyeblink, she was out of the barn and halfway across the farmyard, bawling for her mother.

Djoh shook his head, dusted off his pants, then made his way toward the porch. It was hard to believe now that once he’d loved Marthuh more than himself. Now, some days it was all he could do to keep from squeezing that fat neck until her mouth closed for good.

The worst of it was that he was beginning to share her low opinion of himself. The boy who’d saved Iron Claw from starvation and then the town from river pirates was a distant memory. There’d been too many years of shoveling manure for Oskah since then.

Maybe being a hero was the easy part. It was how you lived day by day that really separated the men from the boys. If that was true, then he was some kind of failure.

Waiting by the porch were Kahrl, the captain of the militia and one of the few townies Djoh dared call friend. With him were Djeffree, the town bully, and Rik, who’d actually spent a year as a mercenary serving one of the Ehleenohee lords up north near the Great Seas.

“I’d offer you something to drink, but—”

Kahrl raised his eyebrows, to show he understood the situation here. Djeffree snickered.

Not for the first time, Djoh wished that Djeffree could have married Marthuh. Then Oskah would have got the son-in-law he deserved!

Actually, Djeffree had never married, not because he was holding on to any big passion for Marthuh but because he roughed up those girls who encouraged

him at all. Someday maybe he’d be able to persuade some fool woman that he wasn’t really such a pig’s ass after all. . . .

Djoh’s mother-in-law mercifully interrupted his thoughts with a big pitcher of cider and glasses for everyone. She was taking a chance, with glass as scarce as it was, but Djoh appreciated the gesture. Let the Sacred Caterpillar save her from Oskah’s temper if one of them broke a glass! Myrah was the only one in the family who’d ever showed him any kindness; it was mostly her doing that he hadn’t gone completely crazy years ago.

After they all had washed the dust out of their throats, Kahrl began. “Djoh, we wanted to talk to you about some trouble down south.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Big band of nomads from the Great Plains. Horseclans people, I think they’re called.”