Heirs of Vanity- The Complete First Trilogy Box Set

by R J Hanson

  Roland’s flint and steel were in his pack which was back at Prince Ralston’s camp. Roland checked Ungar’s belt and pockets but had no luck there either. He was feeling sleepy. What were the odds that the arrow head stuck in his shoulder would be made of flint?

  Roland drew a dagger from his belt that had traveled many leagues with him. A flame blade.

  Roland piled the grass with chips of dried manure around and atop it. Then he pulled some cotton batting from his undercoat, also called a gambeson, that was showing from a recent cut on his lower right side. Roland crawled to the gully, which had rapidly transformed into a rush river. Kneeling there, he wet the cotton with water lightly. He mopped blood from his left eye and then ran the ball of cotton along the blade. As he had hoped, the blade flamed to life igniting the cotton. Roland quickly shoved the burning cotton into the nest of dead grass and a small, but serviceable, fire began to take hold.

  Next, he filled Ungar’s helmet with water and nestled it into the edge of the fire. He had nothing to boil with the water but thought it best to have it ready.

  Roland, on his hands and knees, made his way back to the stream. It was already lower than it had been. Then he laid down to drink from it. He felt weak, so weak. He took a good, long drink, and rolled over to rest. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this thirsty. After several moments, he took another long drink. He attempted to rise but surrendered quickly. Still on hands and knees, he crawled back to Ungar’s side near the fire.

  He assumed the sun was setting because the gray mist that surrounded them began to darken. He also felt the temperature begin to drop. Frost would be on their armor and weapons come morning. Roland eased himself to the ground, a hard, cold surface. He lay flat on his back letting his muscles relax one by one and his joints ease into place. Roland’s final thought was that he should take off his undercoat to let it dry; then let sleep come for him.

  Fate looked over her tome and down on the scene from her ethereal study. She watched as the fire spread while Roland and Ungar slumbered. It seemed such a shame that he had come so far to die like this. However, disappointment at a destiny unfulfilled was part of her task. For how can an act of heroism truly be appreciated without the death of so many would-be heroes? She watched with eyes full of sadness as Roland and Ungar slept. She watched the blood flow freely from the wound in Roland’s back caused by the ogre’s thrown spear. She watched as the fire spread.

  Then she saw a figure, Brother Othlynn, marching with three prisoners. He wasn’t far from them, but he would miss them. She watched in amazement then as the wind pushed the fire away from Roland and Ungar and toward the small stream nearby. She saw Othlynn catch the faint smell of smoke in the thick air of the night. She watched as Othlynn then noticed the dim glow of Roland’s fire in the distance. Chance had ever been part of the great equation of the universe, but this boy’s luck astonished even her!

  She ran her delicate fingers over the pages of the Book of Fate as the story of Roland spread out before her. She could only shake her head. Now she saw how Roland’s sacrifice would come. Now she saw his end.

  Roland awoke to the smell of roasting pork and the sound of Ungar laughing. As he rolled to his side, he discovered soreness throughout his body. He felt as if his muscles had rusted and ground glass had been poured into his joints. His sharp intake of breath, a reaction to the sudden pain he felt everywhere, called attention to him.

  “Glad to see you’ve come around, Tall Walker,” Ungar said as he sat atop one of Daeriv’s soldiers.

  The soldier, dressed in dark leathers, had been stripped of his other gear. He lay bound hands to feet on his side with Ungar sitting on his hip. Two others were sitting across the fire, a much bigger fire now, tied back to back. Half a hog had been skewered and was roasting over the flames. He also noticed a large patch of burnt grass that spread around the fire and ran off to the south, toward the ever-shrinking river.

  Roland noticed the burned area around them appeared to originate from the spot where he had placed Ungar’s helmet to boil water. What a fool he had been to sleep while leaving it there. He could have killed himself and Ungar with such stupidity! It was clear to him now that the water had likely boiled away leaving only the steel of the helmet to heat. That would have caught the grass around it on fire quickly.

  “Sit up and drink,” Ungar said, apparently not angry at all at Roland’s foolishness. “This flower eater has some might good tea! Can’t touch the ale o’ my kin, of course. But good, just the same.”

  “It’s a brew of potent herbs,” Othlynn said as he walked out of the night and into the firelight. “I think your friend is enjoying the pain-relieving properties as we speak.”

  “I’m glad you found us,” Roland said, although his voice cracked at almost every word. His throat was raw and parched. “I do believe I would like a drink.”

  Roland noticed that his wounds had been dressed with fresh bandages wrapping his left eye, right shoulder, and another around his lower abdomen. Probably a precaution in case of possible broken ribs.

  Othlynn moved around the fire and poured a brown water with bits of leaves and plant stalks in it into a small wooden bowl. Roland noticed that the bowl was of a dark wood, maybe sectot, and had carvings of an owl, a horn, a tree, and a stag’s rack in a series around the brim of the bowl. Othlynn handed the bowl to Roland and Roland drank the contents in a single quaff.

  The experience was unique. Roland’s mouth immediately rejected the taste, not to mention the strong smell, of the concoction. However, as the liquid rolled on past his tongue, the pain in his throat was instantly soothed. He could feel the effects of the powerful drink spread on a warm tide throughout his body.

  Othlynn moved to him quickly, but it seemed that Othlynn was flying as his feet swung up in the air and to the side. Roland only realized that it was he that was flying, or falling, not Othlynn when Othlynn reached out and caught the side of his head. Othlynn eased him to the ground and Roland was snoring before Othlynn could remove his hand.

  Chapter X

  Decisions

  Roland awoke to the sound of a wagon creaking and the chatter of soldiers nearby. There was a tarp hung low over him, and he could hear the patter of rain drops as it began to sprinkle. His first thoughts were of food and drink. He did have enough presence of mind to check for shackles on his wrists and to see if his weapons were nearby. His hand fell to the hilt of Swift Blood at his side and that reassured him.

  Roland pulled the tarp from its pegs above him and squinted at the relatively bright, yet uniformly gray, sky overhead. As he surveyed his surroundings, he heard a familiar voice from beside the wagon.

  “Brother Othlynn said you’d likely be thirsty when you came around,” Eldryn said from his saddle atop Lance Chaser.

  Eldryn untied a large water skin from the horn of his saddle and tossed it to Roland. Roland caught it in shaky hands, fumbled at the cork for a moment, and then drank deeply from it. The water was cold and clean. Although, if it had been hot water caught in the hoof print of a mule on a summer day, Roland would have drunk it and still been glad to have it.

  “I’ll ride ahead and get you something to eat,” Eldryn said. “The camp is on the move, but we’ll be stopping in a few hours. I would imagine you’ll want to talk to Sir Brutis then. I know he wants to talk to you.”

  Eldryn gigged out the side of his mouth subtly and Lance Chaser trotted off. Roland rested a moment and then drained the rest of the water skin. He lay back and closed his eyes against the gray sky.

  “No, you don’t,” Roland heard Eldryn saying somewhere far off.

  Then, he felt his shoulder being poked by something. Roland opened his eyes to Eldryn jabbing him with the end of a stick. A stick that ran through the middle of two roasted rabbits.

  “You’ve slept enough for now,” Eldryn said with an unusual edge in his voice. “Eat. You need it. When you’re done, you’ll have more water. Then you can sleep.”

  Roland n
odded and began nibbling on the roasted rabbits. Neither of them was quite cooked enough but that didn’t slow Roland. As his stomach became aware of what was going on it demanded more. In a few minutes time Roland had cleaned each bone of both rabbits of all meat, sinew, and cartilage there was to be had.

  Eldryn dropped another water skin at his side but, before Roland could thank him, Eldryn was riding off from the wagon. Roland drained this skin too as if some starving creature within him demanded it. Once empty, Roland slung the skin on the edge of the wagon alongside the first. Then he pulled the tarp back up to the pegs and let sleep have him.

  When Roland awoke again it was full dark. He sat up to find that he was in his tent with a small fire burning at its center. On a tray nearby was a large piece of bread, a cup full of butter, and a quart flagon of milk. Roland, as was his custom, made short work of the meal and relished every bite of it.

  As he made it to his feet dizziness set in. He caught the back of an armor rack to steady himself. Once his head cleared, he began to dress himself. Part way through the process he became tired and felt weak. He decided it would be better to wash first, anyway. He wet a cloth in a basin nearby and washed. Then he scooped water into his hands and dowsed his head and beard thoroughly.

  Once he was clean, beard trimmed, hair combed, and another water skin drained of its contents, Roland began to dress, although he did so slowly. It was only then that he noticed the small scar on his right side just below his ribs. He didn’t recall that one, but it did appear to be an older one.

  Roland couldn’t find his own gambeson but did find another lying next to his armor. This one would be short on him but better than nothing at all. He only put on his breastplate, leaving the rest of his arm here. He strapped Swift Blood at his waist and for the first time noticed that his shoulder wasn’t hurting. It wasn’t even stiff. He worked the arm a bit to test the joint, but it seemed as good as always. Then he decided to consult a mirror in regard to his left eye. There was a scar through the brow, but it too appeared to be an older one.

  Roland exited the tent to find Ungar sitting at a larger fire just outside with some sort of stew coming to boil in a pot. It was full night now. He must have slept for hours. He wondered how long it had been since the fight at the gully. He did notice snow on the ground and that winter was now displaying her full glory.

  “Glad to have you back in the land o’ the living,” Ungar said moving the pot back from the fire. “Come on then. They’ll be wantin’ a word with ya’.”

  “Who?” Roland asked. His throat was still dry, although much better than it had been.

  “Take this,” Ungar said pushing a dark gray clay cup to him. “That flower eater said you’d be wanting it.”

  Roland accepted the drink and it was possibly the most terrible thing he had ever tasted. It was even worse than the time Eldryn bet him he couldn’t drink coal oil when they were children. However, the effects were agreeable. He felt refreshed. He could feel vitality returning to his limbs and a warmth spreading over his body.

  “Tastes awful,” Ungar said running his tongue out of his mouth. “But, does the job. Gotta give the mud drinker that much.”

  “Where is everyone?” Roland finally managed to work in.

  “Come on,” Ungar said impatiently. “That’s where I’m takin’ ya’.”

  Ungar hopped up from the rock that had been his stool and started into the dark toward a cluster of tents several yards away. Roland followed, wishing he had brought his helm or had grabbed a torch at least. He followed Ungar’s path and they made their way between tents to another campfire, this one much larger.

  Within sat Prince Ralston, his long black hair bound together with a leather tie and hanging over the shining white alloy armor that had once protected Lord Mandergane. Light from the lanterns played in the dark blue of his eyes. He wore Leader’s Justice on his side, for he was only six inches shorter than Roland and the shrou-sheld looked on him as a broad sword did on most men. For the first time Roland noticed the steel red rose that clasped the breastplate together. It became clear to him then that the colors of his house, the bloodline that had once ruled Lawrec, were chosen to honor Lord Mandergane. For Roland’s family crest, one he had until recently been unaware, was that of a white rose with a red ruby center.

  General Maditt, also of the Great Man race, sat next to his Prince and Lord. The General’s hair had been as black as Ralston’s, but that was many years ago. Now it was more snowy white than midnight black; even more evident because he kept his hair cut very short as the Silver Helms did. His green eyes were wreathed with lines that time and a hard life had chiseled there. His size did not compare to that of Sir Brutis or Prince Ralston as he was closer to Eldryn’s height. Unlike most generals, he favored lighter leather armor with only a few bands of steel sewn within.

  Sir Brutis, who was sitting next to the general, wore his full plate armor with the crest of Lethanor shined to a high polish in the center of his breast plate. Next to him sat Sir Sanderland, never without his flashy armor and weapons. Then Sir Fynyll, his doughy skin protruding around his bracers, looked out of place without his hawk on his arm.

  Lady Angelese sat next to Sir Fynyll; her sword laying comfortable across her knees. Her pale skin seemed to glow like ivory in moon light even in the illumination provided by the lanterns. Her black hair and light grey eyes perfectly accentuated her deep red lips. She was also adorned in the trappings of a paladin; wearing many symbols of Fate inlayed in her brilliant steel armor and weapons. Although her armor was much like Sanderland’s, hers seemed to be somehow display a reverence for the deity she worshiped rather than the opulence that oozed from Sanderland. There was that familiar tickle in Roland’s mind again. Something that he should see but couldn’t put his finger on.

  Next to her, of course, sat Sir Eldryn with Tindrakin at his side. The mage, Isaak, stood a bit back from them looking much more rested than the last time Roland had seen him.

  “I’m glad to see that you are up,” Prince Ralston said as he stood. “We were concerned for your health for a time.”

  “I am feeling much better,” Roland said.

  The Prince gestured to a log that had been propped on stumps nearby to serve as a bench. Roland and Ungar sat and Tindrakin carried over a cup of coffee for each of them. Roland took a moment to enjoy the smell. How long had it been since he’d had a cup?

  Ungar pulled out a pouch of smoking leaf and stuffed a pipe he produced from within his shirt. He offered the pouch to Roland who gladly accepted. Roland took a pinch of the leaf and pressed it between his gum and cheek.

  “How did you know the rush of water would come when it did?” Sir Brutis said, getting directly to the point. “We have an account of what took place but don’t know why you took to the gully.”

  “Was it some sort of sensing magic?” Isaak asked with curiosity burning in his eyes. “Some item you carry, perhaps?”

  “Nothing that grand,” Roland said. “Some time back Eldryn, Petie, and I were nearly killed by such a flash flood east of Modins. The conditions were the same. The ground was hard, with rock just below the surface and the top soil was well saturated already. I heard the thunder in the mountains which meant it was likely raining heavily there. I figured it would only be a matter of time before the water made its way to the gully. So, I listened for that hint of roar, an unmistakable roar, in the distance.”

  “Clever,” General Maditt said after taking a sip from his own cup of coffee.

  “Missing those cues nearly got us killed the first time,” Roland said. “It made for a lesson that I remembered well…”

  “Foolhardy,” Sir Sanderland interjected, cutting Roland off. Roland did not miss Fynyll’s smile at that. “You might have lost any chance of catching or interrogating any of Daeriv’s men. What if they had all followed you into that gully?”

  “The others were on foot and far behind us,” Roland said as he leveled his gaze on Sanderland. “It was a risk, yes.
But a calculated one.”

  “You still failed to capture any of them from what I’m told,” Sanderland said. “You killed a few, sure. But you didn’t get them to the ambush the General put together, and you didn’t capture any of them. It would seem that we could have saved all the trouble and just sent Brother Othlynn. Perhaps these matters should be left to those of the churches from now on.”

  “That is for me, and me alone, to decide,” Prince Ralston said pointedly. “You are all here to counsel and serve as I deem necessary.”

  “Of course, your Grace,” Sanderland said with a slight nod of the head. “The Church of Silvor is always happy to help the royal family… as we deem appropriate.”

  “With your permission your Grace,” Sir Brutis said, not wanting to get into this old argument. He waited and the Prince nodded. “We’re not here to lick each other’s ears. Let’s get back to the facts. My questioning of the prisoners from these different bands leads me to believe they were intent on raiding as they could on their way to the coast, hoping to find a ship there that might take them, and their loot, to Dead Horse or Wodock. From what they say, Daeriv’s armies are in disarray. The little bit of discipline they did possess is breaking down. Their winter stores are depleted.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” Roland whispered to Ungar at his side.

  “Oh, a bit over three weeks by my count,” Ungar said. “You’d wake, drink a bit, and talk nonsense for a while, and then sleep sa’ more.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “Aye,” Ungar said with a nod. “We’ve taken two more wandering clusters of those raiders.” Then Ungar raised his voice a bit, just enough for the others to overhear. “That Sanderland’s got a bit o’ tree stuck up where he sits down and runs his mouth like one dropped on his head when a babe, but he’s not bad in a fight.”

  Lady Angelese could not suppress her smile at that, and barely withheld a giggle. For Sanderland’s sake she did manage to cover her mouth, but a noticeable blush did rise to her ivory cheeks. The red that rose on Sanderland’s face was far more than a blush. His face burned hot with anger. Sanderland opened his mouth but was cut short by the Prince.