Kaspar found a crate to sit on, and kept watch. Kenner was quickly asleep and so he was left with his thoughts. He resisted the urge to go to the wagon and lift the tarpaulin. Kaspar refused to believe that any unnatural compulsion had forced him to be here. He was here out of choice.
He cursed all magicians and all things magical as he thought about his recent past. It was too much of a coincidence, but he rejected the idea of fate or that the gods wanted him to be here. He was no one’s pawn. He had enjoyed the company of a magician, but Leso Varen had also been his advisor; and while many of suggestions he made to Kaspar had been repulsive, the benefits had largely outweighed the costs. Varen had been influential, perhaps the most influential advisor in Kaspar’s entire court, but Kaspar had always made the final judgment and given the final order on what would or would not be done.
Dark memories flooded his mind as he considered the arrival of Leso Varen. The magician had appeared one day in open court as a supplicant seeking a place to rest for a while; a simple purveyor of harmless magic. But he had become a fixture in Kaspar’s household very quickly, and at some point, Kaspar’s view of things had changed.
Had his ambitions always come first, Kaspar wondered suddenly, or had the magician’s honeyed words held greater sway?
Kaspar pushed away these unwanted thoughts; he felt deep bitterness toward anything that reminded him of his home and everything he’d lost. He turned his attention instead to what Flynn had said.
Kaspar struggled to keep events in order. Though it was rare for traders from Triagia to venture to Novindus, it was not unheard of. And for such a group to be here, seeking riches heretofore unseen around the Sea of Kingdoms, was perfectly reasonable. That both he and these men would arrive in this small town and discover a common interest was an improbability, but it could still be just a coincidence.
Besides, fate had nothing to do with where the white-haired magician had deposited him; certainly, there had been the high probability that Kaspar would not survive his first few minutes there. How could any agency or power know that he would escape and survive the wilderness? It was not as if someone watched over him; Kaspar had struggled hard for a long time to get to that square where he met Flynn.
He stood up and paced the floor quietly. The entire situation was beginning to fray his nerves. He was loath to consider that something beyond self-interest might influence him. Like many men of his position he had paid service to the gods—making offerings in the temples and attending services on certain holidays—but that had been out of duty, not conviction. Certainly, no Midkemian would deny the existence of the gods: there were far too many stories from reliable sources attesting to the direct intervention of this or that god over the ages. However, Kaspar was almost certain that such omnipotent beings were far too busy to preoccupy themselves with his particular circumstances.
He glanced at the wagon and then quietly approached the thing under the tarpaulin. Lifting the canvas, he looked at the dark helm. It wore a baleful aspect if ever he saw one. Kaspar reached out and touched it, half expecting some sign of life—a vibration or feeling—but his fingers brushed only cold metal, though it was unlike any metal he’d ever known. He studied the figure for a while longer, then replaced the covering.
He returned to the boxes and sat for some time, wrestling with the uneasy feeling he had gained by staring at the lifeless object. Then, he realized what was troubling him. As he regarded the armor, corpse, or whatever it was, he couldn’t dismiss his instinct that it wasn’t dead. It was merely lying there. And it was waiting.
Kaspar had fallen into a long conversation with the jemedar in charge of escorting the caravan weaving just ahead of their wagon. Given the officer’s age, Kaspar assumed that a jemedar was the equivalent to a lieutenant in the Olaskon military. Certainly, the havildar who rode at the young man’s side was as crusty an old sergeant as you’d find in any army.
At the end of their conversation, the jemedar—named Rika—agreed to allow Kaspar and his friends to follow the caravan at a discreet distance, without officially being part of it. He had inspected the coffin, but had not insisted on opening it. Obviously he didn’t consider four men to be a threat to his company of thirty.
So Kaspar sat astride a decent, if not memorable, gelding, who could probably make the long journey to the City of the Serpent River—so long as enough rest, food, and water were found along the way. Kenner rode a dark bay, and McGoin and Flynn drove the wagon: a solid, unremarkable freight hauler designed for mules or oxen rather than horses, but which moved along at a good rate in any event.
Flynn had shown Kaspar the contents of the other chest in the wagon, and Kaspar had been forced to admire their resolution to distribute the spoils among the families of their late companions; the gold and other items in the chest would have made the three extremely wealthy men for life.
Something about this entire enterprise was bothering Kaspar, however. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that everything was mere coincidence, no matter how improbable it was, the more he eventually became convinced something else was wrong.
He had experienced the same odd feeling when spending time with Leso Varen—the same detached sense that he was viewing his own life from a distance. But this time, he was fully aware that it was happening.
Perhaps his three companions were correct and the armor—as he had come to think of it—did have some sort of power over those who came into contact with it. Maybe he would have to go all the way to Stardock to be free of it. But whatever happened, he knew that it was but one leg of a long and arduous journey, but one which might get him closer to his goal than he could have hoped for mere weeks ago.
At midday, he and Kenner switched places with Flynn and McGoin and rode the wagon. With the soldiers still in sight there seemed little need for guards, yet both riders were anxious and kept peering back at the road from time to time.
Finally, Kaspar asked, “Are you afraid of being followed?”
“Always,” said Kenner, without offering further explanation.
Despite the army sentries one hundred meters up the road, the four men took turns standing guard around their own fire. Kaspar drew the third watch: the two hours in the deepest part of the night.
He practiced all the tricks he knew to stay awake. He had been taught these by his father the first year he had traveled with the army of Olasko on a campaign; he had been just eleven years old.
He didn’t look into the fire, knowing it would mesmerize him, capture his eyes, and then render him blind should he need to look into the darkness. Instead, he kept his eyes moving, otherwise imaginary shapes would rise up and cause false panic. Occasionally, he glanced skyward at the waning moon or distant stars, so that he would not fatigue his eyes staring at nothing.
An hour into his watch he noticed a flicker of movement over by the wagon, barely visible in the gloom. He moved quickly to the wagon, and at the very edge of the firelight he saw something again. He kept his eyes on the spot as he said, “Wake up!’
The other three men woke up and Flynn asked, “What?”
“Something’s out there, beyond the firelight.”
Instantly, all three men came out from beneath the wagon and spread out, weapons drawn. “Where?” asked Kenner.
“Over there,” said Kaspar, pointing to where he had seen the figure.
“Kaspar, come with me,” said Flynn. “Keep us in sight, and watch our backs,” he instructed the other two.
The two men moved forward slowly, swords at the ready. When they reached the place Kaspar had pointed to, they found nothing but an empty field. “I could have sworn I’d seen something,” said Kaspar.
“That’s all right,” said Flynn. “We’re used to it. It’s better to be safe than to do nothing.”
“This has happened before?”
Returning to the relative warmth of the fire, Flynn said, “It happens a lot.”
“Did you see who it was?” asked Kenner.
/> “Only a shape.”
McGoin crawled back under the wagon. “That’s good.”
“Why?” asked Kaspar.
“Because it’s not serious,” said McGoin. “When you can see what it is…then it’s serious.”
“What’s serious?” asked Kaspar as the others settled back under the wagon.
Kenner said, “I wish I knew what it is.”
Kaspar said, “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Flynn. “Keep an eye out and wake me in an hour.”
The rest of the night passed uneventfully.
As they reached the village of Nabunda, the patrol escorting the caravan peeled off to report to the local commander. The jemedar waved a good-natured goodbye to Kaspar and his companions as they rode into town.
“We need to find storage for the wagon,” said Flynn, “then get some information on conditions to the south of here.”
It took the better part of the day to find a suitable place for the wagon, as every warehouse was full. Eventually, they settled in a corner of a public stable, and paid three times the normal price.
Nabunda was thronged with people drawn to the conflict. There were soldiers’ wives and camp followers, as well as those who found soldiers eager customers or easy marks—thieves and mountebanks, pickpockets and tailors—all vying for whatever trade came within their reach.
As they gathered at a crowded inn, Kaspar observed, “This border skirmish has all the signs of becoming a full-blown war.”
“How can you tell?” asked Flynn as they pulled out their chairs.
An older but still attractive barmaid approached and took their order for supper. After she had left, McGoin said, “I thought you said you weren’t a mercenary.”
“I wasn’t, but I was a soldier,” said Kaspar. “I spent most of my life in the Olaskon army, if truth be told.”
“Why’d you leave?” asked Kenner.
Without wishing to provide too many details, Kaspar explained, “I was on the losing side of the last war.” Looking around, he said, “But I’ve seen enough stand-up fights to recognize groundwork when I see it; and all of those who customarily use wars to feather their own nests.” He pointed to a corner table where a card game was well underway. “I don’t know the game, but I’ll wager that fellow with his back to the corner is the one who initiated it, and I’ll also wager that he’s using his own deck.”
Kaspar then pointed to another small group of men in common garb who gathered in the opposite corner. “Just as I’ll wager those gentlemen are merchants, not unlike yourselves. A tailor whose clientele—like our young Jemedar Rika—wish their uniforms to fit just so, or a boot-maker whose specialty is riding boots, fine enough to catch a general’s eye. Perhaps there’s a tinker in their midst, for many wives will be cooking for their man on the eve of battle, and their pots will need mending.” He looked back at his friends. “Yes, this has all the makings of a full-scale war, my friends.”
Flynn looked troubled. “Getting south may prove difficult.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Kaspar. “War is chaos, and from chaos springs opportunity.”
The food arrived and conversation fell to a minimum.
There were no rooms to be had in the town, so the four companions returned to the stable. The stable lad was fast asleep in the loft, and their arrival didn’t wake him.
“Some watchman,” observed Kenner as the first three to sleep got under the wagon.
Kaspar fell asleep swiftly, but was troubled by a restless sense of danger even though no images came to him. Then he felt a presence close to him and opened his eyes.
The armor was standing over him. Through the dark helm two evil, red eyes glared balefully down. Kaspar lay motionless for an instant, and then with a sudden, catlike quickness, the armored figure drew his black sword and raised it to strike at Kaspar.
Kaspar sat up, striking his head on the wagon with almost enough force to knock himself unconscious. His vision swam and darkened for a moment as he shouted and fumbled for his sword.
Hands grabbed him and Flynn cried, “What is it?”
Kenner said, “It’s only a dream, man.”
Kaspar blinked the tears out of his eyes and saw Flynn, who had taken the first watch, kneeling above him. Kenner was still lying by his side.
Kaspar crawled out from underneath the wagon and looked around. Then he looked at the tarpaulin and pulled it back. “I could have sworn—” he muttered, putting his hand on the coffin.
Flynn said, “We know.”
McGoin said, “We’ve all had that dream; it’s as if that thing comes to life.”
“All of you?”
“At one time or another,” said Kenner. “You just can’t be around it long before it starts to haunt you.”
“Get back to sleep if you can,” said Flynn.
“No,” said Kaspar, rubbing his sore head. “I’ll take the rest of your watch and my own. I’ll wake McGoin at two hours past midnight.”
Flynn didn’t argue and left Kaspar to stand a long watch. Kaspar wrestled with the dream, for it had been vivid and intense. He was troubled by the sensation he’d received when he touched the box. For the briefest instant it had vibrated under his fingers, just like the black sword.
Even after he awoke McGoin, Kaspar couldn’t sleep.
EIGHT
COMMANDER
The guard signaled them to stop.
Flynn urged the horses to the side of the road while the rider approached. He was a subedar, which would roughly have made him a senior corporal or very junior sergeant in the Olaskon army. His patrol had dismounted and was dug in around a narrow cut through a low hillock, taking cover behind rocks, brush, and a few felled trees.
He rode up to them and said, “The road ahead is closed. We’ve come up against a squad of Sasbataba regulars who’ve occupied a village.”
“You going to take them out?” asked Kaspar.
“My orders are to make contact, pull back, send word, and wait for reinforcements.”
“A cautious approach,” said Kaspar, looking over the ragged patrol under the subedar’s command. “Given how tired your men look, probably a good one.”
“We’ve been on the line for a month,” said the subedar, obviously not in the mood for further conversation. “If you want to head south, you’ll have to find another way around.”
Kaspar rode over to Flynn and relayed this to him, adding, “There was a road leading to the southeast out of that last village we went through.”
“I can’t think of a better alternative,” said Flynn, and he started to head the wagon around.
They had only been on the road north for a few minutes when a large contingent of cavalry came past at a steady walk. Flynn pulled the wagon off to the verge of the road and waited until they had passed before continuing their journey.
The village—Higara—they had driven through only two hours earlier now looked like a military camp. Guards ran to take their positions along the road, ignoring the wagon as it rolled into the little village, but Kaspar knew that wouldn’t continue very long. A commissary wagon was being unloaded and it was clear that the village inn was being converted into an operational headquarters.
“Looks like the Raj is getting serious about whatever that subedar and his patrol has found back there,” Kaspar observed.
Flynn and the others nodded agreement. Kenner said, “I don’t know much about armies, but this one looks big.”
Kaspar pointed north. “From the size of that dust cloud I’d say it is very big. I’m guessing there’s at least a full regiment heading this way.”
They tried to hurry along invisibly, but as they turned down the southeast road, a squad of soldiers barred their way. “Where do you think you’re going?” asked a tough-looking subedar.
Kaspar rode over to where the man stood, dismounted and said, “We’re just trying to find our way to the City of the Serpent River, and avoid that offensive
you’re staging.”
“Staging an offensive, are we?” asked the soldier. “And what makes you say that?”
Kaspar looked around and laughed. “I think the large regiment of infantry coming down the road, following the three cavalry companies I saw ride through here earlier offered a pretty convincing clue.”
“What’s in the wagon?”
“A coffin,” Kaspar replied. “We’re outlanders, from across the Green Sea, and we’re trying to get to a ship so we can bury our comrade at home.”
The sergeant, as Kaspar thought of him, walked to the back of the wagon and pulled off the box’s cover. “You must have been very fond of the fellow to haul him halfway around the world to plant him. Plenty of fine soil around here.” Inspecting the coffin, he said, “There will be plenty of bodies in a day or so.” He climbed up on the wagon and saw the chest, snug against the seat where Kenner and Flynn sat. “What’s that?”
Kaspar said, “We’re merchants, and that’s our profit for this journey.”
The subedar said, “Unlock it.”
Flynn threw Kaspar a desperate look, but Kaspar said, “We have nothing to hide.”
Flynn gave Kaspar the key and he opened the chest. The subedar said, “This is a fortune. How do I know you came by it through honest means?”
“You have no reason to think otherwise,” Kaspar countered. “If we were brigands we would hardly try to transport this through a battle zone. We’d more likely be traveling north, drinking and whoring!’”
“There may be something in your story, but it’s no longer my problem. This is a matter for my commander to look into.”
He ordered everyone to dismount and motioned for two of the guards to take the wagon to a stable. When all four men were on foot, he said, “Follow me.”
He led them to an inn where a command center was being set up, and told the four men to stand in the corner, quietly. They did as he requested. Kaspar observed the subedar as he spoke to a junior officer and then to a senior official.
The higher-ranking soldier stood in a dusty but finely-cut tunic which was decorated with gold piping around the collar and cuffs. On his head he wore a white turban; a flourish of horse hair, dyed a bright crimson, protruded grandly from a silver pin in its center. He had a neatly-trimmed beard, not unlike the style that Kaspar had favored for many years. He waved for the four men to approach him.
Exile's Return: Conclave of Shadows: Book Three Page 9