The hills grew more rugged, cut by eroded gullies. Now and again, they stopped at a village, where a few coins bought a hot meal and fodder for their animals. The caravan shrank in size as wagons left the main party when the roads branched, until the party consisted only of Cyrillon’s own men and his two wagons. Gareth was the only stranger among them.
Two days away from Carthon, while winding through a narrow stream-etched gorge, an axle on one of the wagons broke. It took the better part of the afternoon to replace it with the spare. As the lowering sun cast the gorge into deep purple shadows, one of the horses pulling the other wagon began limping; a stone had lodged deep in the frog of its hoof. Gareth supposed they would go on without the horse and use one of the riding horses to pull the wagon, but Cyrillon said that there were wolves in these hills, and the poor beast would not be able to defend itself or run away. Rakhal spent a long time cradling the poor animal’s foot on his thigh, and then walking the horse up and down, before advancing the opinion that if they bound the hoof with a poultice and rested the horse for a day, it would be fit to travel again.
“That is what we will do,” said Cyrillon. “We cannot go much farther today.”
They retraced their steps to the mouth of the gorge, where they had passed a little grassy dell. Gareth helped to unhitch and tend the animals. With his usual efficiency, Korllen set up camp, put on another pot of foul-smelling brew, a new and different one this time, and soon had the evening meal prepared.
After they had eaten, Cyrillon went off to make a circuit of the camp. He emerged from the shadows a short time later, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” Rakhal asked.
“I cannot see or hear anything out of the ordinary, nor are the horses restless, yet something in me is not easy. We will set two guards tonight. Garrin, you take the first turn. Korllen will also watch, and then I will stand with Tomas.”
“What about me?” Rakhal asked. “Am I to stay in the wagon with Alric, as if I were a child?”
Cyrillon’s frown deepened. “We have had this discussion before, and I have not changed my mind.”
Their gazes locked. Even without his starstone, Gareth sensed Rakhal’s challenge and Cyrillon’s determination. Finally, Rakhal muttered, “I hear and obey.”
Gareth watched Rakhal head off to the horses, feeling as if he had inadvertently been party to a private battle of long standing. Withdrawing, he made his way to the latrine pits. On his way back, he lingered for a moment at the picket lines with the brown mare. She did not lift her head at his touch, but continued ripping up mouthfuls of grass.
Rakhal, silvered in the light of two moons, was combing burrs out of the tail of one of the wagon horses, quite unaware of his presence. Gareth searched his thoughts for something that might ease the lad’s distress, but what was there to say?
“Those who love us want us safe, or as close to it as is possible in this life”?
Yet here he was, leagues from Thendara’s walls, without the armed escort proper to an Elhalyn. He was the last person to offer platitudes to anyone else. When he looked again, Rakhal had melted back into the night.
When Gareth returned to the campfire to take up his watch, the cook was waiting for him. Cyrillon and the others were already asleep.
“I will teach you how we do this in the manner of the Dry Towns,” Korllen said. “One of us must go out among the horses, on the perimeter, and the other stay here in camp. I will call to you like this—” he whistled through his teeth, “—and you must answer me, so that I know you have not fallen asleep.”
Gareth tried several times to imitate the whistle, with little success. “Bah!” Korllen cried, “you sound like an asthmatic goat!”
“How about this?” Gareth cupped his hands over his lips and gave a two-toned huu-huu!
“That is well enough,” Korllen admitted, stroking his beard, “although only a deaf oudrakhi would mistake that for a real rainbird. I suppose it is as good as any Lowlander can do. Now off with you, nice and slow around the outside.”
Beyond the little circle of firelight, the world muted into a series of shadows. Gareth moved slowly as his eyes adapted to the multihued radiance from three of the four moons. The air, although rapidly cooling, was mild, and the only sounds were the soft grinding of the horses chewing grass, the occasional jingle of a halter ring, or the clink of a shod hoof against a stone. There was no sign of the wolves Cyrillon had mentioned.
“Thweet!” came Korllen’s whistle from the camp.
“Huu-huu!” Gareth answered. The brown mare raised her head, ears pricked. He patted her neck. “Yes, I think it’s a bit silly, too.” She blew gently through her nostrils and went back to lipping the stubble.
Gareth completed his circuit and made himself comfortable, stretching out beside the fire. After a suitable time, he gave his rainbird imitation, to be answered by a distant whistle. The temperature was falling now, although he did not think it would rain. The banked embers gave off a seductive warmth. His muscles ached, thick and heavy, so heavy. . . .
With a start, he realized that in those few minutes, his eyes had closed. Had he actually fallen asleep? How long had it been? With a racing heart, he sat up.
“Huu-huu!” Gareth’s hoot sounded louder and even less realistic than usual.
“Thweet!” came the reassuring whistle.
It would be better not to lie down again. After another interval, Gareth repeated his rainbird hoot.
Silence.
He blinked, wondering if he could have fallen asleep again and not noticed.
“Huu-huu!”
Although Gareth strained to catch the answering whistle, he heard nothing. Was Korllen playing a trick on him, teasing him for his lapse, poking fun at the newcomer? What should he do? Cyrillon and the others slept in the wagons and doubtless would not appreciate being awakened without cause.
An idea brightened Gareth’s mind. He would sneak up on Korllen and turn the prank around. Moving as silently as he could, Gareth slipped from the camp. The orange glow of the fire receded behind him. He followed the same route as before, circling the horses. It was darker now, Idriel having set behind the ridge of the gorge. One of the horses blew out a gusty breath and stamped a hoof. Another shifted, restless. In his mind, Gareth saw their heads come up, nostrils flared wide, searching . . .
He halted. Adrenaline stung his nerves, enough to leave him uncertain. He realized then that he had left his sword back in the camp. Slowly he raised his hands to his mouth.
“Hoo-hoo!” Wavering, almost tentative, this time his cry really did sound like a rainbird.
Silence answered him. At that instant, a certainty swept through his mind. Beyond the single red oak, a handful of men crouched. With a rush of laran, even insulated by the amulet, he could smell the iron in their hands . . .
He dared not cry out to Korllen. If he made even the slightest sound, the intruders would be warned. They were hoping to use surprise as their advantage, so they would hold off their attack until they were closer.
Gareth took a step backward and then another. His boot came down on a stone and it shifted under his weight. To his ears, the clink sounded unnaturally loud, an alarm as shrill as any trumpet. Beside him, one of the horses shook its head, halter rings jingling. Gareth let out his breath.
Another step, and then a long stretch between the grazing horses, and then Gareth raced across the short distance to the camp. He scooped up his sword and, one-handed, jerked aside the heavy canvas drape of the nearest wagon.
“Cyrillon!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “Wake up!”
“What is it, lad?” In the darkness, clothing rustled.
“Men to the south—Korllen’s out there, but he didn’t answer—”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so—”
“Hai-yah! Hai! Hai! Hai!
” A series of cries, rising into blood-curling ululations, shattered the night.
An instant later, the camp seethed with struggling men. Bandits, a half-dozen at least, boiled out from the darkness. They seemed to come from every direction at once.
Cyrillon jumped down from the wagon, yelling. Steel clashed against steel.
Sword drawn, Gareth strained to make out an opponent in the near dark. Someone kicked the fire, sending up a cascade of sparks. The little space was briefly lit, but it was enough for Gareth to make out a lean, tall man in an ink-dark shirtcloak, wielding a curved sword. He swept toward Cyrillon, who was laying about with his own weapon. Gareth moved to help the caravan master, but he was too far away. The next moment, another bandit came charging out of the roiling shadows.
Years of training with the best armsmasters of the Comyn now flowed through Gareth’s muscles. His body reacted faster than thought. He parried, using the other man’s momentum to close the distance and batter away at his defenses. As they disengaged, circling, Gareth caught sight of a slender figure leaping from the wagon.
Rakhal!
The dying ember light reflected off a blade, a long knife or short sword, Gareth couldn’t be sure. He had not a moment to spare as his own opponent came hard at him. He deflected the blow, but not before he had seen how the man’s right shoulder hunched, leaving the opposite flank open as he spun away.
Across the camp, a shriek cut through the clamor of shouting and the ring of steel. It might have been Tomas, but Gareth could not tell. He dared not break his concentration to look.
The brightness of the fire faded quickly. In a moment, he would be blind. The bandit screamed and hurled himself at Gareth, blade whipping through the air.
Gareth stumbled back a pace, stunned by the ferocity of the attack. The other man’s sword, visible only as a hair-thin line of reflected moonlight, blurred against the night. Ordinary vision was useless now. By luck or something more, Gareth caught the other man’s blade in precise balance, flicked it to one side, and drove in. The edge of his own sword snagged on leather for a terrible moment before it bit into flesh.
The man screamed, this time a wordless animal roar. Gareth could not tell if he felt or only sensed the other man’s body curl in on itself and crumple to the earth.
Light flared, bright and yellow. Someone had touched a torch to the fire and it went up like a miniature blaze. For an instant, Gareth faced no one.
Two dark-clothed bodies lay in the dirt. The man Gareth had wounded was still alive, struggling but unable to get to his feet. Tomas was down in the shadows beside the second wagon, his hands clasping one thigh that gleamed wet and dark. Cyrillon still fought, holding his own against a much smaller man. Rakhal ducked in and out, evading another bandit’s sword thrusts, darting in to slash and run.
Two of them left!
No, a third attacker now rushed toward Tomas. Like the others, he wore a shirtcloak and loose pants tucked into boots, a wide sash and some kind of belt or baldric across his chest. With deadly intent, he moved toward Tomas, who was unarmed and unable to rise.
Fire shot through Gareth’s nerves. The Dry Towner was too far to reach in a single stride. Before Gareth could take another step, however, the man pivoted with a swordmaster’s astonishing grace.
The Dry Towner’s sword swung around, but not before Gareth had brought his own up. Gareth’s blade came alive in his hand, an extension of his own body. He felt the kiss of steel against steel, and in that instant, flowing through the joined blades, a sudden wordless awareness. His own body knew how the other man would disengage, the infinitesimal shift of weight to his stronger side, the curve of the lower spine, the barely felt weakness of the other knee. Like sunlight piercing cloud, Gareth surged into the opening.
The next instant, Gareth’s vision snapped back to normal. He had broken the distance and was now within the circle of his opponent’s guard. The other man’s balance fractured; he twisted, struggling to bring his sword up. He was quick, but he had no room and no time. Gareth, his own blade already in perfect position, stepped forward. Overborne, the other man stumbled and fell to his knees, sword spinning free.
Again, that preternatural sensing swept through Gareth. He knew the instant before the other man slipped out a double-edged dagger. Before the blade had left its sheath, Gareth brought the edge of his blade against the other man’s throat.
The other man’s hand opened and the dagger, a skean fashioned in the style of the Dry Towns, dropped to the ground. Light flickered in the keen gray eyes, signaling a stoic acceptance.
“Hold, all of you!” Gareth shouted in Dry Towns dialect, “or he dies!”
He dared not shift his gaze from the man at his feet, but he heard the sounds of fighting die down.
Cyrillon called for Rakhal to help him gather their weapons. Someone built up the fire, and Gareth got a better look at the man he had just beaten, strong features with a hooked nose, well-trimmed beard, intelligent eyes. The man’s age was difficult to tell. The flickering light cast deep shadows around mouth and eyes, the jagged scar across one high cheekbone, but there was no gray in the pale, braided hair. It was not, Gareth thought, the face of a man made desperate by poverty.
An outlaw, then? A bandit chief? What was he doing, raiding on this side of Carthon, still in Domains territory?
“Who are you who come upon us in the night like cowards?” Gareth demanded, still in Dry Towns dialect.
From behind, Cyrillon answered, “Do not ask a man to shame his house. Do what must be done, and quickly.”
Aldones! They expect me to kill him!
And yet, if the fight had gone differently, it might be Gareth on his knees in the blood-spattered dust and this bandit holding the sword. Would this stranger have shown mercy?
From the other side of the camp, Tomas moaned in pain. Korllen was still out there, in all likelihood killed without a thought.
Gray eyes looked back at Gareth, unflinching. Without thinking, Gareth reached out with his unaided laran. During the fight, he had felt such a flowing unity with blade and opponent that it startled him now to sense nothing from the other man’s mind. There was no telepathic presence, which was not surprising in a Dry Towner. Gareth sensed only a surge of emotion—fierce pride, admiration, and, yes, fear. But not fear of death, fear of the northern sorcery, the dawning suspicion that he faced not a human victor but a soul-devouring demon of the Comyn.
“What are you waiting for?” Cyrillon said in a voice gone tight with strain. “There is no honor in tormenting an honorable adversary.”
What indeed was he waiting for? His steel was sharp, the blade touching the Dry Towner’s neck just along the artery. A quick, light thrust and it would be over. No one would blame him. They all expected it. The defeated man himself was prepared to die. A man of the Dry Towns, even an ordinary man of the Domains, would not hesitate.
But, Gareth thought savagely, I am no ordinary man. I do not live for myself but for my Elhalyn blood, and the blood in my veins is the blood of kings.
As an adolescent, Gareth had been blinded by the notion of kingly power, and he was still paying the price of that foolishness. Now that he had a flicker of insight into what it truly meant to be the heir of Regis Hastur, he wanted nothing to do with it. Loathing rose up in him, but whether it was in response to the barbarity of the situation or to his own past actions, he could not tell. Even if no one at home ever learned of his decision here, he would know, and it would change him and everything that came afterward.
One Dry Towner had brought him to this point, a scarred and dusty man who would have not a moment’s hesitation in taking Gareth’s own life.
Quickly, before his nerve failed, Gareth withdrew his blade. Let Cyrillon deal with the situation.
Gareth stalked into the night, toward the horses. The sight of the Dry Towner, awaiting his death with stoic pride, now sickene
d him. His belly trembled, and if he was going to be sick, he preferred to do it in private.
He had not gone more than a few paces when he heard the sound of another man shuffling between the restless animals. He recognized Korllen’s voice, and went to him.
The cook had taken a blow to the back of his head and was more stunned than hurt. Gareth, having slipped his sword back into its scabbard, pulled the older man’s arm across his shoulders. Together they returned to the camp.
In the few minutes Gareth had been gone, the fire had been built up again and torches lit and set into the holders on the wagons. Rakhal knelt beside Tomas, bandaging his thigh. The face of the fallen bandit had been covered with a fold of his own shirtcloak, and the one Gareth had wounded leaned hard on another. The leader, as Gareth now recognized him, stood before Cyrillon, holding his sword in both hands in a position of offering.
They turned as Gareth and Korllen stepped into the circle of light. A flush swept across the Dry Towner’s sun-dark skin.
“Will you, then, accept the sword of Merach of Shainsa, in payment of this debt?” the Dry Towner said.
“I don’t want your sword any more than I want your life,” Gareth said, still angry. “If you insist, then swear on your honor to never go raiding in the Domains again.”
For an instant, the Dry Towner said nothing. Gareth sensed his shock. Then the Dry Towner, this Merach of Shainsa, made a deep, elaborate bow, touching his fist to his belly, heart, and forehead.
“Ancient wisdom tells us that only a fool returns to a battle he cannot win. The wise man lives to fight another day. May I know the name and house of the man who holds kihar over me?”
“I’m called Garrin, if that’s what you mean. And you don’t owe me anything. Just take your wounded and dead, and go!”
The Children of Kings Page 8