Growing Up Magic (Wine of the Gods Book 9)

by Pam Uphoff

  Thos yawned and looked down into the depths of one of the deeper canyons. "They get what they call cloud bursts. It'll rain like mad up in the hills, and be perfectly clear down here. And without warning, a wave of water comes crashing down one of these canyons. No vegetation to slow it down, no proper soil to absorb any of it."

  Easterly looked around at the sere landscape. "Don't they build any dams? You'd think they'd want to keep what water they could."

  Thos nodded. "Here and there. They even irrigate, where they've got enough flat land with actual dirt, instead of rocks on it. Up here? This is all mining land. Nobody even tries to grow anything."

  "Huh." Mortimer drove on. He was getting bored. No matter the officers' nerves, he just didn't see any reason bandits would try to attack such a well guarded wagon train. What have they got in those three wagons, that they told me was "just bait for bandits." They thought I'd warn the bandits off this train, so that must be something special. Payroll? It's awfully lumpy. And seems to be heavy. Six horse hitches.

  And anyway, someplace rough enough to hide horsemen would be too rough for a fast charge in. And bandits wouldn't hit out of the flat, featureless plains, like those dead ahead, unless they could whip up a nice little dust flurry like the cloud coming at them . . . his skin prickled. "Thos? " He shifted, half embarrassed, but his nerves screaming louder with every second he eyed the opaque cloud. "Thos? Over to the right. Is there something in the dust cloud?"

  Thos popped up and took a look. "Nah, anyone in there would be choking and their eyes full of sand and dust . . . Old Gods!" He put fingers in his mouth and whistled, three times, loud and sharp, and pointed at the dust storm. Where thin spots were showing movement.

  Heads popped up, looked at Thos, turned to look at the wall of dust.

  "Bows! Ready the bows!" Thos dived for his own, cocking it, laying in the bolt, raising it.

  Easterly closed his eyes as the dust storm hit. Big spots of red danced in his vision, after images of the glaring desert sun. One of the spots veered and came at them. Easterly set his reins on the footrest and put a firm foot down on them. He slitted his eyes, reached back toward Thos and pushed his aim to the right. "Shoot!"

  The hard thwap of the crossbow release was followed by a scream.

  More bows firing ahead.

  "I can't see, dammit!" Thos cocked the bow, laid in the bolt by feel. "Here, can you see?"

  Mortimer raised the bow, closed his eyes and fired at the nearest red blob. A double thunk. He opened his eyes to see a riderless horse bolt past. Swords clashed up ahead. Mortimer rolled off the bench and grabbed Sergeant Gainer's crossbow. "Wipe your eyes." Not that he seemed to be using his . . . He shot at a red blob, a horse squealed. Cock, drop in a bolt. Fire. Nothing that time. The others were getting into the rhythm, eyes watering, but apparently functional enough . . . he reached out and knocked up Errow's bow. The bolt soared over the head of a trooper in blue as he galloped up from the rear.

  There was something glowing on the left. . . Mortimer dropped his bow and swung back onto the drivers bench. Grabbed the reins, and hauled the horses to the left. "Sergeant! Look to the left, someone's coming up on those heavy wagons!"

  The horses were already alarmed by the screams, the running horses . . . They threw themselves into the traces as soon as he aimed them away from the stationary wagon ahead.

  As soon as they cleared the end of that wagon, he hauled them right, to parallel the column. And ran them at that bright glowing white . . . white haired woman who reined her mount back and out of his path. Two raiders ahead of her, muffled in dusty robes, riding dull dun colored horses weren't so quick. They'd been focused on the heavy, covered wagon. Mortimer's big harness horses threw up their heads and rammed the smaller beasts. One was knocked to the left, the rider hanging on desperately to swing out from in front of Mortimer's charge. The other rider leaped for the wagon as his horse was knocked into the heavy wagon's wheel pair. Mortimer hauled on the reins. His passengers were firing bolts as quickly as they could, at the vague dust colored figures. He looked around for the woman, but that glow was retreating, and he dare not leave this side of the three covered wagons unprotected. Or less protected. The guards on board had woken to the danger from this side and were firing through the arrow slits.

  Mortimer squinted through the pain of an excruciating head ache. No more dust colored robes coming through the dust . . . the wind was dying away . . . He clutched his head, crying . . . must be all the dust in his eyes . . . his head was going to explode.

  He hit the ground and wondered how he'd managed to fall off the wagon . . . too sick to even sit up. Had he been shot in the head?

  Boots hit the ground next to him. Anxious hands joined his on his head. "No blood, something must have hit you, but not an arrow, thank goodness."

  He was pulled to his feet and boosted into the wagon.

  He laid there, hurting, for what seemed hours. All the shouting and orders started making sense.

  " . . . Auchel Ibrah's Gold Gang. Thought they stuck to the east side of the Divide . . . "

  " . . . Don't like the thought that they could whip up a dust storm at need . . . "

  " . . . How they found out we had something worth their while . . . "

  Mortimer shoved himself off the ground, and looked around. He was still muzzie with a head ache, but he obviously was going to live.

  Thos walked over, handed him a cup of water. "So, you could see in that dust?"

  He drained the cup, savored the liquid sliding over his parched mouth. Best drink he'd ever had. "I had sense enough to close my eyes before the gust hit. After that it wasn't so bad. Oh my head. I don't remember anything hitting it."

  The Sergeant walked up, and grinned. "I think you hit the ground with it. Surprised it didn't break. The ground, that is. Wacolm said you were deadly with reins in your hands. Now I believe him."

  Mortimer groaned his way out of the wagon. Sometime when he hadn't been paying attention, it had been driven into a defensive circle and teams unharnessed.

  But from the smell of dinner, no further attacks had taken place.

  Bodies. Some being covered with rock, others, troopers, wrapped in canvas. They'd take them to Farofo, for a proper burial at the fort. No one really cared if the scavengers got to the bandits.

  His head throbbed for the next week. And he never did find out what they hauled to Farofo.

  They left half the high-sided wagons there, and escorted privately owned wagons carrying gold on the way back.

  He had too much time to think about what had happened.

  Magic? Couldn't be.

  He'd just been lucky. And hit his head. Any memories of glowing this and thats and shooting bandits with his eyes closed were obviously the result of him hitting his head.

  Far from dropping him off in Grantown, Wacolm kept him all the way to Karista.

  "Now look here. You've impressed me, you've impressed the Captain. You've been in the Army for over three months . . ."

  "What!"

  "Those were enlistment papers you signed. Oh, I'll discharge you if you want, but you're off to a good start. Do you want to stay?"

  Mortimer thought it over. "Only if you'll stop calling me Mortimer. My name is Easterly. Period."

  "Right. Private Easterly, let me show you to the barracks."

  ***

  It was late summer before he got leave to visit home. He took an army horse that cut the trip time to a week and a half.

  All four houses looked seedy, and he shook his head as he slid off and hugged his mother, and even his father when he came in from the orchard. He picketed the horse in the front yard to eat the weeds. And ate a huge slice of apple pie before helping his dad in the orchard. The apples were just coming ripe, and they took a cart load into town the next morning.

  And banked the money. "Now son, Uncle Frank is helping me with the finances, now that you are gone."

  Mort sighed and checked the bank balance. "He hasn't depos
ited anything all year."

  "Son, you can't trust a bank like you can a relative."

  "Daaad. I noticed he's avoiding me. I'll bet he's just flat spent at least half the money you earned."

  His Dad sputtered denials until his drunken Uncle Frank was tracked down and failed to disgorge any money at all.

  "Dad, that may be fine with you, but I am ashamed that you would put Mother at risk of penury and starvation. How are you going to pay the taxes this year?"

  "I paid them!" Uncle Frank perked up and almost dropped his jug of homebrew. "That's where the money went. I remember now."

  "Where is the receipt?" Mort stared him down until he hunted around and found it in a box under the bed.

  It was, of course, all credited to the northerly farm.

  "You're going to lose the farm in three years. Mother is going to starve."

  "Now we'd never allow that!" Uncle Frank protested.

  Mort flapped the tax receipt at him. "It says you paid two years arrears in taxes. Not this year's taxes. You won't have a home to offer her. Dad. Every penny you earn, from this minute on goes in the bank. You do not take money out of the bank for anything except taxes and starvation. Got it?"

  "Son, you've gotten hard. You can't think that I'd harm your mother."

  "You already have. Now. About my cows. I have another five days of leave and I'm putting up hay for them. I'll sell the ones I don't have enough hay for, and that may pay the taxes this year. Next year your orchard is going to have to do the job. So. You. Will. Bank. The. Money."

  "Here now, you shouldn't talk to your father like that!" Aunt Salti bustled in. "Honestly Mortimer, the trouble you've caused with the girls is bad enough, don't hurt your parent's worse."

  "I have caused the girls no problem other than attempting futilely to interfere with their giving their virginity away to married men and wastrels. But since their fathers, brothers, cousins and uncles are all wastrels, how could they possibly understand there's something better out there?"

  "Oh, now you're getting uppity. But you're no smarter than you ever were, are you?"

  He could hear a baby crying in the back somewhere. "Actually, my reading and writing are getting pretty good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make some hay."

  When he got in, in the evening, the horse was missing.

  He walked over to the flats where the young bloods raced, and retrieved the tired, thirsty and slightly lame animal.

  One of the young Lords protested that he'd won the gelding in a race. Mort stared him down. "This horse is the property of the Army. My cousin borrowed him without permission. If you have a gripe, take it out on Tyrone. Please."

  He led the horse away, ignoring the babble about bets and what was or was not owed.

  Mort picked apples after he'd milked the cows, but sent his Dad off alone to sell them. None of the girls showed to help milk or feed.

  Tyrone looked a bit the worse for wear when he showed up to actually ask to borrow the horse. Dare hovered behind him, looking like he had caught his fair share of grief. Apparently he had been the jockey.

  "No, Tyrone. The horse is stiff and sore, and not fit to ride. I have to leave for the City in two days, and I really don't want to either walk all the way, nor explain to the horsemaster what I did to his horse. He isn't going anywhere today or tomorrow."

  They stomped off, and Mort anticipated the arrival of at least Aunt Susto to complain about his lack of generosity.

  "Mother, how are you doing for food stores? Locusts cleaned you out yet?"

  "Now Mortimer, They haven't taken anything since I emptied the ice house. And Aunt Susto was very insulted by the lock on the root cellar. And what she said about the one on the pantry!" She blushed and shuffled her feet. "I left them on, though. I said I was worried about vagrants, with you gone now. And I hid the keys in my bedroom."

  "Excellent."

  They talked about the cows and all, and Mort drove the four big calves off to the auction, keeping the now two year old bull.

  He studiously ignore glimpses of Vonne, Neille and Nabelle, scantily clad, coming and going in the dark. And Lew and Erald, hanging about.

  He put enough money in the bank to cover the taxes and gave the rest to his mother. "To buy food over winter. For your emergencies, not theirs. Hide it."

  "Without the calves I'll have enough milk to make cheese until even I'm sick and tired of it. Don't worry so, dear."

  Then all too soon, or perhaps too late, it was time to leave. He button holed all the relatives available and made it clear that he'd only gotten in enough hay for a very mild winter – and that they ought to double it to be sure.

  He promised both Melodi and Ericka a cow of their own if they would milk regularly.

  Then he rode back to the Army camp south of the City, taking it in easy stages, and walking a lot of it.

  They'd be training all winter, with swords. Cross bows. More horseback riding. It sounded like fun.

  Chapter Four

  Winter Solstice1382

  Karista, Kingdom of the West

  First the thirty year old woman beat him, and then the fifteen year old girl.

  "Don't worry." Lily grinned ferociously. "With another month's practice you'll have enough training that your reach and strength will start compensating for lack of skill. Then as you keep learning, you'll get really dangerous."

  Deena—Captain Janic's fifteen year old daughter—sniffed. "It just isn't fair."

  Captain Kessic, in charge of training the raw recruits laughed. "Do you really want to look like Private Easterly?"

  Deena nodded. "I'd be a better fighter. I'd get more respect."

  Easterly sighed. "You're already better than I'll ever be—and you aren't done growing yet. You beat me up with your bare hands—and that I really resent."

  She nodded. "I have a low center of gravity. My only advantage." She sighed. “I want to be a spy, a real spy, but Dad turns green at the thought.”

  Lily snickered. "He's picturing you in a revealing costume trying to seduce the Ambassador from the Cove Islands."

  "Eww! See, men even get to be a better kind of spy. Biology is not fair!" Deena scowled, and stalked out to beat up the next recruit.

  The training grounds were regularly used by the King's Own, the elite Army unit that included the royal guards and the intelligence division that was home for Wacolm and Janic senior. Lily was a Royal Guard, traveling with the female members of the Royal family and protecting them where a masculine presence would be awkward. Deena sighed and said she was signing up as soon as she turned sixteen, apparently in a few weeks.

  Easterly was getting a lot of extra training, courtesy of Captain Janic's request for him to be assigned to the intelligence division. There was a joke circulating that farm recruits found the training regime easy. It wasn't, but getting up in the pre-dawn to milk cows made the early roust out easy, and plowing, haying . . . he had plenty of muscle and endurance, just not quite the same muscles required to swing a sword, nor had running with or without armor ever been a priority in his life.

  He officially graduated at the Winter Solstice, and gained his coveted King's Own uniform. It was almost the same as the regular dark blue with gold embellishments that was the dress uniform of the other branches.

  The daily uniform had fewer embellishments, their dress uniform, more. Both had knife sheaths hidden about them, both were cut to wear a belt with knife and sword over the jacket.

  He loved them, and didn't even mind the ceremonial duties that required him to stand motionless for hours.

  Janic had him repeating, verbatim, with tone, gestures, and expressions, what he overheard at meetings. What was said before the king or crown prince arrived, and after they left was occasionally interesting. What the escorts of the teenage princesses said to them was . . . a polite version of the blandishments his girl cousins had received from about the age of twelve on. And occasionally, not so polite. He received a public reprimand and quiet promoti
on after he paddled the rear end of a duke's son. Word got around and the Princesses' escorts got even politer. And definitely kept their hands to themselves.

  Deena was delighted. "I wish I could have seen it!"

  Easterly squirmed. "I have eight girl cousins. Between the eight they might share as much common sense as Princess Demetri. They aren't even close, in brains. Wish they had dedicated guards."

  "Eight! How old are they, do they live near you?"

  "We're all neighbors. Let's see Kathi and Rache just turned twenty. Marylu is nineteen, Vonne and Ericka are eighteen, Nielle is seventeen, Nabelle is sixteen and Melodi is almost fifteen. There are seven boy cousins, too, and the less said about them, the better."

  "Old Gods! How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

  "None at all. I feel like I've left Mom and Dad in the care of hyenas, running off to the Army like this."

  "You aren't that far away." Wacolm pointed out. "He's from Grantown in Three River's Province, section six. About five hundred miles."

  "I can't make hay from five hundred miles away. Nor beat up Tyrone, who really needs it. Even more than Lew and Erald. Barely."

  Deena sighed. "I have a new baby brother. Half brother. It's hard to imagine that little guy growing up to be an obnoxious teenage boy."

  Chapter Five

  Late Summer1382

  Grantown, Three Rivers Province

  A Court summons was not the way he'd intended to visit home.

  And since it had been sent to his parents and they'd taken a few days to send it on to him, he had to push the pace and rode straight into Grantown and into the court, smelling of sweating horse and human.

  The judge and Lord Dates frowned as he presented himself.

  "Sorry, I rode straight from Karista when I got the summons." Dirty or not, Easterly stood straight in his King's Own uniform. "What is the problem?"

  Lord Dates was eyeing him thoughtfully. "It's about my daughter."