Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “That’d be the Church of Man’s doing. Too many of them crazies up in Mirlond. This ‘Lion’ has signed his own death warrant. All the soldiers in the world won’t stop the Draegorans.” It was the first time the one with the earring spoke. The others seemed to agree with his assessment.

  “Doesn’t bode well. If Mirlond tries to break away from the Covenant, it’ll be folk like us end up paying the price.”

  “It won’t be us. Even if they’re dumb enough to rebel—and I’m not saying I believe it—they’re not going to attack anyone. They’ll be too busy trying to hold off the Draegorans.”

  “Might be us. If they build a big enough army . . . well, then, where do you think the Draegorans will get an army of their own? They’ll levy it from the other lands, and we’re the closest.”

  “Well, it’s only a rumor. Most likely they’re only gathering men to try and retake the Green Isles when winter comes like they do almost every year.”

  Jeba returned and set a bowl of stewed meat and a cup of water on Riam’s table. “Eat up,” he said. He looked at the floor, his eyes narrowing. He turned to the wide-faced man. “And you, you screet’s ass, stop spittin’ on my floor.”

  “Sorry, Jeba.” The man rubbed his foot over it.

  “Oughtta make you scrub the whole Fallen place.”

  Riam took a bite of the stew and dove for the cup of water. The meat had begun to turn, and they were using hot pepper to cover the sour taste. He snatched the cup and drank half of it before the pain subsided. He blew out between his teeth to cool his tongue. The meat wouldn’t hurt him—Fallen knew, he’d eaten enough half-turned meat back home—but he was going to need more water and to take smaller bites. He ate slowly, following it with sips from the cup while watching the men talk and play. The subject of Mirlond and the Draegorans didn’t come up again, moving instead to complaints about wives and work.

  Long after he ate all the stew he could manage, a new group entered the inn—three young men wearing soft linen shirts and knee-high boots that were shined black with only a hint of dust from the road. They were only a few years older than Lemual, and they carried blades.

  Landowners . . . or at least the sons of landowners.

  Where Gairen’s weapons where short and sturdy, these were long and narrow, with ornate metal bands that swirled about the hilts. Even with their length, they didn’t look like they’d do much good against the simple strength of Gairen’s heavier blades.

  “I told you, Mardin, nothing but farmers and fleas in this town, and no whores,” said one. He had short brown hair and round cheeks, and his face and neck looked like he’d never lost any of his baby fat.

  “Probably only do it with sheep around here,” Mardin said. Like the first, his blond hair was also short, but where the first man was pudgy, Mardin was big without the fat. His muscles bulged under his shirt.

  The wide-faced man at the table next to Riam started to rise, but the man with the earring put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  The third and tallest newcomer scanned the inn and saw Riam. “They’ve got a boy. Maybe you could rent him.” The other two laughed.

  “Wouldn’t mess with the boy,” Jeba said. He limped toward the newcomers. “He’s with the Draegoran.”

  “Well, I’m sure the man can share,” the short fat one said. “We’ve just come from seeing him dispatch justice on a few criminals.” He drew out the word justice sarcastically. “He seems like an efficient fellow, and sharing makes life more efficient. Now why don’t you be efficient and bring us a bottle of wine.” He smirked, pleased with his own simple wit.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough already,” Jeba said.

  The tall one ignored him. “Efficient.” He chuckled as he led the three to the only empty table in the room and spun the chair backward before straddling it. He rested an arm on the chairback. “That’s a good word for the man. Stabbed those bastards through the heart and sucked the life out of them. One-two-three, just like that while they were tied up.” He made three quick stabbing motions in the air.

  “Magistrate should have done it himself. No one deserves to be drained like that.”

  “If the magistrate did, he’d end up with his hands behind his own back waiting to get stuck like the others.”

  “That’s my point. We don’t need them. All the magistrates and landowners should stand against them.”

  “You’re all talk, Orin. You’ve never faced the Esharii,” Mardin said. “My family’s lands are near South Pass. Ask the people there, and you’ll hear a different story. A Draegoran’s about the only thing in this world that’ll make the tribesmen think twice about raiding our lands, and even that doesn’t keep them away all the time.”

  “Pshaw,” Orin said. “You’ve never actually seen an Esharii either. It’s all a big scam to keep us under their heel. The Esharii haven’t gathered with any real strength in years, and Arillia is crumbling to nothing. So what do they do that’s so important?” He spoke louder. “I’ll tell you. Nothing. All they do is get rich and fat off the taxes we pay.”

  The tall man looked nervous. “Shut up, Orin.”

  “A wise idea,” came a voice from the doorway.

  The newcomers’ heads whipped around as Gairen entered the inn. He strode calmly by the young landowners, brushing up against the fat one as he passed.

  The fat one kept his gaze on the table.

  “We didn’t mean anything,” Mardin said. “My friend is a bit loud when he drinks.”

  Gairen ignored them but kept his eyes on the fat one while motioning to Jeba. “Bring my food and water upstairs. The key to the room, if you please?”

  “Last room on the right. Bring the food right up.” Jeba pulled an iron key from his pocket and tossed it through the air.

  It was a bad throw. The key would sail well behind Gairen, but at the last instant he reached back. He never took his eyes off the three young landowners. The key smacked his palm, and he closed his fist around it.

  “Would be nice if everyone were that efficient,” Gairen said.

  The fat one swallowed hard. There was sweat on his forehead.

  “Upstairs,” Gairen told Riam.

  By the time he climbed out of his chair to follow, Gairen was already moving up the stairway.

  “Son of a bitch scared the piss out of me.”

  “Must have been right behind us when we came in.”

  “You boys’re lucky,” Jeba said. “That Draegoran is as high rankin’ as I’ve ever seen. Tell by the marks on his skin.”

  Chapter 4

  Five days passed, and already Riam hated the girl. Her name was Nola, and on the first day she’d sobbed continually. Riam knew what it was like to be sad and alone, so he’d said nothing that day, allowing her to come to terms with leaving. He even let her cry against his back, although it made him feel uncomfortable and foolish. Now he envied that first day and wished she’d fall off the back of the horse they rode double so he could simply ride on without her.

  She would not stop talking. She went on and on about her parents and her home, she asked questions about everything, and she wouldn’t leave him alone.

  It didn’t help that they were moving east, away from the farmlands of Nesh and through the Dry Plains. Few lived in the high desert between Nesh and Yaden, and Riam could see why. Just looking at the baked earth told him the soil wouldn’t grow crops even if there was enough water to irrigate, which there wasn’t.

  Worse, for the last three days the weather had been oppressively hot with no wind, so they both smelled, and their clothes remained wet where they pressed against each other. Yet the stifling heat only gave Nola another subject to talk about.

  Riam was miserable, and even Gairen had given up on telling Nola to be quiet and made long scouting trips ahead and to their flanks. He was on one of these now, having told Riam to ride toward a tall h
ill on the horizon.

  “I love horses. My father only started letting me ride alone during the last year. What about you?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. He answered all her questions with only a word or two and an occasional short sentence. They were about the only things he could get out before she would start up again. He was convinced that her questions were designed only to create short, regularly spaced pauses in which to breathe.

  “We have a big orchard with a pond at the center. Not like here. We haven’t seen a tree or any trace of water since we left Steading Rock. Just grass. Oh, and rocks. I wish we’d see trees soon—or a whole forest. I’ve never seen a real forest before, and it would certainly be cooler riding in the shade.”

  Riam guided the horse around a clump of the tall grass. It was the only thing that grew in the area aside from a few thorny shrubs. This far into summer, the grass was dead and brown. Large patches were scattered out across the plains for as far as he could see. In some places they reached the foot of the stirrups, which was dangerous since they hid holes that could snap a horse’s leg. Not to mention the snakes or marcats that hunted in the rocky, sparse grassland. Marcats generally avoided people and horses, but if they rode through a den, the cats would fight to defend their young. Tricolor—brown, black, and orange—and bigger than a farm cat, they were about the size of a dog or knee-high to a man. While their claws probably wouldn’t bring down a horse, they could easily lame one.

  He remembered his father cursing and throwing everything he could get his hands on the morning they’d lost all the brush hens they kept for eggs to a pair of the cats. The cats had bent the wire enough to gain access to the coop, but instead of going in and creating a commotion that would have woken the whole house, they’d come around to the other side and scared all the birds out into the fields. Lemual and Father were able to get a few of the birds back, enough to repopulate the flock, but most were scattered to the winds and hunted down over time. Instead of eating for one night, the big cats had kept themselves well fed for a season.

  “I used to fish in our pond when Father was away. Did you ever fish back home?”

  “Not really.” Sweat trickled down the back of Riam’s neck. Of course, seeing a marcat would break up the monotony of the plains and droning of Nola’s voice. He hoped it wouldn’t be many more days until they reached wherever they were going.

  “Too bad. It really is fun, especially when you catch one that fights hard. Lemara, that’s our house servant, she rolls them in flour before frying them in fat. Sometimes she lets me help. Once you get them into the flour, they don’t smell so bad. Do you like fish?”

  “Sure.” In truth, Riam loved fish—it was a rare treat back home—but it didn’t matter what he answered. Nola wasn’t really listening. He used the same answer for most of her questions, and she never paused for an instant. He knew she was nervous and scared, but that didn’t make it any easier. She wanted to talk, and he wanted to be left alone.

  “I wonder if they fish where we’re going. I’m sure they do. Once we get there, maybe we could go fishing sometime. I could teach you if you want.”

  “Sure.”

  “I bet servants do the fishing for the Draegorans. They must have lots of servants. They’re richer than landowners. Father says the richer you are, the more servants you have. Maybe that’s why we were taken, to become servants. How long do you think it will take to get there?”

  “Not sure.” They would leave Nesh when they made it to the end of the plains. Beyond was Yaden, where the long trains of empty wains came from every year to buy crops. He thought maybe the ocean and the Isle of Draegoras were on the other side of that. He’d spent close to two tendays riding with Gairen, but much of that had been zigzagging from town to town and not in a straight line. He had no idea how far they’d gone.

  Nola continued talking about servants and what she thought they were supposed to do and not do.

  He still didn’t know why Gairen had taken them, but it seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go through for servants. Plus, the Draegorans had enough money to do anything or hire anyone they wanted. Whatever they’d been tested for, it definitely wasn’t to be servants. Once again, he wished Lemual were here to explain things.

  He checked the sun. It was straight above them, and the hill seemed to be just as distant. Nola chattered on behind him. He steered the horse around another clump of the tall grass. The day would never end.

  * * *

  —

  They crested a small rise, and Riam brought the horse to a halt. Behind him, Nola described how best to care for hens in order to get the most eggs.

  “There are riders coming this way,” he said, interrupting her.

  “What? Where?”

  “Riders.” He pointed off ahead and to the right.

  Nola squirmed to look over his shoulder. “What should we do?”

  The riders were still far enough away that it was anybody’s guess how many there were. They’d obviously been spotted since the riders were coming straight toward them. It would be useless to try and hide.

  Riam stood up in the stirrups and scanned the horizon. There was no sign of Gairen. He chewed on his bottom lip a moment before deciding that there wasn’t anything they could do. “We’ll keep moving. I’m sure Gairen knows where we are and has seen them.”

  “I wonder who they could be? Maybe there’s another town nearby. Mom says . . .”

  Riam groaned as Nola started off again. He did his best not to listen and watched the dust rise into the air behind the approaching riders. A short time later, Riam spotted a dust trail to his left, closer than the first and smaller, a single rider, and likely Gairen. Still unsure of what to do, but remembering his instructions, Riam continued forward.

  Before long, the wavering image of the lone rider clarified to confirm it was Gairen, and a sandglass or so after that, Gairen was reining in next to them.

  “There are riders coming,” Nola blurted.

  “It’s a taulin. A Draegoran patrol. We’ll wait for them near that low knoll.” He pointed to a boulder-crested hill and kicked his horse.

  They didn’t wait long. Six men, riding in three pairs, wound around the rocks to the top of the knoll. Lather and sweat outlined their saddles, and foam dripped from the mouths of their horses. They’d been riding hard.

  The Draegorans all wore the same style of clothing, and all save one wore their hair long and tied back by a leather thong. Tattoos decorated the visible parts of their bodies. Most of the symbols were different, and there was no pattern, except that four of the six men had the same head of a wolf on the left side of their necks.

  No, not six men. The lead rider was a woman wearing a tight leather vest that hid the outline of her body. It was her high cheekbones and sharp features that gave it away as they neared. She drew her horse up in front of Gairen, and the others formed up behind her. She may have been a woman, but there was nothing soft about her. Her face looked chiseled, with hard angles like the stones that capped the knoll around them. The outline of a war hammer marked her neck, and she was the only one with a tattoo on her face—a small crescent moon with a thin line completing the circle on her left temple.

  He’d assumed that all Draegorans were like Gairen, carrying the same dual swords that he’d stared at for so many hours while riding, but the group carried a variety of blades in different sizes and lengths—two even had bows strapped to the backs of their saddles. Despite the variety of weaponry, however, all carried at least one blade with a white crystal in the hilt.

  The woman spoke first. “Iya guyun sendol, kamutanil.”

  Riam’s mouth hung open. He didn’t understand a single thing she was saying.

  “Karahm ferendum.” Gairen replied.

  Riam knew people spoke other languages in faraway places, but it was a shock to hear it for the first time. He could identify sounds,
but it was as if someone had mixed up the order they were supposed to be in. It was both fascinating and frightening, and he was more than a little disappointed that he couldn’t understand the conversation.

  Nola fidgeted behind him. “I wonder what they’re saying.”

  The Draegorans spoke rapidly and pointed in different directions. There was some kind of debate going on. One of them, one of the wolves as Riam thought of the four with wolf tattoos, kept pointing to the northwest. After several loud outbursts, the woman said something harsh and the man closed his mouth tight and stared at the back of her head with a sour expression.

  Gairen listened to them for a time, but when he spoke, the newcomers went silent and sat up straight and attentive. Then they all turned to face him and Nola. It was uncomfortable, and he had the impression that they were all looking at him, not Nola. Gairen made another comment, and several of the newcomers appeared to agree with him before they returned to their discussion.

  Riam baked in the sun while he waited for them to finish. There was at least a little wind when they moved. Sitting still in the heat made it much worse. Another obvious reason why nobody farmed this part of the plains—it was too Fallen hot. He unhooked a waterskin from the saddle and took long swallows.

  “Don’t drink it all. I want some.”

  Riam shook his head. It was a large skin. He couldn’t drink it all if he wanted to. They passed it back and forth a few times before he put it back, still half full.

  After what seemed forever sitting in the heat, the woman bowed her head respectfully. “Safe journey, Gairen.”

  “To you also, Shalla.”

  She turned her horse and led the group back down the knoll.

  “They’re searching for a band of Esharii that slipped over the mountains near North Pass. There’s a stream a short distance ahead. We’ll stop there to water and rest the horses. The taulin leader believes the Esharii are north and west of us, but we’ll stay out of sight for the remainder of the day just in case. Once it’s dark, we’ll veer a little to the south to be safe and then ride fast until we make the outpost near Hath. We don’t want to run into the Esharii out here on the plains.”