by Brandon Mull
Aram kept the horses moving at a good pace, but never let them run hard, balancing the desire for haste with the need for endurance. Jason was pleased to find his horsemanship continuing to improve. Riding felt more familiar and enjoyable than ever.
Whenever they came to high ground, Aram would pause to look back. Repeatedly, he detected no evidence of pursuit.
The night wore on uneventfully until they reached a low ridge overlooking their destination. A broad river divided a quiet little town. Similar amounts of buildings huddled near the northern and southern banks.
Peering back the way they had come, Aram moaned. “We won the race to Potsug, but not by much.”
Squinting into the night, Jason faintly perceived moonlit shapes moving along a distant road. “It looks like a lot of them,” Jason said.
“Tark wanted you to meet him at the home of a stableman?”
“Gurig.”
“I only see one large stable. It’s on this side of the river. Come, we must hurry.”
Aram led the way down the ridge, after which they loped across a flat expanse to the village. The sleepy town had no surrounding walls or any other apparent defenses.
Even after slowing to a walk, the horses sounded loud as they advanced along a silent dirt road flanked by wooden buildings. They approached a modest residence alongside a large stable. Jason dismounted and knocked on the door.
“Be ready for an ambush,” Aram warned, baring the blade of his massive sword.
Jason pounded harder. A moment later a man bearing a candle opened the door. He had a high forehead and a flabby chin. He glanced past Jason at Aram astride his stallion. “Who are you?”
“I’m looking for Tark the musician,” Jason replied.
The man blinked in bewilderment. “Tark? I haven’t seen Tark in ages.”
“You’re Gurig?”
“The same.”
“Tark hasn’t been in touch? Hasn’t sent a messenger?”
“Not a word. Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes. If he contacts you, tell him he missed me.”
“Who shall I say he missed?”
“It’s better if I don’t explain. Good night.”
“Very well,” the man said with another glance at Aram, who did his best to hold his sword out of sight. “Safe travels.”
The door closed, and Jason returned to his horse.
“Tark is late,” Aram said.
“I hope nothing happened to him.”
“We cannot wait. We must cross the river immediately. We’ll decide where to proceed from there.”
“Lead the way,” Jason said.
“I noted two ferries from the ridge, one larger than the other. Both were dark, but enough money should rouse them. We’ll try the smaller one first.”
Aram kicked his horse to a trot, and Jason followed him to a shanty beside a large, flat raft. The glow of a dying fire seeped through the shuttered window. Aram rapped on the door.
A short, round-faced man with a black eye answered. His cheek was marked by the creases of a pillow. His sour expression faltered as he tipped his head back to gape up at Aram. “What do you want?”
“We need to cross.”
“At this hour? Three times the normal fare.”
“Four times if you hurry.”
“I’ll have to fetch the haulers.”
“Not necessary.”
The ferryman looked Aram up and down. “I suppose not. No discount for hauling it yourself. Payment in advance.”
“Fine, but we leave now. What’s the standard rate for two men and two horses?”
The ferryman hesitated.
Aram cracked his knuckles menacingly. “If you intend to fib, you need to think faster.”
“Ten drooma. A man is one, a horse four.”
“Sounds plausible. Do you have two bronze?”
The ferryman nodded. He ducked back inside. When he returned wearing a cap and a long coat, he exchanged two bronze drooma for a silver and then led them to the quay.
Aram and Jason guided their horses onto the flat raft. Jason leaned against a wooden railing. The ferryman reached toward a copper bell.
“Don’t sound the bell,” Aram said firmly.
“But the regulations—”
“How about you forget this time, and I return those bronze drooma to you.”
The ferryman scowled. “I don’t care how much you’re paying; I could lose—”
“Or I could drown you.”
“I’ll take the drooma.”
The ferryman unmoored the rectangular vessel. A thick rope ran through a device attached to the raft. The ferryman pulled a lever releasing a locking mechanism.
“Ding, ding,” the ferryman muttered. “Go ahead and pull.”
Standing at the front of the raft, Aram began to hastily haul the guideline hand over hand. The raft lurched forward, progressing rapidly. The moon had just set, and the stars did little to brighten the dark river.
“You aren’t looking for employment, by chance?” the ferryman asked.
Silently and tirelessly, Aram kept the ferry advancing swiftly. The shanty and small quay shrunk behind them. As the craft approached the center of the river, Aram showed no sign of flagging.
Near the middle of the wide river, something suddenly splashed aboard the raft. Aram whirled, casting off his cloak and drawing his sword. The ferryman yelped, scampering to the far side of the raft. Jason fumbled for the hilt of his sword.
The sopping figure who had boarded the raft raised a hand and spoke softly. “Pardon the intrusion. I’m a friend.”
“Ferrin?” Jason gasped.
“What are you doing here?” Aram rumbled, sword poised to strike.
“No time,” Ferrin insisted tiredly, water dripping from his clothes and hair. He clutched a long oar. “Cut the guideline.”
“What?”
“An ambush awaits on the far side. Sever the rope.”
“Absolutely not,” the ferryman asserted, striding forward.
Dropping the oar, Ferrin leaped to his feet and seized the ferryman by the throat. The startled man fumbled for the knife at his belt, but Ferrin released his neck and snatched it first. “You’re in no position to issue demands, boatman. Make another squeal at your peril.” Ferrin glanced at Aram. “Cut the line or we die.”
The broadsword arced through the air, slicing through the thick rope in a single sweep. The raft began to drift with the sluggish current.
“Add what speed you can with the oar,” Ferrin whispered, keeping the knife near the ferryman’s chin. “Will you keep silent?”
The ferryman nodded, massaging his throat. One hand strayed to a pocket.
“I already have it,” Ferrin said, letting a smaller knife fall from the crook of his arm to the deck. “Cover your ears, lie on your stomach, and hum a quiet tune. If you see nothing and hear nothing, you just might live through this.”
The ferryman complied.
“That was a quick grab,” Aram said, taking up the oar. “Snatching the hidden knife, I mean.”
“You should see me with two hands,” Ferrin replied.
Aram began using the oar to scull. The ponderous raft sped up and began to rotate. As Aram did his best to compensate for the rotation, the raft fishtailed forward.
“How did you get here so fast?” Jason asked.
“I’m reasonably good at my job,” Ferrin said. “I investigated the well Aram described, and the position seemed less than ideal for a rendezvous. After snooping around, I caught wind of a man named Chancy who had bought a pair of horses that matched your needs. He inadvertently led me to the barn where you encountered the torivor. I lingered long enough to confirm your direction, then rode harder than you could have. I led a second mount and alternated between the two steeds. I may have lamed one of them.”
“What’s the situation on the southern bank?” Aram asked.
“A dozen soldiers lie in wait, half of them conscriptors, led by a displacer.
I crossed the river in a stolen canoe to reconnoiter. Once our adversaries ascertained that you were fleeing south, this town became the logical location for an ambush. Helps when you think like the enemy. Helps even more when you trained them.”
“How did the news beat us to the ferry?” Jason asked.
“I assume the lurker informed them. Not surprising.”
“What now?” Jason asked.
“We let the river carry us some distance before disembarking on the southern bank. How are your horses holding up?”
“Doing well,” Aram said. “We haven’t overtaxed them.” He continued to scull vigorously.
“Good,” Ferrin said. “What’s our destination? Does it matter?”
Jason thought for a moment. If Tark hadn’t made it to Potsug, he may have never delivered the message about the Word to Galloran. “We should head to the castle of the Blind King. Do you know the way?”
“I can get us there,” Ferrin said. “So the Blind King is Galloran?”
“I didn’t say that,” Jason protested.
“You didn’t need to. I once suspected as much, but discounted my theory after observing him. He looked too old, sounded too pathetic, acted too eccentric. To think he was actually the famed hero! Felrook took a heavy toll.”
“The Blind King really is Galloran?” Aram said, a hint of disillusionment in his tone.
“It appears that way,” Ferrin replied.
Jason had not meant to share this information with Ferrin, of all people! But the displacer already seemed certain. Maldor had long known the truth about the Blind King, but the secret had not been widely shared. Jason supposed that if Ferrin joined him and Aram on their way to Felrook, Galloran himself could decide how to deal with the displacer. “I can’t confirm your guess.”
“No need,” Aram muttered.
Ferrin glanced at the ferryman. The prostrated man continued to hum, hands clamped to the sides of his head. Ferrin raised his voice. “I suppose we should kill the boatman. We can’t leave witnesses behind.”
Jason began to protest, but Ferrin held up his hand and glared. “Let’s see, I’ll just insert my knife right here and open him up.” The man continued to hum without missing a note.
“He had to be certain the ferry operator wasn’t eavesdropping,” Aram explained, but Jason had already caught on. The raft rotated so much that Aram moved to a different side. “This vessel is unwieldy.”
“You’re doing a remarkable job,” Ferrin said. “Start easing us toward the southern bank. I propose we bind and gag the boatman, then set him adrift.”
“Seems like the gentlest option,” Aram agreed. “You have rope and a gag?”
Ferrin pulled a length of cord and a wet strip of material from a pocket. “I like to plan ahead. Could I possibly have my hand back? If we get cornered, we all might want me to have it.”
“Might as well,” Aram said.
Jason dug into his backpack and fished out the hand. He hefted it for a moment, then passed it to Ferrin. The displacer reattached it seamlessly, flexed his fingers, then crouched and bound the ferryman. “It’s good to be whole.”
“You’re still wearing the eye patch,” Jason mentioned. “I thought it was part of a disguise.”
“Sadly, no,” Ferrin said. “I grafted my eye to an alley cat in Weych. The precaution provided an early warning when they came for me, but I couldn’t manage to retrieve my eye in time. It’s still there.”
“Unnatural,” Aram muttered in disgust. “Many soldiers are trailing us from the north.”
Squatting beside the ferryman, Ferrin secured the gag. “We need only concern ourselves with the forces on the southern bank for now. I sabotaged the other ferry, along with the three largest watercrafts in town.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Aram said.
“There are still enough enemies on the southern bank to waylay us,” Ferrin cautioned. “The cover of darkness will soon be lost. Speed and stealth will be imperative.”
The half giant stopped plying the oar long enough to wipe sweat from his brow. The sculling was finally tiring him. “You and Jason should take the horses and flee,” Aram said. “I can catch up later.”
“Are you serious?” Ferrin asked.
“We only have two mounts, and I’m the heaviest rider.”
“I already prepared a fresh horse for myself, along with weapons.”
“Impossible.”
“I work fast. I beat you here by almost two hours.”
From up the river came an angry cry, followed by dismayed shouts.
“Get us to the shore,” Ferrin said calmly. “They’ve finally recognized that we cut the guideline. They can travel much faster by horseback than we can on the water. My new mount is close by.”
Aram grunted as the oar sloshed noisily. The commotion upriver continued to escalate.
When the raft reached the bank, Ferrin and Jason led the horses ashore. Keeping the oar, Aram shoved the raft back onto the water. The ferryman continued humming as best he could around the gag.
Ferrin crashed through the riverside vegetation and returned astride a black horse. He had wrapped a long strip of black linen around his head several times to cover his face. Aram studied the horizon, where the oncoming dawn had purpled the starry night.
“Come,” Ferrin said. They could hear horses charging along the river in their direction.
Jason and Aram climbed onto their mounts, and the three galloped away from the river into open, brushy country. “Not much cover,” Aram called. “How many had horses?”
“I counted eight. They could commandeer others.”
“We better find a place to make a stand.”
“Three versus eight? Or possibly twelve? Why not run?”
Aram hesitated before answering. “Because they might catch up after sunrise.”
“So?”
“I’m no use after dawn.”
“What do you mean?”
Aram didn’t answer.
“What happens at dawn?” Ferrin pressed.
“This is not something I share lightly,” Aram said. “I don’t have much choice right now. I’d kill to keep this secret.”
“I keep secrets for a living. I won’t tell.”
“I turn into a weakling during the day,” Aram confessed. “I’m half giant.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“You’ll feel differently after sunrise. Remember Goya?”
There came a pause in the shouted discussion. Jason felt sorry for Aram. He knew the big man would never have wanted Ferrin to learn his history. But under the circumstances, there was no way to avoid blowing his secret.
“Very well,” Ferrin finally said. “Where?”
“How about between those hills?” Aram pointed. “The way narrows right where that boulder offers some cover. Jason can lob stones from a flanking position.”
In answer, Ferrin swerved toward the gap between the steep hills.
“What do you mean I’ll lob rocks?” Jason called.
“This is no occasion for a first lesson in swordplay,” Aram said.
“He’s right,” Ferrin said. “You’ll do much more harm harassing them from the hillside. When we get there, gather a pile of rocks in a sheltered position. We’ll place the horses by you. If the giant and I go down, try to ride away.”
“Don’t call me a giant,” Aram growled.
The pair of hills drew closer. Looking back, Jason saw a cluster of riders racing a mile or two behind.
When they reached the gap between the hills, Aram and Ferrin dismounted. “Any objection to fighting dirty?” Ferrin asked.
“Only way to fight when your back is to the wall,” Aram replied. “Come on, Jason.” Jason dismounted. Looping around somewhat, Aram led two of the horses up the steep side of the hill. Jason led the third, crouching to grab a rock or two. Aram tethered the horses by a thick tree, then walked sideways down the steep slope.
The enemy horsemen cantered ne
arer. Jason secured his horse and then collected more rocks, trying to pick ones that were small enough to throw hard, but large enough to do damage. A couple hundred yards from the hills, the horsemen reined in to confer with one another.
“I count eleven,” Aram said, joining Ferrin in the gap between the hills behind a boulder the size of a minivan.
“So do I.”
Aram drew his enormous sword. “Eleven may be too many. How well do you fight?”
“I’m not bad. You?”
“I’m expensive for a reason. Can you commit to taking down two?”
Ferrin was prepping his bow. “Three, maybe four.”
“If you’re serious, and if they rush into this, we may have a chance.”
Nine of the horsemen charged. Several had crossbows. Two horsemen held back, evidently content to watch. The horizon behind them continued to lighten.
Aram fastened his leather cloak shut.
“Thick cloak,” Ferrin said.
“Better than some armor.” Aram glanced up at the slope and cupped a hand beside his mouth. “Wait until they’re close!”
Jason saluted.
“Here they come,” Ferrin announced, setting an arrow to his bowstring.
Jason could barely hear the conversation between Ferrin and Aram. He hoped he could surprise them and drop a soldier or two with rocks. He held one in each hand, both stones squarish and a little larger than baseballs. He wished he still had an orantium sphere. This would be the perfect occasion for an explosion!
In the middle of the gap, Aram and Ferrin crouched behind the boulder. There was ample room for the horses to pass between the slope and the boulder at either side. Aram hefted a rough stone bigger than a bowling ball.
Crossbow quarrels zipped past Ferrin as he leaned into view, bow drawn. He ducked back twice, arrows sparking against the boulder, then leaned out farther and released an arrow. It flew true, unhorsing one of the soldiers. Then the thundering horses were upon them.
Jason began throwing stones. The first one missed. The second bounced off a soldier’s helm, nearly knocking him from the saddle. Leaning precariously, the soldier clung to the neck of his horse until Aram’s huge stone hit him like a cannonball. One rider among the nine slowed to hang back. He wore the armor of a conscriptor. The remaining six swarmed Aram and Ferrin.