The Key To The Grave (#2 The Price Of Freedom)

by Chris Northern

  “You will have to pose as my slave,” I told him.

  There was a deafening silence. It went on for a while. I had to turn in the saddle a little to see his face. It showed nothing, as usual. He wasn't even looking at me. “I said...” He turned his head to face me and I chopped the sentence short.

  His eyes blazed with anger.

  “Well, maybe I'll think of something else,” I said.

  “Do that.” He said in clipped, precise tones. “Do exactly that.”

  Now didn't seem like a good time to explore his reaction. We rode on in silence.

  #

  I dropped my trousers and slathered a salve on my painful thighs. It cooled and soothed the skin somewhat. Tomorrow was going to be murder.

  The sun had dropped below the horizon, yet there was still plenty of light to see by. The hill country took away the sun early, dusk was a long slow process. A copse of stunted trees gave some shelter from the increasing wind. It was exposed and cold in the hills and I'd been forced to pull on more layers. In the packs I'd found densely woven woollen garments in earthy yellows and greens, and a mantle of dark blue. Alendi clothing that suited my purposes well enough. I didn't want the extra weight of them against my skin but the cold was a more bitter enemy.

  Done with the necessary chore, I drew up my trousers and buttoned them. The horses stood nearby. Dubaku was about the business of making a fire. The horses needed tending and Dubaku's actions were tantamount to a declaration that he had no intention of taking care of them. I set about the task. It needed doing. We would talk about it later, I decided. It took a while. Eventually they were stripped of their burdens, brushed, fed and watered.

  “If we don't look after the horses they die, and we walk,” I said as I approached the fire, getting as close as I could stand. Not close enough to warm me. For all the good it did me, the fire might as well not be there.

  He nodded. “You know about horses. It's good.”

  He had found a pot and was boiling water, cutting up dried meat and adding it piece by piece. A sack of lentils sat close by, and another of onions. He was intent on the food, presumably for his own benefit.

  “It takes time to care for them,” I said, with more patience than I had believed I possessed. “I am going to need help with them.”

  He looked up. Looked at the horses. Looked back at me. “I don't know anything about the care of horses.”

  “I'll teach you.”

  He looked genuinely puzzled. “I am a shaman. You know this.”

  “I know that I can't spend two hours a day caring for the horses; not if we are going to make decent time. Only one of the horses is mine. And the third carries supplies that you are preparing to eat.”

  He went back to cutting up meat. I wasn't sure for a while if he was thinking about it or not, but the silence stretched so I decided that he wasn't and walked away. It wasn't over, but I had to find some leverage to change his attitude before I tried again. Could I leave him behind? How much did I need him? It was worth a thought. But the chore was done for now and further consideration could wait. It was full dark and I wanted to find out something.

  The copse where we had camped was only a few dozen yards across; the ash were low to the ground and provided broad cover. No one would likely see our fire, not only because of the trees but because I had chosen a place to camp that was on a height, and not immediately overlooked. Okay, the territory to the north rose in ragged stages to the mountains, but close by there was nothing higher than this broad ridge. Taking my time, I walked the points of the compass, finding the highest points to stop and look out into the night. The wind stung my face, and I wondered how long it would be before my skin healed enough that the wind would stop hurting me. I resisted the urge to drink, concentrating on my self-appointed task, to test the night, to see how many fires were out there.

  I'd known the hills were populated, small tribes and clans in their hundreds spread thin in the rough terrain of the mountains' skirts, and maybe into the mountains themselves. I counted twenty fires in the night, the bulk to the east. It didn't tell me much, I guess. We weren't alone out here, but it didn't tell me what kind of fires I was seeing. I picked out one tight cluster that I was sure belonged to a community. But the others? Herders camped for the night, or Alendi and others fleeing from the south? Ishal Laharek and Tahal with Jocasta? I cast the spell that would help me decide and discarded both of the fires that I had for a moment thought might have been potential candidates. If they were close enough for a fire to be seen they were hiding it well or had camped cold. Still, I had learned one thing. There were too many people out there for us to travel without encountering others. I needed a role that Dubaku could adopt; something people would believe.

  #

  Back at the fire nothing had changed, but there was hot food ready. Enough for me, I noted, and wondered if Dubaku thought I should be grateful. I didn't say a word as I served myself and ate. He sat by the fire, pretty much ignoring me.

  When I had stripped the horses I'd pulled out some gear and dumped it near the fire. There was leather armor stitched with iron coins, a cheap sword and small round shield. I'd equip myself with it come daylight, packing away my own city gear, apart from the belt that invisibly added to my armor. There was also a tent. At least, it would be a tent when it was put up. Right now it was a large bundle that had conspicuously failed to assemble itself.

  It was clear to me by the time I had finished eating that Dubaku had no plans regarding the tent, so I took a lead.

  “Give me a hand with this.”

  It took a while to figure it out; it was an Alendi effort of oiled leather and not the canvas we used. Dubaku stood around and did only exactly what I told him. He didn't seem to be paying attention and wasn't much help. Eventually I got the thing up, pretty much on my own and with no confidence that he would be able to break it or make it without me. There was a big bearskin that I dragged in as a groundsheet, which I guessed was its purpose. I got a couple of blankets for myself and wrapped myself in them just before I pretty much passed out.

  #

  I deliberately set a slow pace. I had saddled my own mount and the pack animal, leaving Dubaku to deal with his own beast. He'd made no move to saddle his mount by the time I was ready to move, so I had left him there.

  I headed in the direction I had seen the cluster of fires in the night, guessing they belonged to a community. I wanted news and a clearer path north, and I knew that if we could not travel without being seen, then neither could those I sought. I might hear word of them, and Sapphire might have left word for me.

  Dubaku caught up with me some time later. He didn't look happy, though it was admittedly hard to tell with him. We ignored each other as we dropped down into a valley, at the far end of which nestled a settlement in a broad bowl of pasture with a stepped and wooded slope behind. I could make out a couple of dozen dwellings, loosely clustered. About an acre of land was under cultivation, surrounded by a fieldstone wall; in the pasture a couple of lads and a dog supervised a few dozen cattle and a flock of sheep. As we came closer the whole village dropped out of sight, obscured by a rise in the land and a few stunted trees. There was a clear trail again and we followed it, a crystal clear stream running alongside the trail for much of the way.

  When we crested a rise in the valley floor the village came back into view. Little had changed, but a crowd had gathered to watch us approach and a rider came to meet us way before we reached the settlement. He rode a shaggy-coated pony, wore leather armor and carried a sword at his hip. He had both helm and shield looped by thongs to the saddle. As soon as I saw him I pulled rein and climbed down out of the saddle so as to appear less threatening. I kept a tight hold on the reins, though, and the sword was on my side of the horse, looped from the pommel. I could reach it in need. My barbarian armor was stowed behind the saddle; there was no way I could wear it with my skin so sensitive; it would have chafed the healing burns to a bloody mess in no time. I judged the
man as he came closer, just as I could see him judging me. Was I a threat to him and his people? Not if I could help it.

  As he closed on us, I saluted him in the easy style of the Gerrian tribes, right hand raised to shoulder height, hand open. He returned the gesture, seemingly relaxed, but eyes flicking to the sparse cover behind us, checking to see if we were indeed alone.”We will play it this way,” I said to Dubaku, having been thinking furiously, “you are who you are, seeking your people just as you told me. I'm guiding you in hope of success to cement a trade agreement with your people. What do you produce?”

  He shrugged. “Food, clothing, dwellings, tools. What else is there?”

  I sighed. Not helpful. “Animals then, rare and exotic animals for the menageries of the rich, or fighting animals for the shows. You know how to capture them in numbers sufficient to be profitable.”

  “But I won't until my people are found and freed.”

  “So we seek them. It will serve, even if seen as a lie. Greetings,” I raised my voice and switched to the Alendi dialect that Meran had taught me. “I am Pel Epmeran of the Liani. I offer news for news.”

  He drew rein, close enough to be heard without raising his voice. “I am Oras, chieftain here. I have already heard news of the south. Is it true that the Lurians have broken the Alendi?”

  The Lurians, the people of Luri; us. The city has a name, Luri, but we habitually refer to it as The City, as though it were the only one, and then forget to capitalize it.

  “It is true, the Eyrie has fallen.”

  He nodded, taking the news calmly, still scanning the land behind us, though now his gaze had a distant feel to it, as though he were looking beyond the hills behind us for the oncoming legions who might enslave his people. As Pel Epmeran I didn't know if they were coming or not. Though I knew at least one man was sufficiently motivated to bring a small force this way, I also knew he came to trade and not with conquest in mind. I couldn't mention Lendrin Treleth and his desire to build a trading post. For now I would have to let him make his own meeting when he passed this way. I would have to let Meran deal with it on my behalf even though a word here might make it easier for both of them.

  He returned his attention back to me. “Did you fight them?”

  “No. We are not fleeing their vengeance and bringing trouble to your people. I travel north on another matter, seeking word of dark skinned men, like my friend here,” I gestured loosely to Dubaku.

  Oras turned his gaze to Dubaku, still impassive. “I've heard of men like him, their skin scorched black by the sun, men of the south. It must be hell there.”

  “Heard of, but never seen one?”

  He shrugged. “Once, when I was boy. She had been raided from the Lurians and taken as slave, but she was old and ugly when I saw her, tits sagged to her waist.”

  Dubaku chipped in, speaking passable Alendi. “What was her name?”

  Oras shrugged; I barely noticed it, as I was now looking at Dubaku in mild surprise. It hadn't occurred to me that he would speak any Gerrian. Still, any man who thinks a foreign tongue is a secret language is a fool. I've listened in on the conversations of many fools over the years and learned what was on their minds while they knew nothing of what was on mine.

  “I don't know,” Oras said. “I was a boy. Why would I have cared?”

  “Where was this?” Dubaku again.

  Oras frowned and looked back to me. “Is he your slave?”

  “No,” I said. “He is a free man. He is seeking his people, taken as slaves from his own land many years ago. I am helping him.”

  He held my gaze and I wondered if he would ask why. He didn't. “It was at Twobridges,” he turned in the saddle and pointed north and west. “Two days travel, more or less. But this was fifteen years ago and more. Maybe someone there will remember her name. Maybe not.”

  “Have you seen many heading north?”

  He shook his head. “Just one, Lind Epbrath, a messenger calling on us to join his warband. I decided against and gave him tribute instead. There are many Prashuli, Orduli and Alendi who did not reach the Eyrie before the battle, he told me. They will seek allies and fight on.” He shrugged.

  I felt sorry for him. It may have been the first but would not likely be the last time he was asked for men or tribute. By winter his people could be starving, or dead. “The clans of the mountains are many.”

  He smiled. “But the hills lie between us.”

  I had quoted the saying deliberately. It was one that Meran had taught me; the clans are many, but the hills lie between them, meaning that they are a barrier to unity. I nodded absently; I was now thinking of something else. The very real danger we might be in, two men and three horses in lands where now the dregs of the war made their lairs. “Which way did this Lind Epbrath travel when he left?”

  “North,” Oras said.

  Oh good.

  “Can you spare a keg of beer to trade?”

  #

  That night, a few miles north of the village where Oras was headman, I saw their campfires. Maybe a hundred of them; maybe four hundred men or more.

  We had passed little more time at the village of Oras. I'd told him of the legions and recommended that should any of the city men come this way he offer to trade with them and not try to fight them. It was as much as I could do to pave the way for Meran and Lendrin Treleth when they tracked me here, as they must.

  Now I was sipping the beer I'd traded, drinking slowly from a leather jack. I rested on a boulder in the night and counted fires. I would have travelled on, passing by them in the night, if the seeker spell were not telling me that what I sought was in that direction. Knowing Jocasta might be there, I sat and drank beer while I decided whether it might be best to scout the camp or wait for the dawn when I would be able to see and know for sure if Jocasta was there. Should I take a risk now, or wait for the certainty that daylight would bring? It was a hell of a choice to have to make.

  It was a good brew. I couldn't make up my mind. A little more lubricant was needed before I remembered that Dubaku could sneak into the heart if their camp, invisibly, protected from sight by the magic of one of his ancestor's spirits. So, I went back to the hollow that protected our own fire from the eyes of the night and asked him.

  “No,” he said.

  It wasn't the answer I'd been expecting. “Why not?”

  “There is a man who looks after beasts of burden. There is a shaman. They are not the same man.”

  I couldn't think of anything to say. More honestly, I thought of several things but none of them seemed purposeful. Are you saying you won't help me because I made you look after your own damn horse? Yes, that's what he was saying. Are you saying you won't help me at all? Why did I bring you, then? Neither of those questions were helpful. Yes, he probably was saying exactly that, and I'm damned if I knew why I'd brought him along if that was the case. I had other questions, none of which I wanted the answers to. If I were wounded, would he let me die because he had to look after his own horse? The food he was preparing was mine and for a second I felt like pointing that out; not to mention the horse he rode in the first damn place.

  I was going to negotiate, I knew it. It was ridiculous, a man of my rank, a man of the city, reduced to negotiating with his own hireling; and that's what is was, a paid man, a mercenary. “What use are you to me... why am I paying you if you won't...” His answer was obvious and I stopped asking the question, but it was too late.

  “To look after a horse.”

  I sighed. Gods. “Okay. I'll look after the bloody horse.”

  He nodded. “I'll eat before I go into their camp.”

  Perfect. Just bloody perfect.

  I left before I said anything else. I took a bottle of whiskey with me. The beer just wasn't going to cut it. My night sight was ruined by the fire and I had to take it slow, picking my way with care, focusing on the ground in front of me. The slope varied and there were rocks to fall on or that might turn under my feet; neither one seemed
desirable. At the top of the slope were a few gnarled trees and I slipped amongst them without paying as much attention as I should. The impact knocked me from my feet and I landed heavily on my side, another body on top of me, face close. My night sight had returned just enough for me to recognize him.

  “Sapphire,” I wheezed. “How did you find me?”

  “I smelled the booze,” he said.

  It was a lie. Why had he knocked me down if he recognized me? To prove he could? Hell, I already knew that he could. I'd trained with him; or, more accurately, I'd been beaten by him consistently while I tried to learn how he did it. I clearly hadn't learned enough.

  He eased away from me and rose to his feet. I followed his example, more slowly. “Dubaku is below,” I gestured to the edge of the depression. “He is just about to scout the enemy camp to the north.”