Another third was killed or incapacitated.
And the final third, realizing that their attack was a failure, fled up the slopes into the gathering night, dragging those of their wounded who were unable to walk.
Some of the wounded bandits who were not dragged were barely able to limp away, and could easily have been caught and killed, but Black called out to let them go. “Let them be a burden to the others!”
Three guards had been slain outright, as well, and two more seriously wounded. Black took a gash on the side, but insisted it wasn’t serious and refused to relinquish his command of the caravan’s defenders. One horse was killed by a spear, and several oxen received minor injuries.
Five merchants and their families had been butchered in their wagons.
When the fight was over the guards turned their attention to the three wagons still occupied by bandits. Black stood, holding one hand to his injured side while his sword dangled from the other, staring at the first of the wagons.
Lord Drens came up, a lantern in his hand, looking worried. He had already set merchants and drivers to repairing broken wagons and smashed wheels, Arlian noted with approval, and was now coming to attend to the remaining bandits. “I think we had best…” he began.
“Shut up,” Black barked at him. “This is my business still, not yours.”
Drens stopped in his tracks, shocked; he looked at the blood seeping through Black’s fingers, at the guards standing around him spattered with blood and dirt, their swords still in their hands, and decided against making any protest. “As you say,” he agreed.
“What are you going to do with us?” a bandit called from the wagon.
“You might as well let us go,” another added. “We won’t bother you again.”
“And if you don’t, we’ll wreck everything in here!” a third called.
“What do I care if you spoil someone else’s property?” Black bellowed in reply. “You already killed the owner, you murdering bastards!”
“You can’t kill us in cold blood!” the first voice said.
Several of the guards muttered in reply to that, and Arlian knew all of them were thinking the same thing he was: Why not?
But his gorge rose at the thought. He didn’t want any more deaths.
“Who said anything about killing you?” Black called back. “We aren’t going to kill you if you come out peacefully, with empty hands raised above your heads.”
“You’ll let us go?”
“I didn’t say that, either—but I’ll release you, most of you, under certain conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“No, no,” Black said. “You don’t hear the conditions until after you surrender.”
Utter silence fell for a moment as the bandits considered that; then one called, “Go feed the dragons!”
“Maybe someday I will,” Black retorted, “but I assure you we won’t feed you.”
“But there’s plenty of food stored in there,” Arlian whispered to Stabber, who stood nearby.
“They may not know that,” Stabber whispered back.
They could all hear what happened next—the bandits argued quietly among themselves, and then came the sound of a blow, and a body falling.
“I surrender!” called a voice, and the first bandit came out, hands up.
A moment later the entire wagon was empty of bandits; at Black’s direction each was securely bound.
A similar scene was then played out at each of the other two disputed wagons, until ten bandits huddled on the ground, hands and feet tied, surrounded by the caravan’s guards.
“Now,” Black said, “we will let you go, one by one—but first we’ll make sure none of you can draw a bow against peaceful merchants ever again.” He pulled the first bandit up, and with four other guards holding the man securely in place and using a wagon’s end platform as a chopping block, he used an ax to amputate the man’s left hand.
The other bandits—and Arlian—stared in horror as the crippled marauder screamed and the guards struggled to bandage the bleeding stump.
“I hope you weren’t left-handed,” Black said. He raised his voice and called to the others, “Are any of you left-handed?”
One man, weeping with terror, barely able to get the words out past his tears, said that he was. Black took him next, so as not to risk forgetting, and removed his right hand.
Then the others, one by one, were dragged to the improvised chopping block.
Black chased away any member of the caravan who came to either watch or protest, insisting that they should attend to their own affairs—including getting the caravan ready to move. He also sent four guards up the canyon walls to cut the ropes holding the net.
When each bandit had been dealt with and each fresh stump had been bandaged, that man was given a push and sent scrambling as best he could up the side of the canyon; most collapsed, moaning or screaming, a few yards away.
When the last had been shoved away Black turned to the ashen-faced Lord Drens and announced, “The threat has been dealt with, my lord, and we’ll have that inconvenience”—he gestured at the net—“out of your way shortly. Might I suggest that despite the darkness, we press on for another mile or so?”
Arlian stared at the two men in the lamplight and realized that both of them were unnaturally pale. Drens was uninjured, so his color was surely just from his reaction to the attack and its aftermath, but Arlian feared Black’s pallor was due to loss of blood.
“As you say,” Lord Drens agreed.
It took another twenty minutes to straighten out the mess and finish minimal repairs. The bodies of the dead members of the caravan were hastily wrapped in sheets and loaded aboard wagons; the bodies of dead bandits were flung out on the roadside. Guards took charge of the five wagons that no longer had living drivers.
By the time they began rolling, with lantern-bearers on foot walking ahead to light the way, Black had collapsed into the lead wagon, slumped against one side, while a volunteer from one of the merchant families set about cleaning and bandaging the gash in his side.
By the time they reached the mouth of the canyon, less than a mile from the site of the ambush, Black was unconscious. Stabber took charge and chose their campsite, on a level, sandy area by a stand of those strange southern trees.
Arlian slept late the next morning—but so did almost everyone. He arose and climbed out of his wagon to see a new and wondrous landscape spread out before him.
They had camped atop a long slope, below the broken cliffs that marked the southern edge of the Desolation. Now Arlian had a clear view down that slope, past groves of unfamiliar trees—not the tall ones bare for most of their height, but almost normal ones, low, spreading trees bearing orange fruit—to a town of yellow brick and red tile, gleaming in the sunshine. Green leaves and bright flowers were everywhere, and the air was thick with the sweet smell of ripe fruit.
After the stark and ugly terrain of the Desolation, this lush display of beauty and color was overwhelming. Arlian stared wordlessly for a long moment, drinking it in.
“The Borderlands,” Quickhand said, appearing beside him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Arlian nodded. “Where are we?” he asked. “What town is that?”
Quickhand squinted, then shaded his eyes with his hand and peered at the collection of buildings at the foot of the slope. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The Eastern Road shifts somewhat with the sands, and we could have come down any of at least three different canyons. That might be Sweetwater.”
“The name’s in our tongue?”
“Oh, yes,” Quickhand said. “We’re still in the Lands of Man. The border is at least three days farther south.” He pointed at the southern sky. “Look at the clouds.”
Arlian looked, then closed his eyes. He rubbed them, then opened them again.
It didn’t help; the clouds above the distant horizon were still impossible to see clearly. Arlian glimpsed purple and a sort of pinkish gold moving
through gray masses, but he could not make out details, and after a second could no longer be sure he had seen what he had thought he saw.
There were things flying through those clouds—not birds, nor even dragons, but vast dark shapes and flashes of bright color, all somehow indistinct, more so than mere distance could explain.
“It’s magic,” Quickhand said. “You don’t want to study it too closely.”
Arlian remembered how Grandsir, long ago, had told him that in the Borderlands one could see wild magic flash across the sky. He had not realized just how literally the old man had meant it.
“Is it always like that?” he asked.
“No,” Quickhand told him. “Sometimes it’s worse, but usually there are just clouds.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s never entirely clear, though.” He pointed to the spot where the clouds were thickest. “I’m told there’s something down there that doesn’t like the sun, and has the power to do something about it.”
Arlian glanced to the east, at the golden southern sun, and asked, “If it doesn’t like the sun, why does it live here, instead of in the north?”
“Because the dragons drove it from the north, thousands of years ago,” Quickhand replied.
“But the dragons are gone,” Arlan said. He grimaced. “Mostly,” he added.
Quickhand said, “Maybe it hasn’t noticed that yet.”
“What is it?” Arlian asked.
Quickhand shrugged. “I don’t know. It lives in Tirikindaro, and the people there are its slaves—and now you know as much about it is as I do.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Not that anyone dares speak aloud—unless its name is Tirikindaro. Really, my lord, that’s all I know.”
Arlian nodded, and after staring a moment longer turned his attention back to the town. “And that’s Sweetwater? We should be there by midday, I think.”
“It might be Sweetwater,” Quickhand corrected him. “I’m not sure. But yes, I’d say we can be there by midday.”
Arlian leaned to the side and peered back at the other wagons. “Is there a market?” he asked.
“If it’s Sweetwater or Orange River there is.”
“So we’ve reached our destination? We’ll be trading everything here?”
Quickhand shook his head. “No, my lord. It’s just another way station, like Stonebreak or Cork Tree.” He pointed at the horizon. “It’s down there, at the border or beyond, that the real money is made. Around here … well, we’re still in the Lands of Man, even if we are past the Desolation.”
Arlian considered that.
Quickhand hesitated, then added, “By the way, my lord—don’t be surprised if you see some one-handed farmers in the orange groves, or if you meet one-handed townspeople with the bandages still fresh.”
Arlian turned to stare at him.
“Well, where did you think those bandits came from? You can’t really make a living off banditry,” Quickhand said. “Not the sort you’d rely on to keep a family. It’s a sideline, a risky way for the rowdy young men in the area to take a chance on maybe getting rich.”
“But they’d come openly into the town while we’re still there?”
“Why not? What are we going to do? If we try to accuse them, who do you think the locals will side with—the rich strangers, or their own friends and neighbors?”
But … but how can we trust anyone here, then?”
Quickhand shrugged. “We can’t, really. But they don’t want to drive us off entirely; they don’t want the caravans to stop coming, and they don’t want to anger the lords in Manfort enough to send an army down here. They won’t bother us in the towns or on the main roads; it’s only in the badlands that they’ll try to steal everything we have.”
“But last night we were fighting them,” Arlian protested, trying to grasp the situation. “We were fighting to the death! I killed one of them!”
“I wouldn’t say anything about that in town if I were you. You might be talking to one of his relatives.”
Arlian blinked in amazement. “It’s insane!”
“It’s the way it is.” Quickhand hesitated, then added, “I did have another reason for mentioning this.”
“My cargo,” Arlian said.
Quickhand nodded. “This wouldn’t be the best place to sell it,” he said.
Arlian looked at the open-sided wagon ahead where Black lay, still unconscious. Sell swords and daggers to the men who had wounded him, the men who had killed three of the guards and slaughtered five merchants?
In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he wanted to sell those blades anywhere in the Borderlands. He wished the masters had brought this up back in Manfort, when they had tried to convince him to carry a more conventional cargo.
“I agree,” he said. “I agree entirely.”
24
The Borderlands
The town was indeed Sweetwater. While most of the merchants traded with the townsfolk, the three masters debated what route to take from here.
With Black in no condition to move, let alone fight, Arlian was concerned that the masters might be excessively timid—or might do something foolish. Leaving his own wagon securely closed, locked, and guarded, Arlian tried to eavesdrop on the masters’ conversation, but with limited success. The shutters of their wagon were closed, and guards were posted, so that he could not put his ear right to the side.
But their words were audible through the cracks, all the same. Arlian had always had good ears, and now he put them to use.
“Tirikindaro does not appear safe at present,” Lord Sandal admitted, even before Lord Drens could bring up the question. “We might wait it out, or we might head east to Pon Ashti.”
“The Blue Mage is said to be unusally quiet just now, though,” Lady Thassa pointed out. “If the other powers are quiet as well, there are any number of possibilities. Even the road to Arithei might be open.”
Arlian, who had been slouched comfortably against one of the strange trees he now knew were called “palms,” jerked upright at that. His hand fell to the pouch he still carried on his belt, the pouch that held Hathet’s purple stones. He had thought of the possibility that the caravan might try for Arithei, but had decided it was too much to hope for.
The next thing he heard confirmed that.
“Arithei?” Lord Drens protested. “Are you mad?”
“Optimistic, perhaps, but scarcely mad,” Thassa replied. “Travelers have made the passage sometimes—I met the Aritheian ambassador at one of the Duke’s banquets a few years back, and he assured me the hazards are exaggerated—real, but exaggerated. He seemed eager for trade.”
“The old road is closed,” Drens said. “The native guides no longer venture into the Borderlands. Sahasin came through before that happened, and I doubt he’s been home since—he’s as much an exile as an ambassador.”
“That wasn’t my impression,” Thassa said. Before Drens could argue further, she admitted, “But it was years ago that we spoke.”
“Arithei lies beyond the Dreaming Mountains,” Drens said, “and I have no intention of crossing that range without a known route and a magician as escort. You may not be mad now, but you most likely would be by the time you returned thence.”
“Arithei is too risky for me,” Lord Sandal agreed.
“Why do we need to cross the border at all?” Drens asked, his tone wheedling. “Why not simply work our way along the border towns, and leave the realms beyond alone?”
“Because beyond the border is where the real wealth lies,” Sandal replied. “You know that as well as we do—beyond the border we can trade for magic, real magic, magic you can’t get anywhere in the Lands of Man. Why else come here?”
“For the exotic fruits and strange wines and rare woods, the sapphires and emeralds, the bright dyes,” Drens replied. “We have our own sorceries back in Manfort; why should we meddle with the unnatural forces beyond the border?”
Sandal and Thassa exchanged glances. “Our little s
orceries are hardly the same as southern magic,” Thassa said.
“Perhaps we should split up,” Sandal suggested. “I have no wish to drag Lord Drens places he’d rather not go.”
“Divide the caravan?” Drens said, shocked.
“Only temporarily,” Sandal assured him. “We would regroup here in Sweetwater in, say, two months’ time, and head north together. I’ve no more desire to go up that canyon into the Desolation without sufficient numbers than you do—maybe those men can’t draw bows anymore, but they probably have cousins eager for revenge.”
“What would we do for wagons?” Drens asked. “We share this one.”
“We have six left unmanned,” Sandal pointed out. “By contract those are ours, to dispose of as we see fit, once the goods within have been dealt with.”
Drens nodded thoughtfully.
“Is it safe enough even here in the Borderlands?” Thassa asked. “After all, we’ve lost almost half our guards, either dead or wounded.”
“I’d say so,” Sandal said. “After all, divided even three ways, if we each take a different route, we’d still have more than a dozen wagons apiece. We can hire locals as guards.”
“I wouldn’t trust locals as guards,” Drens said. “But I don’t expect any trouble so long as I stay in the border towns.” He nodded. “If you two are determined to cross the border, and the merchants are willing, then we’ll split up.”
Thus it was settled, and the word was passed to the merchants. That evening the destinations were announced—Lord Drens would proceed to the southwest and visit the border towns from Redgate to Skok’s Fall; Lord Sandal would head east to Pon Ashti, then return— by way of Tirikindaro, conditions permitting. The wounded and ill, or those too timid to venture further, could stay in Sweetwater; accommodations were being arranged.
And Lady Thassa would venture south, to the foothills of the Dreaming Mountains, choosing her exact course only when she knew more of the situation beyond the border.
“To Arithei?” Arlian called.
Lady Thassa shook her head. “No,” she said. “Without a full complement of guards, or a hired magician, that’s too dangerous.”
Dragon Weather Page 22