Luis nodded. “True, but something has him spooked, and the traffic on the road is less than it should be.”
A new worry dropped into Martin’s gut to fester there with the rest. “I dislike what he said about the villages to the east. Morgol raiders here? Now? Might they have overtaken Callowford?”
They crested a hill. Below, a cluster of thatched roofs and chimneys drifting welcome tendrils of woodsmoke told Martin they’d arrived at Goran. A low fence reinforced with a new palisade of sharpened poles surrounded the village. The road in and out was manned by a middle-aged man who brandished a sword like a club and a younger man in a bedraggled uniform of some local nobleman. Martin stifled a flash of disappointment at the absence of a church. A priest would give a more coherent report.
“Perhaps the villagers will provide us a more cogent report than our farmer,” Luis said.
Cruk harrumphed. “It would be difficult to give less.”
The men on the road swung open the fortified gate at a wave from the farmer, but the looks they gave Martin and the rest were hard. Cruk reined in, leaned forward in his saddle toward the guards. “Could you direct us to your mayor?”
The first man, burly with a blacksmith’s shoulders, gripped his sword and eyed Cruk with open distrust. “What’s your business in Goran, stranger?”
“Our business is our own, neighbor, and—”
Martin put a hand on Cruk’s arm. “We’re heading east, goodman. We’re hoping your mayor will be able to advise us on the best route.”
The second guard hawked and spat. “There ain’t no best route, leastways none that head east. Morgols are coming over the mountains. Blast me if they ain’t.”
The blacksmith nodded. “That’s it.”
The knot in Martin’s gut twisted tighter. Witnesses were piling up, and even accounting for the natural unreliability of people who spoke from fear, the agreement among tales spoke of something very wrong in the province. “Our business cannot be delayed, I’m sorry to say. Which way did you say the mayor was?”
The blacksmith jerked his thumb toward a small timbered inn with a slate roof halfway down the street. “Bolger’s in the inn.”
Martin nodded thanks, which the two men didn’t bother to return, and followed Cruk through the mud of the village’s main thoroughfare. The smell of turnips mingled with the sour odors of sweat and fear of the villagers he passed. Furtive looks came to them from old men and youths, widowers and lasses, and even children. This last stuck to him like a sodden tunic. Children in villages all over Illustra greeted visitors with frank curiosity. What had happened to make these little ones so cautious of strangers?
Bolger sat at a large round table in the inn, an empty tankard in front of him, his tunic stretched over girth that made Martin feel slim by comparison. A handful of men with short bows stood behind him, attentive. Martin’s first impression was dispelled by the presence of maps spread across the expanse of the table and the sharp eyes that searched him and his friends as they entered the dim interior.
“Are you Mayor Bolger?”
The man snorted. “Only when there’s trouble. When there’s not you’ll likely have to ask after me by less complimentary names.” Bolger’s eyes scanned them again, rested on Karele as if the man were a riddle and then moved on. “You have the look of authority. You’ll not be in the market for turnips, I’m guessing.” He pointed with his chin at Cruk. “He wears his weapons like they’re a part of him.”
Martin nodded. “You’re a perceptive man, Mayor Bolger. We’d prefer not to announce our presence too loudly in the region.”
The man’s eyes, little more than slits in his fleshy face, narrowed until they almost disappeared. “If you bring trouble on us, I’ll do my best to make sure you regret it. Now, unless you can prove to me you’re not highwaymen on the run, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
A whisper of movement behind Bolger caught Martin’s attention. The mayor’s men, dour and efficient, had each nocked arrows. A small movement, too small to be prevented, would bring those bows up to target each of them.
Martin held up his hands, palms forward. “I’m going to reach into my cloak very slowly, Master Bolger. I’d appreciate it if your men didn’t take my movement as a threat.”
Bolger held up a hand. The arrows didn’t rise to their target, but they didn’t lower, and the bowstrings still held their tension. Martin pulled his symbol of office from his pocket and placed it on the table.
Bolger didn’t seem impressed. “How do I know you didn’t take this off someone?”
Martin allowed his irritation to show. “The soldier behind me is a captain of the watch. I can perform any rite of the church you care to name”—he shot a suggestive glance at Bolger’s men—“including last rites.”
The mayor’s cheeks bunched up like summer clouds before a rain with laughter. The men behind him didn’t laugh. Instead they eyed Cruk the way dogs looked at a wolf.
“What can I do for you, Excellency?” Bolger asked.
Martin pulled a chair and seated himself. Karele didn’t wait for an invitation. Luis followed suit. Cruk remained where he was, standing like a plinth of granite, his hand on his sword.
“We need information on the villages to the east.”
On a thinner man, Bolger’s scowl would have brought his eyebrows together. As it was, it only succeeded in bunching the flesh of his forehead into concentrated lumps of ire.
“It’s not good.” The mayor’s expression transformed him into a clothed bear. “So far we’ve only seen scouts and small raiding parties. But here . . . ” He pointed to the closest map in front of him, his pudgy finger covering the Sprata Mountains that lay east and north of Callowford. “The routes to Sligo and Muin are gone.”
“Gone?” Cruk asked. “What do you mean gone? Be clear, man.”
Bolger’s face grew stiff. “There’s no traffic in or out of those villages.”
“Why not?” Martin asked.
“Haven’t you been listening, Pater? The Morgols have them.”
“Nonsense,” Cruk said. “There’s no way to get enough men to stage a raid over the mountains, much less hold a pair of villages. They’d lose eight out of ten just trying. Then they’d have to fight their way past the garrison at Balinsloe first.”
Bolger didn’t bother to refute Cruk’s assertions—just gazed at him with the unassailable certainty of a man confident in his own knowledge. “Eight out of ten, you say? It makes you wonder what’s so important here in the land of sheep and turnips that they’d sacrifice so many men.” His sarcastic growl answered Cruk’s. “Balinsloe is gone, watchman.”
“How would you know that?” Cruk demanded.
“You rode past one of the few survivors of the garrison on your way to see me. Soldier Bier was scouting when the Morgols came pouring down out of the icy mountains like the vengeance of Deas.”
A knife of cold certainty pierced Martin’s stomach. He knew. Luis could cast for it, but it wasn’t necessary. The kingdom’s enemies outpaced them. How many hundreds or thousands of Morgols had died in the mountains to get a raiding party into the Sprata region?
He pointed at the map. “How far have they come?”
The mayor’s mouth pulled to one side in a gesture equivalent to a shrug. “I don’t know for certain, but the best reports we have indicate that there are two contingents heading west toward this area.”
Martin watched with dread as Bolger’s finger landed on an area marked with two names: Berea and Callowford. Karele stirred at his side. Dread chased acceptance across the healer’s face. Martin put a hand against the splintered boards of the table to steady himself. What was happening in Callowford? A voice in Martin’s head told him he was already too late.
“Pincer movement.” Cruk’s brief assessment fell like the stroke of an executioner’s axe.
Martin squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could deny the truth. His military experience amounted to listening to the occasional tale from one of
the watch or the confession of some postulant who’d come to the priesthood from the guard. Even with his limited experience, however, he knew the fate of the villages they traveled toward.
Karele stepped forward, and Martin noted again just how small the solis was. “Do you have any idea when those bands will reach Berea and Callowford, Mayor Bolger?”
The mayor considered the question while he squirmed. The joints of his chair squeaked in protest. “We don’t know how fast they can travel. According to Soldier Bier, only one Morgol in ten had a horse. How fast can men bred to the saddle march?” One fat finger shifted significantly on the map. “They have to cover twenty leagues, all of it mountainous.”
“Have the villagers been warned?” Luis asked.
Bolger’s neck waddled with his answer. “Not by us. But I’m sure someone from the garrison has gotten word to them by now.”
“Really?” Cruk’s voice cut across the mayor’s assertion like a crashing of boulders. “Assumptions like that kill people, Bolger.”
The mayor’s eyes challenged Cruk’s before he nodded. “True enough, but I can’t spare a man to run messages. You tell them.”
Karele turned to Martin, a sudden air of authority lending him stature. “We must beat the Morgols to Callowford.” His eyes burned as he clutched Martin’s sleeve. “We must.”
Cruk stepped forward. “I want to talk to Bier first. We need to know what happened at Balinsloe.”
Karele brushed aside his demand as if Cruk’s concern were inconsequential. “We know what happened, Captain. The Morgols attacked with enough numbers to overrun the garrison, and brave men of Illustra died. Their bodies are lying in Balinsloe Pass, frozen in the snow. What else do you want to know?”
Cruk glared, but Karele’s ruthless assessment silenced his dissension.
16
BY MOONLIGHT
THEY ROTATED HORSES to pull every league possible from the beasts each day. Luis and Karele, thin and light, offered Martin’s mount a breather as they rode up and down the slopes for Berea. The hardwoods sprinkled through the hills showed brilliant colors any weaver would envy, and the scent of pine and cedar in the cool moist air was like a friend’s greeting after a long absence. But Martin’s initial joy of reacquainting himself with the Sprata region turned to worry that left the muscles of his face weary with fatigue from constant frowning. After each change he found himself urging his new horse to a canter. Karele matched his pace, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, a mannerism of which the solis seemed unaware.
Each time Martin and the healer kicked their mounts to a gallop, Cruk would call to them in his voice like breaking rocks, telling them to keep it to a trot or risk losing the horses altogether. After the fourth time in the same day, Martin ground his teeth.
“Walk the mounts,” Cruk said.
Martin tried not to take the command as a personal insult. “Why? We’re still ten leagues out, and they don’t seem that tired yet.”
Cruk didn’t bother to nod or shrug, he merely pointed at the empty road ahead as if that explained everything.
For the last six hours Martin’s mind had conjured scenes of their return to Callowford, each more disastrous than the one before. Caught within a product of his imagination where everyone and anyone who could help them had been killed, he snapped his reply. “Explain your command, Captain.”
Cruk’s eyes widened, then narrowed at the tone and the use of his rank. He pursed his lips and bowed, deep and extravagant for being on horseback. “There’s nothing on the road, Pater. We haven’t seen a farmer or merchant since before noon. In the last day, not one caravan loaded with Callowford stone has passed us going west.” He pointed ahead to the peak of the long hill they climbed. “We have to get off this road. Let’s circle around that hill.”
“Impossible,” Martin’s frustration at his ignorance boiled over. “We have to get to Callowford.” He turned to Karele, searching for an ally against Cruk’s suggestion.
The solis shook his head. “If the captain is here to guide us in matters concerning combat, then, in the absence of any other knowledge, we should defer to his experience.”
“Well said,” Luis murmured.
Cruk nodded as if that settled the matter. “We need to make a decision.”
Martin forced his voice to a neutral tone. “Which is?”
“Do we make for Berea or Callowford?”
The intent of the captain’s question was plain. Berea was closer, but Callowford was more likely to hold the answers they sought. Unbidden, a score of faces rose before him, all residents of Berea whose names and grips were known to him. How could he just ride past them, leaving them unwarned?
“Berea,” Karele said before Martin could answer. When they looked in his direction, his posture gave no hint of apology or compromise, but Martin sensed an odd reluctance within him. “Adele is there. I must speak with her.”
“Did Aurae tell you this?”
The solis shook his head.
Martin nodded. “My heart says Berea as well. At the very least we need to warn them of the Morgols—if it isn’t already too late.”
Cruk’s response was a twitch of the reins that took his mount off the road into the woods that lay south. Martin followed, his imagination resuming its assault.
The trees thickened, and they picked their way through the underbrush at a walk. Cruk eschewed any path that showed signs of recent use. Time and again, the captain had them wait until he scouted the area ahead. When they stopped for the night, they were still five leagues short of Berea.
They tethered the horses, and the four of them sat in a rough circle around the spot where a fire would have given them warmth had they dared risk such a beacon. A gibbous moon cast shadows, giving them the look of phantoms. Luis stirred, his hands twitching in the moonlight as if they itched to cast.
Martin allowed himself a smile. In moments Luis would retrieve wood and steel from his pockets or saddlebags and find some pressing question that required the use of his craft. When he rose a moment later, Karele put out a hand to stop him.
“It would be unwise to cast just now.”
The moon glinted briefly off Luis’s eyes, turning his pupils green for a split second as he turned. “Why? I think we should check to see if the Morgols are in Berea before us.” He paused. “Adele may have left already.”
Karele nodded. “True, but if the Morgols have brought theurgists over the mountains, we will all be in danger.”
The healer’s tone suggested more than just familiarity to Martin. “What do you know of the Morgols and their religion, Karele?”
Karele shrugged. “The people of the Jhengjin have a reverence for horses. Much of their religion comes to them from so long ago that the origins have been lost, but their legends tell of a tree that both saves and condemns the world.” Moonlight reflected from the healer’s gaze.
“That sounds a bit like our own history,” Luis murmured.
Karele nodded. “Yes, before the book was lost to us. The Morgols do not have a rich tradition of writing like Illustra or Merakh. Their tradition is oral, and many of the truths that Aurae placed into their tradition have been corrupted.”
Karele stirred, but it appeared as if the shadows moved the man. “They are ruled by a jheng, a type of clan chief, and by their theurgists, those who are born with the same talent that gives Illustra its readers and Merakh its ghostwalkers.” As he turned to face Luis, the moonlight lit half his face, but the other half lay in complete shadow.
“If they have a theurgist with them, the exercise of your talent will call to him, Secondus, like a lodestone to iron.”
“What of Aurae?” Martin’s voice sounded clipped, brusque in the confines of their circle. He didn’t care.
“As I told you before, Aurae has not spoken to me since I was told to come with you.”
“That’s pretty inconvenient,” Cruk said.
Karele nodded, but now the moonlight glinted off his amused smile. His hand
lifted to take in their small camp. “I have often thought so myself, but Deas does not answer to me.”
Karele’s imperturbability grated. The only time Martin had seen him show concern of any type was when they discovered the Morgols had crossed the mountains and that Adele and Radere might be in danger. Martin had liked him better then. The solis seemed more human when he looked worried. This unflappable peace the healer exuded unnerved him.
Cruk rose. “I’m going to scout. There must be a reason for the lack of traffic on the roads.” His shape melted into the forest. Martin’s gaze followed him for as long as the moonlight allowed, but the watchman moved through the underbrush with the ease of a deer. When Martin blinked, his friend was gone.
Curiosity warred with his discomfort. As usual, curiosity won. “You speak as if you’d journeyed to the steppes, Karele. Your words have the ring of firsthand experience.”
The solis nodded. “You’re perceptive, Pater. I was taken captive by the Morgols in the Steppes War twenty years ago.”
Luis’s gasp of shock was slightly louder than Martin’s. He wouldn’t have heard it otherwise. “The horsemen don’t take captives.”
Karele shrugged, and his teeth flashed again in the silver gleam of the moon. “True. As a general rule they do not.”
The solis paused, whether in memory or unwillingness to remember, Martin couldn’t tell.
“What was it like?” Luis asked.
“It was the life of any slave,” Karele said. His voice dipped so that Martin had to lean forward to catch every word. “I served Ablajin. His rank would have been equivalent to a lieutenant, I think. He made me a menial servant, and I waited upon him with all the diligence I could muster.” Karele shrugged. “He was a very practical man. Ablajin did not believe in wasting slaves or supplies. Competence he rewarded with life, incompetence with death.” His chuckle nestled behind Martin’s ears. “I tried very hard to be competent.”
Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2) Page 15