Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Why do they fight us?” Martin asked. He wished very much that the kingdom would not have to fight a two-front war. Even the most incompetent soldier knew the likely outcome of such an eventuality.

  “The Morgol society is at once simple and complex,” Karele said. “Like the Merakhi, they hold the family and the clan as the means to govern. Their language has a beauty and economy of speech that makes even the dullest conversation sound like poetry.”

  The solis let forth a stream of syllables that fell on Martin’s ears like a clarion call to battle, and his heart raced in spite of his incomprehension. “I just said the weather looks to be turning colder.” He sighed, his breath catching the moonlight in the cool air like the hint of mist. “Yet unlike the men of the southern continent, they do not maintain cities as such, and interclan fights over water and pasture are common.”

  “Perhaps their numbers are not as great as we’ve heard,” Luis said. The pitch of his words rose toward the end, the effort of a man trying to sound hopeful.

  “They are greater and yet not so great,” Karele answered. “The steppes stretch for a thousand leagues to the east, and the Morgols rule all of it through their cunning and horsemanship. Yet, the far eastern Morgols have no interest in the kingdom.”

  He turned toward Martin. “But to answer your question, the Morgols of the western steppes see the kingdoms as nothing more than an opportunity ripe for plunder. They have no interest in our religious war with the Merakhi, but once we’ve committed to the southern flank, I expect they will come pouring through the gaps in the mountains in a tide that will make the Steppes War of twenty years ago look like a border skirmish.”

  “How do you know all this?” Martin asked, his tone holding a hint of demand.

  “I told you, Pater. I was a slave among them.” Karele’s voice and the tilt of his head in the gloom held hints of amusement as if at some unspoken jest.

  Luis leaned forward, caught the healer’s attention. “How long were you a slave, Karele?”

  “Over nineteen years.”

  “But . . . that’s impossible.”

  Karele’s voice came to him gently mocking. “Don’t you say that with Deas all things are possible, Pater?”

  He spluttered, trying to find words—no, trying to find thoughts that wouldn’t come. “How did you get away?”

  “Nine years ago, Ablajin made me master of his horses. You must understand; the horselords worship their mounts. For him to make me master of his horses was like a man of the kingdom adopting a servant as his heir. A Morgol barbarian raised me from the status of slave to son.”

  Karele grew silent, then continued. “There is much in the Morgols that is worthy of redemption, Pater.”

  “Why didn’t you return to the kingdom then?” Luis asked. “Why did you stay?”

  “The briefest answer is that Aurae didn’t tell me to—” a brief catch, almost a sob, interrupted Karele’s words, but he quickly continued—“but the truth is that I had come to see Ablajin not just as my master, nor as my adoptive father, but my father, in truth. My own father is unknown to me, and I discovered a hunger for Ablajin’s approval that surprised even me.” His exhale sounded like a soft moan of loss and regret. “The word of Aurae came to me . . . a year ago, telling me to return to the kingdom. I made my way at last to Windridge.”

  “How did you escape?” Karele’s words held him spellbound, as if the solis had learned the theurgy of the Morgols and was using it to hold Martin captive.

  “I didn’t,” Karele answered. “I went to Ablajin and told him everything. I think I was secretly hoping that he would lose his temper and enslave me, but I underestimated Deas’s call. My father embraced me as a son and gave me the best of his horses.” The healer’s voice cracked, splinters of pain filled Martin’s ears. “Do you know what that means to a horselord? No, of course not. It took me nearly two decades to learn.

  “I was amazed at how easily I slipped through the clans to the north of us and over the gap into Frataland. When I showed up at the first outpost, the guard nearly passed out from fright when he saw me. I spoke to him in unaccented kingdom speech, and he laughed with such relief I understood what the weight of war would mean.”

  They fell silent. Martin dozed as the shadows from the moon shifted and stretched as that silver orb tracked through the sky toward her appointment with the horizon.

  A hand on his shoulder startled him. He hadn’t been aware that he slept. In the east a swath of slate gray against the black of the nighttime sky told him dawn approached.

  “We have trouble,” Cruk said.

  The others came awake. “How so?” Luis asked.

  “Berea and Callowford are surrounded.”

  A twig crunched under Martin’s foot. He winced and froze. Thirty paces away a Morgol guard, part of a large patrol, jerked his head, but a deer close to Martin broke cover, and the guard continued his patrol. Twelve men, most with dark, wispy beards and almond-shaped eyes, argued in the same language Karele had used last night. Despite his lack of understanding, Martin thought their voices carried the tension of doubt.

  One of the Morgols, a young man with slashes of blood or paint running down each jawline, made peremptory gestures, ordering the rest. But his motions held the rushed jerkiness of a man in authority who did not wish to be questioned because he didn’t know what to do. Another Morgol, a thickset man with broad shoulders, addressed the commander and received a blistering tirade in response. The men of the patrol split to resume their cordon of Berea.

  Cruk settled into the undergrowth next to Martin. “There’s no way to get through during the daylight, with or without the horses. We’ll have to wait for dark.”

  Martin’s stomach tightened. Waiting put them at the mercy of events and the capriciousness of whoever led the Morgols. “What if they find us? What if they march on Berea today or tonight?”

  “I think we’re safe,” Cruk said. “For a while, anyway. We’re outside the perimeter they’ve set.” He shook his head, his dirty blond hair lifted with the motion. “Curse me, but I have no idea what’s keeping them from squeezing Berea and Callowford like overripe grapes.”

  “They don’t know what to do,” Karele said.

  “What’s holding them back?” Martin asked.

  “The one with the red slashes is a theurgist. That means this is a holy mission to them. They won’t make a move unless he tells them to.”

  “So why aren’t they moving?” Cruk asked. “Not that I’m objecting, mind you.”

  Karele smiled. “Aurae is blocking the theurgist’s access to his familiar. They’ve come this far, but they don’t know what to do next.”

  Martin nodded. “That would explain his temper. I’ve noticed insecure men don’t handle uncertainty well.”

  Karele nodded.

  Cruk’s soft laugh punctuated the healer’s nod. “All right, we’ll wait until dark, but I don’t see any way to take the horses with us.”

  “I can keep them quiet,” Karele said.

  At a look from Cruk, the healer shrugged. “It’s a long story, and already told, but I know horses.”

  Cruk nodded but looked doubtful. “I just hope we get there before the soldiers decide to ignore that popinjay and take the assault into their own hands.”

  “It won’t happen,” Karele said. “A theurgist’s word is absolute. More’s the pity. If it were not, war with the Morgols might be avoided.”

  They withdrew and spent the day sleeping in shifts. Karele and Cruk fell asleep as soon as they settled into their cloaks, but though Luis insisted he take the first watch shift, Martin struggled to quiet his mind enough to rest. He opened his eyes to find the secondus staring at him from his lookout spot by a large beech log.

  “You can’t sleep?” Luis asked.

  Martin shook his head. “My head is filled with thoughts that chase each other ’round and ’round.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

  Martin could tell from Luis’s t
one that he wasn’t addressing Martin’s statement. “What is?”

  “That the person who saves us in Windridge is one of the few people in the kingdom with firsthand knowledge of the Morgols.”

  Martin sighed. That had been one of the thoughts that denied him rest. “Too coincidental.”

  Luis chuckled. “Is it so hard to see the hand of Deas in his appearance, my friend?”

  Martin shook his head. “No, it’s too hard to miss. It has all the subtlety of a hammer to the skull.” He sighed again. “Which gives me no opportunity to refute that we are guided by Deas’s hand. He has always dealt with my stubbornness that way.” He pressed his palms to his forehead. “The church will look like an anthill that’s been kicked.”

  “Perhaps not,” Luis said.

  “I consider myself an open-minded man, Luis, and Karele’s revelations scare me right down to my toes. Churchmen don’t give up their cherished beliefs easily.”

  The secondus shrugged. “No one does.”

  They fell silent after that. But though the others took turns at the watch, Martin could not shake his restlessness and did not sleep.

  After an eternity, the sky in the east began to purple. Karele returned from his watch by the road and began rummaging through his bags. The healer brought forth an array of bottles, testing the contents of each. When he appeared to find the one he wanted, he rose and sought Cruk.

  “We’ll need to muffle the horse’s hooves, Captain.”

  The watchman shook his head. “They won’t like it. They’ll shy on us.”

  Karele shook his head in denial. “No. I’ll take care of it. Just make sure that their hooves don’t clatter against any stones. The Morgols have few horses with them. If they hear ours, they’ll know we’re here.”

  Cruk’s search for material to wrap the horse’s hooves yielded little. Finally, with a curse he shed his cloak and began ripping it into wide strips with his dagger. “I’ve had this cloak for seven years.” His face took on a look of pain, as if bidding a fond acquaintance farewell.

  “We’ll get you a new one,” Martin offered.

  “It won’t be the same,” Cruk grunted. “I knew the circumstance behind every bloodstain on this one.” He huffed, turned to Karele. “Do you think you could get your spirit guide to give us a little cloud cover? The moon will be almost full tonight.”

  Karele laughed. “Your prayers are as effective as mine or the priest’s, Captain. If you want clouds, ask for clouds.”

  Cruk’s face pinched into a sour expression of disappointment. “What if Deas says no?”

  The healer shrugged as he poured a thick amber liquid from the bottle onto his hands. A scent of camphor, lemongrass, walnut, lavender, and other less definable odors pierced the air. “Then you won’t get any clouds.”

  Luis laughed.

  Martin pointed to the sheen on Karele’s hands. “What is that?”

  “It’s an ointment the Morgols use to soothe their horses.”

  Cruk grunted. “Liniment? Salve is going to save us?”

  Karele drew himself up. “It’s not salve. I was master of horses for nine years. Every master makes his own oil. This is mine. Watch.”

  He moved to Cruk’s horse.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Cruk said. “He’s trained not to trust any hand but mine.”

  “I’ll accept the consequences of my actions, Captain.” Karele approached, hands forward, making soft noises in the Morgol language. The smell of the healer’s oil hung in the air and the singsong of his voice lulled Martin into a sudden lassitude. His head bobbed forward, and he jerked upright in an effort to stay awake.

  Cruk’s horse bared his teeth when the healer drew near, but Karele continued his slow advance, hands forward. The stallion shook his head, mane flying, but the teeth were no longer bared. Then Karele caught the horse’s nose with one hand and the bridle with the other. He led the horse forward and back, then side to side, crooning all the while. After a few minutes the stallion quieted, standing still.

  “Impressive.” Luis nodded in acknowledgment of the healer’s skill.

  Cruk looked awed and annoyed at the same time. Karele moved to the next horse. When the last trace of light died from the western sky, they set out for the Morgol perimeter. Karele moved to lead.

  “How are you going to lead us, healer?” Cruk asked. “You’ve never been here before.”

  Karele’s voice floated out of the darkness. “You’ll direct me, but unless anyone else here knows how to speak the Morgol tongue, I’m the only one who can talk us past the guards if we’re seen.”

  Cruk snorted. “Do you think that will save us?”

  “Save us?” Karele echoed. “No, I’m hoping I’ll be able to buy you enough time to get clear.” When no one spoke, the solis went on. “When we get to the road I’ll take each of the horses across.”

  Martin’s insides jumbled into a disordered pile. The more he tried to calm himself, the worse the tangle became. His diaphragm worked to pull the cool autumn air into his lungs. What neither Karele nor Cruk had said stared him in the face, threatening and unavoidable. He possessed no woodcraft.

  Cruk, large though he might be, had practiced the ways of the watch for years, learning how to move through the forest without a sound. Karele, small and nimble, might have been a rabbit for all the traces he left. Even Luis moved by the glow of the newly risen moon with assurance.

  He, however, was a fat priest whose stealth was limited to theological discussions and political maneuvering. With his reluctance beating in his chest, he tugged on Karele’s tunic. “I need to go last.”

  The solis opened his mouth to object, caught Martin’s glance, and pressed his lips together with a nod.

  It took them an hour to reach the spot where they had seen the patrol that morning. Cruk had been forced to clear a path, necessitating unnumbered pauses to move obstacles that might give them away. Even so, it seemed Martin’s every step brought the telltale crack of a twig. Nervous sweat soaked his tunic. Curse his clumsy hide, he was going to get them all killed.

  They hid in a gully at a turn in the road between Berea and Callowford and waited. Martin watched in sick fascination as the moon climbed higher in the cloudless sky and prayed the guard in charge of this section of road would come and go quickly. Once the moon cleared the trees, the light would provide more than enough illumination to discern the bulk of a comfortably fed priest.

  He’d just mustered the courage to suggest they retreat and wait for another night and more cloud cover when the soft crunch of footsteps on the road stopped his breathing. A short figure, lightly clothed despite the chill, approached from a large open track in the woods, walking with the lazy, disinterested steps of the bored. He stopped in the middle of the road to gaze in the distance each way and with an audible sigh moved on.

  Karele pulled his hands from beneath his cloak, the sudden odor of liniment strong in the air, and led Cruk’s horse down the road. Cruk followed, his sword glinting like a promise of death in the silver light of the moon. Neither the horse nor the men who moved with it made a sound. Martin watched them until distance or darkness—he couldn’t tell which—swallowed them.

  Martin waited next to Luis, determined not to speak. The minutes passed in a tortured agony of uncertainty when Karele did not return. How long would it be before another guard passed by?

  The moon crested the trees. To Martin the sudden flood of reflected light looked like a condemnation. Still Karele didn’t return. A ghost of movement to his right caught his attention, and he hunkered lower to the ground like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. A guard moved with purposeful strides, as if assured in the knowledge that there was nothing to see on his patrol, now or ever. He swung a sabre as he moved, slicing through stray plants that presented themselves. The edge of his sword glinted and disappeared by turns, and the tops of the plants he cut fell straight down, testimony to the keen edge he kept on the blade. Martin rubbed his neck.

  Ten
minutes after the guard passed, a figure emerged from the far shadows of the road and approached their hiding spot. Karele.

  “What took you so long?” Martin whispered.

  “Their path parallels the road for a way,” Karele said. “It was necessary to get beyond it before returning. Cruk and his horse are safe. Come, reader. You and your horse will accompany me now.” He moved his hands to stroke the horse’s nose with his oil.

  A sudden terror gripped Martin, and he grabbed Luis’s hand. “Take care, my friend.”

  The reader nodded and moved to take his place next to Karele, who surveyed the roadway with studious intensity. On impulse, Martin stepped up to Luis’s horse, took its head in his hands, and blessed it. Be silent.

  The three—healer, reader, and horse—moved off into the semidarkness to leave Martin in the gully once more. Ten paces behind him his horse, probably lonely, whickered softly. He moved back to the mare and rubbed her nose the way he’d seen Karele do it. Bemused, he stroked the horse, the smell of liniment wafting up to him from his hands.

  He drifted, lulled by the smell and the rhythm of his hands stroking his mare. When Karele touched his elbow, he started, and his horse shied.

  “Quiet, Pater,” the healer said. “We must move quickly. Something has agitated the patrol. They no longer move predictably.”

  They retraced their steps to the gully by the edge of the road and stopped. There, a single guard stood, turning in slow circles, his head lifted and his sword clenched tight in his hand. Without the blade he would have made an almost comical figure. A minute passed, but the guard refused to move on, continued to turn.

  Karele’s breath, hot and urgent, fell on his ear. “Cover your hands if you want to see dawn, priest. He smells the oil.” The healer covered Martin’s horse’s nose with his cloak.

  Martin shoved his hands under his tunic even as his brain yammered, It’s not enough! It’s on my clothes!

  The guard turned a few more circles, interrupted at intervals as if he’d lost the scent, and then moved on.