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

by Patrick W. Carr

  Rula sniffed. “Ridiculous. If you’re that good with the staff, the sword should come naturally. You just need the right instructor.” He came forward to rest his hand on Errol’s shoulder. “Let me teach you.”

  Errol took a deep breath. He would never have a better opportunity to approach Rula about the caravan master. “May we discuss it as we walk, Count Rula? After more than a week on my back, I need to stretch my legs.”

  Rula nodded assent, but his eyes narrowed in speculation. “I am at your service, Earl Stone.” He turned to those assembled. “Shall we meet together at the third hour tomorrow, my friends?”

  The count moved at a leisurely pace toward his gardens. He pointed toward a myrtle tree, thick with vibrant pink blossoms. “That one is my favorite,” he murmured. “The blossoms never fail to startle me.”

  Errol nodded his agreement. “It’s beautiful. We have something like it in the Sprata, but it only blooms for a few weeks in the spring.”

  Rula gave him a knowing look. “You didn’t really want to talk about lessons in the sword, Earl Stone. I love my garden, but perhaps we should address the concern that requires a private meeting.”

  Errol paused, searching the count’s voice for any sign that he’d given offense. Basqus were given to be passionate people—quick to love, quicker to anger—but Rula’s voice sounded open, courteous.

  “Thank you, Count. I’m new to my title, so please forgive me if my manners are less than courtly.”

  “Earl Stone, that is as courtly and well-spoken an introduction as I’ve heard from a noble in some time. Most of us have forgotten our manners, I think. Please continue.”

  Errol bowed from the neck in a show of thanks. “I’ll try to be brief. The details would take days.” He sighed. “The Judica has placed me under compulsion to find a renegade reader and kill him.”

  The count’s face darkened. “Monstrous. I thought the church had given up that disgusting practice.”

  Errol shrugged. “For the most part they have. I seem to be the exception. The worst part of their charge is that the reader in question has escaped to Merakh.”

  A kaleidoscope of emotions chased across the count’s face—shock, rage, indignation, but also detachment, as if he knew what Errol would be asking. “Are your enemies so powerful, then?”

  “They are. If I do not have a guide into Merakh, I have no hope of being able to satisfy the church’s compulsion. I know of only one man with the knowledge of the Merakhi interior.”

  The count nodded. “My nephew.”

  “Yes,” Errol said. He kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, neither asking nor demanding the count’s favor.

  Rula turned toward a stand of lilac. The heavy scent filled Errol with a longing to be back in Callowford.

  “Do you know why I despise my nephew, Earl Stone?”

  Errol shook his head. “I don’t want to presume on your hospitality, Count.”

  Rula smiled. “You’re plain-spoken, Earl Stone, but quite mannerly. Here, I will tell you the tale.” He moved to a bench under a flowering tree Errol couldn’t identify. “Naaman has a gift for the sword that comes once in a century. I’ve taught enough men to know. In my nephew Deas combined vision, quickness, and an aptitude for the blade that is startling.” He spread his hands. “The sword is a tradition in our family. My brother and I were counted as the best swords in Basquon in our youth. In Naaman, our family’s talent was distilled to its highest concentration.

  “We trained him from the age of three, first in games children play with sticks, then with practice swords we cut to size for his stature, but by the time he turned ten he could best most men twice his age. By the time he turned fifteen, only my brother and I could match him.” Count Rula shook his head, his lips pressed together in a sign of regret. “By the time he was eighteen, Naaman could beat my brother and me at the same time.” Rula stopped.

  “What happened?”

  The count grew still, a stillness of suppressed rage. “Naaman’s younger brother, Daman, fell in love with a girl, and she fell in love with him. Daman was a good lad, decent with the sword, but he would never have earned a spot in the watch, not even as a soldier, much less a lieutenant or captain.”

  “Naaman loved her too?” Errol asked.

  Rula nodded. “I’m not sure Naaman knows how to love anything but the blade.” He shrugged. “He thought he loved her—perhaps he did in the small, spare area the sword left in his heart. The end was so tragically predictable, it might have been laughable in a play.” He lifted his gaze to the sky. “Naaman challenged his brother for the right to Fiora’s hand. Idiots,” Rula spat. “All they had to do was ask Fiora to decide.”

  Rula grew quiet before he spoke again, his voice as soft as the breeze that ruffled the pale blooms in front of them. “Daman died so quickly.

  “My brother banished his son and heir. Naaman vanished across the strait.” Rula turned to look Errol in the eyes. “Your guide is an assassin. His heart is more quenched steel than flesh and blood.”

  “No,” Errol said. “He loves. I have seen it.”

  Rula started. “You would defend him? The man took you captive and then tried to kill you.”

  “How do you know this, Count Rula?”

  He lifted a hand. “I am a man with considerable resources. I have found myself wondering what has become of my nephew from time to time.”

  “I need him,” Errol said.

  Rula shook his head. “My brother and I vowed to give Daman justice if Naaman ever came within our grasp. The church’s compulsion has inadvertently provided what twenty-five years and considerable wealth could not.”

  “Count,” Errol said, “you may honor your vow to your brother, but my heart tells me he will not thank you for killing his son. Naaman Ru has a daughter he loves with all the passion the Basqus are known for. And he has a debt to pay to me. Will you let him honor it?”

  Count Rula held Errol’s gaze, as if considering a great request. “Perhaps . . . Earl Stone. We shall see what can be arranged.”

  The next morning long shadows from the dawn sun stretched before Errol as Count Rula pointed to a spot on the flagstones. “Stand, boy.”

  Errol obeyed without thought. Evidently his earldom ceased to exist the moment he became Rula’s student. Errol didn’t dare voice complaint. Despite the fact that his daughter would marry within the week, Rula was taking time from the preparations to exact his price for Ru’s life—Errol would learn the sword. Naaman’s freedom depended on honoring the count’s request to train him, it seemed.

  Without warning, Rula tossed Errol’s staff. It floated across the space between them, and Errol’s hands reached for it by reflex, his palms and fingers almost hungering for the feel of the smoothed wood grain against his flesh.

  “Good,” the count nodded. “Your balance is as good as any I’ve seen.”

  “As good as your nephew’s?”

  Rula nodded. “Yes, boy, it’s as good, possibly better.” He pulled the ash from Errol’s grip and laid it aside. “Keep that balance in mind when you hold a sword, and the rest will flow from your experience.”

  The count pulled a practice sword from a rack, examined it, and put it back. He did this repeatedly, working his way through the whole rack before starting on another. To Errol’s eye, each sword differed from its neighbor by negligible amounts. At last he stopped, brought the chosen weapon to Errol, and placed it in his hands.

  “Stand like I showed you, boy.”

  Errol assumed the position—sword arm forward, relaxed, body turned to the side, and his free arm extended loosely behind him. He straightened in an attempt to correct a feeling of imbalance. Then he leaned forward once more. His free hand clutched at the air. Errol made a fist. Then he leaned back.

  “What, by all that’s sacred, are you doing?” Rula asked. “Be still.”

  Errol tried, but the emptiness in his free hand disturbed him, and he sought balance that continued to elude him.

&
nbsp; Rula shook his head, no longer disgusted but perplexed. “It’s that hand. Try holding the sword with your left hand instead of your right.”

  Errol complied, but no sooner had he assumed the stance when the small involuntary jerks in his posture resumed.

  Rula frowned, his face thoughtful. “Perhaps I judged Captain Cruk too harshly.”

  A wave of relief washed over Errol. “Does that mean I’m not suited to the sword?”

  The count shook his head. “No, far from it.” He came to Errol’s side and tapped him on the head with one finger. “Your sense of balance is so developed that it’s taken root in your mind. The emptiness of one hand while the other holds weight troubles you.”

  Despite himself, Errol felt a tug, curious. “Then I guess I should stick with the staff.”

  Rula smiled. “We’re not done yet.” He took the sword from Errol and replaced it in the rack. Then he moved down the line, the swords growing smaller until, with a satisfied smile, he selected two identical practice weapons from the rack and brought them to Errol.

  “Here.” Rula placed a weapon in each hand. “Now stand.”

  Errol stood; the sweat-stained leather of the hilts molded into his palms. He corrected once, lowering the forward tip an inch or so. There. The count regarded him, brows raised. “It seems your mind’s demand for balance has been satisfied at last. Stay there.”

  Rula moved to the first rack, pulled one of the long, slender swords loose, and gave lazy waves through the air, testing it as he returned.

  Without warning he lunged, the wooden blade whistling as it came at Errol’s head with the swiftness of lightning. Errol parried with his lead arm, pivoted, and countered with what had been the rear weapon. His stroke missed the mark, leaving him open. Pain flared in his side like coals on his skin.

  Rula stepped back, nodding in approval. “That was very good, boy.”

  Errol knelt on one knee, coughing. The count didn’t train by half measures. Even Liam would have had a hard time matching the force of the stroke. “If it was so good, why am I the one with the bruised ribs?”

  The count pursed his lips, the first sign of disapproval Errol had seen from him. “In any endeavor, boy, no matter how lofty or common, those who do it best are those who study it most. If you want to be a great master, you must first train yourself to be a great student.”

  The pain made it difficult to breathe. “What is the secret to being a great student?”

  Rula’s smile reminded Errol of Rale. “Excellent. The best students are those who reflect on what has happened. They take every bout, every fight, and every move and break them down. They go over it and over it in their mind until they’ve gleaned all they can from it. Then they use what they have learned to improve.”

  Errol nodded, closed his eyes, and raised his weapons, replaying the attack in his mind. Rula had come at his head. He’d parried almost as he would have with a staff. Then he’d spun—the reaction automatic—and struck, or tried to.

  His eyes popped open. “I missed. I tried to use a staff counter to strike below your knees, but my sword couldn’t reach you, and I left myself open.” Errol stared at the weapons in his hands. “I can’t use these. The first time I do that in a real fight, I’m dead.”

  Count Rula waved his objection away. “Nonsense, you reacted automatically. We just have to train you out of the habit when you’re holding swords.”

  The idea intrigued Errol. The swords’ lighter weight and independence of motion would prove deadly in close quarters, situations where a staff proved cumbersome. Yes, he would be a good student. Errol sought Count Rula’s face. “How good can I be, Count?”

  Rula grew serious, almost somber. “Your speed and balance make you one of the deadliest men in the kingdom already, boy. If your blow had come for my side instead of my ankles, I’d be the one rubbing my ribs, not you.”

  The count hadn’t given him the answer he needed. Errol dispensed with pretense and came to the issue. “You know I have no reason to trust your nephew.”

  Rula nodded. “You’d be a fool if you did.”

  “Will I be able to beat him?”

  The count shook his head. “Not yet, boy, but given time, the issue would be in doubt. Past that, I can’t tell you what would happen.”

  It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted, but it was good enough.

  26

  RUIN WAY

  FOR THREE DAYS Martin followed the ancient road. He found sufficient water in ponds and streams along the way, but he rarely found anything he dared consume. His progress slowed as the hunger grew, and as he crested another rise, he considered that his wandering was pointless and he would never rejoin his friends.

  But as he descended into a sun-filled dale, an impression came to him from his environs, a sensation of order he couldn’t quite define. He moved on, his ears straining for the sound of man or animal. He stumbled over the lip of a paving stone. When he righted himself, he saw it, and the hair on his arms stood out from sudden gooseflesh: The trees no longer lined the road in random design. The skeletons of huge oaks, their trunks black with age, ran before him, separated by the same distance from tree to tree.

  He hurried forward, hardly remembering his hunger or fatigue in the thrill of discovery. The ancient remnants of the road rose before him, and when he topped a small rise, he gasped, the labor of his heart rushing through his ears.

  Between two mountains, overgrown with brush, lay the ruins of a city, a city of which he’d never heard, a habitation that had surely passed from memory before the provinces had been conceived. The road he walked ran straight ahead into a broad, circular plaza from which other roads ran like spokes from a wagon wheel. He squinted, trying to accustom his eyes to man-made structures after so long in the plains and forest. He mounted the steps to what appeared to be a fountain, cracked and ruined in the center of the plaza.

  Martin laughed under his breath. Some things seemed to be common to man no matter what the age. The steps must have been built for visual impact rather than function. He lifted each leg high to mount the oversized distance between them.

  The sound of trickling water caught his ear, and he searched for it. Between cracked stones a clear stream flowed. Martin cupped his hands beneath the cool flow and took a cautious sip.

  “Praise Deas.”

  A skittering sound behind him jolted his heart. He spun, brandishing his makeshift staff.

  A small man dressed in tattered clothes with wisps of dark hair sticking out at odd angles ascended the steps with furtive jerks. He stared at Martin, then shook his head, mumbling to himself.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Martin said. “You startled me.” He gestured at the ruins. “This place . . .” He left it unfinished, kept his staff raised.

  The man lifted his head to glance at him. “This one talks. Humph. Haven’t had one talk in a while, eh?” He turned away, putting the mouth of a stained waterskin into the trickle.

  Martin nudged him with his staff.

  The man whirled, mouth and eyes wide with shock. He curled into a ball at the base of the fountain, water trickling unheeded over his head. He stared at Martin from underneath his arms. When Martin made no move, the little man unwound and crept toward him, his shoulders hunched as if expecting blows.

  Half a pace away he extended his arm and poked Martin in his gut.

  Martin grunted.

  “Are you real this time?” His voice crackled with disuse.

  “This time?”

  The man’s breath whistled from his throat. “Never had one ask me a question before,” he said to his hands. He poked Martin again.

  Martin rubbed his belly. “Stop that. I’m as real as you are.”

  The man’s head jerked back and forth, seeking shadows.

  A sense of familiarity nagged at Martin. The little man’s features and his quick, birdlike gestures reminded him of someone.

  “Who are you?”

  The man straightened a little more. Then he laughe
d. “Real.” Despite being a little taller than Luis, the impression of diminutive stature remained. “I . . .” He stopped, his brows furrowing in concentration. “N . . . Ni . . . Niel. Yes, my name is Niel Rohbe.”

  Martin stared at the little man in shock. “Teacher Rohbe?”

  The man gaped. “Was that me?” He chewed a knuckle, his gaze vacant. “Yes. Yes, that sounds familiar.” He squinted at Martin’s face. “You have a horse? By the three, tell me you have a horse.”

  When Martin shook his head, Rohbe crumpled to the ground. Hysteria-tinged laughter bubbled from his lips.

  “The teachers at the university said you’d disappeared, that you were dead.”

  Rohbe cocked his head to one said. “They’re right, of course. No horse, no hope, and the spawn creeping closer. They’re right, I’m right, but they’ll never know it.” He laughed a clear warbling sound.

  Martin took him by the shoulder. The physical contact seemed to calm the man. “Do you remember me, Teacher Rohbe? Martin Arwitten.”

  The little man’s eyes cleared a fraction. “Still getting into trouble, young Martin? Well, you’re in the fountainhead of it now.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Rohbe shook his head. “I seem to have lost track of time. Yes. Time. I didn’t expect to find ruins here. The rest of them must be long buried or covered by the seas. I’ve searched everywhere else.”

  Rohbe’s chain of thought was too fractured for Martin to follow. He’d seen men like him before—hermits who’d gone into seclusion for years, who’d forgotten how to speak to others. It took a long time.

  “There aren’t supposed to be any ruins here, Teacher Rohbe,” Martin said. He turned to take in the low hills that he could now see were concealed buildings. “You taught me that.”

  Rohbe gave a few quick nods, short jerks of admission. “Yes, and I was right. These ruins aren’t ours, young Martin.”

  Waves of gooseflesh ran up and down his arms and legs like warnings. “Whose are they?”