The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)
Page 10
“Yes,” Angus replied, a bit guarded. It was no surprise that they knew his destination; Billigan had said there were no other places to go to on the south road. Still….
“It’s a six day walk,” Hobart said. “We can make it in two and a half by horse.”
“We’d enjoy your companionship,” Giorge added. “Wizards often have the most curious stories to tell.”
“Lies, more like,” Hobart grumbled, glancing over his shoulder at the man slung across the saddle of the last horse. Even without having a clear view, Angus knew it was a street magician by the colorful patterns of his robe. “Judging by Teffles’ ill-fated performance.”
Ortis nodded. “Come with us, Angus. Allow us the opportunity to persuade you to join our banner.”
“Yes,” Hobart urged. “The journey will be much more interesting if you are with us.” He glanced at Giorge and grinned. “And much safer for Giorge.”
Giorge groaned, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.
Ortis smiled and asked, “What say you, Wizard?”
“I’ll travel to Hellsbreath with you on two conditions,” Angus said.
“Only two?” Hobart asked, raising his eyebrows and brightening a bit. “We shall endeavor to satisfy them, Wizard,” he said with a mock bow. “If they are but reasonable ones.”
Angus looked at the horse they offered—a brown colt that looked a bit skittish—and said. “First, you’ll have to teach me how to ride.”
“Ha!” Hobart cried. “Easy enough to do. Just climb into the saddle, put your feet in the stirrups, and hang on!”
“Now Hobart,” Giorge said. “Don’t make light of it. It may be that simple to you, but you were part of Tyr’s cavalry for how long?”
“Ten years,” Hobart replied, “as well you know.”
“Don’t you remember what it was like when you first rode?”
“Certainly,” Hobart readily agreed. “I climbed into the saddle, put my feet in the stirrups, and hung on.”
Ortis stifled his laughter and said, “Don’t mind them, Angus. We’ll teach you the basics before nightfall. But Hobart is mostly right in what he says.”
“I’ll help you up,” another Ortis said, handing him the reins and leaning down to offer him his arm.
“I think I can manage that much,” Angus said, fixing his left foot into the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle. It took more of an effort than he had expected, but once he was atop the horse, he nestled into place as if it were a familiar old chair.
“We’ll take it at a slow walk until you get the hang of it,” Ortis said, taking the lead.
Hobart fell into place beside Angus and said, “I’ll take the outer edge,” he said. “No sense in you getting nervous.”
Giorge edged up on his other side, and they rode around the tent. Once past it, they moved closer to the upslope, and another Ortis fell into place several paces behind them, leading the steed carrying Teffles’ body. The last Ortis followed some distance further behind.
Once they were settled into a slow but steady rhythm, Hobart asked, “What is the second condition?”
“Tell me what a banner is,” he said, “and how Teffles met his end.”
“Why,” Hobart said, his voice mild, full of surprise. “I thought everyone in Tyr’s domain knew what a banner is.”
“I,” Angus said, then stopped. I must not tell them about my amnesia. He shook his head. “I spent my life cooped up in Voltari’s tower,” he said. “I don’t have much experience with the world.”
“You could have fooled me,” Giorge said, looking sidelong at him. “The way you reacted when I came to visit you was far from inexperienced.”
Angus ignored his speculative stare and said, “Voltari trained me well.”
“Not well enough,” Hobart said, “if he didn’t tell you about banners.”
“We were focused on other things,” Angus said, glancing at the still tender welt on his right palm.
“No matter,” Hobart said, smiling. “It is easy enough to explain. Simple, really. It is a long tradition handed down through King Tyr’s line. When a soldier rises through the ranks, he has to make choices. Does he stick with it or leave? If he rises high enough, King Tyr grants him land and a command of his own. When he dies, the land reverts back to the king, and a new commander is assigned to his ranks. It’s a very lucrative arrangement for the officer in question, since he gets the use of the land and whatever profits can be gained from it—after the king takes his cut, of course. Now, you have to be in Tyr’s army for twenty years to become eligible for the land grant—if one is available, that is. There are a limited number of them, and King Tyr is far too generous to confiscate lands for a new commission.”
“He hasn’t been tempted to, yet,” Giorge said. “There has always been a bit of a shortage of lifers to draw upon.”
“True,” Hobart conceded, leaning forward in his saddle to look past Angus. “But his line has a history of just treatment of their subjects, and his army would be hard-pressed to support him if he changed that policy.”
Giorge shrugged. “No sense arguing about it,” he said. “It’s not altogether important at the moment.”
Hobart shifted in his saddle and turned back to Angus. “Giorge is a bit too much of a free spirit,” he said. “He’s not at all fond of authority, even when the authority is his benefactor.”
“Not mine,” Giorge protested. “This is your banner. I’m just tagging along.”
Hobart sighed and shook his head. “You’ve been tagging along for four years,” he countered.
Giorge grinned and shrugged. “There’s always tomorrow,” he said.
Hobart ignored him and continued. “Most soldiers last a few years, maybe a bit longer. Some, like me, make it to ten. That’s when the first major decision needs to be made. If you continue past ten years—assuming there are positions for you in the ranks and the king doesn’t dismiss you—then you have to serve the next five years in The Borderlands.”
“The Borderlands?” Angus asked. “Like The Tween?”
Giorge chuckled. “The Tween is tame compared to The Borderlands. Nobody really worries about the mountain dwarves anymore. But the fishmen, now, they are a plague—and a deadly one at that.”
Hobart nodded. “The Borderlands run along the northern edge of the kingdom,” he said, “where the grasslands meet the swamp. That swamp is an unpleasant place. The stench is horrendous; it creeps into your nostrils and settles there, like the slow, constant torture of a toothache. There’s good reason why people call it the Death Swamps. Every harvest, the fishmen come out to raid the farms, and King Tyr has to send half his army to defend them.” Hobart paused for a moment, shook his head, and clenched his jaw. “It’s a rough assignment,” he continued. “A lot of soldiers die. A lot more fishmen do, but they just spawn replacements the next year and come back just as strong.”
“Is that why you left the army?” Angus asked.
Hobart glared at him. “It is not,” he said, his voice fiercely stoic, defensive. “I spent five years defending those farmers’ crops, and I would have gladly done five more. But that wasn’t what was in store for me. Soldiers who make it through ten years have two choices: leave or join a command that goes into the swamps to hunt out the fishmen. Over half of them die before their five years are up, and the rest have an even worse fate waiting for them. They get to babysit the caravans. They tell me it’s like walking through a river of lava one moment and sliding on ice the next. The Death Swamps is one of the most dangerous places you can go, and there isn’t any duty safer or more boring than guarding a caravan. Most of the survivors of The Borderlands only last one trip.”
“I see,” Angus said. “You didn’t like the odds.”
“No,” Hobart said, shaking his head. “A good soldier doesn’t worry about dying; they focus on staying alive. What’s in the future will wait for them if they live to make it that far. And I was a good soldier—still am, technically. Everyone wh
o forms a banner is subject to emergency muster in times of war. Fortunately, the kingdom hasn’t been at war for a long time. Except with the fishmen, of course, but that’s a predictable arrangement.”
“How do you feel about picking up the pace a little bit?” Giorge asked Angus. “Think you can manage a brisk walk?”
Angus nodded, clicked his tongue, and flicked the reins to urge his horse to speed up a bit. When Hobart and Giorge caught up with him and matched his pace, Giorge said, “You’ve ridden a horse before.”
Have I? Angus wondered, not knowing the answer. He shrugged. “It felt like it was the thing to do,” he hedged. “I have seen people ride before, you know, even if I haven’t done it.”
“Well,” Hobart said, “be careful. Max is a young one; he’s a bit edgy.”
“All right,” Angus said. “Why did you leave the army?”
Hobart shrugged. “The smell,” he said. “It was nauseating. Even at a distance I could barely tolerate it, and the thought of entering that cursed swamp was almost too much for me to deal with. But I tried, just to make sure. I barely got to the edge before I was wheezing and sneezing uncontrollably. The medic told me about one in ten reacted that way, and no one ever got over it. There’s something in the air, there; a taint that enters the lungs and stays there. It took weeks for me to fully recover from it, and by that time, I had already made up my mind. I left the army and formed a banner.”
“I understand everything except what a banner is,” Angus said. “Only those who have ten years of experience in the army can have one, right?”
Hobart nodded. “You have three choices at the ten year mark. Continue on in The Borderlands, form a banner, or cut ties with the army altogether. I formed The Banner of the Wounded Hand. I called it that on account of a friend of mine, Windhal. He and I were going to form a banner together, but in the last raid of the year, one of the fishmen latched onto his hand and mangled it. It was his sword arm, and that was the end of it for him. But when I registered my banner, I named it after him and put him down as an honorary member. That was six years ago, and I haven’t seen him since. No one has, I suppose; he went into The Borderlands with one of the patrols, and they never came back out. He still might be in there, but…” he shrugged. “That’s the life of a soldier in The Borderlands. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I could have gone with them, but there’s no sense in stirring up that pot.” He fell silent, and the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves punctuated his somber posture.
Giorge leaned over conspiratorially and half-whispered, “He does that a lot, you know. Talks and talks and talks, but doesn’t say what you want to hear.”
Hobart glared at him, but said nothing.
Giorge chuckled and said, his voice mildly disinterested, “A banner is a registered adventure group subject to the king’s command in times of peril. The king may, upon such occasions, require the service of those who are members of that banner to help defend the kingdom, and the leader of that banner to raise a militia and take charge of it. In return for the services the founder of the banner has given to the kingdom, the members of the banner shall have free passage anywhere in the kingdom and the lands of King Tyr’s allies. Furthermore, the king shall assign a minimal tax on all goods procured through the activities of the banner, provided such activities fall within the purview of legally sanctioned plundering or salvage. If such gains are not legally sanctioned, the tax will be the confiscation of all goods procured illegally and the banner—with all its privileges—shall be disbanded and its members prosecuted, where appropriate.”
Angus frowned and said, “That sounds like an edict.”
“King Tyr prefers to call them decrees,” Giorge said, off-handedly. “But it doesn’t really matter. It’s a legally binding agreement, and if you choose to join Hobart’s banner with us, you’ll be subject to it just like we are. Isn’t that right, Hobart?”
“Yes,” Hobart agreed, “and more. It is not a decision to be made lightly, Angus. Nor is the decision to offer you membership. If I had not seen the effects of your spell blinding Giorge, and that explosive display last night, I would not be offering it. But you are clearly a far more capable wizard than Teffles even claimed to be, and such skill is always welcome in a banner.”
“I see,” Angus said. “Are you sure I measure up to your standards? After all, you have only seen the effects of two of my spells, and it is entirely possible that they are the only two of any consequence I may possess.”
“Not from what Billigan said,” Giorge grinned, his eyes and lips tinged with greed. “He saw quite a few scrolls in your possession—a rather valuable little treasure, I should think.”
Angus scowled at him and said, “Oh? Do you think they are unguarded?”
“Not at all,” Giorge said, shrugging. “But it is of little consequence if you join us. I never pilfer from a friend.” He grinned. “Well, almost never.”
“Before I make any decision,” Angus said, slowing his horse. “I’d like to know what happened to Teffles.”
“All right,” Hobart said. “But tonight, after we make camp. We need to make better time than this. How about it, Angus? Ready to spur your steed to a trot?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
“Good!” Hobart said, urging his horse forward. “There are only a few hours of light left.”
2
Early in the evening Hobart reined in his horse at the top of a hill and waited for the others to join him. “We’ll stop there for the night,” he said, pointing at a caravan rest stop nestled among a small grove of pine trees east of the road. “There may be rain, and the trees will provide us with some protection.”
One of Ortis shielded his eyes and squinted while another held back and the third rode forward at an easy pace. “There are others there,” he said. “It looks like a family with an oxcart.”
“Not much of a threat,” Giorge said. “Or opportunity,” he muttered.
Angus tilted his head and half-smiled. “Oh?” he said. “I thought families took their treasure with them when they traveled.”
“That’s right!” Giorge brightened.
“Of course,” Angus continued. “They generally have very little of it.”
“Never mind that,” Hobart scowled. “They’re off limits, Giorge. You know the rules.”
Giorge sighed. “No stealing while traveling under the banner’s protection,” he said, his voice heavy. “How about for practice?” he offered. “I won’t keep anything.”
Hobart shook his head. “No,” he said. “They’ll know it was one of us.”
“Fine,” Giorge said, spurring his horse forward at a trot. The other two Ortises followed after him at a slower pace.
Hobart lingered and turned to Angus. “Ortis will set up camp and gather firewood. We’ll have time to talk about him,” Hobart added, gesturing at Teffles’ body as they went by.
“Was he with you long?” Angus asked.
“Less than two days,” Hobart said. “We stopped at Wyrmwood to find a replacement for Ribaldo. Now, he was a wizard. I’ll tell you about him sometime if you stay with us. I knew him when I was still in Tyr’s army, and when I started my banner, he joined me.”
“Why did you have to replace him?” Angus asked as they nudged their horses forward at a slow, steady walk.
“He died in his sleep,” Hobart said. “It was a peaceful sort of death, not at all the kind I want to have. Give me mine with my sword in my hand and blood on my boots! But he was old, so I suppose he didn’t mind much.”
Angus half-smiled.
“Well, we were without a wizard for a few weeks, mainly because we weren’t near enough to a city to find one. We were hunting a pack of wolves tormenting the villagers north of Wyrmwood. When word came to us that wolves were killing a lot of livestock, we felt it was our duty to help them. That duty didn’t change when Ribaldo died, so we did what he would have wanted us to do. We used him as bait.”
Hobart nodded. “Yes. He was a follower of Galmar. They view the body as merely a vessel for the spirit, and when it’s no longer useful, they don’t care what happens to it. They have a pit in their temples where they throw dead bodies to the rats.” Hobart shook his head. “‘Part of the natural cycle,’ Ribaldo always said. So, we left his body for the wolves to find.”
“That must have been difficult,” Angus said.
Hobart laughed, a robust, almost contagious rumble. “I did worse things when I was a soldier,” he said. “Besides, it worked. The wolves were drawn in to him, and we were waiting. Ortis killed most of them with his bows. He rarely misses.”
“What is he?” Angus asked.
Hobart looked askance and said, “You’ll have to ask him about that. He’ll be expecting it, especially if you join our banner.”
“I’ll do that,” Angus said. They were nearing the camp site, and he decided to return to the original topic. “And Teffles?”
“We thought we killed all the wolves,” Hobart said. “But some of them must have been separated from the main pack. They followed us.”
“Into Wyrmwood?” Angus challenged. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well,” Hobart hedged, “not quite that far. But when we left Wyrmwood, we headed back north and camped at the same place we had the night before arriving at Wyrmwood. The wolves were waiting for us. They attacked while we were sleeping.”
“Didn’t you post a guard?” Angus asked, puzzled.
“Of course,” Hobart said. “But we were near enough to Wyrmwood not to be overly concerned. There aren’t many things that will challenge that town, and with the patrols, there didn’t seem too much to worry about. So we put Teffles on watch.”
“Wasn’t that risky?” Angus asked as they rode up to where the others had tied their horses to a long horizontal pole at the edge of the camp near the trees and grass.
Hobart nodded and said, “It was a test. Ortis was going to startle him later that night to find out how he handled himself. The wolves got there first.”