XIX
“Oooooo…” As HE dismounts, Dorrin winces. He will never be able to sit on a hard surface again. He slowly fumbles with the straps on his pack.
Brede vaults off his gelding in a fluid motion, ties his mount, and begins to unstrap the packs.
Whheeeee…
“Sorry.” Dorrin apologizes to the mare.
Kadara has already unloaded, tied her horse to the post at the south end of the way station, carried her packs to the hearth inside the windowless square building, and returned. “You should have spent more time with exercises and horses, instead of carving machines that will never be made.”
Dorrin clamps his lips together, then continues to unstrap his pack, laying it beside Brede’s and following the taller man’s example by leading the mare down the stone-walled ramp to the stream.
With the sun behind the hills, the temperature has dropped. Despite the heavy wool-lined jacket, Dorrin shivers, and his legs seem to alternate between the hot aches from riding and the chill of the late afternoon.
“How much farther?” He stops beside Brede and lets the mare drink the chill water.
“We’ve just started, Dorrin. It’s at least another five days at this pace just to Vergren.”
“I still don’t understand why we have to go to Fairhaven.”
“Because,” answers Brede, “Lortren said Kadara and I did. I don’t know what she said to you.” He halts the gelding’s greedy slurping. “Don’t let your mare drink too much at once.” The tall man steps back, leading the gelding up the ramp and across the chopped ground that is beginning to refreeze.
Lortren had only told Dorrin he must visit Fairhaven and find himself, whatever that meant.
It takes Dorrin an effort to pull the mare away from the icy stream that gurgles across rocks long since worn smooth. Clearly, the watering space has been man-made, since the stream banks above the watering spot are steep and rocky, while the space where Dorrin and the mare stand slopes gently into the stream and is flanked by rough stone walls on all sides—except for the ramp itself, which rises through the walls to the higher ground by the way station.
As Dorrin struggles back up the ramp, his eyes lift to the southern horizon and trace out the outline of the hilltops. He stops on the uneven ground above the ramp and sniffs the air, but it seems only chill and damp, with the faintest odor of wet leaves and decaying matter. His senses go out toward the hills.
Whheeee…eeeee…The mare protests.
Dorrin’s brow furrows as he struggles to focus what he feels. Finally, he walks to the way station, part of his mind still in the low hills above the road.
“Dorrin, can you find some brush, small sticks for fuel? All they have here is logs.” Kadara gestures toward the pile of wood by the simple open hearth. The stew pot she had bought in Tyrhavven is before her.
Dorrin smiles faintly. Certainly, he never would have thought of bringing a stew pot, strapping it on a mount.
“Dorrin? I asked about fire starters…”
“Sorry…We have problems.”
“Problems?” asks Brede, sounding, for the first time, somewhat dense.
“There are three bandits on the hill. They’re watching us. I don’t think they have bows, but they’re waiting to catch us unaware.”
“How do you know—” begins Brede.
Kadara motions for silence. “What are they doing now? Right now?”
Dorrin squints, struggles in his efforts to sense the brigands. “They’re beginning to move downhill, I think, toward the horses. Just three of them.”
“Do they have horses?”
“I didn’t feel any.”
“Let’s go out and check the horses, Brede. That’s what they want.”
“But…” protests Dorrin.
“You stay a little behind. Let us know if they have anything besides blades. Or if more show up.” Kadara straps on both blades and looks at Brede, whose hands reach for the big sword, as if to make sure it is still in place.
By the time they reach the horses, three figures are emerging from the leafless trees across the frozen clay strip that is the road to Vergren. Brede continues toward the three, Kadara at his shoulder. Dorrin grips his staff and follows. Brede stops.
“No trouble, travelers,” rasps the center figure, a brown-bearded man almost as tall as Brede and easily two stones heavier, with a protruding gut. “You just let us have the horses, and we’ll let you alone. Even the lady, and that’s making things easy for you.” His sword gestures toward the horses.
Kadara snorts softly. “Why don’t you just set down those toothpicks and get out of here?”
“Oh…maybe we won’t leave you alone. Women with spirit are rare…these days.” He leers, showing blackened teeth.
The two smaller men, also bearded, one with matted blond hair, and the other with greasy black hair, raise their swords.
Snick…
Brede’s big blade glitters in the fading light. Equally quickly, if silently, Kadara’s blade has left its scabbard.
“You really don’t want to do that, youngsters. You Recluce types just can’t kill when it gets right down to it.” The big bandit laughs harshly.
Dorrin, standing three steps behind Brede and Kadara, holds his staff, wishing that he had practiced more with it. But how could he have known that so many people actually enjoyed killing? For a long moment, the cleared area before the way station is quiet, except for the raspy breathing of the black-haired bandit.
“So…you really aren’t going to give in.” The big bandit shrugs, half-turns. “Well, it was worth a try.”
Whhsttttt…
The heavy man swings through the turn and thrusts toward Kadara.
Brede slashes, not toward the big man, but toward the smallest, the blond man in the tattered blue surcoat. In two strokes, Dorrin marvels, the blond bandit is dead, and Brede is pressing the black-haired brigand. The big sword flashes as if it were only a toothpick.
Dorrin’s mouth opens, for the sword has dropped from the heavy bandit’s hand, and he sways in the twilight, like a rotten oak, before pitching onto the ground.
Kadara swings toward the black-haired man, who has circled away from Brede and is now closer to Dorrin than either Kadara or Brede.
Dorrin regrips the staff, waiting, swallowing, knowing what is about to happen, and hoping that it will not.
“…healer!” The bandit ducks and lunges toward Dorrin.
“…ooohhhh…” A line of fire lances across Dorrin’s shoulder even as the staff drops the bandit onto the frozen ground. Dorrin looks stupidly as Kadara’s blade flashes once again. Three bodies lie strewn around them.
“You’d better practice with that staff some more, Dorrin,” observes Brede.
Kadara glances at the big man, and Brede closes his mouth. “Are you all right?” she asks.
Dorrin looks at the slash in his sleeve, and the red line. “It’s just a surface cut, but the jacket won’t be the same.”
“The leather and quilting probably saved your arm.”
Dorrin rests against his staff, still wondering at how quickly things happened. Kadara is kneeling by the black-haired man, examining the body.
“Not much here. A gold necklace, silvers, and a few coppers.” Brede has already stripped the valuables from the other two, including the swords.
Dorrin squints. Looting the bodies makes sense, although, somehow, the thought burns a line across his brain. He rubs his forehead, but the throbbing remains.
“The blades aren’t much, but we can sell them—or teach Dorrin how to use one.”
“The staff…just need to get better…” Dorrin straightens. “What about the bodies? The ground’s frozen.”
Brede smiles crookedly. “I’ll dump them up in the woods. The big cats are probably hungry.”
Kadara gives Brede another sideways glance as she cleans her blade on the tattered blue surcoat before replacing it in the scabbard. “Dorrin? Could you see if anyone else is lurk
ing in the woods?”
The healer takes a deep breath, but he sees the wisdom of her request and sends his senses beyond the road and the nearby trees. With the headache, mild as it is, the effort brings tears to his eyes. He sways as he returns to himself. “Nothing…nothing nearby.”
Brede and Kadara nod and walk in different directions.
By the time Dorrin has gathered his wits and senses into his own skull and cleaned the gash in his arm, Brede is carrying the second body up the gentle hill across the road from the way station, and Kadara has a fire started in the ancient-looking hearth. The sun has completely dropped behind the lower hills to the west when Dorrin straggles into the station with an armload of finger-width wood.
“Thanks. I can use that later, or in the morning. You might water the horses again. Just a little.” The redhead does not look up from her preparations with the stew pot.
With all the time it takes him, and the stubbornness of the mounts, the stew is ready when he stumbles back into the way station. Brede sits on one end of the stone bench.
…tu…whuuuu…
Dorrin jerks his head up.
“Just an owl,” Brede says quietly. “They hunt earlier here in the cold weather, I think. It’s probably too cold for the rodents late at night.”
“Here.” Kadara hands Dorrin a tin cup filled with something hot and brown. Then she hands a second cup to Brede.
“Thank you.” Brede’s voice is appropriately grateful.
“Thank you,” echoes Dorrin, conscious of sounding like an echo.
“You’re both welcome. Just eat it.” Kadara fills her own cup.
For a time, there is silence except for the chewing of hard travel bread and the muffled slurping of the stew.
Dorrin sets down his cup, then takes out the carving knife and a small piece of wood. In several deft strokes, he fashions a crude needle. Then he strips off the quilted winter jacket and uses the point of the knife to work a series of evenly spaced holes in the outer leather. After more stew, he uses the wooden needle to thread a thin thong he has worked down as finely as he can through the holes.
“Clever…” mumbles Brede through another mouthful of stew and travel bread. He is finishing his third cup of the spicy brown stuff.
“Had to do something,” Dorrin replies, as he redons the jacket, leaving the front unbuttoned, for the fire leaves the way station passably warm. He slowly finishes the cup and edges toward the pot for seconds, filling the cup perhaps halfway. Then he cuts a small slice of the travel bread, realizing that the headache has begun to fade.
“You’re a healer. Why can’t you heal yourself?” asks Brede after a large mouthful that finishes his fourth cup of the brown stew.
Dorrin shrugs, ignoring the twinge in his arm. The cut is not infected, but it will take a little while to heal. “It’s not that simple. It doesn’t take much to strengthen your body so a cut doesn’t fester, especially if you clean it. But knitting the muscle, or knitting bone especially, takes a lot of energy. There are stories about unwise healers who saved mortally wounded patients—and died. The patients lived.”
“Then what’s the point of healing?” Brede’s brow furrows.
“I’m not a great healer. But most battle deaths are from infections, and a good healer can stop a lot of those.” He grins crookedly. “You can’t fight again in that battle, but you get to fight a lot more battles.”
The blond man nods. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Also, sometimes healing makes a difference. Enough effort to exhaust a healer, but not kill him or her, might save someone just on the edge.”
Brede nods again as he finishes his second thin slice of travel bread.
“You think it will be like this all the way to Vergren?” Kadara’s eyes flicker toward the darkness outside.
Brede shakes his head. “Not likely. The higher hills are too sparse for highwaymen.” Then he shrugs his broad shoulders. “Still, you can’t really tell. I can’t. Glad Dorrin can, though.”
…tu…whuuuu…
“So am I,” admits Kadara.
Dorrin, pleased to be of some use to his more athletic and weapon-skilled companions, looks down at the coals of the fire, their red-white of honest destruction almost, but not quite, the white-red of chaos. As almost an afterthought, he pulls over the saddlebags and opens them, checking the contents. A glint of coin catches his eye, and his hand follows. In the bottom of the left bag is a silver…and another wooden token. He shakes his head, even as he replaces the silver in his wallet. After a moment, he puts the token there as well.
“What was that?”
“Wooden token,” Dorrin admits.
Kadara’s eyes narrow. “How did you work it, Dorrin?”
“Work what?”
“The horses?”
“I wondered about that,” Brede adds. “Nobody was really interested in selling to us, not until you started talking to that shopkeeper.”
“Hertor,” Dorrin says absently, musing about the silver and the token.
“Well…” Kadara shifts her weight, and the hazel eyes fix upon his.
Dorrin shrugs. “His dog.”
“What about the dog?” Kadara’s voice bears an exasperated tone.
“The poor thing was old and in pain. It had some sort of infection. I could sense how much she hurt. So I healed her a little.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t heal that much.” Brede’s voice is accusing.
Dorrin sighs. “It’s not that simple…”
“You said that before.”
“Dogs are smaller than people. It didn’t take very much for her, and she hurt a lot.”
Kadara shakes her head, slowly. “For that, he gave you a token? I saw you slip it to the horse dealer.”
“I didn’t know what it meant,” Dorrin says sheepishly. “I thought it might help, but I didn’t want to mention it in case it wasn’t anything.”
“Well,” Brede laughs easily, “it certainly helped get us the mounts. Who would have thought a dog meant so much?”
Dorrin frowns, recalling the tone in Hertor’s voice when the man had said, “Best bird-dog I ever had.” But he says nothing as he sets aside the saddlebags.
“Let’s get these cleaned up.” The firmness in Kadara’s voice indicates her words are not a suggestion at all. “We have a long ride tomorrow.”
XX
Dorrin squirms uneasily in the saddle. His legs are nearly raw, and his buttocks bruised. Would it have been better to walk? Ahead of him, Kadara sits easily in the saddle of the larger chestnut mare, practicing blade exercises as the three horses trudge the cold hard clay.
Dorrin wonders whether he should do the same with the staff that sits in the lance holder, but another twinge from his overstressed legs discourages him. With his lack of skill, practicing on horseback would probably result in damage to Meriwhen or himself. Why he has named the mare Meriwhen is unclear, even to himself, but, for whatever reason, she needs a name. He cannot just say “horse” or “mare.” Why does the mare even need a name?
He looks at the staff. Can he afford to put off practicing? To have Kadara and Brede defending him and looking down at his ineptitude? One encounter with brigands and his shoulder is still healing, while Kadara and Brede dispatched the three bandits as if they had no skills whatsoever.
He glances at the structure ahead. “That can’t be the keep of the old Dukes of Montgren.” The small white stone keep is scarcely fifty cubits square with walls no more than fifteen cubits high. Yet it sits on the flattened top of a ridge that extends hundreds of cubits on each side of the small keep. The ridge is covered only in grass, long and often matted by wind and weather, but grass nonetheless. Below the ridge, in the valley, lies Vergren, low stone walls age-streaked, but apparently intact. High white clouds dot the midafternoon sky, and the sun’s warmth on his back is more than welcome.
“What’s the problem?” Brede circles his gelding back toward Dorrin. Kadara rides beside Brede,
her short red hair fluttering in the breeze.
“Nobody ever mentioned…” Even as Dorrin gestures, his thoughts are calculating, wondering at the force it took to level the old citadel.
“Well, there’s the keep, and someone’s home. Let’s pay them a visit.” Brede’s cheerful voice echoes across the ridge line. His big gloved hand gestures toward the red-edged white banner flying from the tower.
“I’ll pass, thank you,” Dorrin says. “I’d rather just head into the town itself.”
“Do you really think we intended to ride up to a White Wizard’s keep?” asks Kadara.
Dorrin flushes. Why does he always take Brede so seriously? Because the big young man always sounds so sincere? Dorrin chucks the reins, suppressing a groan as the mare starts forward and his thighs remind him that he was never cut out to be a horseman. He steadies the staff in the lanceholder, and does not look back, fearing that Kadara is laughing at him again. Why does he always fall for Brede’s outrageous statements? Why is it so hard for him to laugh? He tightens his lips against his own questions and against the throbbing in his legs.
The three ease their horses to the right along the road downhill toward Vergren itself.
“Wonder…what happened to the old keep of the Duke…” Dorrin mumbles to himself as the three ride abreast.
“What?” asks Brede politely.
“Well…” Dorrin explains. “The Founders’ accounts all mention the keep of the Duke, but it’s clear that the White Wizards leveled it after his death. The Prefect of Gallos still rules Gallos, and the Duke of Hydlen still holds Hydolar. All of Hydlen, I mean. It’s all rather confusing.”
Brede looks at Kadara, then back at Dorrin. “Lortren explained that.”
“Dorrin was probably thinking about machines,” opined Kadara.
The wiry redhead flushes.
“It’s a matter of practical politics,” Brede explains. “Fairhaven took over Montgren because it was so close. The wizards don’t really rule the other duchies. They just have treaties or understandings. And they get paid for maintaining the roads.”
“Stupid,” mutters Dorrin. “Who wants to travel that much anyway?”
The Magic Engineer Page 8