A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  The door behind Martin opened, and Mara bustled through, laid a platter of ham on the table, and smiled at Pater Oren before she left. The men at the table fell silent. Errol cleared his throat, afraid to speak but wanting to find some way to keep the men talking. He suspected the conversation involved him, but exactly how eluded him.

  He coughed and ducked his head when all three men turned to look at him with various expressions. Oren wore a look of surprise and Martin that of mild expectation. Luis looked like a man braced for bad news who attempted to hide it. His expression so surprised Errol that he nearly forgot what he was going to say. He stared, his gaze locked with Luis’s.

  Martin smiled. “Yes, Errol? Was there something you wanted to say?”

  Errol flushed as he turned to Martin, felt his ears grow warm and pink. “In the tavern last night I overheard two merchants talking, and one of them said that someone was killing the readers in Erinon.” He stopped, waiting for a reaction, but the faces of all three men grew blank, held to strict impassivity from within.

  Errol, following instinct or impulse, looked away from Martin toward Luis. “What’s a reader?”

  Luis opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Martin and Oren voiced inarticulate sounds of protest at the same time.

  “I concede your right in this, Tremus,” Oren said. “But take care. Once done, it cannot be undone.”

  Luis’s face clouded at the interruption, and his dark eyebrows gathered like a storm. He faced Errol once more, smoothing his features before beginning again.

  “Errol, the church has many parts, some more . . . visible than others. The structure of the church mirrors our theology. As Deas is the head, so the clergy—the archbenefice, benefices, and priests—are head of the church. But there is another part of the church, much smaller, called the conclave that consists of a group of men referred to as readers—though that description belies the complexity of their task. The purpose of the conclave is to provide information and guidance to the church and the king.” Luis drank and then inhaled like a man preparing to dive into a pool. “The head of the conclave is titled primus. Only the archbenefice and the king outrank him.”

  Errol cut his gaze to Martin and Oren. They sat in their chairs like statues of flesh, lifelike, yet not moving, bound by Luis’s will and apparent authority, but resisting it in silence.

  Before Luis could continue, Cruk entered—wearing a sword, of all things—and the tension in the room broke to exhales of relief and disappointment. For an insane moment Errol thought the man would cross the room, grab him by the back of his shirt, and throw him into the street.

  He looked back to Luis, but Martin’s servant, or the man Errol used to think of as his servant, no longer seemed inclined to speak. The moment of Luis’s revelation had passed. Errol wavered between disappointment and relief. He couldn’t escape the feeling Luis wanted something from him, something important. Instinctively, he resisted.

  Martin levered his bulk away from the table, grabbing a last slice of ham in the process. “We thank you for your hospitality, Pater Oren,” he said in formal tones with a bow. Then he smiled. “You still set the best table in the Sprata foothills.”

  Oren rose, bending from the waist in acceptance of the compliment, and bade them farewell. Martin trailed Cruk out of the room, followed by Errol, who preceded Luis. As he passed Pater Oren, he caught a glimpse of the old priest reaching out to grab Luis by one arm.

  On the street in front of the church, four horses stood saddled, snorting plumes of mist into the cool morning air and stomping their forefeet on the earth. Cruk lifted his leg, slipped his foot into the stirrup of a large bay gelding with practiced ease, and swung himself into the saddle. Errol watched as Martin sketched a rough imitation of Cruk. The horse in front of Errol, a piebald that looked ready for pasture, tossed its head in expectation.

  He backed away, his hands raised. “I don’t think so.”

  Cruk grunted, towering over him. “Mount up, boy. You’re coming with us, and we don’t have time to walk the horses so you can keep up.”

  Errol craned his neck to meet his gaze. “Why do I have to go with you?”

  “That was my decision.” Luis stepped from the church and mounted, his skill nearly matching Cruk’s. “There are still things we need to discuss.” At a look from Martin he paused, then added, “At the proper time.”

  Errol wished he could find some way to leave Martin and the rest of the company to their journey. The inn would be opening in a couple of hours, and he still had plenty of coin. It would be better if he stayed behind. The look on Cruk’s face, however, convinced him they meant him to ride back to Callowford in their company, lack of riding experience or not. “I don’t know how to ride.”

  Cruk’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to learn on the way. I’ll teach you. First lesson, don’t ever annoy your teacher. Second lesson, put your foot in the stirrup and mount up. Horses think in groups—most of them, anyway. Relax and let your horse follow ours.”

  Errol circled around the part of his horse with the teeth, trying to remember how Cruk had mounted. Holding the reins and gripping the saddle with his right hand, he placed his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself. Halfway up his foot slipped out to leave him sprawled across the horse’s back, his head next to the neck and his feet wiggling in the air next to the hindquarters. The horse shied, sidestepped to the right, and snorted.

  Cruk rode forward, leaned over, and grabbed the horse by the bridle. He spoke in soothing tones. “Easy, Horace. The boy will stop his thrashing in a moment.”

  Martin’s and Luis’s laughter didn’t help matters.

  Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol’s horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace’s backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

  Half a mile out from Berea, they rounded a sharp turn in the dirt track that served as the road to Callowford. Errol reined in, ignored Horace’s snort of protest, and slipped from the saddle to rub his backside. Cruk, Martin, and Luis disappeared down the long tunnel of foliage. Stillness fell as the sound of hooves diminished and then faded altogether.

  Errol clutched the reins in one hand and walked bowlegged around to the horse’s head. “Do you think you could stop trotting,” Errol pleaded, “just for a while?” He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Horace smile.

  He sighed. “I didn’t think so.” Errol looked at the saddle, felt a throb in his backside. “Come on.” He tugged the reins. “We’ll walk for a bit.”

  They trudged along for a couple minutes. Errol stopped every few seconds to massage the ache out of his inner thighs. He winced. The pain, unsatisfied with his posterior, seemed intent on spreading down his legs and up his back. He fished the change out of his pocket and counted: three silver crowns and four pennies. The way he felt right then, regardless of any further damage Horace inflicted, his money wouldn’t buy more than two days’ worth of ale at Cilla’s inn.

  “Stupid churchman,” he said. The horse ignored him. “I should have let him take his own message across the Sprata and stuck to gathering herbs for Adele.”

  “Quite,” a voice behind him agreed.

  Errol whirled. Astride a dappled stallion, a man regarded him, his face wreathed with a cruel smile. His hands rested on the front of his saddle with apparent unconcern. He was dressed in black.

  Errol’s first thought was that the assassin who’d tracked him across the Cripples had found him again, but one look at the man’s face dispelled the notion. That man had had white hair and light blue eyes, while the man before him possessed hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. The eyes crinkled in a friendly smile as he drew his bow and nocked an arrow.

  Maybe it was the fact the man had spoken to him. Perhaps, he was just tired of not underst
anding anything that happened. Possibly, it was because he was horse-sore and didn’t want to run yet, but he spoke to the killer in front of him.

  “Why?”

  Another smile graced the face that held those dark, dark eyes. The bow and its arrow, fitted and ready, rested against the neck of the horse. “Because I’m being paid.”

  Errol’s mouth went dry, and he worked his tongue to find the moisture to speak. “What happened to the other one?” He bent down to grab a rock that lay at his feet, the ghost of a plan forming in his mind.

  A cloud passed over the man’s features, and the smile slipped, replaced by something cold. Then the smile came back. “You saw him?” He nodded. “An irritation. I’m not surprised Merodach let you escape. But no matter.” The bow came up, and two fingers and a thumb pulled the string with practiced ease. “The day wears on. I have a lot to do.”

  The arrow slid back, ready to fire. Errol jumped behind Horace, using the gelding as a shield.

  “I don’t kill horses unless I have to.” A note of compassion came into the assassin’s voice as he said this. His mount stepped forward, closing the distance in response to some unseen command from its rider.

  Errol darted a glance back up the trail in the hope Cruk would come thundering around the far bend in the road, like a hero from the stories. But no one appeared. Why would they? Heroes appeared for important people, not drunks. “Easy, Horace.” He needed to be quick. Errol gathered his courage, feinted left as if to run into the forest, then darted a step from Horace’s protection before jumping back.

  The arrow whistled just past his ear, and his hair lifted at its passage. Errol sprang toward the protection of the trees on the right and flung his rock at the assassin’s horse. From the corner of his eye he saw the stone strike the stallion on the chest. The horse barely moved. A brief whistle, and then a line of fire and agony traced a path across his back.

  All pain from his ride forgotten, Errol threw himself into the trees, darted in and among the boles trying to put as many barriers between him and the assassin’s arrows as possible. The man wouldn’t be able to catch him if he brought his mount in—the undergrowth would slow him. How good would he be on foot?

  The forests around Berea and Callowford were Errol’s home, every gully and path known to him. Before the coming of the nuntius, before he’d met the first man in black, he would have wagered every tankard of ale he would ever drink that none could catch him on foot. Now he felt sure the man would overtake him, and then smile pleasantly as he put an arrow through Errol’s eye.

  Not a sound came to his ears over the noise of his flight, and he fought the urge to look back. He didn’t want death to take him unaware and for some odd reason he couldn’t identify, he didn’t want to die with an arrow through his head. Better the heart. He held no illusion that he possessed features anyone would call comely, but the thought of his face marred by an arrow bothered him. Would he have time to shield his head with his arms, force the assassin to take him through the chest?

  With a mental thrust, he pushed the thought away and concentrated on escape. His legs began to tire. He slowed, ducked behind the bole of a giant oak as big across as he was tall. He edged forward to peek out from behind the tree, unsure whether he wanted to see his pursuer or not. If he didn’t see him, it might mean the man lay in wait for him, arrow ready to fire. Of course, it might also mean the assassin had given up. If he did see him, given the thick growth of the forest, it would mean he could die any second.

  There! Fifty paces away a shadow moved, and sunlight gleamed where it hadn’t before. Errol turned and ran, keeping the tree between him and his pursuer. He felt the sticky wetness of sweat and blood running down his back. Spots swam in his vision, pinpoints of darkness that painted the forest. Worry gnawed at him. What if he passed out from blood loss? Worse, what if the assassin’s arrow carried poison? The road. He needed to get back to the road. Soon or late Martin or Luis would notice his absence and send Cruk back to check on him.

  He hoped.

  He circled back in an arc, fought the clumsiness and fatigue of his legs. Deadfalls he could have leapt minutes ago, he now clambered over. Behind him, he saw a shadow in pursuit, a shadow that glided through the trees without effort and flowed over every obstacle, bow clenched in one hand.

  Errol cut more sharply to his right. It was the road or death—though even with the road it would probably still be death. He made for the dusty track in a straight line, ignoring the branches that whipped across his face in the hope Cruk would be there.

  He burst from the forest, felt the ruts of wagon tracks through his thin soles. The lane was empty. With a growl, he forced his protesting legs to move again, mustered a trot down the road toward Callowford. He’d never make it. His village was still a league and a half distant.

  He would be dead in minutes.

  A bone-deep weariness settled into him, and his legs refused to rise any more. His feet scuffed the dirt track of the road for a few more steps before they stopped altogether. He shuffled around to face his killer, feeling as though he’d spent the entire morning in the ale barrel. The man in black stepped lightly from the forest, no more than a score of paces away.

  Too tired to move, Errol sat down on the road and waited.

  Again the assassin fit an arrow to his bow, wore his victor’s smile. “Not a bad chase, boy. It will be interesting to see if I can take the rest before they reach the village.” In one smooth motion, he drew the bowstring to his cheek.

  Errol tensed.

  Hooves.

  He heard hooves. A horse rounded the bend behind the assassin.

  Cruk.

  6

  DIVISIONS IN THE WATCH

  THE ASSASSIN took one quick glance behind at the horse bearing down on him, cursed, and fired. Errol threw himself flat. He felt, rather than heard, the arrow pass just over him. He rolled, flung himself toward the ditch, toward the trees, anywhere that would buy him time. He came to his feet next to a sapling too thin to offer any protection and stared.

  He’d expected any number of things: that Cruk might have left thinking Errol not worth the risk, that the assassin would fire at him again, or that Cruk and the man in black would be locked in a struggle to the death. What he had not expected was that the assassin would be walking toward Cruk, now dismounted, smiling as if he’d found his long-lost brother.

  Cruk didn’t bother to return the smile. If anything he looked put out, as if he were going to have to clear Cilla’s inn of every drunkard for fifty leagues around.

  The assassin pulled his sword, the weapon sliding from the scabbard with a long, metallic hiss. “So, Captain, this is where you’ve been hiding the past five years?” He looked around at the road, the trees, as though he smelled something foul. “Here?”

  Cruk’s sword appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he shrugged. “It suits me.” He pointed the tip at the assassin. It looked more like a gesture than a threat and he stood rooted to his spot next to his horse. “Is this what the watch has come to, Dirk? Are we nothing more than assassins now?”

  The smile slipped a fraction. Dirk stopped. “You don’t know, do you.” He shrugged. “Well, it is a remote place you’ve chosen to hide in.” He waved his sword in invitation. “Come, I must finish you and the boy before I take care of the priest and the reader.”

  Cruk advanced, weapon drawn. When he stood a dozen paces away, the man in black dropped his sword, picked up the discarded bow and fired so fast, Errol thought he’d imagined it.

  The arrow hissed through the narrow space between the two men. Cruk dodged right.

  His reflexes saved him. Instead of taking him in the throat, the arrow lodged in his shoulder with a wet crunch of mail and meat. Cruk cursed and closed the distance, but the assassin held his sword at the ready.

  Cruk growled. “You never could win a fight without tricks.”

  The assassin smiled, showing his teeth. “Fighting nice is for people who want to die.”


  They circled each other, the arrow still sticking from Cruk’s shoulder. Dirk feinted, laughed as Cruk moved to parry, and tapped the arrow that still stuck from Cruk’s shoulder.

  “Hurts?”

  Cruk grimaced. With a look of hatred he took two steps back and yanked the arrow free. A steady stream of blood followed, tracking down his left shoulder.

  Dirk smirked and retreated as Cruk tried to close again. “I think I’ll just wait for blood loss to weaken you and then kill you at my leisure. Although, it doesn’t look as if the last five years have made you any quicker.”

  “Come and see, Lieutenant Puppy.”

  The man in black snarled.

  Now Cruk wore a grimace that Errol recognized as the closest thing to a smile he possessed. “I see you remember your training name. You were so happy to join the watch . . . just . . . like . . . a . . . little . . . puppy.”

  With a scream, Dirk closed, aimed a slash at Cruk’s head that whined in the air. Cruk parried and circled to his right. After that, the blows came too fast for Errol to follow. He kept track of the fight by the slashes and cuts that blossomed on the two men. Cruk had a gash across his right forearm. The assassin had shallow cuts along his cheeks.

  Dirk lunged, thrusting for the chest. Cruk circled the blade with his own, then whipped his wrist so quickly that the steel of his sword flexed and put another, deeper, slash across the assassin’s face.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be so pretty anymore, puppy.”

  The assassin cursed and pressed, putting everything into his attack. Whether that was the moment Cruk had been waiting for or not, Errol didn’t know. But in the next instant, Cruk pulled his opponent close with his free hand and head-butted him on the nose. When Dirk stumbled backward, Cruk took him through the throat with his sword.

  Blood fountained from the wound as the assassin slid backward and collapsed to the ground.