A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Then he saw it. Purple and black diamonds on a yellow background waved over the teeming masses. He took a breath, like a diver about to plunge into water, and elbowed his way through the press toward the man whose tunic matched the flag in every detail. As he narrowed the distance, the smell of newly tanned hides assaulted him, and he fought to keep from gagging.

  Guards of every description lounged about the site. A man with a puckered scar running down the side of his face stalked among the wagons kicking any guard who appeared to be sleeping. Many of those struck made a brief show of attentiveness before returning to their half-lidded somnolence. Errol almost turned back, convinced he should try his luck elsewhere, but the man in purple and black noticed him and beckoned to him with a smile.

  He led his horse toward the caravan master, a man whose dark hair and coloring marked him as a Basqu. Unlike the other caravan masters he’d seen, this one wore a sword. Errol stopped short of the weapon’s reach. “A man in yellow and black stripes told me you might be looking for a new guard.”

  A smile blossomed beneath the caravan master’s mustache. “Ah, that would have been Orbeck. I’m Naaman Ru.” At Errol’s nod he continued. “I already have a full complement of guards, but I’m always looking to improve the quality of my protection.” Ru’s gaze wandered away from Errol’s eyes and stopped at his hip. “Where’s your sword?”

  Errol hefted the staff, tapped it against the ground twice. “I use this.”

  This earned him a lift of Ru’s brows, and the man caressed the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. “I find it easier to kill someone if I have something sharp.”

  “If I have to kill someone, I can do it just as well with my staff.” He shrugged, trying to appear confident. “A crushed windpipe may not be as clean as a thrust to the heart, but it accomplishes the same thing.” He gripped the staff, hoping his face didn’t betray the sudden racing in his veins. What had he gotten himself into?

  Ru seemed to enjoy his answer. The man’s eyes lit with pleasure. “Well spoken. What’s your name?”

  Errol licked his lips. “Call me Stone.” He bit his cheek, frustrated by the slip, but he doubted anyone outside of Callowford would know his last name. In fact most of the people in his village didn’t seem to be aware that he even had a full name, but Rale’s admonishment against giving away information needlessly still rung in his ears.

  “So, another orphan looks to make his way in the world. I had a man named Wood for a while and another named Tanner. All right, Stone,” Ru said. “If you want to become one of my guards, all you have to do is prove that you’re better than the least of them.”

  Naaman smiled, enjoying Errol’s confusion. “Here in Ru’s caravan the guards fight to establish their position.” He pointed to the man with the puckered scar on his cheek. “See him? He’s the first. There are fifteen in all.” Ru lifted his shoulders. “All you have to do is beat the fifteenth and you’re hired.”

  He pivoted on one heel. “Rokha! Rokha, where are you?”

  A woman, tall, lithe, yet muscled through the shoulders, stepped between a pair of wagons. “What do you want? I’m not supposed to be on duty for another two hours.” The voice wore the same traces of Basqu accent that Ru’s did.

  But the woman’s eyes and dark glossy hair marked her as Merakhi.

  Ru sketched a mocking bow toward Errol. “We have a candidate. Who’s fifteenth this week?”

  She pointed. “Him? What’s wrong with you? He probably doesn’t even shave yet.”

  Ru lifted his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Who am I to turn away a lad seeking adventure and employment?”

  The woman snorted, then turned her dark-eyed gaze to Errol once more. “More like he’s on the run for dealing falsely with some lord’s daughter.” She looked him over the way horse traders examined a prospective buy. “Yes. Skinny little girls like skinny, pretty-faced boys.” She shot an inscrutable look at the caravan master that Ru missed. “We don’t want this one.”

  Errol stepped forward. Rokha threatened to scuttle his chance to join Ru’s caravan. “Who’s fifteenth? I mean to join up with a caravan headed to the capital, if not this one, then some other.”

  The woman’s eyes hardened, and Errol’s skin pebbled with remembered insanity. “Loman Eck.” She spat, then smiled at Ru’s sudden consternation. “You still want to let the boy fight? You know the constable is just itching for some excuse to take you in.”

  The merchant licked his lips, disappointment plain on his face, as if he’d been promised a sumptuous meal and then deprived of it. He chewed on his lower lip. With a smile, he straightened. “Rokha, fetch Loman. Make sure he understands not to kill the boy. I make it your duty to prevent it.”

  Rokha shot the caravan master a look of pure disgust. “Have you told him the rules?” Rokha asked. At a shake from Ru, she turned to Errol. “The contestants fight until one surrenders or is disabled.” She stepped toward Errol, and her voice became soft, dangerous. “Eck prefers the latter. He fights with punja sticks.”

  Errol’s incomprehension must have showed. She took him by the elbow, guided him away from Ru. “Punja sticks have a heavy knob on the end. Eck is as stupid and mean as they come. He’s hard to put down, and he likes hitting his opponents on the head before they have a chance to surrender. The last man to lose to Eck still can’t remember his own name. Go find a different caravan.”

  He met Rokha’s eyes even as the blood dropped from his head to his stomach. “I need to get to Erinon, and traveling as a caravan guard is the best way. Thanks for looking out for me. Go get Eck.”

  She snarled, baring her teeth. “Fool boy. I don’t care what Eck does to you, but if he kills you, that fat constable will keep us here while he investigates your death. Lost time means lost money.” Her voice dropped. “Who are you running from, boy?”

  Errol turned away from her question, ready to appeal to Ru. Warring emotions chased across the caravan master’s face. Rokha’s words had struck a chord with him, stoking some caution or fear.

  Something needed to be done. “Here.” He handed her Midnight’s reins. “I need to warm up.” He took his staff, checked the knobblocks at each end, and took a few steps to put him out of striking distance of Ru and the woman.

  Despite the urgency pounding in his chest, he started with the most basic moves: spin, block, thrust. As his shoulders loosened he glided through the more complex forms. Thoughts of Eck and fighting drained away as he lost himself in the poetry of his staff. He moved faster until the ends of the staff buzzed and blurred through the air.

  Ru’s voice broke the spell. “Stay here, Rokha. I’ll get Loman Eck myself.”

  Errol grounded the staff. Rokha stepped close. “You flow like water, boy. I sure hope you know how to fight.” Her expression opened, became almost sympathetic. “Eck is a drunk, but drunk or sober he fights dirty. If you let him get close to you, you’re finished. Don’t ever turn your back on him—even when you think it’s finished.”

  Between the wagons stepped Ru and a big ugly man carrying a pair of sticks with heavy wooden knobs on the end. Errol judged the sticks—punja, Rokha had called them—to be about the length of a sword, maybe a bit longer.

  Eck took a pull from something in a bottle and wiped his mouth, leaving a dirty smear across his face. “You brought me here to fight this?” he spat. A long scar down his cheek puckered with his disgust. “Did you tell him to write his death letter?”

  Ru pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve, hid a smile from Eck behind it. “You know the rules, Eck. No killing blows. Rokha is here to make sure you both survive.”

  Eck leered at Errol before turning back to Ru. “Of course, but you know accidents have a way of happening.”

  Rokha tied Midnight to the nearest wagon and returned, filling the space between Errol and Loman Eck. “Ru has already told you the most important rule. No killing blows. Other than that, you fight until someone gives up or is rendered unable to fight.” She turned to Errol. �
��That means until you get knocked unconscious.”

  She turned to Eck. “You got that?”

  He waved a punja stick with a flip of one thick wrist. “Of course.” He grinned, gaps showing where teeth had once been. “I’ll try to be more careful this time.” Eck’s gaze grew intense.

  Rokha stepped back. Errol slid his hands along the grain of his staff and removed one of the knobblocks. Eck nodded, waiting. When Errol reversed the staff to take off its mate, Eck rushed him.

  Surprised, he flailed, trying to block the blow aimed at his head. He was too slow. The weight of the punja knocked the staff aside, and Errol’s vision dimmed as the weapon glanced off his head.

  Eck tried to finish him with a blow from the other stick. He ducked. The wind of its passing ruffled his hair. He struck for Eck’s ankles with the staff. The weight was all wrong. The remaining knobblock changed the balance. His stroke went high.

  Eck grunted as Errol’s staff struck him in the calf. “You’ll pay for that, you little whelp. By the time I’m done, you won’t have a whole bone left in your body.”

  Errol retreated, tried to open space so he could remove the other knobblock. Eck pressed his advantage, swinging blows so quickly that Errol could only defend. The weighted knobs struck his staff so that his hands stung. He fought to hold on.

  Blood trickled down his scalp and into his right eye. Eck grinned and circled to that side. Errol tried to back away, but Ru’s wagons prevented him. He was running out of room. In seconds Eck would have him pinned and he’d have to surrender.

  Or get beaten to death.

  Rokha’s voice cut through the din of fighting. “Call it quits, boy, before he kills you.”

  Errol couldn’t spare the attention to speak, gave a brief shake of his head instead. Having no time to remove the other knobblock, he searched for the new balance point of his staff instead. The wood clacked against another wild blow. Errol scrubbed blood from his forehead with his sleeve.

  Eck’s breathing became labored and his attacks became more frantic. He pressed, swinging the punja sticks as if he meant to break the wood of the staff. Errol parried, slid his hands a couple of inches closer to the knobblock. Better. Eck swung again.

  Errol moved to parry, felt the back end of the staff catch on the wagon behind him.

  Time slowed. Realization dawned in Eck’s eyes. Errol wouldn’t be able to avoid the blow coming at his side.

  He thrust, pushed the end of the staff at Eck’s midsection as the punja stick struck him in the side.

  Both men collapsed. Air exploded from Eck’s mouth.

  Errol fought for breath, circled to his right. He couldn’t breathe. The harder he fought to draw air, the less of it came. Dark spots appeared in his vision. Dimly, he saw Eck rising, murder in his eyes.

  He slid his hands on the staff, searched by feel.

  Loman Eck limped toward him, face purple with pain and rage. One of his sticks lay discarded behind him. He gripped the other like an axe.

  Errol’s fingers brushed the metallic cylinder on the end of his staff.

  The punja stick lifted, rising higher.

  He twisted, felt the staff weight come loose.

  Air, blessed air, flowed into his lungs.

  Eck brought the stick down toward Errol’s head. He watched it accelerate, heard displaced air as it came for him.

  His hands were in the wrong position.

  Errol jerked his head to the left, saw Eck shift his swing. He threw himself to the right, rolling. Eck’s foot lashed out, catching him in the hip, thrusting him away.

  His hands found the slight indentations in the wood where use had polished the grain. He took a deep breath as Eck picked up his other punja stick, inhaled again and noticed a circle of onlookers.

  He spun the staff as Eck approached, exulted in its restored balance. Loman Eck stopped, wary. His advantage of surprise was gone. Blood still dripped from Errol’s scalp, but the wound merely trickled now. He could see.

  Eck looked about, his gaze darting first at the crowd, then at Errol. With a roar he charged, swinging the sticks as before, but now Errol stood ready. He flowed with the attack instead of against it. The end of his staff parried Eck’s blow cleanly. The wood flexed, rebounding, and he pushed it, bending from the knees as his hands spun the ash into Eck’s unprotected ankle.

  The crack resounded in the stillness. He heard someone in the crowd gasp, but the sound floated past him. He lost himself in the dance.

  Even as Eck tumbled, Errol spun, striking hands, head, and knee.

  The punja sticks fell from Eck’s unfeeling grasp as he landed facedown in the dirt.

  Errol grounded his staff, panting.

  Rokha regarded him, one dark eyebrow raised in consideration. Then she moved to Eck, put a booted foot on his shoulder, and shoved. After a moment, she nodded and turned to Ru, who stood gaping at Errol.

  “I think Eck is done. He’s breathing, but I don’t think that left hand of his is going to hold a stick anytime soon.” She gave Errol an amused glance, a smirk on her full lips, before turning to the caravan master. “You’re going to need a new fifteenth.”

  Ru nodded but didn’t respond.

  Rokha leaned close to whisper in Errol’s ear. “He didn’t expect you to win. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but if you bring it to us, I’ll make sure you suffer for it.”

  Errol pulled a breath against the pain in his side, picked up his staff, and walked over to the caravan master with as much confidence as he could muster.

  He stuck out his hand. “Master Ru, I don’t drink, but I like to eat. As you can see, I have my own horse. I understand you’re headed to Erinon, and—”

  Rokha’s voice cut the air. “Watch out, boy!”

  15

  CONGER’S TALE

  ERROL THREW HIMSELF forward into Ru, sent them both sprawling in the dirt and horse droppings. A muted thwack sounded behind him, and he rolled off the caravan master to see Eck kneeling on the ground clutching his head. A punja stick lay beside him.

  Ru hauled himself off the ground with as much dignity as he could muster. He brushed here and there at his clothes, now smeared with manure, huffing with indignation. “That’s it, Loman. You’re done.”

  Eck shook off the pain with a shake of his head and stood. He pointed his swollen left hand at Errol. “You mean you’re going to ditch me for this, this boy? One decent blow would snap him in half.”

  “A blow that you were unable to deliver, Eck,” Rokha said. Her fingers twitched on the hilt of her sword as if she considered thumping him on the head again with the flat of the blade. She pointed at Errol with her free hand. “And that despite the fact you took him by surprise while he was removing the knobblocks from his staff.”

  Eck sneered. “Luck. How many people tried to attack the caravan while I guarded it? None.” He pointed at Errol again. “Do you think that a boy with his stick is going to scare bandits off ?”

  The caravan master appeared to consider this idea. Rokha stepped forward. “He lost. You laid out the rules, and the boy beat him. As judge, I pronounced Eck unable to continue. The boy knocked him out.”

  Ru tried to shrug away his assistant’s logic.

  Rokha bored in. “Look at the crowd. How many people saw the ending of the match besides your own guards?” She stopped speaking as he took in the throng of people clustered around his standard, gathered by the excitement of the fight. “How long will it take the story to spread that the word of Naaman Ru is worthless? The other caravan masters and their factors will eat you alive. You’ll be lucky to ever make a profit again.” She shook her head. “I told you not to let the boy fight.”

  Ru’s eyes widened. He straightened, pointing a finger at Eck. “You’re finished, Loman. The boy will take your place as fifteenth.” He snapped his fingers. “Get your gear and take off.”

  Fury burned in the former guard’s eyes, and he took a threatening step toward Errol. “You haven’t seen the last o
f me, boy. I’m going to be the worst enemy you’ve ever had.”

  Errol raised his staff, slid his hands to the ready position. “You might be surprised how much I wish that were true.”

  Eck’s eyes widened at the unexpected response. Then he whirled and stomped off, clutching his weapons to his chest as he left.

  Errol watched him leave, his head throbbing. He probed his scalp with his fingers, trying to estimate the damage. He winced. Radere or Adele could have tended the wound with casual indifference, but there probably wasn’t an herbwoman within fifty leagues of Longhollow. “Rokha, is there a healer nearby?”

  She laughed. The sound caressed his ears with its warmth. “Not likely, boy, but part of being a guard is knowing how to doctor most things. Caravan people take care of their own. Follow me.”

  Rokha led him between the wagons. As they approached a wagon topped with a large arched covering, the man with the puckered scar Ru had pointed out as the first strode up, looking unhappy. “What’s your name, boy?”

  Errol nodded. “Stone.”

  The man snorted. “That’s an orphan name. Well, whatever your reason for being here, there are things you need to know. The most important thing is I’m the first. My name is Gram Skorik. When I tell you to do something, do it or you’ll end up fighting me, and after I’ve beaten you bloody, I’ll kick you out.”

  Errol nodded.

  This seemed to satisfy the first somewhat. “Good. You know when to keep your mouth shut. The second thing is this: You’ll take one watch out of three every day. Every fifth day your watch will rotate. Since you’re taking Eck’s place, you’ll take his spot in the rotation. We get paid when we make destination and Ru sells his goods.” Skorik grimaced and his nose wrinkled. “Right now he thinks there’s money to be made in animal hides. Anything else you need to know, ask Rokha.” He nodded at the Merakhi woman. “She’s not only the sixth, she’s the assistant factor and more useful than most of the refuse we’ve got around here.”