A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Errol gave a slight bow before he spoke. “Fifth. I defeated Jhade while you and Rokha were in the city. By the time we make Ambridge, you’ll have to pay me even more.”

  The caravan master’s smile slipped. “What game are you playing, boy?”

  He gave an exaggerated lift of his shoulders. “No game, Ru. You said if I wanted to make more money, I had to challenge for it.” He smiled. “You’ll have to fill me in on the first’s duties if I happen to make it that far. I don’t know much about what Skorik does.” He paused. “Oh, he sets the roster for the guards, doesn’t he?”

  Ru gave him a wolfish smile. “You think you’re that good? Forget it. I trained Skorik myself.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” Errol glanced at Rokha, trying to read her thoughts, but Ru’s daughter refused to look his way. She stared at the door as though she couldn’t wait to be through it and away from him.

  Should he try to apologize? He held no illusions about whether or not she would accept. The insult to her pride ran too deep. Generations of warrior ancestors were probably screaming for his blood.

  With a sigh he turned away.

  He drilled for another two days, kept his desire to move up the ladder in check while he prepared. His appetite seemed to have a will of its own. Grub stared each morning and evening as he piled and pirated food.

  The new knobblocks no longer slowed him as much. In fact, he moved the staff almost as quickly using either pair. One evening, as firebugs drifted in the summer air at their camp, Errol heard the sound he’d been waiting for: the buzzing of his staff as he whipped it through the air. He looked in satisfaction at the heavier knobblocks at each end.

  He was ready.

  The next morning he sought Kajan Vujic and Diar Muen. The two men shared similar lanky builds, though Vujic’s dark, bluff features bore little resemblance to Muen’s bright red hair and blue eyes. Muen was the only man from the Green Isle in Ru’s employ, and he spoke with the lilt common to those from there. In addition to their builds the two men also resembled each other when it came to their fighting style. According to Conger, the difference between the two was so slight they’d exchanged positions the first four times they fought. Then they hit upon the expedient of splitting the third’s and fourth’s portion in equal shares.

  According to the roll, Vujic held the fourth. He peered at Errol through narrowed eyes. “I have seen you practicing where you think no one will notice. Is good.” His deep voice carried approval. “My village is poor. Almenia, in Lugaria.” He looked at Errol with a questioning look on his face.

  Errol shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Ah, so. Is not important. Many of my countrymen cannot afford swords, so they use the staff.” He smiled. “I have fought many who use the staff. Will be fun, yes?”

  As Vujic described his homeland, Errol’s stomach danced a jig against the rest of his organs. The Lugarian would know most of his tricks. Worse, his lanky build meant Errol would be open to counterattack.

  When Errol took his position opposite Vujic, his heart beat as though he’d fought already. At the signal from Rokha, they approached each other, neither striking. The fourth’s reach was even longer than he’d expected.

  With a spinning move, Errol struck for the ankles. Vujic parried, and a swift flick of his wrist sent the tip of the practice sword racing toward Errol’s unprotected head.

  At the last instant, he brought the staff up to parry, just knocking the blade aside.

  He counterattacked, but each strike clacked against the practice sword. There just didn’t seem to be any way through the tall man’s defenses. Vujic’s reach kept Errol from getting close enough to use his greater speed.

  Unless.

  With a small nod, he committed to his plan. He would have to choose his moment with utmost care.

  Errol slid his hands along the staff until two-thirds of its length extended in front of him, engaging Vujic’s sword tip. With small beat attacks he knocked the blade aside, first toward the big man’s inside line, then toward the outside. He watched, waiting to see which return was weaker.

  There. When Vujic returned from the inside line, his movement lacked the strength of the other. With a deep breath, Errol forced the sword to the inside line again and stepped in to the return.

  Vujic’s eyes widened as he watched Errol step in and take the blow on his right cheek.

  Weaker it may have been, but pain blossomed nonetheless, and his skin tore with a sound of ripping parchment.

  But he stood inside Vujic’s defense. The Lugarian stood wide open to counterattack. A split second later Errol stood alone. Vujic lay unconscious at his feet. He put a hand up to his cheek. It came away warm and sticky with his blood. Before he could ask Grub to tend the wound, Diar came forward to help Kajan Vujic to his feet.

  “Most of the people in my village were more interested in the bow than the staff,” Diar said. “If you can beat Kajan, I don’t think I’d be able to give you much of a fight.” He grinned, looking boyish. “Besides, I’ve never seen Sven spar. It’ll be fun to see him move a sword around that belly of his. You’re fast. If you can keep him from sitting on you, you might have a chance.”

  Errol nodded, then regretted the action. His face throbbed, and in his right eye, spots danced in time to his pulse. Pushing against his cheek to stem the flow, he sought Grub at the supply wagon. “Can you stitch me up?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Grub.” Rokha stepped from behind the wagon. “Let’s go to Ru’s wagon. The light’s better there. Maybe I can keep the scar from puckering.”

  She turned her back without waiting for a response. Errol followed her in silence.

  Like the first time they met, she poured vile-smelling liquid on his cut. He tried not to wince at the sting and kept his gaze anywhere but on the needle she was threading.

  Rokha pushed the skin around the cut together, her lips pursed in concentration. “That was a brave thing you did, stepping into Vujic’s return stroke like that. And stupid. You’re lucky he didn’t catch you on the temple. In a real fight, you’d be dead now, instead of just bleeding. We spar in order to be ready, you fool boy.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that and so settled for a small lift of his shoulders.

  She pulled the needle through his skin, and he felt his flesh lift away from his cheekbone.

  “You’ll have to watch yourself against Sven,” she said. “He’s faster than he looks, and if you close with him the way you did Vujic, he’ll take your first blow and then beat you senseless with his counter.”

  Rokha was helping him. He kept silent, afraid that saying anything, even thanking her, would break the spell and send her away in a fit of temper.

  “Keep your attacks low, wear him down, and when he tires, work behind him,” she said.

  Errol nodded after it became plain she’d finished speaking. “I just didn’t want to hurt you. I was stupid.”

  Her gaze shifted a fraction, moved from his cut to his eyes. The needle paused. “Yes. Sometimes I forget you’re fresh out of your village.” She resumed work on his cut. “I knew I couldn’t beat you, but I wanted to see how far I could push you. You owe me a bout, Errol, and I intend to collect someday.”

  “When?”

  She shrugged, but a hint of fire came into her eyes, and she wore a tight-lipped smile. “When it brings me the most attention and honor.”

  “What about Skorik?” he asked.

  Doubt clouded her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe your speed will be enough. I’ve never seen anyone move a staff that fast.” She moved to leave the wagon but turned at the door to look back at him. “Are you coming back out?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “No. You can tell the first to lock me in for the night.”

  Errol sat on the bunk and waited for the sound of the lock. It didn’t take long. As usual whenever Errol roamed free, Skorik had shadowed his steps and kept close.

  Two more. Two more f
ights and he would be free to go to Erinon. Day by day the compulsion waxed and waned. Whenever the caravan journeyed in the general direction of the isle, Errol felt the tension in the back of his head easing, as though invisible hands soothed his muscles after a long day. It had happened when they had traveled north from Leister, but as they passed Ambridge, the tension returned, filling his head with a constant unease, like the buzzing of hornets. Under the influence of the compulsion, he often lost track of time, especially at night before he slept.

  He only needed to find a way to defeat Sven and Skorik, but he needed to beat the first while Ru was away. With Ru’s pupil unconscious, he could saddle Midnight and ride for Ambridge. His pockets jingled with more silver and gold than he’d seen in his life, certainly more than enough to buy his way to Erinon. Tomorrow he would challenge the second.

  Skorik would have to wait until they sold their cargo at Ambridge.

  22

  THE INTERSECTION OF PROBABILITIES

  THE POUNDING of his heart shook the bunk. Errol rolled to his side and unstoppered the waterskin Conger had snuck him the night before. Dawn broke cool and misty. Even so, sweat plastered his hair against his face and neck.

  Today he would challenge the first.

  He nodded to himself. Was he not second now? Had he not beaten Sven, wearing down the bigger man, staying out of reach until he could dart behind and beat him unconscious? Heaven’s mercy, the man’s skull must be thick. Or padded with so much fat it took a far stronger blow to knock him out.

  He listened, waiting for Skorik to unlock his prison so that he could join the rest of the guards at breakfast. Minutes before, the sound of hooves thudding out of camp signaled Ru’s departure. Rokha almost certainly had gone with him.

  Today.

  He could be free today.

  The click of the key in the lock sent a thrill of excitement pounding through him, and he vaulted off the bunk. A tinge of orange-hued dawn fell across the planks of the wagon’s floor. Skorik stood in the opening, casting a shadow that fell the length of the tiny room.

  “Breakfast.” He grunted the word and then turned.

  Errol grasped his staff and stepped down, felt the springy sod give beneath his feet.

  Now.

  He could eat later.

  “Skorik, I challenge you for the position of first.”

  The head of the guards turned, his eyes filled with mockery. “Ru said you would challenge me today. Said you’d wait until he was out of camp so you could try to escape.” Skorik laughed. “I’m afraid I have to decline, boy.”

  No.

  “You can’t be any more disappointed than I am, runt,” Skorik continued. “But it’s only until the caravan master returns. Then I’ll have the leisure to give you that lesson I promised.”

  No, it has to be now.

  Skorik turned away. The first headed for the supply wagon, obviously expecting Errol to follow. Beyond the wagons lay the picket line for the horses. Close to the middle, Midnight nibbled at tufts of grass.

  Errol would have to force the first to accept his challenge. When Skorik stopped to get his food, Errol continued past him, making for his horse.

  Skorik’s growl caught him before he’d gone five paces. “Get back here, runt.”

  Heads lifted as the rest of the guards caught the threat in his tone. Errol stopped and turned but didn’t move to return.

  “Hear this,” he shouted. He paused to make eye contact with every guard in Ru’s service. “I challenge Skorik, the first of the guards, to a bout, here and now, to determine who will lead.” He let his gaze rest on the first for a moment. “What do you say, Skorik?”

  Skorik’s face flushed, and a vein throbbed in the middle of his forehead. “You’ll pay for this, boy.” He spewed a stream of curses. “You’ll get your bout when Ru returns.”

  Now. Errol put as much scorn in his voice as he could muster. “When Ru returns? What does that have to do with us? Surely the first doesn’t need the caravan master to watch over him in a simple challenge bout.” He let his voice dip and saw the rest of the guards lean toward him to catch his words. “After all, I’m just a runt with a stick. Isn’t that right, Skorik?”

  A few of the guards laughed behind their hands or turned away, coughing.

  “GRUB!” Skorik screamed. “Judge!”

  It would be now.

  Errol took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. Skorik would try to kill him. He felt for the ends of his staff, his gaze on the first, and removed the knobblocks. Fast. He must be faster than thought, faster than lightning. He faced Skorik across an empty space and waited.

  The attack, when it came, was so sudden Errol wasn’t sure he saw Skorik move. The first rushed him, trying to get inside the spin of his staff.

  Errol backpedaled and willed his hands to move faster than ever before. The end of his staff disappeared, passed beyond human sight as he countered.

  Skorik parried every blow.

  The sword in the first’s hand leapt at Errol like a thing alive, seeking, hunting him.

  Only the greater length of Errol’s weapon kept his opponent at bay.

  Their battle hinged on a simple proposition. Would Skorik get inside the spin of his defense before Errol managed to land a blow?

  He sensed, rather than saw, the flick of Skorik’s wrist. Errol jerked back, and the sword grazed his forehead. Skorik pressed his advantage, and blows rained down like the staccato beats of a frantic drummer.

  But Errol stopped them all.

  Surprise grew on Skorik’s face as his attack failed to penetrate.

  Realization came to Errol in an instant between blows.

  He could win. Defeat was not inevitable.

  Joy welled up in him at the thought, and as he countered another furious attack, he smiled. For weeks he’d hoped for a miracle, waiting for chance to bring him his freedom, but the miracle could be of his own making. His body sang in time with the blows, and he laughed as he launched himself at his opponent. The air filled with the sound of his staff like a nest of hornets. Then his blows found something other than Skorik’s sword.

  The first stood like a rock in a storm, braving the torrent of Errol’s attack, but his sword slowed as Errol’s staff went ever faster.

  A flurry of blows later, the first lay at his feet, bloody and unconscious.

  He waited just long enough to assure himself that Skorik still breathed, and then he turned and strode without a backward glance toward Midnight.

  Sven stepped into his path, and his grip on the staff tightened in reflex. If he had to fight every one of them to win his freedom, he would do it.

  “What are your orders?” the big Soede asked.

  Errol almost laughed. “Get out of my way. Make sure that somebody takes care of Skorik. I’m leaving.”

  The sound of a real sword being drawn split the air with a hiss. “I don’t think so,” Ru said. The caravan master stepped from behind the supply wagon. “I didn’t think Skorik would be able to resist the chance to fight you, so I sent Rokha to collect the information on the merchant houses and their factors.” He favored Errol with a smile that would have seemed benevolent in any other context. “I really would like for you to stay.”

  “I’m not staying. I am the first, and I am my own man.”

  Ru advanced on him, casually swinging his blade back and forth, snipping the tops off the weeds as he came.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rest of the guards back away. There would be no help. He turned on them. “Do you know why Ru wants to keep me here?” Leveling a finger at the caravan master, he shouted, “He’s forcing me to cast lots to find the best buyer for his goods.”

  “Nonsense, boy,” Onan said. “You’re not a reader.”

  But Errol could see the rest of the guards knew the truth of his words. “Do you know what the church will do to you if they find out? You’ll be lucky if you ever see the outside of a prison again.”

  “Pah! You’re a fool, bo
y,” Ru said. He waved his sword at the guards. “They have a chance to make more money in the next few months than they could make in a lifetime. Do you think they’ll help you escape? The church is never going to find out.”

  Then Ru advanced on him.

  Errol gripped his staff, trying desperately to decide whether or not to fight. Ru’s blade glinted in the summer sun, keen and deadly. He backed away.

  Then Naaman Ru rushed him, sword raised.

  A wail like the cry of a wounded animal ripped the air, stopped the caravan master short. A line of purest black sped through the space between Errol and Ru. The moan dropped in pitch as the arrow passed.

  Errol turned, saw gleaming blue eyes beneath a shock of white hair looking at him, eyes that held no hint of anger or compassion. His hands clenched. What were his chances of defeating both Ru and Merodach? He bit his lips—virtually none.

  “Who might you be, friend?” Ru asked. “You’re dressed like one of the watch. If you think that’s going to scare me, you don’t know who I am.”

  Every guard stood armed as Merodach sighted down a shaft that was trained on Ru’s heart.

  “I know exactly who you are. As for me, I might be the man who’s going to kill you, Naaman Ru, but I hope that won’t be necessary.” Merodach glanced at the guards. “These arrows are poisoned. If one of them even grazes you, you’ll die. Now, drop your sword and tell your men to do the same.”

  With a look of naked hatred burning in his eyes, Ru nodded once at Sven.

  The clatter of arms falling to the ground sounded like freedom.

  Merodach eased the tension on his draw. “Wise choice, Ru. In fact, there are churchmen who already know you’ve been using a reader.”

  With indescribable satisfaction, Errol watched the blood drain from Ru’s face. He wanted to savor this moment, wanted to bathe in it for as long as possible. Freedom was his.

  “Boy,” Merodach addressed him. “Get your horse. You’re leaving now.”