The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  Twenty minutes later he drew the lot for Yes again. The sun dipped to touch the sea to the west, painting the sky with fire. Errol wasn’t comforted. He turned to Rale, but to his surprise his mentor wore a savage grin.

  “What am I missing?”

  Rale’s laugh was almost a cackle. “Oh, you’re not going to miss anything. I think it’s time we give back some of what we took in the strait. I’m going to send runners to call everyone back to the ship. In the meantime I want you to cast and see if we’re going to be attacked tonight. I pray to Deas we will be.” He clapped Errol on the shoulder and left, his stride light.

  Errol crouched in Salo’s cabin as waves and moonlight bathed the ship. The gentle lapping and the distant voices of rowdy tavern customers were the only sounds he heard. For two hours he had done nothing but cast, determining the number of men that would come against them, seeing if the reader would be there, uncovering their intent.

  Two score men would come against them in an hour, led by one of Valon’s circle. Errol shook his head in amazement at the enemy’s colossal underestimation. Surely Valon or his reader in Steadham would test to see if they were expected. They must.

  But Errol had cast that question as well. They did not. At least, the lots told them they hadn’t.

  “What if the cast is wrong?”

  The lantern light lit Rale’s face in planes as absolute and uncompromising as stone. Even his smile appeared to have been carved. “I never met Valon, but I know his kind. His towering ego will hardly credit the possibility that he’s been outfoxed. They believe they will take us unaware now, just as they have time and again.”

  Errol cast a glance out the porthole. That small opening facing the bay would be their only means of escape should the counterattack on Valon’s men fumble or stall. They would plunge into the icy waters of the harbor and then have to swim to safety. They were the only men left on the ship. Rale’s presence was unnecessary, even dangerous, but he’d refused to leave Errol to be the bait alone.

  Errol cradled a pair of blanks in the moonlight, considered the timing of his final cast. It would take him fifteen minutes to shape the lots into spheres he could trust, perhaps three to draw a dozen times. He didn’t know what question to ask.

  Would they attack the ship as planned?

  Was Sarin’s reader still with them?

  Did they suspect a counterattack?

  He cradled the wood, felt the rough end grain slide under his fingertips like rubbing cloth, smelled the bits of pine resin, immersed himself in the questions as if the blanks could resolve his dilemma. But no question came.

  A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Lots can only answer your question, Errol. They can’t guide your query.”

  “What should I ask?”

  A change in the air told him Rale had shaken his head. “I can’t tell you, Errol. What do the church and the conclave teach?”

  Errol twitched his shoulders, felt the pull of old scars across the skin on his back. “The conclave says the question frames the answer.” He paused, unwilling to say any more, but Rale’s stillness in the darkness prodded. “The church says the question should come from Deas.”

  “Then why don’t you ask him for it?”

  Errol’s hands tightened until the corners of the blanks dug into his flesh. “I don’t think he’d answer.”

  “Why not?” Rale’s question—soft, so soft it hardly disturbed the air in Salo’s cabin—landed on his shoulders like a yoke.

  Errol stifled a shrug in the darkness, tried instead to make his voice light. “Deas hears other men.” That hadn’t been what he meant to say, but it came close enough.

  “Someday I will tell you how I came to be a farmer, Errol. Few men have more reason to dislike the church than I do, but I’ve seen what we’re fighting. If the Morgols or the Merakhi conquer us, you’ll wish for the worst day under the church you’ve ever had.”

  His grip eased on the wood. “That’s it? The best we can say for the church is that there are some things so much worse?”

  “The church has power, Errol. Power attracts men of all types.”

  Errol sniffed. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “I still don’t know what question to ask.” Something tightened in Errol’s chest, refused to unclench.

  Rale’s sigh sounded resigned in the dim light. “Trust your talent, then. It comes from Deas, after all.”

  “So does Sarin’s.”

  His mentor nodded. “No doubt, every man’s talent does. What choices do you intend to make with yours?”

  “You sound like a priest.” Errol threw the accusation across the space that divided them.

  “No,” Rale said. “I’m just a soldier. If you don’t like the church, Errol, why do you continue striving to save it?”

  That was easy enough to answer. “They keep compelling me. I don’t have any choice.”

  “You could have left Erinon after you presented yourself to the conclave. Months went by before they laid another compulsion on you. Why did you stay?”

  Errol’s eyes burned. He turned away from Rale to check the candle. It was almost time to cast.

  “Ah,” Rale said with a smile. “So you’ve found a way to fill the hole left by the ale barrel.”

  He didn’t turn. “I’m a fool. The king has given her to a strutting peacock, the son of a duke.”

  Leaden silence filled the cabin, stifling any further conversation. He checked the candle. It was time, but what question? Out in the darkness, watchmen and dozens of church guards waited.

  It came to him like a whisper in his sleep. He tried to shake it, cursed himself for his heart’s ambition, but the query lodged in his head, refused to move. Even if he tried to cast differently now, the lots would be ruined by his scattered thoughts. His eyes brimmed as if each stroke of the knife cut him instead of the wood, but he surrendered himself utterly to the question. Tears splashed the deck as he made the first draw.

  Yes.

  In disbelief he placed the lot back in the bag. Disappointment and resignation stabbed through him when the next lot came up No. But the next ten times came out Yes. He couldn’t help himself. Tears stung his eyes, gathered at the corners to track down his cheeks. He sniffled like a broken child.

  Rale’s voice, soft and low, came to him across the cabin. “That must be some question, lad.”

  He lifted his tear-streaked face, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She loves me.”

  Arms enfolded him and squeezed until he thought his ribs would break. “Ah, Errol. I saw how she looked at you. Why did you doubt?”

  Errol buried himself into Rale’s embrace.

  Footfalls hit the deck above them. It had begun.

  Cries split the air followed by the hollow thumps of bodies falling. Frantic scrabbles and scratches on the planks above him told where a dying man thrashed. Arrows thunked into the topside of the ship. Sounds of swordplay came through the porthole.

  Errol gripped his staff, checking the bladed knobblocks at each end. His palms sweated with the effort of staying within the captain’s quarters. “Shouldn’t we go fight?”

  Rale smiled. “You’re an honorary captain in the watch, Errol, but you don’t know much about command yet. The commander doesn’t put himself in the vanguard. His responsibility is to lead, not to fight.”

  “I’m not a captain.”

  “Not yet,” Rale said in agreement. “But you’re the focal point of the enemy’s attacks. If it’s you they want dead, then it’s you we need to keep alive.”

  Errol’s mind conjured a tapestry of blood and carnage as the rain of arrows, the thump of bodies, and the clanging of steel went on. When it ended he was surprised to see only a quarter hour had passed on the candle. In less time than it took to make a cast, Valon’s attack in Steadham had been nullified.

  Rokha’s voice followed three knocks on the cabin door. Errol rushed to it, flung it open. “Well?” />
  Ru’s daughter wore a fierce smile and exertion colored her cheeks. “It’s done.”

  “How many men did we lose?” Rale asked.

  “A handful of church guards.” She scowled. “They didn’t believe me when I said Valon’s forces would turn from their retreat.”

  “Do we have the reader?”

  Rokha lifted and dropped her shoulders. “It’s hard to tell in the dark, but everyone who’s not dead is under guard on the aft deck.”

  Rale questioned Errol as he led the way. “Will you be able to pick him out?”

  Errol shook his head. “Probably not. I think Sarin’s circle left the conclave before I arrived.” He pointed at Rokha. “But I think she might be able to find him.”

  Ru’s daughter smiled, but the glance she gave Errol and Rale was wary. “How would I do that?”

  “You can spot compulsion,” Errol said. “I think the malus’s influence works something like that.”

  “Possession isn’t the same thing as compulsion. I don’t know if that will work,” Rokha said. “But I’ll try.”

  The prisoners, bloodied and weaponless, lined the aft deck. Their variety shocked Errol. He’d expected a homogenous row of swarthy, dark-haired, black-eyed men. Instead, a collection of Bellians, Soedes, and Fratalanders shifted their feet under the intense stares of the watch.

  Errol stared. “By the three, how many traitors are there in the kingdom?”

  Rale made a sound that might have been a laugh but for the look of death he wore. “Money buys men anywhere.”

  Rokha moved down the line, searching the face of each man as she went. She stopped, turned, and retraced a step. In front of her a tall Fratalander with dark brown hair and blue eyes stood trembling.

  She pointed. “Something’s not right with this one.”

  Errol marveled at Rokha’s understatement. The Fratalander sweated and twitched as muscle spasms rocked his body. His eyes rolled, and spittle bubbled from one corner of his mouth.

  When he saw Errol he stilled and smiled. “Greetings, omne. I’m pleased to find you will be a more worthy adversary than I first thought.”

  Steel flashed in the moonlight. The Fratalander’s head flew off the deck to splash in the water of the bay. Blood fountained in the darkness. Naaman Ru stood, sword in hand, looking no more bothered than if he’d just slaughtered a chicken.

  Errol choked as the body folded in on itself and slumped to the deck. “What did you do that for?”

  Ru gestured with his sword to Rale. “He ordered it.”

  Errol’s mentor nodded. “That was Valon. He was using the Fratalander’s eyes. I wanted the reader killed before he could see what we all look like.” Rale sighed, his chest filling, then falling. “We won’t be able to catch him off guard again.” He turned to Ru. “Master Ru, please give each of the prisoners the choice between the sword and the noose. I want to be out of Steadham by noon.”

  Errol looked at Rale as if his teacher had become someone unrecognizable. “You’re just going to kill them?”

  Rale’s face clouded. “Yes. These men tried to kill you, Errol, and would have killed us all. They’ve betrayed their kingdom. There’s no going back for any of them. Look at them. Any one of these men would sell his soul again for the chance to strike you down. Would you put them in a jail to rot for the rest of their lives, take the chance that they might escape and betray their countrymen to the Merakhi again?”

  Errol followed Rale off the ship, trying to ignore the sounds behind him.

  14

  Wrought

  THREE DAYS OUT from Steadham, in the midst of the Einland province, Errol watched Merodach haul himself into the saddle of a horse with the labored breathing of a woman giving birth. By the time the captain righted himself, his face was nearly as white as his hair. Rokha stood to one side, her eyes filled with the grudging admiration one gives to an underestimated opponent.

  “Well done, Captain,” she said. “Let’s see if you can stay up there.”

  Merodach gave a mocking bow to his physician and raised a hand to point at the wagons of furs that Ru had procured to set up their disguise for the trip south. “I think I should be able to match any pace our caravan will set.”

  Errol had never seen Merodach smile before, and the captain didn’t now, but he held a sense of amusement about him whenever Rokha challenged him that hinted at jests and teasing. Rokha stood to one side, her eyes considering. With a start she jerked as if waking, gave Errol a frown, and moved away.

  A voice hailed him from ahead, and he turned to see Rale and Naaman Ru bearing down on him as they did every morning. Rale brought forth a map of the province, the parchment littered with the names of every village that boasted even a single inn.

  Ru stood to one side, chafing as he always did under Rale’s authority, but even more so now that they had taken on the guise of a caravan. “What aimless wandering do you mean to plot out for us today, boy?”

  Errol smiled, allowing himself to enjoy this moment when his former captor was forced to take his direction. “I don’t mean to plot it out, Ru. I keep telling you that. As we hit each crossroads, we’ll decide where to go next.” He gave a pointed glance to the furs. “By delaying our decisions until the last possible moment, we deprive Valon of the weapon of being able to cast our position. We’re keeping your cargo safe.”

  Ru’s shoulders twitched as if casting off an unwelcome hand. “It’s not my cargo.” He gestured toward the watchmen posing as caravan guards. “And these aren’t my guards.”

  Errol shrugged. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “What’s wrong?” Ru asked as if the answer should have been obvious. “Any idiot can tell they’re not merchant guards. Look at them. If you or Rale go anywhere near them, they snap to attention as if they are forming ranks. It’s taken me three days to get them to stop doing it anytime I come around. And their clothes—look at their clothes. Not a button missing, not a stitch out of place. It’s disgusting.”

  Rale laughed. “Come now, Ru. I’m sure that any number of caravan masters run an orderly operation.”

  “But not mine,” Ru said. “Do you want this disguise to work?” he asked Errol. At his nod, he went on. “Then get these men to act a little more like Conger there—else the first real trading town we come to, our disguise will be ruined.”

  Errol glanced at Conger. The former priest was busy shaking a boot, his clothes so rumpled he looked like a pile of dirty laundry with arms and legs. When he felt their gazes on him, he gave a good-natured wave and belched.

  Rale nodded. “Point taken, Master Ru. I’ll speak to the guards and see if I can get them to take the edge off their usual discipline.” He turned to Errol with the map extended before him. “Now, where to today, lad?”

  “Where are we?” Errol asked.

  Rale pointed, his index finger resting on symbols denoting two large villages, almost towns—Unich and Trier. Of the two, Unich lay closer to the great caravan route that ran through Longhollow, and then on to the province of Talia, and finally to the Forbidden Strait, which separated Illustra from Merakh.

  “Trier sounds nice. Let’s go through there.”

  Rale nodded as if the decision held little consequence. Errol hoped so, but he didn’t intend on mapping out a route that would leave the caravan open to attack either. They were under way in minutes. Errol mounted Midnight, the horse Rale had given him months ago. Ru drove the caravan master’s wagon, its side splashed with the purple-and-black diamond that identified him to other traders.

  Errol gave him a smile. “I can’t recall ever seeing a caravan that broke camp so quickly, Master Ru. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Ru grunted without looking in Errol’s direction.

  “Yes,” Errol continued, “quite impressive.” He turned in his saddle to gesture at the precisely spaced wagons, each one with a guard at exactly the same point, as if each were a copy of the other. “And look how attentive they are to their duties. Yes, sir, you w
on’t find any men like Loman Eck in this caravan.”

  Ru twisted in his seat to stab an icy glare at Errol. “Ha! Loman Eck would reduce half these men to buzzard food.”

  Errol’s smile grew. “You mean if he was sober enough to be able to tell dirt from sky, right? You had just busted him to fifteenth for being drunk on duty when I joined the caravan, yes?”

  The caravan master shifted in his seat and set his gaze forward. A touch on Errol’s arm kept him from making his next verbal jab at Ru’s expense. Rokha, her light brown eyes serious, rode next to him.

  “Rale wants to see you at the back of the caravan.”

  A band tightened around Errol’s chest. “Trouble?”

  Rokha shook her head. The motion sent waves through her thick, black hair, which caught the sunlight. Over her shoulder, Merodach studied her, his face inscrutable. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But it’s hard to tell with that one. He doesn’t respond to trouble the way most men do.”

  Errol grimaced. “Probably because he’s seen so much of it.”

  He pulled on the reins and clucked to Midnight. Rale rode at the rear of the caravan as if nothing untoward had happened. Errol eased his mount in beside him with a lift of his eyebrows.

  “We’re being followed,” Rale said without turning around.

  Errol cast a glance behind but the hilltop they’d just crested remained empty. “I don’t see anything. Is it Valon?”

  “I don’t think so. These people ride like they’re simply trying to overtake us. There are only three of them, so they’re no threat in and of themselves.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “They should crest the hill any moment now. When they do, tell me what you see. My eyes aren’t as sharp as yours.”

  Rale’s voice carried a strange undercurrent that Errol couldn’t identify, but his mentor’s face carried no hint at what might be amiss. Errol watched the hill, and when the riders crested it, he squinted in an effort to make out details. There were three men, one of them on the small side, sparsely provisioned for a quick journey.