The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  “I don’t care,” Errol said. “You’re the one who told me to fill that hole in my chest. Well, I love Adora, and she loves me.”

  His mentor rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell you to fall in love with the princess, boy. She’s royal. Adora doesn’t get to choose who she marries.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she belongs to the kingdom!” Rale’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Rodran needs her, boy. When Adora swore to die before marrying anyone but you and you returned the oath, you put the kingdom at risk. In terms of power and money, Weir is practically king. We can’t win this war or any war without his men.”

  “He’s a murderous pig,” Errol spat.

  Rale nodded. “Yes, and he’s a necessary ally.”

  Errol rode in silence, cursing the kingdom’s need in his mind. He played through half a dozen schemes for running away with Adora to start a new life somewhere else, but he discarded each one. He could abandon his title and become a guard or a farmer with little trouble. His newfound fame would fade, and his ordinary face would allow him to resume a life of anonymity.

  But Adora could never vanish. Even if she were not one of the great beauties of the kingdom, the princess represented power and access. They would never let her leave. Duke Weir would insist on the princess as the price for his support, both in money and men, for the upcoming war.

  Errol traced the punctures and scratches on one palm with his fingers. He hadn’t changed his mind. He would die before he married any other, but could the princess afford to keep her vow? Could the kingdom afford it? The question carried the answer.

  “She’ll have to renounce her gesture,” Errol said.

  Rale nodded. “Probably.”

  Errol sought his gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I have to renounce mine.”

  Rale’s eyes were sympathetic above his broad nose. “No, lad, you don’t.”

  A cry overhead that echoed the longing and loneliness in Errol’s heart announced the hawk’s return. His next course of action seemed obvious—convince the princess to reconsider the wild extravagance of her actions for the sake of the kingdom. He snorted. All very well for him to say. He didn’t have to marry that useless peacock. Errol regretted not smacking him with his staff when he had the chance.

  “How am I supposed to convince her?”

  The captain opened his mouth, closed it, and then sighed. “I don’t think you can, lad. She’s not likely to see the sense of the political stakes.”

  “Maybe I could find a way to drive her away?” Errol asked.

  Rale shook his head. “It’s courageous of you to think of it, my lad, but it won’t work. The princess is smarter than you are and would see right through a tactic like that. You’d only end up binding her to you more tightly.”

  “You’re remarkably little help,” Errol said. “I thought you were supposed to be one of the finest tacticians in the kingdom.”

  His mentor shook his head. “That’s warfare, boy, which is simplicity itself compared to affairs of the heart.” He grunted. “Besides, women don’t fight fair. They never have.”

  Errol started in surprise. “That’s kind of harsh.”

  Rale laughed at him. “You think so? Take another look at your palms and tell me who pulled the strings and called the tune during that dance.”

  They camped that first night in the Basquon countryside less than a fortnight’s ride from Monett, where they would hire a ship to transport them and their phony caravan across the Forbidden Strait. Errol followed Rale as he moved among the guards. Gial Orth, his violent red hair braided behind him, joined them as they set the guard.

  “Double the guard and the scouts,” Rale instructed the watchman. “Keep it that way until we board ship.”

  “Do you expect trouble, Captain?”

  “It’s my job to expect trouble. Someone’s been following us, Orth. If they weren’t planning something, they wouldn’t keep on. The closer we get to the coast, the more desperate they’ll become.”

  Orth smiled and fingered his dagger. “I could slip out of camp tonight and discourage them, Captain.”

  Jared Achio, the head of Count Rula’s detachment, approached, officious and deferential as always in Errol’s presence. “Your pardon, Earl Stone,” Achio said with his customary bow.

  Rula’s man held his tongue until being acknowledged. Errol nodded, trying to ignore Rale’s amused look. “Yes, Lord Achio, how may I help you?”

  Achio repeated his bow, though not quite as low. “My count’s orders were clear—to accompany you to the edge of his estate and then return. I expect we will reach the border tomorrow, midday. The neighboring lords would take offense at Count Rula’s armed men entering their territory without permission.”

  This last piqued Errol’s interest. “Are they that threatened by a score of soldiers?”

  Count Rula’s man cleared his throat. “Ahem, well, you may have heard that Basqus are a touchy people. Skirmishes between nobles are not uncommon, and our long history encompasses quite a number of grudges. We’ve all been allies or enemies at some time in our past.”

  “Count Rula seems to be quite mild-mannered,” Rale said.

  Achio knuckled his thin mustache and darted furtive looks from side to side as if afraid of being overheard. “I can assure you it was not always so. My master had a reputation for impulsiveness in his youth.”

  “Thank you, Lord Achio,” Errol said. “Please convey my thanks to Count Rula.”

  Achio inclined his head. “On the contrary, Earl Stone, it is Count Rula who wishes to thank you.”

  “Me?” He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  Achio laughed and snapped his fingers twice. “My count wishes to express his gratitude by presenting you with gifts.”

  Two of Rula’s men came forward, each holding a long wooden case. The first man opened the lid of the simple wooden box he held and leaned forward to reveal its contents—a pair of practice swords, light but well made.

  “The swords are fashioned from banbu wood, incredibly light but very strong.” Achio wore a sheepish grin. “The count’s reputation as a master of arms will be greatly enhanced when word spreads that one of the heroes of the kingdom received instruction at his hands.”

  Errol smiled as he considered the count’s arduous instruction in the days leading up to his daughter’s wedding. He took a sword in each hand and hefted them. How had Rula had them made so quickly? “Their balance is perfect. Please tell the count I will practice with them at every opportunity.” With a twinge of regret, Errol replaced them in the case. A sudden desire to work the forms swelled in his chest.

  “Nothing would please my master more,” Achio said. He waved to the second man, who stepped forward and opened his burnished wood case. “Count Rula earnestly hopes you never need these, but should you require them, he says they will serve you well.”

  The second man opened the case. Light glinted off of twin steel blades inside. A pair of rapiers lay before him, their workmanship apparent despite their lack of ornamentation. Errol took one in each hand. They responded to the slightest pressure of his fingers, so finely were they balanced. “It’s as if they anticipate my thoughts.”

  Achio bowed as if Errol had paid him a personal compliment. “My lord will be pleased you find them so.”

  “You made these,” Errol said.

  Achio bent low from the waist. “My master sees fit to employ me as his arms smith. I try to justify his faith in me as much as possible.”

  Errol lifted the twin swords as the arms smith watched with paternal pride. “Have you named them?”

  Achio laughed and reached out. He lifted Errol’s right arm. “I call this one Dextra.” He lifted the other. “And this one, Sinistra.”

  Rale whistled. “Boy, do you know how much those swords are worth? Any noble would pay you a ransom for them. Lord Achio isn’t a smith; he’s an artist.”

  Achio smiled at the compliment. “Any artis
an wants his work to be appreciated, Captain Elar. I don’t accept a commission unless I believe the skill of the recipient matches my own.” His eyes sought Errol’s as he said this.

  “You flatter me, Lord Achio,” Errol said. “I’m new to the sword.”

  “I do not indulge in flattery, Earl Stone.”

  Errol nodded. “Please accept my thanks and convey them to Count Rula as well. His gift surpasses me. It is fit for a prince.”

  Lord Achio’s laugh took him by surprise. “But, Earl Stone, you accepted the princess’s gesture of undying love and matched it with your own extravagance. What do you think you will be?”

  Errol gaped. “What?”

  “Oh yes, Earl Stone. Soon Basquon’s people will speak of little else. Such a thing has never been seen before. Already men and women are making plans to match your gesture. The ‘Blood Rose’ they are calling it. You and the princess would have made fine Basqus.”

  Achio clicked his heels and left.

  Rale shook his head. “Well, boy, I’ve got to admit it. You don’t do anything by half measures. We’ll be lucky to land in Merakh before the tale reaches Duke Weir’s eyes and ears.”

  Rula’s men left midafternoon the next day, and the caravan, reduced to its previous size once more, seemed small and vulnerable. He itched to complete their journey to the coast and fidgeted as if his saddle no longer fit. Though it pressed the integrity of the wagons, Rale ordered a quicker pace. Errol worked his worry over their pursuers like a toothless man working a piece of dried beef. Each time he heard the cry of a hawk, he jerked as if struck.

  A hand reached over and caressed his. “You’re uneasy today, maitale.”

  Adora’s eyes held him, trying to communicate something just between the two of them, but Errol couldn’t discern it. “Ma . . . what?”

  She laughed, gave his hand a squeeze. “Maitale. It’s an old word from Basquon. It means ‘heart of my heart’ or something to that effect.”

  The glint in her eye told him there was more to it than that. He pushed the thought aside. She would have to recant her gesture, but he didn’t want her to do it yet. For a while he wanted to pretend they could outrun her duty, her destiny. “We’re being followed.”

  Alarm widened her eyes. “By whom?”

  “That’s the problem. They’re staying too far back for us to find out, but I’ve seen the same hawk over us every day since we entered Talia.” His heels itched to push Midnight into a gallop. “I wish we were at the coast already. As much as I hate ships, I’d gladly board one to be away from whatever’s behind us.”

  Adora leaned over and covered his mouth with hers. Errol gasped, pulling her breath into his lungs. Heat spilled from her lips, spread across his face until he ached with it.

  “You seemed surprised, maitale,” Adora said. “Do you think I offered my gesture lightly? I know you will find a way to keep us safe.” She laughed. “But in the meantime, I think I need to petition Rokha for a few more lessons.” With a twitch of her reins, the princess headed for the back of the caravan, where Ru’s daughter rode next to Merodach.

  “That didn’t look like you were trying to persuade the princess to do her duty,” Rale drawled. “You could light a fire with your face, you know.”

  “She called me maitale.”

  Rale slumped as if defeated. “Don’t be alone with her, boy. Not if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders.” No trace of mirth showed on Rale’s face or sounded in his voice.

  “She said it meant ‘heart of my heart.’”

  Rale nodded. “And so it does. A less literal translation is ‘lover.’ The princess seems to think your mutual gestures signify something close to marriage. If you entertain any thoughts in the direction of consummating those gestures, you won’t have to worry about Duke Weir; the king will have you killed himself.”

  Desperate to change the subject, Errol pointed ahead. “How long before we reach the coast?”

  Rale grunted. “At this pace and with longer days of travel, a little more than a week. If a wagon fails, we’ll leave it behind. Tonight will be the last camp in the open. The villages start getting more frequent from here on out.” He turned toward the rear of the caravan and bellowed. “Orth.”

  The red-haired guard bounded forward, a smile on his lips. “Yes, Captain?”

  The watchman’s smile deepened the frown on Rale’s face. “I’m taking you up on your offer to trail back and see if you can discover who’s following us.”

  Orth’s eyes caught the light and his smile turned wolfish. “Thank you, sir.”

  Rale raised a hand. “I don’t want bodies, Orth; I want information. Don’t bloody your sword unless you have to.”

  The watchman’s face fell, and he donned a look of injured dignity. “Why, Captain, would I fight unnecessarily?”

  Rale just stared at the lieutenant. “I need knowledge, not casualties. Understood?”

  Orth saluted, all trace of banter and jesting gone. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. Get going.”

  Errol watched him leave. “Will he be safe?”

  Rale shrugged. “As long as he doesn’t give himself away. But there are no guarantees. He’s the second best among the watchmen with us, after Merodach.”

  “Why didn’t you send Merodach?” Errol asked.

  His mentor nodded. “That’s a fair question. You don’t put your best weapon in jeopardy unless you’ve got no other choice, lad. Whether it’s with a bow or a sword, he’s the equal of ten men. We can’t afford to lose him. Orth is expendable, and he knows it.”

  Errol laughed, but there was little humor in it. “I guess I’m like Gial Orth. The kingdom doesn’t need to keep me safe, so they sent me out after Valon.”

  Rale’s eyes conveyed his disapproval. “You should know better than that, boy. You were given this quest because someone is trying to defang Illustra before the war starts.”

  They set up camp against an elevated outcrop of rock that afforded an unobstructed view in all directions. Errol avoided contact with the rest of the caravan. His extravagance at Count Rula’s in front of hundreds of strangers left him with an acute need for privacy. He hid in the shadows, using skills from his days as a drunk he hadn’t realized he still possessed.

  He noted Conger still engaged in prayers at vespers before pouring himself into another tome on church history. Errol edged farther into the shadow of one of the wagons. Across the camp Adora approached Rokha as Ru’s daughter spoke with Merodach. The blond watchman’s face verged on the edge of emotion, and Rokha smiled as she traced her fingers along the back of the captain’s hand.

  At Adora’s arrival, both gave a bow of respect. That wouldn’t have happened before. A moment later, Rokha nodded and left, returning with a pair of practice swords. The women squared off. The effectiveness of Rula’s instruction showed in Adora’s movements. She glided across the ground, and though she couldn’t yet breach Rokha’s defenses, neither did she take as many hits as she had in past sessions.

  After a half hour they broke, sweat streaming down their faces. The feeling of being watched made Errol’s neck itch. He shifted and found Merodach staring at him through the shadows. He remembered his promise to Count Rula. On impulse, he stepped out into the soft light and headed for the tall, blond captain of the watch.

  Errol bowed. “Captain Merodach, would you help me keep a promise to a friend?”

  Merodach nodded without committing himself. “If I can. What is this promise?”

  “I told Count Rula I would practice with the swords each day. I have neglected that promise since leaving his villa, but now that I have his gifts, I hope to start immediately.”

  The watchman stepped closer. “Do you think that is wise, Captain Stone?” His voice was pitched so that it hardly carried past Errol. “I have avoided sparring in the camp to keep Naaman Ru from observing.”

  Errol blinked. “Do you think you’ll have to fight him, then?”

  Merodach answered with
the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know, but I would prefer not to give him opportunity to search me for weaknesses.”

  Errol’s surprise deepened. “Everything I have heard about you says you don’t have any.”

  Merodach didn’t smile at the compliment. “Such flattery only reveals the ignorance of the flatterer. I have striven to diminish them, but every fighter has flaws.”

  The watchman’s modesty stoked Errol’s curiosity. How good was he? “If I have Captain Elar keep Ru occupied, would that free you of your concern?” At Merodach’s nod, he left in search of his mentor and his practice swords.

  Errol’s heart raced as he stood across the space from the best fighter in the watch. He stood with one sword in front and one to the rear, as Rula had taught him, holding his balance in his mind as well as his hands. His fights with Skorik and his bouts with Liam had been with a staff, movements quicker than thought. Would he be able to think fast enough to keep the tall captain at bay?

  Merodach circled without attacking. Errol shifted his feet, keeping his balance centered through the middle of his chest and down through his legs. The captain gave a nod and reversed direction. Errol followed. Merodach feinted and lunged, the blunted end of his weapon leaping like a viper toward Errol’s midsection. Errol parried with his lead sword at the last moment and spun, driving his rear sword with a flick of his wrist toward Merodach’s unprotected waist.

  Shock numbed his arm as Merodach parried. Impossible. No one could move that fast.

  The stray thought, the slight break in concentration, cost him. Merodach’s sword found his side, and the feel of hot coals spread from the contact. Errol stepped back, his hand raised.

  “You must never let your concentration waver,” Merodach said. “Against a lesser opponent it leaves you open to the unexpected. Facing a more skilled foe, it creates an opening.”

  The man was a sorcerer. “How did you know?”

  “Your eyes showed your surprise when I parried. The merest fraction of a second, the slightest hesitation, can be the difference between living and dying.”

  Errol nodded. “Again?”