Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  “Everybody prepare yourselves,” the Qarahni commanded. “Today we eat our noon meal on the road from your pack provisions. Barring any emergency, we won’t stop again today other than a brief moment or two to feed and water the animals and rest them as needed.”

  True to his word, Goldain did not call for a stop to make camp until the last rays of the setting sun dipped below the peaks of the Dragonspine Mountains. Rarib the bard had sung for a good part of the day, lifting everyone’s spirits and lulling them almost into a daze. The hours seemed to fly past with hardly a notice. All in all, the Qarahni prince felt things were going far smoother than he had expected. Though the day had been long, it passed uneventfully. The weary prince looked forward to a quiet evening and some well needed-rest for the animals and marching troops.

  Unfortunately, that was not in the cards. One of Tropham’s marching troopers sprinted excitedly up to the weary Qarahni as they began to make camp.

  “Uh, your highness, there is a problem.”

  Goldain could never get used to the honorifics his brothers coveted so. He was the seventh and youngest son of the king of the Wolf Clan Qarahni.

  “Trooper,” Goldain corrected, “when I hear your highness I begin looking over my shoulder for my father, so simply Goldain will do.”

  The real claim to fame of his father, Aerik, a great warrior chieftain in his own rights, was his groundbreaking peacetime policies. Under Aerik’s rule, the Wolf Clan ceased being fearsome raiders and turned to seeking ways to make peace and promote profitable trade with other nations. The peaceful policies aimed not only toward foreign nations, but also at the other two Qarahni nations, the White Wyrm and Bear Clans.

  Goldain’s charge was to extend these policies to the city-state of Aton-Ri as well as other nations even further afield. He took his mission seriously enough, but he valued personal enjoyment nearly as much as he did pleasing his father. Fortunately, conducting a serious mission and enjoying life to the fullest were not necessarily mutually exclusive objectives.

  “Now,” the prince continued, “what is the problem?”

  “There is no water,” the trooper answered.

  Goldain paused for a moment before responding, cocking his head slightly sideways. He was quite certain he had heard incorrectly.

  “What do you mean no water?” he asked with a rare scowl on his face pointed at the trooper he fully expected must be enacting some sort of bad joke.

  “Sir,” the trooper fidgeted as he continued his report. “We went to the barrels in the cook’s wagon to refill our canteens and found Cookie there, swearing and ranting about no water. I asked what the problem was, and he asked which idiot had been in charge of filling the water barrels.” The trooper looked a bit sheepish, “Those were his words, sir, not mine.”

  Goldain quickly rose and headed for the cook’s wagon. The raving of the cook had drawn a crowd, including Xyer Garan shaking his head in disbelief. Apparently, word had not reached the front wagon yet as Tropham and Gideon were not part of the throng around the supply wagon.

  “Of all the imbecilic, moronic, confounded stupidity it has ever been my displeasure to stumble upon,” Cookie ranted, “this one takes the cake. No water! Can’t cook, can’t clean up, and can’t continue. I’m telling you this mission is cursed. Cursed, I say!”

  “Shut your pie-hole, kitchen rat,” snapped Goldain, who had heard enough of the rotund cook’s complaining. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, but without your useless hysterics.”

  Goldain cut through the crowd and inspected the barrels himself.

  “Trooper,” he said to the soldier that had made the initial report, “go tell your captain and Captain Gideon what is going on and ask them to come to the supply wagon right away.”

  With a quick salute, the trooper was off in the direction of the lead wagon. Melizar stepped out of the crowd of onlookers and asked if he might examine the scene. Goldain nodded, and the small-framed mage moved nimbly about the supply wagon. He came down from the wagon.

  He pulled Goldain aside and whispered, “This was no oversight. The insides of the taps are wet, so these were not forgotten or dry kegs. They have had water in them within the bounds of this day.”

  This dashed Goldain’s hopes that the mage might offer some useful insight. He himself had inspected the barrels and filled his canteen from one of them before they departed Aton-Ri. If there was water when they left, where did it go? Someone among the company was a saboteur! Goldain asked Thatcher to use his observation skills to check the barrels for leaks or for anywhere in the wagon that might indicate a problem.

  “Sorry, Goldain, the barrels are sealed, fit and water-tight.”

  “As I expected. Then folks, we have a traitor in our midst.”

  As the crowd let the significance of those words sink in, Gideon and Tropham approached. Xyer Garan sprang to life at the Parynlander’s approach as if waiting for his cue to add his own perspective.

  “Obviously someone wishes this mission to fail. Either the blue mage the Durgak warned of knows we are coming and is working kashaph powers against us, or as Goldain said, we have a spy in our midst.” At this last comment, he turned his gaze fully upon Gideon before continuing. “At any rate we can turn south for a day and a half to reach the Aton River, or we can turn around and return to Aton-Ri with our tails between our legs like kicked dogs and refill our supplies there. Either way, we lose at least two days.”

  Gideon, ignoring Garan’s visual insinuation about the possible identity of the spy, shook his head and turned to the Durgak priest.

  “It may not be necessary to turn any direction just yet.”

  “Are you mad?” erupted Garan.

  “Priest Duncan, do not the Scriptures record instances of oth, divinely granted miracles, which might just help in a situation like this? Perhaps if we inquire of the One Lord, He may allow your patron Malakim, Hadaram, to assist us.”

  “True enough,” Duncan warbled his apprehensive response. “There are records in the Great Book of Writings telling of great oth bringing water where there was none. However, Captain Gideon,” he added, shooting Gideon a look halfway between consternation and pleading, “I am no prophet of old nor high priest. I am but a humble healer, and that is where the oth gifts given to me reside—in the area of healing and curing, not creating.”

  “While I agree you are no prophet or high priest,” Gideon replied, “the One Lord is still the same Lord of all, even of those who choose not to acknowledge Him. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever, so why not ask anyway and let Him decide if He chooses to grant you this oth or not? You have not because you ask not.”

  Duncan winced at the reminder of the words he himself knew all too well. The priest nodded and pulled his blue and white talith, his prayer shawl, used by holy men of the servant races of the Malakim, over his head, and went off a distance away to pray in solitude. Xyer Garan was not mollified in the least.

  “So, paladin, that is your answer? To send the digger off to mumble entreaties to a mystical spirit in hopes that water might fall from the sky? We would do just as well to dance around the wagons and chant to the wind. Our hope lies in a forced march back to Aton-Ri or south to the Aton River. Anything else is wishful fancy and foolishness.”

  Arreya, who had bounded up from her last evening scouting foray just in time to hear Xyer’s objection voiced her own thoughts.

  “Warrior Garan, you err. My people, during times of great drought in the Djarmangara, have often had the prayers of the nature priests answered with rain. We honor the One Lord and His messenger, Elisheva, mistress of the hunt. Few are the times our prayers have gone unanswered.”

  Garan, was apparently unconvinced by Arreya’s words. With a condescending tone in his voice, he snapped his reply to the primitive huntress.

  “Your people are superstitious and foolish if they believe rain comes from prayers. It comes from cloud-filled skies, and every drought must end sometime. If one continues to pray for
rain every day, those prayers will eventually be answered, even if one prays to a toad or a rock. If we felt like camping here and dying of thirst, we could pray until the summer rains come and our prayers too would be answered. Unfortunately, we will all be long dead before then.”

  Garan’s ability to draw a fight out of others succeeded wildly in this case. Arreya was not one of Gideon’s companions and thus under no instructions to maintain self-control. Before the last words from Garan’s mouth died on the breeze, Arreya had drawn her dagger and leapt at the giant warrior, slashing for his throat.

  His eyes grew wide in surprise at the suddenness and fierceness of the attack, and only his years of battle experience turned a killing strike into a glancing blow. He ducked and dodged quickly to his right as the blade, originally aimed at his throat, instead slashed a long gash in Garan’s left cheek. By the time he regained his footing, and spun to face Arreya, she had raised her spear and was about to plunge it full into his chest. Suddenly they both froze, hearing a forceful command issuing from Gideon.

  “Enough! We are already shorthanded without killing each other before even reaching any bandit ambush. Captain Garan, whatever your issues with me or with Parynland, you bury them until this mission is over if you plan to remain a part of it. If you cannot do that, then you are welcome to take your leave and choose the river or Aton-Ri as your place to refill your water as suits your fancy.”

  “Arreya,” Gideon said, turning toward the feline huntress, “we appreciate your skills and recognize Garan’s words would have raised the fire in any warrior’s heart, but if you draw blade against another of our company again, then you too can be on your way, and we will have to manage without your services.”

  Garan visibly choked back whatever response had been rising in his throat. Arreya sheathed her knife, lowered her spear, and gave a nod of assent to Gideon.

  “My apologies, captain,” said the Zafirr chats-enash, bowing her head toward Gideon. Turning to Garan she added, “You live while you serve this mission, Cyrian. Once it is complete, we will finish what we have begun.”

  “So be it,” Garan answered. “I could use a new rug, and you will match my room perfectly, kitten.”

  Goldain smiled. This was probably not the burying of the hatchet Gideon had hoped for, but given the personalities of those involved, a temporary ceasefire was probably as good as it was going to get.

  As the scuffle broke up and everyone went back to the work of making camp, the young archer, Jeslyn, approached Arreya.

  “That was amazing,” she whispered. “That brute deserved it for sure. I wish I could fight like you. Hey, you think you could teach me?”

  Arreya placed a gentle, black-furred hand upon the child’s golden-haired head.

  “I wasn’t much younger than you when I made my first kill on a pride hunt. However, Adami do not mature as quickly as Zafirr. Work first on gaining your speed and strength, and perhaps once all this is over, I will teach you to be a real huntress.”

  The girl’s smile stretched the breadth of her face as she wrapped her arms around the Zafirr chats-enash warrior. Arreya, unaccustomed to this type of physical affection, endured it with a clear look of discomfort on her face. The child, her heart doubtless filled with hopes of becoming a warrior like her father, ran off to settle in for the night in anticipation of dreams filled with valor and glory.

  Melizar observed the exchange between the surface-worlders with silent amusement. Deep in his heart he found he agreed with Xyer Garan. He knew the tales of the Malakim, the Ayabim, and the One Lord. He had read the prophecies of the great struggle for the souls of men and how the messengers of the One Lord, who governed the servant races, were given powers to answer prayers. His own learned and studied kashaph arts were purported to have been taught to the servants of the Ayabim as an enticement for men who sought alliance with them. It is also written that the oth gifts are given by the One Lord through the agency of the lords of light, the Malakim.

  This had to be mere legends and stories. Melizar knew the materials, the ancient words, and the gestures by which the powers of kashaph were manifested. These powers could be taught to anyone with the potential to learn. They required no mystical prayers or enticements to function. Furthermore, unlike Gideon’s encouragement to the Durgak, one could not use powers one had not learned. If the Durgak somehow were given a way to make water from mere prayers, that would be an eye-opening contradiction to all Melizar thought he understood.

  Before much time passed, Duncan returned to the company.

  “Great news, lads and lasses, our prayers have been heard. Come with me and bring the water barrels.”

  Melizar mused to himself as the company began to scramble to react to the Durgak’s announcement.

  Interesting…This should prove quite entertaining and informative no matter how it turns out. Nothing like a good miracle, real or faked, to stir the pot a bit!

  A few of Tropham’s troopers grabbed the barrels, and the whole company followed the Durgak across the road and out into an open field. In the middle of the plain rested a single large boulder. Rocks like these were common enough in this land and some, like this one, were even large enough to provide shade enough to rest under during a hot summer’s journey. As they gathered around the rock, Duncan addressed the assembly.

  “The very voice of my patron Hadaram has assured me the One Lord has heard our prayers and wishes to answer them.”

  “Do you often hear voices, priest?” Xyer Garan chided. “Perhaps a bit less ale might help that condition.”

  “Enough!” snapped Goldain in a rare display of assertive leadership. “You’ve said your piece, Garan, so keep your mouth shut and let’s hear what Duncan has to say.”

  Garan turned red but indeed held his peace. Duncan let slip a slight smirk as he continued.

  “As was done for the chosen tribes of old in Olam Haba, the world before, according to the Book of Beginnings, so too will the One Lord meet our needs this day. When the chosen nation wandered in the desert, water was given from stone. So the answer has come that our gracious One Lord will once again do the same.” With that, the Durgak knelt beside the rock, lifted his hands toward the night sky, and said, “O Lord, as your servant Hadaram has revealed to me in my prayer vision, bring forth water from this stone that thy greatness may be shown to those who believe and to those who doubt.”

  As soon as Duncan had spoken these words, there was a great rumble from the boulder. One small section about the size of a round shield fell away from the face of the stone, and to the astonishment of all there poured forth from the heart of the rock a strong stream of rushing water. After a few dazed moments, the troops holding the barrels quickly refilled them from the stream and others drank directly from the waters pouring forth from the rock.

  While everyone was astounded at the power with which the prayer was answered, none was more shocked than Melizar. He realized immediately that perhaps there was more to the ancient writings and legends than mere myth. This would require considerable study and not a few conversations with the Durgak.

  For Xyer Garan, however, his face widened in genuine surprise, then quickly scrunched into a frustrated scowl brimming with animosity. His very vocal mocking and objections to such faith had been witnessed by all. Now that Duncan had managed to summon up what apparently was an answer to prayer, Garan’s words would carry little weight after this.

  The moment was not wasted on Arreya who addressed Duncan at a considerably louder than normal volume.

  “Thank you, Duncan, for your foolish and superstitious prayers. Fortunately, the One Lord favors fools above those wise in their own eyes.”

  Melizar was positively giddy at the thought that a chaotic row might break out at any moment. Garan was clearly weighing heavily the cost and likely outcome of choosing to finish the fight with the feline half-blood. While every ounce of his being telegraphed a desire to continue what he had started, Melizar expected it was the large man’s warrior inst
incts that told him that to draw steel at this point was dangerous and premature. He would bide his time, but his conflict with the cat-woman would play out sooner or later. Of this Melizar was certain. The large warrior warranted cautious watching lest the mage find himself unintentionally caught in the crossfire.

  As soon as the company had refilled their barrels, their canteens, drank, and washed to their heart’s content, the stream ceased as suddenly as it had started. Garan could not resist thoroughly inspecting the rock once the torrent had ceased. The rock was solid, without any hole that the water could have possibly come from. He returned to the campsite, shaking his head in wonder at the evening’s events and seemed too consumed in his thoughts to notice the dark-robed figure of Melizar coming from the shadows to inspect the rock for himself. What the D’zarik chats-enash found was just as disturbing to him as it had apparently been to Garan.

  Other than the wet ground around the rock, there was no evidence that a stream of water had poured forth from this stone only minutes before. This was utterly impossible. Kashaph could manipulate elements, and even summon elemental beings, but to create water from a rock, and then have it leave no trace whatsoever of a source, the mage had never seen anything like this. His mind swam with the possibilities.

  Definitely interesting. There is a deep conversation coming with the Durgak priest. If this was faked, it was masterful. If this was real…

  As Melizar slipped in shadowy silence back to camp, he observed Xyer Garan in a heated but hushed discussion with the rotund cook, who was busy preparing the evening meal. The cook, Podam, was giving as good as he got, and the conversation ended with him pointing away from the cook’s station and ordering Garan to busy himself elsewhere if he intended to eat. Garan gruffly left the cook behind to finish his labors as the Cyrian returned to the job of removing the barding from his warhorse and pitching his camp.

  The company ate well that evening, and the buzz of discussion about the camp revolved around the amazing demonstration of the power of oth evidenced in answer to the prayers from the Durgak priest. The only ones not actively engaged in the overall chatter were Kohana, the islander, likely because he didn’t speak enough Adami to participate if he wanted to, and the two shadowy sharers of the third wagon—Ohanzee the Shade and Melizar. Melizar noted during their sharing a wagon on this first day’s journey that the Shade was not overly talkative, which suited the D’zarik chats-enash mage just fine.