Beltur took a moment to again sense to the north, but the only large bodies he sensed were those of his party. He glanced to the side. The leading attackers were perhaps three hundred yards back and perhaps two hundred yards from the road, but they all seemed to be converging on the road. Because they think they can ride faster there? That just might make things easier for us.
Beltur turned to Lhadoraak, who was holding onto his saddle to stay on his mount. “When we stop and rein up, I need you to throw a concealment across the road behind us, maybe a hundred yards deep. Can you do it?”
“If … If I’m not trying to stay on the horse. Why do you want to conceal them?”
“I don’t. I want them to be unable to see.”
“Oh…”
“Then I’ll have a little surprise for them.”
After covering another hundred yards, Beltur glanced back. If you wait any longer, you won’t have time …
“Lhadoraak! Rein up! Now! Turn and cover the road with a concealment!” Beltur reined up Slowpoke and turned to face the oncoming raiders, most of whom seemed to be wearing worn uniforms of brown and dark green.
Lhadoraak seemed to have trouble slowing his mount and turning, but he finally managed, although the leading riders were less than two hundred yards away.
Beltur felt his shields blocking more arrows, and he waited, hoping that Lhadoraak could create the concealment, knowing he was going to need all the help he could get.
Abruptly, the brigands vanished from sight.
In moments, though, a command rang out. “Keep going!” shouted one of the brigands. “The road’s clear except for two riders. Just ride on! The mage will take care of them!”
Even as the brigand spoke, Beltur sensed the modest chaos bolt that arched from a rider well back near the rear of the brigands, angling straight toward Lhadoraak. Just as he had had to do so many times during the invasion, almost without thinking, Beltur used his shields to catch and fling the chaos bolt into the first rank of their pursuers. Two riders and their mounts went down in a charred heap. A second and stronger chaos bolt followed, this one aimed at Beltur, and Beltur used that to take out three more riders.
The only problem was that the riders were going to reach Beltur and Lhadoraak before the white mage had flung enough chaos for Beltur to eliminate even a sizable fraction of the score or so of brigands.
The mage didn’t give up, this time flinging an even stronger bolt at Beltur. This time Beltur turned the bolt, added a black order, and drove it back through the shields of the scrub mage. Order and chaos combined into a flare that took out several more riders, but by now the oncoming riders were less than a hundred yards away, and about to reach the end of Lhadoraak’s concealment.
Beltur steeled himself, then formed a half shield a little more than a yard high just outside the concealment, doing his best to anchor it to the stone beneath the road.
When the first riders burst out of the concealment and struck Beltur’s shield, horses screamed, but few of the raiders yelled. Beltur felt as though several of the horses had run over him, and his vision blurred for several moments, but when he could see, there were men and mounts seemingly lying everywhere. He’d felt several black mists, but Beltur sensed that most of the fallen seemed to be alive, but largely injured to some extent. Possibly five riders were still mounted, and they had pulled back, as if uncertain as to what to do. Beltur immediately dropped his shields back down to just around himself and Lhadoraak.
“If you want more of that, just keep coming!” Beltur shouted.
None of them moved toward Beltur and Lhadoraak.
“It’s time to start moving again,” said Beltur.
“Most of them are down,” said Lhadoraak.
“If I have to do that again,” replied Beltur, his voice suddenly shaky, “I’ll be down with them. If the five who are left attack, we can likely take them out, but some of those on the ground might just recover if we go looking for spoils.”
“Not many of them,” said Lhadoraak.
“We’ll leave them … unless they come after us.” Slowly, still looking over his shoulder, Beltur turned Slowpoke, then urged him into a trot. Belatedly, Lhadoraak did the same.
Beltur kept sensing and looking back, but the would-be brigands showed no inclination to follow them.
After a time, Lhadoraak said, “Where did you come up with that idea of using a concealment on them?”
“It was something I figured out when I was with Second Recon during the invasion.”
“You really are an arms-mage, no matter what you say.”
Beltur got out a water bottle, and took a long swallow of the bitter watered lager. He hoped it would help the throbbing in his skull. He’d forgotten what battle magery could do to him.
Almost a quint passed before Beltur and Lhadoraak caught up with the wagons, stopped a good two kays farther along the road.
Jessyla and Jhotyl were waiting, mounted at the rear of the wagons.
“What happened?” asked Jhotyl as Beltur and Lhadoraak reined up.
“Beltur turned the scrub mage’s chaos against some of the brigands,” said Lhadoraak, “then against him. I threw a concealment over them so that they charged into an order barrier Beltur created. That brought down all but five of the survivors. They decided not to follow us.”
“How many are left?”
“Only five that weren’t dead or injured,” said Beltur. “There was one thing I did see that I didn’t care for. Most of them were wearing worn uniforms of brown and green.”
“Most likely deserters,” suggested Jhotyl.
“An entire squad’s worth, with a mage?” asked Beltur.
The fur trader shrugged. “It happens. The life of a Certan ranker isn’t the best, and they can’t return to anywhere decent. Their lives are forfeit if they’re caught.”
“And the mage?”
“Most mages in Certis have to serve the Viscount.”
Beltur nodded slowly. The idea of going to Montgren was definitely looking better, assuming that they could get there. “How far is Corumtal from here?”
“Another day and a half. Two days if the road is muddy.”
“I thought you said we’d be reaching the Viscount’s wagon road soon.”
“We’re on the Viscount’s wagon road. You should see the roads that he hasn’t had his men work on.”
Beltur was certain he didn’t want to see such roads … and that he probably would, sooner than he wished. Still … he had to ask. “What happens when we reach Corumtal? Do we follow a river road to Rytel, or can we take flatboats downstream?”
Jhotyl shrugged. “We’ll find out. Often, this early in the spring, the river is low, and there are no flatboats. Then we follow the river road. If we’re fortunate, we’ll take flatboats to Rytel. Either way, once we near Corumtal, there will likely be no more brigands.” He shook his head. “Most years there are only a few. This year … eleven outside Axalt, and a score in the low hills … last year’s harvests must have been poor indeed.”
“Or the Viscount raised tariffs on them,” suggested Beltur. “Or cut the pay for his rankers.”
Jhotyl frowned, but he neither agreed nor disagreed.
“Lhadoraak and I need something to eat before we start again.”
Jhotyl glanced from Beltur to Lhadoraak and then to Jessyla, then smiled slowly. “I’m beginning to see why the Council preferred you leave Axalt. Will bread, cheese, and lager suffice?”
Beltur returned the smile. “That will be just fine.”
XC
A little before second glass on threeday, as Beltur, Jessyla, and Jhotyl reached the top of a low rise of the road beside the Corum River, Jhotyl gestured to the town ahead, the outskirts of which appeared to begin less than a kay away, where plots of land gave way to scattered cots alongside the road, which had improved to a graded and graveled way that suggested it was indeed one of the Viscount’s wagon roads.
“Corumtal, such as she is, Mage.
Looking at the river, I fear we will be taking the road to Rytel. I can see mudbanks where there should be water.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not as long as getting here from Axalt, possibly five days. Six if it rains.”
As Beltur and Jessyla rode closer to the cots, she said quietly, “Those poor people. Those are worse than those near the renderers in Fenard.”
Two scrawny children, wearing little more than shapeless, grayish-brown rags, stood in front of the second cot that Beltur and Jessyla neared. Their eyes were vacant.
“Pay them no mind,” said Jhotyl from behind them. “You give a single copper and a score will appear, beleaguering you and begging as though they were all dying.”
Jessyla glanced to Beltur, her lips forming the words, “They look like they’re dying.”
Beltur could sense that was not true, but the pair were so thin that he could not see whether either was boy or girl. He forced himself to look ahead, knowing he could spend every silver he had and that it would make little difference in another eightday. And that is deplorable.
Ahead of them, past the first scattering of cots, set on the right side of the road, but back from both road and river, stood several buildings constructed of reddish sandstone, with weathered reddish roof tiles, surrounded in turn by a stone wall.
“That’s a post for the Viscount’s guards,” explained Jhotyl.
“It looks almost deserted,” observed Beltur.
“Once there was a company posted here. Now … there might be perhaps two squads.”
“Why might that be? Is that why the brigands are more prevalent?” Beltur turned in the saddle to look at the fur trader.
Jhotyl shrugged, then said, “The Viscount has troubles in the south, it is said.”
“With Gallos?” Beltur recalled his uncle mentioning something about that.
“Not only with Gallos but with Lydiar, it is said. Even with Hydlen.”
“But not with Montgren?”
“The Duchess prefers to remain on good terms with all.”
“What sort of troubles?”
“Who knows? I am but a fur trader.” Jhotyl smiled pleasantly.
“How long will we be staying here?” asked Jessyla, slightly impatiently, as if she were tiring of the trader’s partial answers.
“Today and tomorrow. All of us, and the horses, need rest. We also need provisions and fodder, especially for that beast of yours, Mage. Not that he hasn’t earned every bushel’s worth.” After the briefest hesitation, Jhotyl went on. “We will stay at the River Inn. It is the only place worth staying at. With the water so low, it will not be crowded.”
Beltur wondered just how many River Inns there might be across Candar.
The River Inn, as its name indicated, was located on the north side of the main square with its north side on the river road and the south side facing the square. A warehouse flanked the lodging on the east, and the stable on the west. The two-story lodging building was constructed of sandstone blocks, much like the guard post, with the same faded reddish tile roof, while the warehouse and stable were of mud-red brick. Narrow covered porches graced both the front and rear of the inn proper.
After stabling the horses, and, at Jhotyl’s suggestion, putting the mule’s and spare mount’s packs in the second wagon, Beltur and Jessyla followed Jhotyl to the square side of the inn, carrying their personal gear. Lhadoraak and his family trailed behind.
A narrow-faced but not-quite-rotund man with a bald pate stood behind a desk counter, but turned as he heard Beltur and the others approach. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Jhotyl. Then he offered a resigned smile. “Master Trader Jhotyl. Welcome to the River Inn.”
“Thank you, Innkeeper Granois.”
“How long will you and your party be staying, Master Trader?” asked the innkeeper.
“Tonight and tomorrow night. We’ll need five rooms. Two for the mages and three for me and the others in the party.”
“You haven’t brought mages before.”
“I haven’t needed them before. The brigands are worse this year. Worse than any time I recall.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Master Trader, everything is worse. There is little water in the river. Late rains and early frosts spoiled much of the harvest. There are fewer guards at the post, and they have fewer coppers to spend.”
“I think I’ve heard that before,” replied Jhotyl.
“That is because times have been hard before.” Granois turned to a board on which hung keys, a board from which Beltur saw that only a few keys were missing, removed five keys and turned back to the group. “These two keys are for the mages.” The innkeeper looked at Beltur, then at Jessyla, quizzically.
“These two are both mages and healers—”
“Women mages are rare.” The innkeeper inclined his head slightly, then looked at Beltur. “Even rarer than men healers.” Then he returned his eyes to Jhotyl. “Truly, you have surprised me … again.”
Beltur took both keys and passed one to Jessyla. “For Lhadoraak.”
She in turn handed it to the blond mage.
Granois handed the remaining keys to Jhotyl, then said, “If you will excuse me, Master Trader, I need to tell the cooks to prepare more for supper.” He slipped from behind the counter, gracefully for a man of his bulk, and began to walk across the foyer to the archway leading into an empty public room, though that was scarcely surprising in early midafternoon.
“The stairs are beyond the public room,” said Jhotyl. “The water pump is behind the door opposite the stairs.”
“Thank you,” said Beltur.
“I will meet you mages for dinner here at fifth glass. Now, I need to see to the wagons.” The trader turned and made his way from the inn.
Beltur and Jessyla carried their gear up to the second level and found their room, graced by simply the number eight, on both key and door. Beltur unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned for Jessyla to enter. He followed her and closed the door, then said, “Did you notice that the innkeeper did not ask for payment?”
“I did. He was also overly deferential to Jhotyl. Jhotyl must come here often.”
“Or he’s more than just a fur trader.”
“If not both.”
Beltur walked to the window, which only had inside shutters, rather than the double shutters so common in Axalt, and looked out over the river. The nearest pier was opposite the inn’s warehouse, but there were no boats tied up there, doubtless because there was mud showing under the first ten yards from the river’s edge. He turned and studied the room, not overly large, but certainly larger than the one at the eastern wall inn. There were two straight-backed chairs and two pitchers and washbasins on a wash table. The pitchers were empty.
“I’ll go down and fill the pitchers,” he volunteered.
“I’ll make the second trip,” replied Jessyla.
Beltur smiled. “I can do that as well. You’ll need more to wash your hair, even as short as you keep it.”
“Thank you.”
It took more than a few trips, both for fresh water and to empty the basins, since there was no waste pipe in the room, and since they both had a great deal of dust and grime to wash away.
Later, while Jessyla was struggling with her hair, Beltur took out the copy of The Wisdom of Relyn, deciding to start at the beginning and to read the volume all the way through. While he’d read the first few pages before, he opened to the very first page once more, wondering what else he might discover.
He found himself reading beyond the page where he had stopped before.
… was saved and befriended by Nylan, a mage whose like Candar, or the world, will never see again, for he forged Westwind, as surely as he forged the blades by which the angels carved their domain from the ice and stone of the Roof of the World.
Never has there existed a mage like Nylan, for when he wielded the fires of Heaven and swept the land before the Black Tower clean of all the attackers from Lornth,
the deaths of those attackers nearly claimed him as well, though none ever came within a sword’s length of him. He was not a man of great stature, and at first glance, seemed more like a stripling youth, for all that he was the oldest of all the angels. Yet his silver hair was not that of age, but truly bright and young, as if it belonged to a child. A man of wisdom, with the strength of a giant, but the appearance of a youth. Yet I could not have bent iron to my will as did he, nor could any other of the angels.
For all that fierceness, he would sing to his infant children lullabies so moving that they would sleep through the tempests that buffeted the Roof of the World, and he crafted a cradle for his eldest, the daughter Dyliess who will come to rule Westwind after Ryba, her mother …
Beltur lowered the book for a moment and looked to Jessyla. “I’d like to read something from Relyn’s book to you.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Beltur read the part about Nylan, ending with the words about Nylan’s daughter.
“Daughter? He had a daughter with Ryba?”
“That’s what Relyn wrote. The Book of Ayrlyn mentions a son—”
“It does?”
“It does, but it doesn’t mention a daughter who went on to rule Westwind.”
“It makes sense, though,” mused Jessyla. “Nylan was powerful, and so was Ryba. Their daughter likely was as well.” She paused. “She must have been. Westwind still rules the Westhorns.”
“And the part about him singing to his children … Somehow that doesn’t fit with a man who destroyed armies.”
“Why do you say that? Maybe that’s why he could, because he loved them so much that he’d do anything to make them safe.”
“Or maybe,” said Beltur, “because he really wasn’t a cruel man, he did what he did so that he wouldn’t ever have to do it again.”
“That sounds more like you, dear.”
“Except I seem to have to keep doing it for us to survive.”
“That will change.”
“You think so.”
Jessyla just offered a smile that Beltur could only have described as enigmatic.
Somehow, before Beltur even realized so much time had passed, the two were hurrying down to the public room, Beltur wearing his mage-healer tunic because the other two were hanging up drying from a semi-cleaning with wet cloths.
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