by Max Irons
He swerved, but the point still dragged across his cheek and hit the bridge of his nose. Galeron gasped and stumbled as spots and stars danced in his vision. Blood streamed down his face, leaving a flat, metallic taste on his lips. He squinted through the pain and eyed his opponent. Elrik, hand on one knee, shook his head, labored breathing booming behind his visor.
"Skilled," gasped Elrik. "Your legend does you well."
Galeron wiped the blood from his mouth. His innards twisted into knots, and his hands shook. Four weeks of sitting was going to kill him. He swallowed. His vision filled with more spots and spun. Had to focus, had to see. Galeron sprang forward, raising his blade over his head and brought it down. Elrik blocked and stepped back.
"You can't shatter it," he said. "This is no peddler's sword."
There went that idea. He'd destroyed thin blades like Elrik's before, but they'd been made from poor quality steel, almost iron, and broke easily. What now? Every inhale dragged air across his stinging throat. Blood seeped out of his wounds with every racing heartbeat. The fight had to end, and soon. Galeron parried other strikes from Elrik, but they were half-hearted jabs. He was toying with him now, certain of victory.
There was the opening. Galeron fought to keep his face blank. He had him.
Galeron inhaled sharply, sank to his knees, and then all fours. His sword hit the ground, and he laid a hand over the hilt, pommel facing Elrik. He panted and wiped the blood from his mouth again. Armor clanked, and Elrik stood over him.
"You prove legends right, Deathstalker," he said. "They are exaggerations."
Galeron closed his eyes and listened. He couldn't give it away, and he had to time it perfectly. He opened his ears. Elrik's armor clinked and chattered as he moved.
Wait for the pause. Wait for the pause. Shoulder plates creaked.
Almost there.
Elrik paused.
Galeron pushed off and slammed the pommel under Elrik's helmet. He grunted and stumbled backward. Galeron rammed his shoulder into the breastplate, ignoring his bones' protests, and knocked him to the ground. Smashing his boot into Elrik's chest, he wrenched his opponent's sword from his grasp and jammed it into the small gap between helmet and breastplate. Elrik choked and gagged as Galeron thrust the weapon deeper, embedding half the blade in the ground below. With one final jerk and cough, he lay still.
Galeron stood, retrieving his own weapon and looking around. No one spoke. No one moved. The Drake riders forming the perimeter shifted and squirmed as his sight passed over them. His legs shook, but he willed himself upright, meeting the gaze of every rider. What would happen now? Would they let the caravan leave, or just slaughter them all? There were enough men to do it.
Two ear-splitting cracks rang out. Galeron whipped around. Lonni, smoking pistolettes in each hand, stood over two crumpled Drakes. Iven had his bow back and an arrow drawn to his ear. He released, and it slammed into a third Drake, puncturing his mail armor.
"There are seventeen of you left," Iven said. "I can kill four of you before you get to me." He jerked his head towards Lonni. "She's got a carriage full of night dust that we'll happily blow to pieces, taking most of you with it. Anyone who's left gets to face one angry Deathstalker."
"You bluff," one of the Drakes said.
Lonni pulled the mule from behind her back and pointed it through the open carriage window, dragging the firing mechanism into place. "It's your life to risk."
"Let's not forget," Iven said, leveling his bow and a new arrow at the Drake who spoke. "Your mage is dead, if he was one. You believe the legends of the Deathstalker. Do you really think you can take him?"
"Elrik was a fool," said the Drake.
"Maybe," Iven said. "But he's just as dead, with magic. Then there's you, without it."
The Drake looked from his remaining men, to Lonni's firelock, to Galeron, and back to his men. "We're leaving."
The Drakes turned tail and rode away into the night without another word, their hoof beats fading. Galeron gasped. That had been far too close. He trudged back to Rand's carriage, shoulders sagging and feet growing heavier with each passing moment. Iven shook his head as he approached.
"Glad to see you're still alive," he said. "Let's get you patched up."
Galeron nodded and sat down, sinking against the carriage wheel and dropping his sword by his side. Lonni stared at him, her expression unreadable. Iven grabbed a rag from his satchel and pressed it into Galeron's face.
"Hold it there. It looks horrible, but any head wound bleeds like you slit your throat." Iven pulled back the ruins of Galeron's tunic to examine his side. "Hmm, deep cut, but I don't think it hit anything important. I'll need to sew it up."
Galeron grunted. "We don't have anything."
Iven grinned. "I've got a few extra bowstrings."
"No." He shuddered at the memory.
"Don't worry. I may have acquired some stitching material from Mercer when you got your shoulder fixed." Iven rummaged through his sack and produced a thin thread.
Lonni dragged Rand's limp form and laid him next to Galeron. "Bump on the head. He'll wake up eventually." She frowned at Galeron. "What were you thinking?"
Galeron squinted at her, barely turning his head. "That you needed help."
"So you put your life in danger because that lunatic wanted a myth?" asked Lonni.
"He just saved your skin," Iven said. "A little gratitude wouldn't be misplaced, and none of that was a lie." He pointed at Galeron's face. "He is the Deathstalker."
She scoffed. "You expect me to believe that because he has a black sword?"
Iven knelt down to Galeron's wounded side. "What you believe doesn't matter. That's who he is, like it or not." He threaded the needle. "Of course, you could make yourself useful by grabbing the mortar and pestle out of my pack and grinding that yarrow into a paste. I'd like to avoid infection."
Lonni mumbled under her breath but did as she was asked. Galeron gritted his teeth and held himself still as Iven stuck the needle in his side and made the first stitch.
"Do you do this much?" asked Lonni.
"Sew up my friend?" Iven shrugged and completed another stitch. "More often than I'd like. We've gotten the hang of it after a while." He gave Galeron a sheepish grin. "Even if I did patch him up with a spare bowstring one time."
"Did that even work?" She ground away at the yarrow root.
"That depends." Iven tied off the thread. "It closed the wound, but you should have heard him moan."
"If a fumbling archer dragged a chain through your skin, you'd scream, too," Galeron grunted.
"It wasn't that big," Iven said.
"Felt like it."
"I wasn't good under pressure then." Iven fished through his satchel. "Having a partner bathe you in his blood is intimidating." He helped Galeron pull off his tunic. "It healed, though."
Lonni brought the mortar to Iven. "Here. Anything..." Her voice trailed away as she looked at Galeron's bare chest. "What happened to you?"
Galeron glanced at the patchwork of scars and old burns that covered his skin. They weren't all that important, mere reminders of days he would rather forget. "War isn't a safe place."
She shook her head. "I don't...I can't even imagine..."
"No, you can't," said Iven. "You're better off for it. Take it from me." He put a few drops of water in the mortar and mixed it with a finger. "Be thankful for your ignorance."
Iven spread the paste across the wound. Galeron winced as his finger dragged across the ragged edges, fiery pain licking at the wound. Iven wrapped bandages around his middle and prodded his collarbone, eliciting another moan.
"Got to make sure you didn't rebreak it," Iven said. "Not that I could do much about it, but at least you would know what you did wrong."
He scowled and shifted positions. "That's not comforting."
"You're still intact, so it should be." Iven tugged the rag from Galeron's face. "That one's shallow. Keep an eye on it, and if it continues bleeding, we'll se
w it, too." He pursed his lip and wiped away dried blood. "I'm going to go have a talk with our caravan master. I doubt the Drakes will be gone for too long."
Galeron nodded. "Probably right."
He jogged off, and Lonni sat across from him.
"You have some explaining to do," she said.
Of course this was coming. He couldn't blame her for wanting answers, but how much to say? The truth, she should get the truth, leaving out the Deathstalker story if possible. For whatever reason, the mention of that legend annoyed her. He explained the story since that fateful day in the Broken Blade.
"Prince Lattimer lives?" asked Lonni. "Everyone says he died."
"I saw him with them outside Trinetta," said Galeron. "Atreus himself confirmed it."
"Why didn't you tell the city watch?" She ran her hands through her hair. "You might have rescued him then."
A warm trickle spread from the slash under his eye. Galeron pressed the rag to his face. "They were long gone by that point, and if I did anyway, Atreus would be extra cautious with his movements. It'd make him harder to track. Right now, only Iven and I are on his trail. He won't be as sneaky."
"Wouldn't someone notice a prince wandering around?" she asked.
"Stick a man in ragged clothes, cover him in dirt, and then let him claim to be a dead prince." Galeron raised an eyebrow. "Would you believe him?"
Lonni paused, and then she said, "No."
Galeron nodded. She caught on quickly. "You can't do that with the king. Soren's face is on every coin, but a prince, to the kingdom, is unknown."
Lonni frowned. "If his goal is revenge, why is the prince still alive?"
"That's what I've been wondering for over a month," Galeron said. And it still makes as little sense then as it does now.
"What of Magister Russo? Is this business of greater magical knowledge just all nonsense?"
"Everyone has their own theory on how magic works. The Delktians could be right, or it could be more speculation. We'll know when we get there."
Lonni fell silent, and Galeron leaned back against the carriage wheel, closing his eyes. The duel flashed in his mind's eye over and over again. Shrieking metal rang in his ears, and the phantom sensation of swinging his sword plagued him as he drifted away.
Violent shaking brought him back. His wounds burned, and the break in his collarbone throbbed with a dull, deep pulse. Galeron squinted in the lantern light. Iven stooped next to him, rocking his good shoulder back and forth.
"Good, you're awake," he said.
Galeron glanced about. It was still dark, though the moon had sunk lower in the sky. "Now I am. What's happening?"
"I convinced the caravan master to go ahead and get us rolling." Iven extended his hand. "You need to get into the carriage. You can keep sleeping there."
Galeron took Iven's hand and struggled to his feet. His sight spun, and he tipped over. Iven caught him and pushed him upright.
"Should we send Elrik's corpse to Princess Arlana?" asked Iven.
He frowned. "What?"
"She wanted a souvenir," Iven said. "What says 'thinking of you' more than a Drake mage's body?"
Galeron grunted and stumbled.
"If you fall over while moving a few feet, I'll never let you forget it," he said.
Teasing was insignificant next to the yearning to put his head down and sleep. He could see himself stretched out, head on one arm, sleeping. He shoved the image aside and climbed into the carriage's open door. Lonni sat at the front propped against the front wall.
Galeron shuffled to the back and curled up against a few barrels of night dust in a corner. Lying on his good shoulder, Galeron closed his eyes. The door shut, and a few moments later, the carriage started moving. Under ordinary circumstances, the floor felt like a layer of granite. Tonight, it was the feather mattress of a king, and the clacking and rocking of the ride pulled him under once again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next few days passed in a haze of sleep and extended periods of time staring at the inside of the carriage wall or counting night dust barrels. Lonni was unusually quiet for once, as was Rand, whom Iven had filled in on their late-night ride. Rand made an effort to engage in conversation; Lonni just looked at him and said next to nothing.
Trees started to crop up in the flat sea of brown and green grass. They weren't much more than glorified saplings, but Iven couldn't stop grinning when he spotted the first one close to their camping position.
"My skills are wasting away," Iven said after they'd stopped for the evening.
Galeron snorted as he dragged a whetstone across the black sword on his lap. "Just like your charm."
"How would you know?" Iven asked, bracing the longbow on his instep. "You've never had any." He pulled a spare cord from under his hat.
Lonni frowned at him from the cooking fire, still fiddling with the mule. "Why keep them there?"
"The string is the lifeblood of a bowman," Iven said. "It doesn't do well wet, though. All Rayan archers wear a hat to protect them, and fishing around in your satchel can be a problem when your life is measured in seconds."
Lonni sniffed. "At least your commanders had sense."
Iven drew an arrow to his cheek and shot at the nearby tree. The missile buzzed angrily as it spiraled toward its target, thudding into a small branch. He spat to the side and unslung his quiver. "Glue's giving way. They aren't supposed to make noise."
Galeron dragged his whetstone down the opposite edge. "How's your resin stock?"
Iven held up a small jar and wrinkled his nose. "Despicably low. Have to buy more in Azura." He put it back and resumed shooting.
Lonni watched him for a bit, eyes narrowed and tracing the flight of the arrows. "They spin. Why?"
Iven didn't stop firing. "Isn't it obvious?"
"We didn't all grow up with a bow in our hand," said Lonni.
"Well, the lowly sell-sword gets to teach the mighty fire speaker," Iven said. He stopped and extended an arrow to her, feathers first. "Every archer bends the fletching to make the arrow spin. It's better for accuracy."
"Is this a common thing, or do only Rayans do it?" asked Lonni.
Iven nocked the arrow and drew it to his ear. "Everyone makes their weapons spin. Knife throwers, archers, and the like all know the trick." He released, and the arrow hit one of his previous shots, splitting the shaft down the middle. "Easy, but when you're one of the world's better archers, that's nothing."
"Arrogant Rayan," she snarled.
Galeron laughed. "Maybe, but it's the truth."
Lonni glared at him and didn't say anything for the rest of the night.
The air around them changed the closer they drew to Azura. It grew heavier, sticky and laden with salt. Despite the torn state of his tunic, he opted for just that instead of the thicker and hotter doublet. It helped, but ultimately made little difference. The inside of the carriage and the inside of an oven were indistinguishable. Sleep evaded him, hovering just out of reach most nights even with the increased distance he put between himself and the cooking fire.
Galeron sat atop the carriage with Iven the day they were due to reach Azura. Not a single cloud floated above, leaving the sky a brilliant blue and exposing them to the torturous gaze of the sun. His tunic lay beside him, discarded and wearing thin. Iven lay vertical across the roof, hat placed over his face and hands folded on his stomach. Maybe that hat wasn't so ridiculous after all. Iven had so far avoided deep red burns on his face, which Lonni had pointed out a few days ago with entirely too much glee.
He took a draft from his waterskin and swished it around in his mouth, swallowing and clenching his teeth. After two months, the water tasted more like the bag.
"Lonni banned you from the carriage, eh?" asked Rand from the driver's bench.
"She claims I smell," said Galeron.
The road passed under a towering stone water lane, providing a brief moment of cool respite before emerging back into the light. If only he could climb it and li
e down in the cool snow melt from the north. That would soothe his itching burns.
"After so long on the road, I imagine we're all quite rank," said Rand.
"There's a shock," mumbled Iven.
"I thought you were sleeping," Galeron said.
"In this heat? I could only wish." He adjusted his hat.
"Azura will be much better," said Rand. "You can visit the bathhouse so Lonni won't pitch you out on your ear."
"Speaking of, what did you do to make her angry?" asked Iven.
Galeron's brow wrinkled in a frown. "What do you mean?"
"She hasn't been talking to you much." Iven spun a finger lazily in the air. "Maybe it's just me, but she's been ignoring you ever since the Drakes arrived. What do you think, Rand? Am I right?"
He chuckled. "She might be my daughter, but she's still a woman. Greatest mystery of the world." A few minutes went by without a word, and he said, "I know she hates having help. She's very independent, and if not done right, any offer is taken as a sign that she's weak."
Galeron's frown dissolved into a scowl. She was upset about getting rescued? "What was I supposed to do?"
Rand shrugged. "Blasted if I know. Most fathers teach their children the ways of the world. By her twelfth year, she was teaching me alchemy." He sighed. "What's a father to do? Don't misunderstand, I'm fiercely proud of her, but there's no clear place for her in the world as we know it."
"Most women her age are already married," Iven said.
"Aye." Rand snorted. "Think about that a moment. I can't marry her off. It's a rare man who isn't intimidated by her mind, but that's my Lonni. I wouldn't have it any other way, though I'm half sure she's responsible for most of my gray hair."
Galeron let a half-smile emerge. That sounded about right.
"When we arrive, I'll need you to get everything unloaded from the carriage and help Lonni set up shop," said Rand. "I will have to collect the caravan master's payment from my wife and deliver it once we arrive."