Guardian

by Jon Kiln

  They reached the tiny desert oasis well past mid-day. Zander did not so much call a halt as he grunted. Then, the slender commander slid down off his mount and led Samphire into the sparse growth of the oasis on foot. The others each followed suit.

  The oasis was not large. Perhaps a dozen whip-thin palm trees sprang up in a rough circle. Hardy, scrub-like desert grass grew in withered tufts around the bases of the trees. In the center there was a deep depression in the ground. A tiny, bubbling pool of water lay in the depression, fed by some underground spring. The horses went to it and dipped their heads. Zander motioned for the men to wait until the horses were finished.

  “We fill the skins,” he said while they waited. “As much as they can hold. We’ll rest here until sundown. From here on, we travel by the moon.”

  “How much further is it to Marawi?” asked Artas. Ector laughed harshly. Zander had the grace to look apologetic when he answered.

  “Several days,” he said. “We have yet to reach the salt flats.”

  “Salt flats?”

  “A place that will make the great sand sea seem inviting and hospitable,” said Zander ominously. “But do not trouble yourself with that just yet. The flats lay at least a day ahead of us. If we are lucky, we will find another oasis this night or tomorrow. We will need to replenish out water again before crossing the flats.”

  “And then?”

  “Marawi lies on the other side, my friend.” Zaner smiled without humor. “Or so I have been given to believe.”

  Artas stared blankly for a long moment, his mouth hanging open. “Given to believe?” he echoed, stunned. All this - and worse to come, apparently - and Zander did not even know for sure where they were headed? “What madman’s quest have you led me on?”

  Zander came up to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Peace, my friend,” he said. “I have faith in our mission. The Duchess has never led me astray. She would not start now.”

  Artas shook his head, unable to reply. By now, the horses had finished drinking. Dristan and Ector had knelt down beside the water. Having filled their skins, they were splashing the cool liquid on their sunburned faces. Zander held the archer’s eye for a long moment, then went to join them. Artas had little choice but to follow.

  After they had drunk their fill, and splashed the warm water over their heads to cool them, the men made a small camp at the center of the grove. Ector scaled one of the tall palms and hacked away at the fronds until several fell free. They used these to construct a makeshift awning, under which the four men lay through the heat of the afternoon. Zander and the other two fell into a dozing sleep almost immediately.

  Artas lay in the shade for a long time, unable to sleep. It was moderately cooler beneath the shading palm fronds, but still hotter than the hottest day he had ever known. He wondered if they were going to die in this wasteland. He wondered where the princess was, and how she fared. At last, he drifted down into a restless slumber.

  He woke to the jabbing butt of a spear. Spluttering awake, Artas sat up in alarm. The others had woken already, he saw. To his dismay, Artas also saw that they were surrounded by burly men in loose-fitting, sand-colored robes that swirled about their bodies. Each man carried a short wooden spear with a gleaming, razor-sharp steel point. They held these points leveled at the travelers, and there was no mistaking the menacing hostility in their angry eyes.

  13

  Arexos had never expected to see Castle Villeroy again. The sight was wondrous enough that he almost did not mind the chains. Almost.

  They had held him at the garrison in Brammanville for several days. He had been beaten and questioned. They had broken three fingers on his left hand and two on his right; his body was sore and bruised from head to toe. When they took him from Brammanville, both his eyes were swollen shut and he could not see where they were taking him.

  They had brought him down the river to Athaca, and from there proceeded overland. The journey had been three days, during which there were no further tortures, no questions. Arexos did not know if that meant the soldiers and their officers had finally accepted his story, or if they had simply stopped caring. None of the guards spoke to him on the journey. He did not know what awaited him in the castle. Perhaps he was headed to an execution.

  They went in through the main gate. The portcullis was up, the gate guarded by six heavily armored soldiers. Beyond the gate, in the main courtyard, more soldiers ran drills beneath the watchful eyes of battle-hardened veteran officers. The four men escorting Arexos herded him across the yard.

  They had nearly reached the inner gate when Arexos spied a familiar face. Near the inner wall, a small raised platform had been erected, with a wooden rail. There were two men standing at the rail, looking down on the drilling soldiers. Arexos had never seen one of them before, but he knew the other one.

  “Zaim!” Arexos dragged his feet, and the men at his elbows tugged him forward. Straining against the guards, he shouted again. “Zaim! It’s me! Don’t you know me? It’s Arexos. Zaim, help me!”

  Duke Harald’s master at arms turned his head curiously. His eyes fell on Arexos, being dragged bodily through the inner gate. At first he showed no sign of recognition. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked closer. Zaim’s eyes widened as he recognized the man beneath the bruises.

  “Hold,” cried Zaim. “Hold, there, men!”

  Hopping down from the raised platform, Zaim hurried over. Arexos sagged in relief. Zaim approached with obvious astonishment.

  “Arexos? Is it really you?”

  “It’s me, Zaim.”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  Arexos said nothing, but the look he gave his captors spoke volumes. Zaim turned a frown on the men. They fidgeted beneath his steely gaze. Their officer cleared his throat. “He was taken in the company of a Vandemlander spy,” the officer reported.

  Zaim’s frown deepened. “This man is a loyal servant of Palara,” he said. “Release him at once.”

  The men didn’t hesitate. At once, they let go of Arexos’ arms. He nearly fell over. Zaim caught him, shooting the soldiers another angry stare. The officer cleared his throat again. Zaim shook his head. Turning his back on the soldiers, he guided Arexos through the inner gate.

  ***

  A little over an hour later, they sat in a small antechamber of Zaim’s suite of rooms in the castle. Arexos had been bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. His wounds had been seen to. For the first time in weeks, he felt as if there might be hope for the future.

  Zaim sat across from him, concern plain on his face. He had listened patiently while Arexos told him the whole sad tale. Setting out from Castle Villeroy, what seemed like years ago now, with Captain Henrickson. The deal with the Narcs, the smugglers’ betrayal, the slave market, Qutaybah, and finally the brief interlude at Castle Locke and the surreptitious journey to Brammanville.

  Now, the master at arms sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over his other knee. Resting his elbows on his leg, Zaim steepled his fingers before his face and appeared to sink deep in thought. Arexos leaned back on the couch he had been given and relaxed. His tale was told. Zaim would know what to do about the information. Arexos himself looked forward to a long recuperation. Eventually, he would resume his duties.

  Henrickson was gone, of course. Zaim had already told him his former mentor had never returned from Vandemland. Arexos assumed Henrickson must be dead, or worse. He put the thought from his mind, however. He would take up squiring for some other knight. Perhaps, considering everything he had gone through to bring his story back to Castle Villeroy, the Duke would grant him a knighthood in his own right.

  While Arexos pondered that happy possibility, Zaim thought furiously. This Vandemlander slaver, Qutaybah, had one hundred men with him somewhere in the vicinity of Brammanville. By now, of course, they could be anywhere. The master at arms cursed the fool of a garrison commander who had wasted days questioning Arexos. This news should have been brought to the Duke at
once. Instead, they had lost nearly a week!

  “You rest here,” Zaim said at length to Arexos. “You’ve had a long, trying journey. Sleep, friend. I will leave guards at the door… to ensure you are not disturbed, of course. In the meantime, I must report to his majesty.”

  Arexos nodded absently, his thoughts still turned to dreams of knighthood and all the honors and incomes that would come with it. He hardly noticed when, as he left the chamber, Zaim locked the door firmly behind him.

  14

  Artas rose slowly, holding his hands well out to either side. The man who had jabbed him gestured angrily with his spear, and Artas shrank back from the wicked spearpoint.

  “Easy, friends.” Zander likewise held out his hands, palms open. His voice was calm and soothing. “We mean no harm to your tribe.”

  The robe-shrouded men exchanged rapid glances. They spoke briefly and pointedly in a language Artas had never heard before. It was a harsh and guttural tongue, which made the words sound angry and fierce. For all he knew, they were discussing the weather; however, it sounded like bloody murder.

  Past the circle of men, Artas saw their mounts. They were lean, short-haired horses bred for the arid wastes. They wore neither bridle nor saddle. Instead, small blankets were draped over their backs. The edges of the blankets were decorated with jangling gold rings. Small, sharply curved horsebows hung clipped to loops in the embroidery.

  Two of the men began to argue. The others seemed to defer to one or both of these men, and they all took a step back as the debate grew ever more heated. One of the two men was tall and heavily muscled and wore a neatly trimmed beard. The other was shorter, on the stout side, and clean shaven. His eyes flashed with anger as he punctuated his words with vicious jabs of his free hand. In his other hand, this man gripped his spear with white knuckles.

  After several minutes of this exchange, the taller man took three quick steps toward his clean-shaven comrade. In one smooth motion he drew back his left hand and struck the stout man across the face. There was a collective indrawn breath from all assembled. The stout man’s eyes flashed again and he made to lunge forward. At the last second, he appeared to think better of it. Bowing his head, he muttered something in the guttural tongue of the tribesmen and stepped back.

  The tall, bearded one - apparently the victor of the debate - turned back to face Zander, Artas, and the others. He smiled. In the moonlight, his teeth gleamed against the deep tan of his face. Addressing Zander, he spoke the common tongue with a thick, gruff accent.

  “I have told my comrade here that you have made a mistake,” he said. “This must be the explanation. You are lost, yes? You did not mean to trespass in our oasis.”

  “Your oasis, is it?” Ector snorted derisively. Zander shot the man an angry glance, motioning for him to be quiet.

  “I’m sorry, friend,” Zander said, turning back to the bearded tribesman. “My name is Zander, of the Berghein Valley. My companions are Dristan and Ector, also of Berghein; this is Artas, of the Kingdom of Palara.”

  “I am Naavos,” answered the tribesman. He made no move to introduce his armed fellows. Zander, accepting this, bowed his head slightly.

  “Well met, Naavos. I fear we must plead ignorance. We had no idea this fertile oasis belonged to your tribe.”

  There was some more jabbering in the harsh tongue until the one who had introduced himself as Naavos made a sharp, cutting gesture with one hand and uttered a single, hissing syllable. The others fell quiet, although the stocky one who had faced off with Naavos bristled with anger.

  “Water rights,” said Naavos, then he broke off and shook his head. Pivoting his hips, the robed tribesman gestured out into the moonlit wasteland. “This is very important to us here, you understand. Wars have been fought. Men have been killed.” Naavos paused and shrugged. His expression was almost apologetic. “For water.”

  “We quite understand,” said Zander.

  “This well,” Naavos continued, gesturing at the small pool of water where it lay glistening in the moonlight, “belongs to Rock Eagle Clan.” The bearded clansman tapped his chest with one hand and indicated his companions with the other. “Belongs to us. Our people. Our families. Our children.”

  “We do understand,” said Zander again. “But, can your clan not spare just a bit of this water for four weary travelers?”

  Naavos appeared to consider. He raised one hand to his chin, fingers scratching idly at his beard. After a moment, he affected a helpless expression and shrugged his shoulders once more. “It has been known,” he admitted. “I do not know this Berghein Valley, nor have I heard of Palara. But this is good. It means Rock Eagle Clan has no quarrel with your clans. This is good. But, my friend, you did not come to us first seeking permission. This means, whether you knew it or not, you have stolen from us. This is very bad.”

  “We will pay you for the water,” offered Zander. “For ourselves and our horses.”

  “Pay?” Naavos pursed his lips in thought, again scratching at his beard. “We have accepted such arrangements in the past. But it would have been better, friends, had you come to us first. How can you buy something you have already taken? I do not know.”

  All this time, Artas had been studying the curved bows hanging from the blankets on the horses of these men. They were small and sturdy, with a sinuous recurved construction. Horsebows, specially designed for firing from horseback at a gallop. The young archer had never seen their like, though he had once heard such a weapon described.

  That was back at Castle Villeroy, when he was little more than a boy. His archery instructor, a wizened old man named Talamanes, had told him a little of the clansmen who used such bows. They were fierce, independent tribes who eked out a harsh life on the desert. Remembering what Talamanes had said of these men, Artas had an idea.

  “You must understand,” Naavos was saying to Zander, “were it simply up to me, we would have no problem. But there is tradition and custom to think of. Not to mention my brothers, here. I am afraid they will insist. But perhaps we can… mitigate this problem. Not all of you must die, I think.”

  “A wager,” said Artas, springing fully upright. Several of the tribesmen jerked their spears around toward him, starting forward with menacing expressions. Naavos barked a command and they froze in place, glowering. Naavos studied Artas with evident interest.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Zander, but Artas ignored him.

  “A wager?” Naavos wore a faint smile, nearly concealed in the dim light by his bristly beard. He scratched his chin again and nodded slowly. “A wager. Hm. Perhaps. But tell me, young friend, what it is you have in mind?”

  “Who among you is most skilled with a bow?” asked Artas. He felt a heady rush of confidence, and hoped he was not being brash.

  “That would be Draagos,” said Naavos. His face was grim as he turned to the stout, clean-shaven man who had argued with him before. This man perked up at the sound of his name, peering curiously from Naavos to Artas and back again.

  “You wish to pit your skill against his?” Naavos came forward until he stood nose to nose with Artas. “And the stakes, I am correct in thinking, would be the water you and your companions have taken from our well? Should you win, we are to forgive your transgression, yes?”

  “That’s right,” said Artas. Then, still feeling brash, he added, “But we’ll also want water for the rest of our journey. The skins we carry, and we’ll need four more, full.”

  Naavos stared at Artas for a long moment. Then, abruptly, hearty laughter erupted from the stern tribesman’s smiling mouth. “You are a bold man,” he cried. Then he clapped his hands, all signs of mirth suddenly cut off. “I think this will be acceptable to my brothers, yes. But remember, should you lose the wager, all your lives must be forfeit.”

  15

  “Artas, what are you doing?”

  The tension in Zander’s voice was almost palpable. He gripped the younger man’s shoulder tight, and peered into his eyes as if searching
for some outward sign of madness. A pace away, Ector and Dristan exchanged a worried glance. Artas drew a deep breath and told himself to remain calm.

  “Trust me, Zander,” he said.

  Nearby, the tribesmen had gathered in a tight circle beside their horses. They were speaking rapidly in hushed tones. The stout one, Draagos, occasionally glanced over at the travelers. There was an ugly look of eager anticipation in his eye. He had already unhooked his wickedly curved bow from one of the horses, and now he fingered the bowstring lovingly with one hand.

  One of the other tribesmen, at a word from Naavos, detached himself from the group. He came over to where the travelers stood nervously. Eyeing them with grim amusement, the man moved past and shimmied up one of the slender palm trees. At the top, he drew a short, sharply curved dagger from the belt of his robe and began to saw at one of the small coconuts that grew there. After a few seconds, the nut fell to the sandy earth with a soft thud. The tribesman went to work on another coconut.

  After a few minutes, he had detached six coconuts. Shimmying back down, he gathered these up and took them over to where his clan brothers waited. Draagos examined the coconuts and nodded his approval. The man who had gathered them leaped astride one of the horses and spurred it to a gallop. He rode for several minutes toward the gradually lightening eastern horizon. Following his progress, Artas was surprised to realize it was nearly dawn.

  “I like this not,” muttered Zander.

  Though he did not want to show any doubt, Artas felt much the same. It was too late to back out of the bet now. Their lives quite literally hung in the balance. Artas moved over to where he had stowed his belongings and retrieved the longbow he had carried from Castle Locke. He sat down on a large stone and got to work re-stringing the bow. He put doubt from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand.

  In the meantime, the tribesman who had ridden out was setting up makeshift targets. He took a small bundle of sticks that had been tied to his horse’s blanket, and began jabbing these vertically into the hard, sandy earth. Then, he placed one coconut atop each stake. He used the hilt of his dagger to hammer the nuts down onto the ends of the stakes. This task completed, he rode back to rejoin the others.