“Eggs!” he said holding them out to her, a large smile on his face.
Sam couldn’t help but smile back, though she was feeling slightly used and humiliated; much to her surprise however, she still did not feel dirty. She leaned forward and took a peek in the hat.
“Eggs,” she replied. “Where did you get eggs?”
Cobb frowned at her as if she was the simple one. “I’m a trader,” he answered as if this were the answer to all worldly troubles.
After the previous night Sam had to agree. “And a good one,” she said reaching up and taking a couple of eggs. She cracked them into the pan. The bacon grease popped and sizzled as Cobb placed the hat on the ground next to her, beaming at the compliment.
They ate breakfast, which to Sam, easily topped the beans from the previous night, but when they were finished a sense of urgency suddenly struck her and she stood looking about for Bull. He was nowhere in sight.
“Cobb, where’s Bull?”
Cobb was busy cleaning the pan with gritty dirt, removing as much of the grease as he could. He nodded toward the river. “Drinking,” he answered. “Cobb gave him grain. He’s a big horse…hungry horse,” he added still smiling. “Come I will show you.”
He led the way down the path and there, by the large boat was Bull, but he was no longer drinking, instead his nose was in a feedbag. He raised his head, chewing contentedly and watched as Sam and Cobb moved down the hill toward him. Sam was overwhelmed with gratitude. She placed a hand on Cobb’s arm as they hit the sandy soil at the bottom of the hill.
Cobb glanced down at her hand, and suddenly sobered. “Will you come with me?” he asked, suddenly shy.
Sam looked at him, not wishing to hurt him, but having no choice. “No Cobb. I’m being chased by an Executioner.”
Cobb’s eyes grew wide.
“You know what an Executioner is then?”
Cobb shook his head. “A bad man,” he affirmed.
Sam nodded back. “A very bad man. A man who kills people.”
Cobb looked at her for a long moment. “Cobb would take good care of you,” he said with such sincerity that she had to smile at him.
“I know you would, but the Executioner would kill you…and me.”
He considered this for a moment.
She looked up at the large, simple man. “When you leave Cobb, don’t stop for anyone. Keep going; keep in the middle of the river. If you meet anyone, anyone riding alone, just keep going,” she said. Cobb nodded, then went to his boat and began to fill two saddlebags with food, and other essentials for traveling across the Plateau. When he was finished he grabbed the feedbag and led Bull and Samantha back up the hill to the camp. He quickly saddled Bull, something which would have taken Samantha at least twice as long and then he kicked the coals of the fire apart with his boots, covered them with dirt and retrieved the bow and arrows from the back wall. He handed these to Sam.
“Cobb is strong, but not too smart. He would kill me…and you,” he said simply, looking down at her. Sam was thankful that he was not so simple as to be able to think he could take on an Executioner. She looked into his face, wondering how she could have ever been frightened of him. He was so open and honest, utterly without guile. She took his hand and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, his bushy mustache scratching her fair skin.
“Thank you, Cobb.”
“You and Bull have food now…in the bags,” he said quickly, then as if not knowing what else to say he began to move back down the hill to his boat.
“Remember what I said,” Sam called after him. “Don’t stop for anyone. He may be close behind. Cobb raised his hand in acknowledgement, but did not stop or turn around. Sam smiled to herself, then struggled up onto Bull and moved up higher and onto the Scar Plateau.
XVII
Lonogan Bock, on horseback, followed along apprehensively as three of his largest wagons rolled slowly across the bridge leading to the Plateau above. Each empty wagon had six horses pulling it, and though the horses had an easy time of it going this direction, on the way back, loaded with freshly cut logs, they would need all of their strength. Two horses were tied to the rear of the middle wagon and followed along amiably. They were the only clue that the two young men who actually drove the wagon were not exactly who they appeared to be. If the Deutzani guarding the bridgehead became suspicious Bock would just claim to be trading out horses for his scouts and trappers. If that failed he had enough coin to turn their heads. Bribery and black marketers thrived under the new system of rule, and any man who wished to be successful in a business soon learned who could be persuaded to look the other way for a few pence.
But the guards at the bridge just waved the party on without at a second glance, after all, the Deutzani needed the trade; as conquerors the tax income was theirs by right. They would only be undermining themselves to stand in the way of commerce. The local governor knew such things, but it did not keep him from growing rich on extortion…just not rich enough to attract the attention of King Arsinol.
Bock watched the two new young men handle the team as they reached the foot of the long hill which would eventually lead to the flat Plateau above. He studied Gwaynn very closely. The boy had determination, strength and resolve, and these were not attributes he’d been told to expect. Afton Sath, his commander now for nearly twelve years, described the young prince as talented, but soft, with feelings as sensitive as any girl’s. In fact, Sath had mentioned several times that he had wished it had been Gwynn who had survived, truly believing that she was the stronger of the two.
But after Gwaynn’s encounter with Lee Brandt, Bock was forced to reevaluate his preconceptions. It was something he continued to do the entire day yesterday as he tried to talk his prince out of moving up on the Plateau and chasing foolishly after a party of Executioners. Bock was surprised when Gwaynn had asked about them, but he told what he knew, that they had entered Manse nearly a week prior, but had since left, though when, he could not be sure. Word had it that they were on their way to Koshka. He never would have believed that these two young men were actually chasing after Executioners or he would not have been so free with his information. He wanted the two to hold up and wait for Sath to return from Cape, but Gwaynn would hear none of it.
“He can find us just as well at Koshka,” Gwaynn had said and even intended on crossing the Scar River on his own. It was all Bock could do to convince him into staying the night and leaving with a party at first light. The young prince was impatient, and apparently reckless, not desirable qualities in a leader, but certainly not the simpering, soft, coward he had come to expect. But it was when Gwaynn asked about Tod Ogden and a whore named Dot that Bock began to realize with just whom he was dealing.
“You know them?” Gwaynn had asked.
Bock nodded. “Tough bunch. Led by Fakir, not someone you want to get tangled with,” he advised.
“Fakir’s dead, along with several of his men, and a few of his women,” Gwaynn said without emotion. “Tod and Dot though seemed to lose heart as we were dealing with the others and fled. I want them dead.”
Bock stared at Gwaynn his mouth slightly open. “Dead?”
“Dead,” Gwaynn repeated. “Can you get it done for me?”
Bock nodded. “Fakir’s dead?”
Gwaynn shook his question away with obvious impatience. “There are two others, a whore named Neece…she is to leave Manse and not return. The other is Emm. She is now under the care of the innkeeper Taylor. She is not to be harmed. If she returns to her whoring ways, however, she dies.”
Bock studied Gwaynn and Krys in silence. “I will see to it,” he finally answered, thinking to himself, that whatever Gwaynn used to be; he was no longer soft, far from it.
Once they reached the top of the Plateau and were a little more than a mile away from Manse, the wagons pulled to a stop, and Gwaynn and Krys climbed down. They mounted their fine horses without a word. Bock rode up to Lee Brandt, who was driver of the first wagon.
&
nbsp; “Head for the Astoria forest lands,” he ordered and then glanced back at the two young men preparing to leave. “When you return, remain in Manse until Master Sath arrives. Send him on to the Hawser Ranch. I will try to keep these two there.”
Lee smiled at his boss, who he respected above all other men. “Good luck with that job,” he answered then snapped the reins and turned the team until they were heading nearly due west. The other wagons fell into place, one rider from the last wagon hopping up into the middle wagon to take over for Krys and Gwaynn as Bock rode over to join the two young men.
“If we head southwest we should reach Koshka before nightfall tomorrow. There’s a ranch about three miles southeast we use when hauling lumber from Mayfield,” he said swiftly so as not to be interrupted.
“We?” Gwaynn asked without smiling, though inside he was grateful for the guide, and the possibility of sleeping once again with a roof over his head. Despite the fact that he was a prince of this land, he did not know it as he should. He had never been on the Plateau until today and he marveled at its stark flatness. He had a hard time believing that most of the lumber was taken from such a barren landscape; of course he knew that the great forests grew in the shadows of the Scar Mountains which were now visible in the distance.
Bock nodded at him, very serious. “I thought I would accompany you.”
“You mean keep us in sight until Afton Sath arrives.”
Bock shrugged. “As you like, but I know the country. The Deutzani have a garrison both at Colchester and Mayfield, maybe three to four hundred cavalry each. For the most part this is their only presence on the western Plateau. I know their patrol patterns, what roads they use and which they tend to avoid. The Massi plains have been conquered, but the Plateau is as wild as ever, even your father never fully tamed the locals who live here.”
Krys frowned at the man. “The Plateau Massi have always been loyal to the King,” he protested. His years living at the very edge of the Scar had taught him as much, and though the people from above were an independent and sometimes unruly lot, they were never considered to be disloyal to either King or country.
“Fair enough,” Bock answered, “but only after hundreds of years of just rule.”
“Come then,” Gwaynn said. “Show us the way…and if you are to ride along,” he added with a hint of a smile. “You must keep an eye out for Executioners…but remember one thing, Navarra is mine.”
Bock started at the name of the Executioner and Weapons Master to the Deutzani King. He looked into Gwaynn’s face for a sign that he was jesting, but his face was completely serious. Bock nodded, wondering if the young prince truly believed he was a match for the infamous swordsman. Surely not. Master Sath had spoken of Gwaynn’s talent, and though the training abilities of the Tars of Noble Island were renowned, one did not go from a dandy to a wolf in a year and a half. It just wasn’t possible. He glanced at Krys, the Weapons Master, as they trotted along, looking for signs of doubt in his face. He saw none.
ǂ
About twenty miles from Manse, Tar Navarra completely lost the girl’s tracks. He traveled nearly two more miles without a sign before turning back with disgust. He was tempted to ride on to Manse and sleep in a bed for once. He was almost positive that the girl was on her way to the town, but some deeper instinct told him this thought was wrong, and over the years he had learned to trust his instincts, especially when it came to tracking those who ran from death. And so he slowly retraced his steps, guiding Chaos down closer to the river in hopes of catching sight of a print in the mud along the bank. He moved slowly when the river widened, the current slowed and the water grew shallow but spotted nothing, and in disgust was about to turn back when the river deepened. The current appeared strong and Navarra thought it unlikely that the Fultan girl would have dared to cross here but then he happened to look to the far side and caught sight of a deep impression. He stared at the spot for a several moments, while his mount drank. The depression was obviously made when a river boat was pulled up and out of the water. He looked for any sign of prints left by a horse. In the end, the distance across was too great, so with a curse he coaxed Chaos into the water and together they made their wet way to the far bank.
He immediately knew that the crossing had been worth the discomfort he now felt. Horse tracks were plainly visible, large tracks. It was her; she had crossed over sometime the previous afternoon. Despite himself, he was impressed. The girl was nearly a day ahead of him. She was now traveling faster, putting more and more distance between them, at least he thought so until he came across the camp and beyond that a new, fresher set of tracks. No, she was less than a half a day ahead. She had foolishly stopped to early for the night, and apparently got off to a late start. Navarra smiled to himself and moved farther up the steep hillside until finally he reached the large, flat expanse which was the Plateau. He looked around at the low brush and hard flat surface of the land surrounding him and his spirits soared. This type of terrain made for very easy tracking. He would be able to pick up his speed and still follow her trail with relative ease.
He pulled a piece of jerked beef from a saddlebag and chewed on it thoughtfully as he followed her tracks to the southwest. He smiled inwardly, confident that he would have her by tomorrow afternoon, earlier if she was foolish enough to dally again.
ǂ
Bock had not expected to come across the party of Executioners until maybe Koshka, probably later, hopefully never. Chasing after a large group of highly trained fighting men was one thing, actually catching them was another. Bock was a well trained soldier himself, but had seen enough of fighting and death to know that nothing in battle was certain. He’d seen good men fall to a lesser opponent for a myriad of unfathomable reasons, an untimely slip, a lapse in concentration, or just plain bad luck. Warfare was seldom fair. In fact, a good commander did his best to see that it was war-unfair, because of course, the dead could not complain, which left only the living to tell the tales of the glory of battle. And if the glorious end was that your opponent clumsily fell and struck his head on a rock…well what story could not be embellished.
So it was an unpleasant surprise when only half way to Koshka, along the shores of Wren Lake, they came across a group of soldiers. It was late in the afternoon and moving quickly toward evening, though there was still plenty of light as summer drew closer. Bock’s first instinct was to move off away from the lake and men. Gwaynn, however, stopped his mount and removed his kali from his pack. Krys followed suit and then they turned and headed straight toward the soldiers. Bock, with a feeling of trepidation, followed. It was not until they were quite close that the black capes with red trim, the trademark of the Executioners, became plainly visible on several. Bock’s heart skipped a beat as they moved ever closer dreading the moment when the group up ahead would spot their approach. The group was confident and apparently posted no sentry, most were milling about a large fire, but there were some who were swimming in the nearby lake. The soldiers were still not aware of the approaching riders and Bock found their lack of caution disgusting. But as they drew nearer, Bock realized that along with the eight Executioners there were also several soldiers, three or perhaps four. He could not get a sure count while everything was in motion, but it was plain that their little trio would be heavily outnumbered.
“M’lord,” he whispered, growing alarmed that they were still moving forward.
“Gwaynn, if you please,” Gwaynn answered and gave a reassuring glance to his new friend. “Steady…follow our lead.” He added, but Bock’s mind was in turmoil. ‘Follow his lead…straight to death and hell,’ he thought, but made no comment.
They were only a few hundred feet from the camp when the Executioners finally became aware of their approach, and while they did not appear to be unduly alarmed, several of them did pull their weapons from their sheaths. Much to Bock’s relief Gwaynn pulled his horse to a stop some fifty feet from the nearest soldier, now all but those who were swimming had turned to watch
their approach. Gwaynn dismounted, as did Krys, and together the two of them began to walk toward the crowd of enemy. Bock climbed from his horse and followed though he was already nearly twenty feet behind them. The Executioners were interested but still showed no true concern, after all it was only three men, and the newcomers were approaching without stealth or signs of unease.
Gwaynn raised his hand in greeting, smiled and moved within a few paces of the nearest before calmly drawing his kali, and rushing in to attack. Krys was a split second behind him, but Bock stopped where he was and watched with utter disbelief. He had not fully realized that an attack was imminent. He had left his sword back on his horse and only carried four throwing knives on his person. He hesitated, not knowing whether he should go back for his main weapon or if such a delay would be disastrous, so for the first few moments he did nothing but stand and watch.
His two young companions moved like nothing he had ever witnessed before, and he’d been fortunate enough to watch Master Sath fight on numerous occasions. Sath was by far the most gifted fighter with the sword or kali he had ever had the privilege to watch, at least until now. Next to these two, Master Sath looked like a gifted, but old man. They made him look stiff and slow. Gwaynn and Krys were like light itself, and before he could even register it Gwaynn had relieved one man of his head and another of his arm, and Krys slightly behind had skewered a man through the throat. They moved with such ease and grace that it appeared that they knew how their opponents would counter before they actually made move to do so. What was truly remarkable to Bock was the fact that even in the midst of the fighting, the chaos of twirling deadly blades, neither youth seemed to be hurried in the least. They seemed to move from place to place as if choreographed.
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