by Stefon Mears
“Or outrun one,” Amra said. “Even down a foot that thing practically flew.”
“I repeat,” Cavan said, meeting Ehren’s clear blue eyes, “one of us had to do something.”
“And that was all you could think of?” Ehren said. “Burning down the forest? The gargoyle might have let us pass if you hadn’t done that.”
“We might not have been alive to pass if I hadn’t done that.”
“Stop,” Amra said, and her tone reminded Cavan that — unlike himself — she had commanded men in battle before. She waited until both Ehren and Cavan were looking at her before she continued. “I know you’re not a warrior, Ehren, and I don’t expect you to be. Cavan’s not either, really, but he’s had enough training to know a basic rule of battle: action is better than inaction.”
Cavan nodded. “I learned it as ‘better to do the wrong thing than nothing at all.’”
“That explains so much,” Ehren said with a sigh. “If this is what all warriors are taught, no wonder our battles degenerate into—”
“Watch that,” Amra said. “You’ve never fought in a battle. Not anything bigger than the three of us on one side, anyway. So don’t talk about what you don’t understand.” She smiled. “Unless you want me to start espousing opinions about gods and temples.”
“Please don’t,” Ehren said, and Cavan would have sworn the golden priest shuddered at the thought. “But it’s a bad comparison. This wasn’t some battle between armies. This was us against a single foe. A skirmish.”
“A foe that could have killed any of us in a single bite of those huge, poisoned fangs. Why are we even…” Cavan shook his head. “No. I get the problem. Ehren, look. You want me to say I did the wrong thing? I’m not sure I can. Maybe I could have waited longer first. Tried to get out of the forest. But I had no idea how much forest was left to go.”
“And it was gaining quickly,” added Amra, and Cavan felt grateful for her support as he continued.
“Far as I knew, I only had time for one spell, and it had to be big enough to take that thing out.” Cavan shrugged. “Too big? Maybe. But it did work.”
Ehren drew breath to speak, but Cavan didn’t give him the chance.
“That said, you know what I’d do differently if that forest and the giant spider had been here in our world?” Cavan blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe stopped to keep the fire from spreading. But if I thought more of those humungous things were coming…”
“Enough,” Ehren said, raising a hand. “I had no idea you could cast such a spell. And I’ll be honest, the thought of that much destructive power in your half-trained hands makes me wonder a bit about Master Powys’ sense of responsibility.”
Cavan shrugged. He’d wondered the same thing himself, on more than one occasion.
“But,” he said, making a calming gesture at Amra, who apparently had some kind of remark ready, “as long as I know you’ll be careful with it in the future, that’s really all I can ask.”
Cavan considered pointing out that since Ehren had never seen the spell before, obviously Cavan was careful and when and where he cast it. However, he decided to quit while he was ahead.
“Wait,” Cavan said, holding up an egg like the physical support of a spell. “You do realize I’m going to keep learning more. In bits and pieces, yes, but I already know more than I learned from Master Powys.”
“And I’ll expect you to exercise caution with those new spells as well. In fact,” — a slow smile spread across Ehren’s face, like the sun rising over a tall mountain peak — “I’d be happy to discuss how and when each spell might—”
“Forget it,” Cavan said, tossed the whole hardboiled egg in his mouth.
“Worth a shot,” Ehren said, and the three of them went back to finishing their meal.
Then, after entirely too long in Cavan’s opinion, they were heading into Oltoss.
9
“They’re not coming,” Qalas said for the fifth time since dawn. And for the fifth time since dawn, Tohen considered gutting the man just to still his tongue. Since the sun was only now near its apex, that meant one of the two of them might be dead by day’s end. “Either that, or they’ve come and gone before we got here.”
Tohen closed his eyes and sighed. Satisfying as it would be, gutting Qalas was not the answer. The southerner was still a good man with his halberd, even if not as good with that double-curved bow as Tohen had thought. And when Cavan and his cronies did show up, Tohen might need that halberd fighting beside him.
“Sit,” Tohen said, pointing to the other chair with one hand and slapping one of those evil little flies with the other. The chairs were weak, and rickety, but then the room was cheap. Creaky, raw floorboards still showed patches of someone’s dried blood. A low, slanting roof kept all four of them crouching unless they stood along one wall. The room smelled of must and mildew, though some of that might have been coming from the wooden pitcher full of “fresh” water.
Tohen had demanded a copper pitcher of fresh water from the innkeeper — hand on his sword to emphasize the importance of his request — and gotten it. But the serving man never bothered to take away the wooden pitcher, or even change the dank water. The wooden pitcher sat next to its copper cousin on that small table with uneven legs, next to four wooden cups that were, at least, marginally better than the wooden pitcher.
One of the worst rooms Tohen had stayed in since becoming the chief huntsman to Duke Falstaff. The worst he’d stayed in since he was a wandering mercenary more given to spend his coin on drinks and women than on accommodations.
But he had chosen this room for a reason.
This was a room where no one would ask questions about who stayed here, or why. Where Tohen and his men could come and go by a back stair that regular inn patrons didn’t use. And most of all, a room whose single window could provide a view of both the front and rear entrances of the house where Cavan was raised.
The house Cavan had to be heading for as his first stop in Oltoss.
A good plan. As good as any could be. But this was their sixth day in this room. Watching. Waiting. It was only natural for impatience to set in. Tempers to flare. Tohen knew this. Knew he shouldn’t give into it.
But he knew he shouldn’t take smart talk from the men in his command, either.
Nor should he take the kind of hard look Qalas was giving him, from where he stood near the one, small window. One hand near the dagger on his belt. Smart. Smarter than trying to fight with a halberd in this tiny space.
But intolerable.
“I said sit,” Tohen said, one hand casually resting near his sword pommel and the other near a dagger. Just in case. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Qalas stepped from the window to the chair and perched on the edge, one hand resting on his dagger hilt now. If the flies bothered Qalas, Tohen couldn’t tell.
Tohen, by reflex, checked on his other two men. Both sleeping. Lutik stretched out on top of the blankets of the small bed that was miraculously free of fleas and lice. More of Lutik’s luck, no doubt. Luck he’d proven once again by surviving the ride to the healer, despite those awful wounds.
Rudyar slept on the floor, his back against the tall wall, with his huge axe across his lap. One word and he’d be on his feet and ready.
Tohen looked back at the angry Qalas.
“I get it,” Tohen said, pulling his hands away from his weapons and folding them across his stomach. “You don’t believe we got here faster.”
“We,” Qalas started in an angry tone, but to his credit he cut himself short with a glance at the sleepers. He flared his wide nose in a deep breath, and continued in a harsh whisper. “We wasted two days in Riverbend getting those two healed. Yes, you got us a teleport. And yes, I’m impressed that you knew that wizard was even there, much less that she’d be willing to help us. But how do you know Cavan didn’t get a teleport from the orcs?”
“I’m chief huntsman to Duke Falstaff of Nolarr. That’s how.”
/> Tohen allowed himself an evil smile as Qalas started to ask the obvious question, but stopped and settled for glaring as he waited.
“I may not speak that grunting excuse for a language that you’re so fond of,” Tohen said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely ignorant of orcs.”
He glanced out the window to get the feel of the street. If Cavan were near, people would recognize him. There would be signs. Enough to get everyone in position before Cavan himself came into view.
Nothing yet, so Tohen looked back at Qalas as he continued.
“What do you know about the Firespear?”
“Biggest clan west of the Dwarfmarches,” Qalas said in a tone as suspicious as his expression. “Could probably fight two or three of the other big clans at the same time. Might even win.”
“That’s not news.” Tohen smiled, enjoying reminding Qalas who was in charge and why. “You can’t do better than that?”
“Cavan was after the Hawkspeaker. Sounds like a shaman of some sort.”
“But you don’t know.”
Qalas sighed and sat back in his chair, despite its creak of protest.
“No orc has ever mastered teleportation,” Tohen said with a shake of his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard, and believe me, if orcs started popping up unexpectedly, word would get out. So Iresk the Hawkspeaker must have provided the next best thing: passage between worlds. Faster than riding, but dangerous and unreliable.”
“Fine,” Qalas said. “But how do you know they’re coming to Tradeton? Maybe they’re heading straight for the duke. Sounds like something a hothead like Cavan would do. Or maybe they’re heading straight for—”
“They’re coming,” Tohen said, certainty all through his voice. “He’ll want to check for himself. Figure out how bad things are before he acts.”
“You’re sure about this,” Qalas said. “Because if you’re wrong…”
“If I’m wrong it’s my head on the block, not yours.”
“No,” Qalas said, and there was anger in his tone again. He wasn’t whispering now, but he kept his volume low all the same. “If you go down, you take us with you. And you know it.”
“Never said it was an easy job,” Tohen said, shrugging as he stood. “But let me tell you three things.” He held up a finger. “One. We beat Cavan here.” He held up a second finger. “Two. He is coming here, and when he gets here we’ll be ready. My gut says it’s soon.”
He leaned forward and held up a third finger. “Three. Wake Rudyar and get some sleep. If I don’t get a break from your nattering I’ll add your blood to the stains on these floorboards.”
Qalas reached for his dagger, then stopped himself. Eased his hand back away. He stood tall, breathing through his nose, likely because he’d clamped his jaw shut. He turned to wake up Rudyar.
Tohen smiled and went back to the window.
Soon.
10
Even Dzint’s hooves on the cobblestones of Tradeton sounded like home to Cavan. And not just because of the near-soundless gray world they’d ridden through to get here — though Cavan knew deep inside he’d be seeing, hearing, and smelling that place and its disturbing inhabitants in the quiet hours of the night for some time to come.
But each clop of the blue roan’s hooves might as well have been saying “home.” How long had it been since he last rode through these streets? Five years? More? Had to be more, since he’d been riding with Ehren and Amra longer than that, and he’d never been here with them. Never been closer than the outskirts of the countryside, not with them.
Certainly not on such a fine day, the mid-afternoon sun almost gentle after the relative heat near Riverbend.
Still, worry gnawed at Cavan’s gut. Worry about Kent and his family. Made the jerked beef, eggs and cherries Ehren had forced on him gurgle uneasily in his stomach. He might have sped the horses the rest of the way, except that he knew better. Fast riders drew attention, and if Falstaff had hunters after him, drawing attention was the dumb move.
He needed to move like a traveler, slow and smooth. Just another rider following the road through town to the capitol. Maybe with hopes of making it there before full dark.
Even so, even with so much on his mind, Cavan could not stop himself from seeing the streets around him with the eyes of childhood.
So much still looked the same, even though that could not have been true. He knew from long experience that the hills he, Ehren and Amra had arrived on should have been a good hour south of town. But the ride here had not taken nearly that long.
Tradeton had expanded. But the builders still followed the same familiar patterns Cavan knew so well.
All the buildings were stone and wood, and most of them painted in browns and reds. Most of the shops and smaller homes had stone foundations and cellars, but the rest was all wood. Maple, oak or beech for those who could afford it, pine or spruce for those who couldn’t. The bigger buildings, the inns, guildhalls and larger houses, they all had stonework first floors before the wood began. Some few, like the masons’ hall in the town square, were all stone.
The masons’ hall was a grand thing. Four stories tall, fashioned from red, white, and black stones, with veins of blue in swirling decorations. All handcrafted from stone, without so much as a drop of paint or a single spell, they say.
The wealthy of Tradeton had glass windows. The poor had wooden shutters. And between the two were houses and shops with one or two glass windows mixed in among the shutters. As much a mark of progress and standing as to provide a flyless view.
And the flies were bad this time of year, just as he remembered. Not the full heat of summer yet, but the tiny buzzing things pestered the horses. Not that they left the riders alone. Well, they left Ehren alone. Amra grunted irritation each time she slapped at one. Cavan didn’t bother. He’d remembered them too well to make the effort.
The streets fell into two categories — a few were narrow and straight, to accommodate scouts and messengers. The rest were broader, but tightly curved as they wove through town. Cavan was riding on a narrow, straight street now, surrounded by single story houses and shops. No makers here. No smiths or wheelwrights or masons or such. They weren’t allowed on straight streets. Only cheaper housing, rooms to let, and at every corner, a two-story building that looked like an inn but doubled as a barracks.
King Draven did not believe in letting enemies ride any straight streets.
Made sense though. From where he rode, Cavan could see all the way to the town square. The great masons’ hall. The three-branched temple of Ulsina, the Lady of Ways. Even a hint of the mayor’s grand mansion, which served as both his home and his place of business. He could see all the way through, even hints of the capitol in the distance.
But that was down the street. Here on this block were some of the poorer townsfolk, going about their days. Carrying sacks or crates to or from the market square or any of the shops on other streets. No carts here. Too narrow. Not even any other horses. The denizens of the narrow streets probably couldn’t afford horses, and couldn’t have stabled them nearby if they could.
No vendor working this street except Old Jan, as much a fixture of Tradeton as the masons’ hall. Wrapped, as always, in faded green linens over her ageless frame. Yes, she was withered with wisps of white hair, but no more than she’d been when Cavan was a boy. Or so it seemed to him now.
“How much farther?” Amra said. Apparently she was far less interested in Old Jan, or the apples she sold from her cart, than Cavan was.
But then, Amra didn’t know that this woman had been selling apples since Kent was a child. That, at the start of the season, she had golden apples that rivaled anything Ehren could pull from that strange brown backpack of his.
Too late in the season for those apples now. All she had were her reds, which were as ordinary as her hump.
“Want to try again?” Cavan said to Amra. “I doubt they heard you in the capitol.”
Amra gave him a look that clearly said, “
Answer my question or you’ll hear how loud I can ask.”
“Not far,” he said quickly. “We’ll just need to hang a left at the third barracks. Which isn’t actually a barracks these days. Or maybe it never was one. Last I heard it was a brothel, and—”
“Cavan,” Ehren said, showing at least enough sense to keep his voice down, “we don’t know which is the first barracks, much less—”
“The taller buildings at the corners,” Amra said. “Not all of them though. Maybe every other. So the third barracks would be about six streets from here.”
“Four,” Cavan said, impressed.
“Then you’re counting a barracks that isn’t one,” Amra said with a shrug.
Cavan started to object, but Ehren cut in ahead of him. “Don’t bet on it, or you’ll lose money to her.”
Cavan closed his mouth. Amra smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Bigger question,” she said, “what are we going to do about the ambush?”
Cavan stopped riding.
“Get that horse moving,” she said, “you want the whole town to notice us?”
As if to make her point, she waved at three children running playful circles around their harried-looking mother. The children didn’t notice, too swept up in their game. Apparently travelers riding on this street weren’t all that uncommon. Even three riding abreast, which meant the locals had to press against the buildings to let them pass. But apparently that wasn’t uncommon either.
Ambushes, though, were another story.
“What do you mean ambush?” hissed Cavan as he started Dzint forward.
“You think the duke only sent four hunters?” Amra raised her eyebrows. “You think there aren’t armed men watching Kent’s shop right now? Waiting for us?”
Cavan blinked. Between the worries that pushed him to get here, and the unexpected overwhelming memories, he hadn’t thought about that at all.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“You’re adorable,” Amra said with a chuckle. “Listen up. This is how it’s going to go.”