by Stefon Mears
“I wasn’t expecting to be here,” Cavan said, reining in a comfortable distance from the servants, “and I don’t know that I’m staying yet. And it’s not ‘Lord’ Cavan while His Majesty yet lives, may he live a thousand years.”
As one, the servants bowed their heads and echoed, “May he live a thousand years.”
Ehren and Amra glanced at each other, but said nothing.
“Where is Olivart?” Cavan said, before the servant could say anything else. “He should have been the one to greet me.”
“The majordomo is” — the servant glanced at Ehren and Amra — “occupied with official matters that are best not discussed in front of—”
“Bring him to me immediately.” Cavan dismounted, but held onto his reins when one of the servants tried to take them. “Right here.”
“But—”
“Now.”
“Of course, my lord,” the servant said. “May we at least bring you refreshment?”
“Just the majordomo.”
As the long-haired servant led the others away, Amra said, “Such a commanding presence. So lordly.”
“Truly,” Ehren said, “he was born to rule.”
“May he live a thousand years.”
“May he live a thousand years.”
“Anytime you two are finished,” Cavan said, turning back to them.
“You haven’t asked about Kent,” Ehren said. Like Amra, he remained in the saddle.
“I don’t know any of those servants. I know Olivart. If he lies to me, I’ll know it.”
“Meanwhile, no one has the chance to poison us,” Amra said, “and you’ve made sure there are plenty of witnesses.”
They stopped talking as a pair of angry farmers marched past, apparently ready with a grievance. One of them stopped no more than a half-dozen paces past Cavan. He turned.
“You. You stand to be lord here one day, yes?”
“That’s right,” Cavan said, as the other farmer turned back to see what the holdup was. Both men were old and weathered, but strong, and plainly dressed in undyed cotton. And they both looked certain they were right. One had a deeper tan, but the other had more wrinkles.
“Let’s have his judgment then,” the one farmer said.
“He ain’t lord here yet,” the other said. “It’s that Olivart who knows us and knows our land. I’ll have his judgment.”
“Perhaps,” Ehren said, “I can be of service?”
The two farmers looked up and down the pristine white clothes of the blond man on the blond hobby.
“Don’t look like no priest of the Green Lord to me.”
“I worship Zatafa, Who—”
“Right,” the one farmer said. “Olivart it is.”
“Right,” the other said. And together they turned and set an angry pace toward the front doors.
Where even now, Olivart was hurrying up the wide, smooth road. Just as bent and old as Cavan remembered, but surprisingly quick of stride. He had a dark brown cane with a gold handle and gold tip, but he carried it like a scepter of office, rather than using it to help him walk.
“Olivart!” the one farmer said.
“We need judgment,” the other said.
“And I’m afraid you’ll both have to join the queue inside,” Olivart said. That quaver in his voice did nothing to diminish the smooth ease of his words. “I’ve a great deal of business to tend to before the sun sets.”
The farmers gnashed their teeth, but swallowed their objections and set an even angrier pace toward the manor.
“My future lord,” Olivart said, greeting Cavan as he always did, with a smile and a kiss on both cheeks. “You grow taller and stronger every time I see you. You’ll be grander than the Ice Dagger at this rate.”
“Always good to see you, Olivart.” Cavan clasped the old man on both shoulders and leaned in to touch foreheads as though Olivart were his grandfather. The old man beamed at the gesture. Cavan continued, voice pitched low, “If you are not free to speak, remark on the weather.”
“What?” Olivart said, matching Cavan’s low volume. “Why would I not be free to speak?”
“Is Kent in residence?”
“He was scant weeks ago. But he’s gone to Interr. Took his wife, and his boys with him. What’s wrong?”
“Why would he go to Interr?”
“He didn’t tell me, but I had the impression it had something to do with you.” Olivart shook his head. “Whatever it was, it was secret, and urgent. He left in a hurry. Didn’t take more than a half-dozen guards for the trip.”
“Which guards? Did you know them?”
“Of course. Picked them out myself. Cavan, what’s going on?”
“Has anything … odd happened lately? Any discoveries?”
“Odd sightings up the mountain?” added Ehren.
“Now that you mention it…” Olivart tugged at his beard. “Just before the steward left, there was a rider with news. The rider looked … excited … in a way most messengers don’t. Didn’t get to hear the message myself. The steward took the news in private.”
“And this was just before the duke summoned Kent?” Cavan said.
Olivart nodded. “Didn’t see any reason to connect the two. You’re saying there’s a connection?”
“Definitely. And don’t trust your guards. The duke has—”
“He knows,” Amra said. “Look at the grounds. Look at the way those farmers deferred to him. Olivart knows everything that goes on around here. Don’t you?”
“That is rather my job,” Olivart said, trying to draw himself erect and not quite managing it.
“So you know the duke has spies among the guards?” Cavan said.
“Of course,” Olivart said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “So does Twall. I could tell you which ones, if you like.”
“But—”
“If I fired their spies, they’d send more. Better to know who the spies are, and not let them learn anything they shouldn’t.”
“Then you lapsed there,” Cavan said. “Whatever that message was, the duke knows about it. He’s making a play for this barony, and he intends to kill me to get it.”
“Do you have proof?”
“No.”
“Then leave Oltoss.” Urgency in the old man’s voice now. “Cross the Dwarfmarches, where the duke’s power shrinks away to nothing. Or go visit the elves. Falstaff wouldn’t dare come after you there.”
“I can’t. He’s holding Kent. He’ll kill him if I don’t save him.”
“Then he’s good as dead,” Olivart said, shaking his head slowly to emphasize his point. “He’s at Interr. The seat of Falstaff’s power. You’d be a fool to…”
Olivart must have seen the look in Cavan’s eye.
“I’m going,” Cavan said.
“They found something in the mountains,” Olivart whispered, so quietly that even Amra might not have heard him. “I don’t know what, but it’s major. I don’t know why Kent went to the duke instead of the king, but—”
“Do you have the message?” Cavan said, suddenly realizing he was shaking the dear old man by the shoulders. He let go before continuing, “Any evidence?”
Olivart shook his head.
“Then I have to go to Interr.” Cavan turned and mounted up. He looked back to say goodbye.
“Cavan,” Olivart interrupted him. “At least let me replace that slashed cloak of yours first. Hardly befitting our future lord.”
* * *
Cavan’s new cloak was loose-woven gray wool, with a gold clasp featuring a blue mountain carved from local crystal. It would serve him well in many of the temperate and warm places he, Ehren and Amra rode.
Right now, though, Cavan wouldn’t have minded something tighter-knit. Perhaps fur-lined.
The wind had picked up closer to the mountains, and now here, on the narrow trail used by soldiers to defend the Royal Road between peaks of the Blue Mountains, it was downright chilly as it tossed Cavan’s brown hair about
. The air even smelled cold. Fresh, yes, clean, yes, but cold, even in the afternoon sun.
Fortunately, Olivart had fortified the trio before sending them off. Had the horses fed, watered and rested while pointing out that they themselves needed a little rest and hot food in their bellies before riding through the mountains. He sealed the deal by pointing out that both could be accomplished — in private — while reviewing maps of those mountain passes.
Cavan had hated the wait, but he was grateful for those maps, and for the roast venison with beets, spinach and carrots. Especially now that he, Ehren and Amra rode through those passes.
Amra and Olivart had worked together to choose the route. He knew which of the three or four on each side of the Royal Road were in use this month, and she knew which ones she liked for speed and cover.
Cavan had to admit that the choices seemed good. They had a clear view of the Royal Road beneath them, where caravans hurried both directions, intent on one destination or another before nightfall.
They were sheltered from the view above them by overhanging rocks, and though the trail was too narrow for them to ride abreast, that also meant it was too narrow to set up a good ambush. Not so far, anyway.
Cavan wasn’t in a hurry to fight on the pass anyway. Solid mountain on one side, and upjutting stone of various heights on the other. Yes, there were strong points every hundred yards or so, with barrels of pitch, caches of arrows, or piles of stone, but those were less useful as weapons for a skirmish on the pass than against those on the Royal Road below.
Then there were the oddities of the mountain itself.
Most of the stone that made up the passes wasn’t blue. Much of it was pale gray, with bluish highlights. But the crystal formations that crusted here and there, seemingly at random, all glinted from deep indigo to the palest sky blue. Those crystals, Cavan would have to make a study of them someday. They seemed to eat sound, and they carried a magical resonance like a background hum as he rode among them.
Not something he’d noticed before, and he’d never heard of anyone studying it, which was even odder. He was reluctant to say anything, though, lest Ehren take it as a sign that he was right about his cavern to the Underworld, and try to steer them off-course.
Juno could wait. Kent, his wife, and his sons came next. Then they could worry about the mountain and the discovery.
The path wound back and forth as it rose. According to the map, it would never get more than a few hundred feet up, but the back-and-forth weave followed the natural formation and impeded visibility to those watching for guards up high.
He could hear the caravans down below. The background blend of voices raised in conversation or to give orders, but the details were difficult to pick out. And not just because of the number of people in those long caravans. The echoes were wrong when they reached Cavan’s ears — half bounced by normal reflections, while some half the sounds were eaten by the crystals along the way.
Made for an ominous background noise that wedged against the low hum of the crystals and set Cavan’s teeth on edge. Tightened his shoulders. He began to expect an attack.
What if he were riding into an ambush? What if Olivart was in on it? If bought by the duke, he’d be able to hand the barony over on a platter. And the locals might support it. They knew Olivart. Why should they care if he reports to the duke, or to some little bastard they hadn’t seen in half a dozen years or more?
Olivart might be betraying them. Might be sending them into a trap.
Cavan reined to a halt.
He looked back to see Ehren’s puzzled expression and Amra’s long-suffering-patience look.
“What if Olivart’s betraying us?”
“He’s not,” Amra said, before Ehren could wedge in a word. “That man’s loyal to the bone.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if he’s sending us into an ambush?”
“Well,” Amra said with a sweet smile, “then I suggest you be ready to fight. Just in case.”
Cavan couldn’t think of anything clever to say to that, so he loosened his sword in its scabbard, and went back to riding.
Only about another hour passed before the ambush came.
* * *
When the ambush came, Cavan, Ehren and Amra were resting their horses. They’d stopped near the apex of the trail, where they found about as large a resting place as they could expect to see before they reached the ground again. A round area, maybe fifteen feet across, sheltered from the wind, but with no stone ledge to protect anyone from a long, long drop.
The horses were hobbled safely against the mountainside, while Cavan, Ehren and Amra sat on the cold blue-gray stone beside them, snacking on cold roasted chicken and golden cherries, while Amra speculated about the tactical uses for a place like this. Her leading theory was that this was where soldiers slept in shifts during battles.
The sun was midway toward the horizon.
All three of them had their weapons nearby, but not in hand.
Cavan turned to spit out a cherry pit, which was the only thing that kept him alive.
An arrow whistled through the air and slammed into his left shoulder. It hit hard as an orc punch, and he grunted in pain.
Amra was on her feet in an instant, sword in hand.
Hunters melted out of the stone. One moment nothing but mountain and empty air. The next moment, bits of mountain shifted into the duke’s hunters.
Cavan recognized them. The ones from the Firespear territory. The left-handed leader with the longsword, the forest elf-dark tan, and the graying curls. The skinny one-eyed man with the two-handed sword. The huge axeman with the bushy blond beard and the scar down his left cheek.
And behind them, the archer. The dark-skinned southerner. Already dropping his bow and taking up his halberd.
They came without war-cries. No shouts. No threats. Silent as mountain cats.
Cavan rolled to grab his sword. Shunted the shoulder pain away. Hid it in his mind. But his left arm hung useless.
The axe kicked up shards of stone when it hit where Cavan had been.
Suddenly Amra was there, kicking the axeman’s belly and parrying the two-handed sword of the one-eyed man. Saving Cavan’s life. Again.
The southerner cut the air between Ehren and his staff. Forced the unarmed priest away from his weapon.
And their leader was coming quickly. While Cavan was still on his back.
Not good.
Cavan found his sword and his feet just in time to stop a cut inches from his neck. His left arm dangled. Cavan could move it just enough to keep his balance as he leapt clear of the next sword cut.
The leader smiled. Drew a dagger in his right hand.
“I should kill your horses,” he said, “just for spite.”
“Do it and I swear I’ll find a way to raise you from the dead so I can kill you twice.”
The leader closed. Swinging attacks that Cavan had to parry, but those blows were meant to corral him, not cut him. Force him back. Cut him off from help.
Empty air to his left now. The mountain only a step or two behind him. A little room to his right, to maneuver, but that would bring him back toward the horses.
Just past the leader, Amra slashed the axeman from belly to throat. He went down in a screaming, bloody mess while she squared off with One Eye. Ehren was pressed hard by the halberd-man, ducking and dodging and keeping himself clear, but only just. Blood dripped from his arm and his right cheek.
But Cavan had to stay alive before he could help anyone else.
“You’ve give us a jolly hunt,” the leader said, cutting again for Cavan’s neck. Cavan parried, but it jarred him. Pain tried to creep in from his shoulder, and Cavan had to work to shunt it away.
The leader, damn him, was smiling. “But the best part of a good hunt is the kill.”
Pain under control now, Cavan picked up the rhythm of the lead huntsman’s attacks. Gut and throat, he never cut for anything else. He had that dagger in his right hand, but he kept t
hat hand back like it was empty.
“No fancy words, bastard?”
Cavan’s only answer was a thrust for the throat. Parried by the leader’s dagger. Cavan’s sword out of line now. The leader cut for Cavan’s belly.
Cavan threw himself backward against the mountainside. Bumped his head, but spared his gut. His heart raced and all he could taste was gritty air from the mountain dust. It gave him an idea, if he ever got the chance to use it.
Another cry. Out of the corner of his eye, Cavan could see One Eye go down. Slashed through the middle, spilling all the things that kept him alive.
Cavan rolled back toward the horses, trying to open and close his left hand. He could do it, but the ghost of pain threatened to spike into something numbing. The worst part about shunting pain away was that when that pain came back, it would hit all the harder.
More clanging in the background. Amra fighting with the halberd-man, no doubt. Was Ehren down?
Cavan came to a crouch just in time to parry three rapid strikes from the leader. He wasn’t laughing now. His black eyes had gone flat. Cold. Lethal.
“Your men are dying all around you,” Cavan said through gritted teeth. He kept his blade moving fast, but he could do nothing more than keep that huntsman’s longsword at bay. “Any moment it won’t just be me. You’ll be fighting all three of us.”
“You’ll be dead by then.”
Cavan missed a parry. Or maybe the leader feinted too well. Either way, the leader’s longsword cut along Cavan’s right forearm. Deep.
Cavan dropped his sword. His mind rallied fast, whirling to keep the screaming pain from reaching him. He ducked under the follow-up. Dove and rolled again, closer and closer to the ledge.
“Cavan!” Amra yelled. Too far away to help.