by Mark Eller
Yezman’s sideways swing would have worked excellently against a stationary tree. Unfortunately for him, Ludwig was not a tree. Ludwig ducked, dodged, and then ran his thin dueling blade straight through Yezman’s heart. Surprised shock spreading across his face, Yezman’s heavy weapon fell from his hand. Gently smiling, Ludwig stepped back and patiently waited for the man to fall. Yezman took a stumbling step forward, another. His knees folded, and he fell face forward in the grass.
“Took you long enough,” Ludwig complained to the dead man.
“Are you coming or not?” Charle snapped. “Harlo already left, and I’m not waiting any longer.”
“Coming,” Ludwig told him. He cleaned his sword on his pant leg, sheathed it, and walked to his arvids. Grabbing their cursed reins, he vowed once this trip was over he would eat nothing but roast arvid for a year.
* * * *
When morning arrived, Ludwig discovered he was surrounded by a considerable number of people and beasts. This fact did not surprise him. The previous evening’s darkness had not succeeded in smothering the talk and curses of the people he traveled among. It was the makeup of those people he found surprising. By the sun’s growing light, he saw he walked with fifteen others, each holding the reins of two arvids. Ludwig recognized only five. The others most likely came from some of the other nearby caravans, which meant the brigands were far more organized than he had thought. It had taken skill, planning, and men to attack more than one target in a night.
Near the front a bone thin man popped out of the brush to speak with a grizzled fellow named Trel. Trel dropped back.
“We’re being followed,” he told Harlo. “Best we can tell there’s a fairly strong magic user back there. None of our small magics are enough to shake him from our trail.”
“Califrey,” Ludwig broke in. “He has an amulet.” He thought about his statement for a moment. “I think he has an amulet.”
“He should’ve given up by now.”
“Garland never leaves a trail,” Harlo said unworriedly.
Trel cursed. “Then we have to kill the magic user or we’ll never escape.”
“Ludwig will handle Califrey,” Harlo promised. “He‘s been using amulets all his life.”
“Can you stop him?” Trel demanded of Ludwig. From the expression on his face he had his doubts.
“I signed on as an arvid handler,” Ludwig answered. “I never agreed to fight in a magic duel.”
Frowning, Trel looked to Harlo, back to Ludwig, and shrugged. “Just keep him occupied. Do that much and we’ll pay you double.”
“Triple,” Harlo insisted. “The task is dangerous, and we’ve no hope without him.”
Trel nodded respectfully to Harlo. “As you say, he gets triple.” His humorless eyes narrowed as they fastened once more on Ludwig. “Just be sure you do your job.”
Ludwig thought on his empty purse. The end of this trip would see a silver half-rugdle and eight double gold ones placed in it. A man could do something with sixteen and a half rugdles, but he could do a lot more with almost fifty. Fifty rugdles would give him a few nights at a decent bordello. The right woman might make him forget dear sweet Meliandra for a day or two. Failing that, well, any whore would help him escape his memories of Gertunda. Then again, meeting a freshly castrated boar could easily do the same. The boar would have a much better disposition than his wife had ever claimed.
Would this task really be difficult? Probably not. Califrey was a fake. He had to be. No true mage would stoop to thievery when there were so many easier ways to earn an easy living. By Ludwig’s reckoning, Califrey could probably do little more than make pretty lights and follow a trail. The man’s clumsy light show had already proved his incompetence.
“You have a deal.”
* * * *
“You’re my gal and I told you true,
that I thought you nosy.
You picked an ax from off the ground,
and cut off my toesies.
Well, my love, you know it’s true,
My breaking heart belongs to you,
but my darling can’t you see,
that you’re too rough for me.
Yes, you’re too rough for me.”
“You’re not all that good at this,” Ludwig hazarded.
“True,” Harlo agreed. “Never could sing worth a lick.”
“I wasn’t talking about your singing. I would have more confidence if you treated this seriously.”
Harlo grinned. “Been in the same position more than a dozen times. I’ve reached the point where I make plans and then wait to see what happens.”
“Only problem is if your plan fails, we could all wind up dead.”
“Wouldn’t be fun if it was predictable,” Harlo responded. “However, if you really want my plan to work, I suggest you keep your attention on your job and not on my singing.”
Grunting, Ludwig looked away from his friend and peered through the covering trees.
The track they had traveled along was a thin animal trail leading up a mountain slope, littered with boulders, jutting trees, and arvid dung. If the thing owned a straight line, it had done a good job of staying hidden after they took its left hand fork and followed it until Harlo found a reasonable spot for an ambush. From his position high up on the slope, Ludwig could see nothing but twists and jagged turns along most of the trail’s length, but just past the fork almost thirty men climbed the start of the path. One kept far in front of the others. Califrey? Most likely. There would be other scouts out, too, but they were well hidden.
“Plan might work better if you shut up,” Ludwig muttered just loud enough for Harlo to hear.
“It doesn’t matter if they hear me,” Harlo responded. “Nedross has promised us success.”
“Now I am worried.”
The hunters grew closer, though they were still distant. The scout, it was Califrey, looked up, but his eyes focused nowhere near them. He was close enough Ludwig could feel the fringes of the man’s magic, and this meant if Califrey came any nearer he would know where they were, giving him warning enough to prepare his defenses.
Ludwig sighed. “Here goes.”
With a gut deep feeling of regret, he pulled on the thong tied around his neck. The thought of all those rugdles didn’t seem quite so appealing with the fight near. Tirelle, a dark amulet shaped like a naked fat woman, rose to meet his fingers. Shrugging because the decision had been made and there was no backing out now, Ludwig broke the thong and popped the amulet into his open mouth.
When his saliva covered her, merged into her, Tirelle’s essence came to life. Far below, Califrey’s head instantly twisted to focus on their position. His hand rose, pointing.
Ludwig froze. He tried to move a hand and failed. He lifted an arm, but the arm would not lift. The only part of him he could shift was his head.
“You might want to do something about this,” Harlo calmly observed, but it was obvious he, too, was frozen in place.
“I’m trying,” Ludwig muttered past the amulet in his mouth. Fortunately, his eyes and jaws and neck still worked. Eyes narrowing, he focused all his attention on Califrey. Grimacing, he concentrated for a moment before sending every erg of his amulet’s power straight at the man, smiling when Califrey staggered and hunched. The smile faded when the magician straightened. Watching with disbelief, Ludwig’s jaw dropped open, almost causing him to lose the amulet. At a time when the man should have been chittering with fear, when he should have been running pell-mell down the trail, he straightened.
“Uh-oh,” Harlo muttered just loud enough to break Ludwig’s concentration. “I suggest you try harder.”
“Shut up!”
Ludwig tried again. Clamping his mouth shut, he narrowed his eyes once more, focused his concentration, and, desperate, bit down on Tirelle. Hard.
She screamed. When her thin voice resonated through his skull, he wanted to release his own scream but doing so would only have once again risked him dropping the amulet. Teeth clamped tight in
aural pain he inadvertently parted his lips, allowing her scream to fall down the hillside. Tiny hands scrambled around the inside of his mouth. Fingernails tore at his gums and small teeth bit into his cheek. Knowing his precious life was at risk, Ludwig accepted the punishment and bit down harder, tasting metallic blood trickling down his throat.
Ludwig ground his teeth deep into the wood.
Tirelle screamed louder.
“Good lad,” Harlo called from behind Ludwig’s shoulder. “You’re getting to him.”
The scream tumbled down the hillside, pushing torn grass and debris before it. Califrey’s figure staggered again and fell beneath the heavy weight of the amulet’s pain. Ludwig’s paralysis instantly left his limbs when Califrey’s attention wavered. Straightening, Ludwig pushed his face resolutely forward and pursed his lips so the scream’s effect was narrowed. Califrey started to rise, fell again, and then— slowly— he stood. Like a fakir climbing a rope, he pulled himself from the ground in a series of jerky movements which left him clinging desperately to a tree. Focusing on Ludwig, Califrey struck.
Pain like he had never known surged through Ludwig. Falling to his knees, he gasped, coughed, and Tirelle was suddenly lying on the ground before him. Despairing, Ludwig bowed his head and fought death while Califrey’s attack continued unabated. Sweat poured from his face. His heart stuttered, faltered. The amulet’s glittering eyes watched him with satisfaction.
“See how you like it!” her tinny voice cried out.
“Save me, Nedross,” Harlo gasped. “My firstborn son’s life to you, I swear.”
The pain coursing through Ludwig flickered, surged, and stopped. Ludwig straightened, his face damp, feeling nothing but whole. Feeling normal.
“Gods,” Ludwig muttered. “Nedross is real?”
“I always thought so,” Harlo said shakily, moving to stand beside Ludwig. “Then again.” He gestured with his hand. Looking down toward Califrey, Ludwig saw the man’s body lying loosely on the trail. “All I wanted was for you to distract him. They did the rest.”
A pair of drovers, bows in hand, were clambering up the slope. Further back, the brigands ran toward them.
“It’s just as well they did the job,” Harlo added, “for I’ve no idea which whore’s belly I planted my firstborn son in.”
His eyes grew suddenly huge. Gasping, Harlo jerked his sword free and shoved Ludwig to the side. A whisper of steel hissed above Ludwig’s head.
Ludwig struck the ground, rolled, and was up again, seeing a cloaked figure thrust at Harlo. Frozen, Ludwig watched, stunned by the suddenness of the attack. The man Harlo fought moved like a master swordsman. His blade flickered so quickly it seemed a flash of silver light. It struck once, paused, struck again, and blood ran down Harlo’s left arm. Calling on Nedross, Harlo stumbled back, and then renewed his attack.
“Could use some help here,” Harlo panted just before another wound appeared on his body. The strike had been so quick Ludwig did not even see it.
Face wet slick with fear, Ludwig pulled his own blade and made a clumsy lunge. The cloaked man dodged, but his dodge put him at a disadvantage. Harlo’s blade slid smoothly into the man’s chest and out his back.
Without a gasp, without a curse, the cloaked man fell, taking Harlo’s sword with him. Harlo leaned down, grasped the sword’s hilt, and pulled his blade free with a quick jerk. When he stepped back, sunlight captured Garland’s features, and Ludwig blinked with astonishment at seeing the caravan master there.
The two archers scrambled over the top of the slope, Jorge and Charle
“Time to play decoy,” Jorge panted, “and we better get a move on. There’s a lot more of them back there than there are of us here.”
Harlo placed his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
* * * *
“I’ll have scented rose petals in my bath,” Ludwig promised. “Servants will flock to my service, and his Lordship will speak my name with respect when he passes Meliandra into my care. Gertunda will weep and wail, cursing her cold and heartless ways with every breath because her fortunes fell so low while mine rose high.”
“Does he ever shut up?” Trel complained from up ahead.
“Not that I ever noticed,” Charle answered. “Ludwig, what the hell are you so happy about. Look around. We’re trapped deep in the mountains. We have no food, and there are a few dozen people who want to kill us on our back trail.”
“Think what it will be like when we get back home,” Ludwig protested. “The caravan has been destroyed, but we managed to save the most precious of His Lordship’s goods. Lord Wencheck is sure to be pleased with us. I’m positive His Lordship will give his permission for me to court Meliandra.”
“You were always slow,” the amulet said, her voice too thin to carry further than his own ears.
“You better talk to the boy,” Jorge called back to Harlo.
“If I were you,” Harlo said, “I wouldn’t plan on seeing Meliandra anytime soon.”
Stopping his animals, Ludwig turned to look toward his friend. “Why not? His Lordship is bound to reward us. We saved his most precious goods. A rogue mage is dead. The leader of the brigands is dead.” He shook his head, remembering his astonishment at the sight of Garland‘s slack face.
“Garland,” Harlo said firmly, “was not the brigand leader.”
“He must have been,” Ludwig insisted, running the possible candidates through his mind. None of the others had the character or will needed to lead the brigands. “Who else could the leader be?”
“Me,” Harlo answered.
“But that means,” Ludwig whispered with sudden realization. Visions of Meliandra and robes and servants trickled out of his head. “Curse you, Harlo! Curse you! May Athos afflict you with boils. May your bowels flow backwards, and may you suffer an unending pain in your ass.”
Harlo smiled fondly. “Athos has already given me the last,” he said, “though, of late, I’ve seen some signs of improvement.”
Chapter 5—Secrets
Simta smoothed her hands over imaginary wrinkles on her black and red silk dress. Gazing at herself in the hall mirror, she checked to make sure all was as it should be. Thankfully, nothing was out of place. A year had passed since she last saw the priest, but not because of disinterest. To the contrary, their last few meetings had gone well, mostly because she held her temper on a short leash. Then Larson had died. After his funeral, she and Calto lost touch while Simta did her twelve months service for Trelsar. Larson’s promise had proved good even after his death.
Much had changed about her appearance in the ensuing year. Her dark red hair was swept into a matronly bun, her curls controlled. Only the lightest of kohl was applied around her forest-green eyes. She even forwent her favorite lip coloring so nothing she wore would remind the overly righteous priest of her past profession. Her complexion was a scrubbed pink. She was a proper lady today. Even so Simta still feared his critical eye. Long ago, back before her time serving Trelsar, when she was in Calto Morlon’s presence, she had the distinct impression he found her repulsive— like she had just rolled in a pile of dung. During their last meetings before her self exile his attitude seemed to have changed for the better, as if his opinion of her was improving, through Larson’s influence, she suspected.
The knob to her right clicked. A white-robed, temple priest opened Calto’s door. Simta stood, staggering into the small table beneath the mirror. A nervous giggle escaped before she regained her composer.Sweet goddess, he’s going to think I’m drunk.
Her stomach did a flip-flop followed by a tight somersault, and then with great aplomb, it fell flat. If she ate anything at all during this meeting it would come right back up.
The priest gave her a tight smile which she was sure hid a grimace. A motion of his hand beckoned her forward into Calto’s very private office. Rumor said only a select few had ever been invited within, not all of whom were glad to be there. Stories claimed strange things went on in there sometimes,
private, dark things. The priest was known for always getting to the truth— any way he could.
A shudder came unbidden to her as a memory from her first disastrous encounter with Calto reared its rather ugly and unpleasant head. Simta lurched forward. Never again—never again. She would walk the straight and narrow even if doing so led her off a cliff.
Trying to stand taller but only succeeding in swaying unsteadily, Simta tottered through the doorway. She would be lucky if she didn’t fall face first in front of the Queen’s Advisor.
Calto stood behind a large oak desk big enough to sleep on. “Lady Morthanhi, I am glad you came.” He came around the desk to stand before her, his hand extended.
Simta took his hand lightly and bent to kiss his ring, a symbol of his status as Anothosia’s high priest. She eyed the diamond appreciatively for a moment, wondering at the rare ring’s value. It was a thick band of gold decorated with a diamond almost as big as her eye’s iris. Held in place with a golden sword and staff crossed over the top like an ‘X’, the diamond represented the sun or light, the staff truth, and the sword justice. These were the symbols of Anothosia and her faithful. Only descendants of Calto’s family had worn it. The thing could set a thief up for life, but she suspected its theft would come with a heavy price since gods probably didn’t favor those who stole sacred objects.
Squeezing her eyes closed for a moment, Simta forcibly shoved such wicked thoughts from her mind and allowed Calto to take his hand back. It was almost painful to see the fortune slip away from her, but that was not who she was any longer. This was the new, reformed, no longer a thief, a drunk, or a whore Simta, the Simta Calto had once started to approve of.
“Please, sit down.” Calto took her gently by the elbow and led her to a light-blue, velvet settee by the window. He had a wonderful view of the garden. Soft, early morning light, colored the spring flowers in soft pastels, and a breeze brought their gentle scents to Simta. Drawing a deep breath, she felt her nerves unwind a bit. Calto had not issued an insult— yet. Maybe this meeting wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe his previous warming still existed.