It was a respectable offer, but Miya barely even considered it. By the time she was done, the stranger had agreed to one gold and one silver per rider per day, plus two meals per rider. After a glance at Tol, Miya sealed the deal.
“My name is Orlien,” their new employer told them. “I’m a merchant hereabouts, and I need to get four wagons to the coast in four days. Is that well with you?”
The deadline would require fast moving, but that suited Tol, and he agreed. Smiling broadly, Orlien bade them come to the corral on the west side of the village when they were done with their meal.
Once the half-elf was gone, Darpo said, “If he’s a merchant, I’m the empress of Ergoth.”
Kiya was nodding. “Those knives he wears are assassin’s tools!”
Her words had triggered a bitter memory for Tol. His boyhood friend Crake had left Juramona to seek his fortune in Daltigoth. Instead of wealth, Crake had found a career as a hired assassin and spy. He’d carried knives much like Orlien’s. Crake had learned of the nullstone and tried to take it, and Tol had been forced to fight his former friend to the death. Although more than a decade had passed, he’d never told anyone the identity of the assassin he’d killed.
Ironically, it was that victory that had helped bring him to the attention of Prince Amaltar and the emperor. It also had further strengthened his resolve not to reveal the millstone’s existence.
As these thoughts were flashing quickly through Tol’s mind, he said, “Well, whatever he is, this ‘job’ suits our needs very well. We’ll need a ship to take us across the gulf to Ergoth. Orlien must have a ship waiting if he’s on such an urgent schedule. One way or another, the ship’ll take us to Ergoth.”
Careful to avoid the appearance of haste, Tol’s party finished their meal then ambled outside. The corral Orlien spoke of wasn’t hard to locate in so small a village. By a single barn and pen four wagons were drawn up. Rather than the usual oxen, two sturdy draft horses were hitched to each wagon. Horses were rare and expensive in the hill country, as Orlien himself had noted when he greeted them. If he owned eight of the animals, he was not a poor man.
The first two wagons were loaded, their freight covered by thick tarpaulins and secured by crisscrossing ropes. Each of the last pair was framed with wooden hoops supporting a canvas roof that hid their cargoes.
Orlien emerged from the barn, followed by a fearsome henchman. Hugely muscled and scarred, the fellow had tufts of curly white hair sticking out all over his enormous body. One eye was gone, the socket covered by a leather patch. He wore furs and rested a dwarven battle-axe on his meaty shoulder.
“Greetings, noble friends!” Orlien called, spreading his arms wide. “Time is short. Shall we get underway?”
“What are we carrying?” asked Tol with feigned indifference.
“Goods I acquired locally: rough gems, medicinal plants and mushrooms, honey of the mountain bees, and other such. My trade. My life.” Orlien smiled again.
Miya had moved toward the last pair of wagons. As she reached a hand out to touch one, the axe came off the big man’s shoulder and he took a step in her direction.
“Lady, please!” Orlien said, raising his voice, but quelling his henchman with a sidelong glare. “Those contain delicate goods. Things that would be damaged by the sun.”
Shrugging, Miya moved away from the covered wagon. The other one-the last in line-suddenly rocked a little, and a muffled thumping was heard.
Orlien’s ready smile slid from his face. “That one’s not delicate. That’s Faranu, a notorious mountain bandit,” he explained. “The good people of this village captured him during a raid not ten days past. There’s a price on his head, to be paid by the Marshal of the Southern Hundred in Ergoth. He’s wanted there for murder and a host of other foul crimes.”
Surprise changed to understanding. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Kiya said. “We’ll see he gets there.”
“We hate bandits,” agreed Miya, nodding.
Tol said, “This Faranu-does he have followers who might try to rescue him?”
Orlien looked away for a moment. “Well, yes.”
“How many followers?” asked Frez quickly.
The half-elf hemmed and hawed but finally replied, “No more than twenty, certainly. Mountain trash. No match for professionals like yourselves.”
Miya looked to Tol, a hopeful expression on her face, and he nodded. Fists on hips, she said, “You just raised our pay, friend Orlien. Taking such risks is going to cost you.”
He wriggled and resisted like a hooked trout, but Miya was relentless. As shadows lengthened in the street, Orlien finally cracked.
“All right!” he said, sweat dripping from his chin. “Two gold pieces each, plus a silver for every bandit you kill.” He glared. “But I won’t pay for wounded ones!”
“Done,” said Tol, anxious to get underway.
Each wagon had a driver and a hired guard riding on its bench. Orlien’s axe-wielding henchman (whose name was Yull) rode on the wagon that carried the villain Faranu.
Orlien walked down the line of horses, doling out single gold coins to each member of Tol’s party. “Yull will pay you the balance when you deliver my goods to the ship’s owner. Good luck, and make haste!”
The caravan rolled out of the village just as the sun began to dip beneath the western hills. Tol assigned one of his people to each wagon, giving Kiya the plum task of watching the one containing the captive bandit. He himself rode ahead of the lead wagon.
Following the winding trail around the foot of the many hills, they soon lost sight of the village. The sun slowly vanished, painting the undersides of the towering columns of cloud a brilliant pink. Tol set a brisk pace. They had four days to reach the coast or they would miss their ship, Orlien had warned.
Four days to the sea, two days to cross the gulf if the winds were fair, and then Tol would be in Ergoth once more.
Chapter 5
Number Six
The journey was not a pleasant one. The road they followed was no Ackal Path, wide and paved and well tended. Instead, rutted and rugged, the dirt track wound this way and that around the foot of every hill, never remaining straight for more than a few dozen paces. With the view so limited, it was a perfect place for an ambush. Everyone stayed tense and watchful, but the first day passed without incident.
The first night in camp, before his people dropped wearily onto their bedrolls, Tol worked out new dispositions for the next day’s ride. Two scouts would ride a goodly way ahead of the wagons, looking for any signs of trouble. A third rider would precede the caravan but stay in sight of it, and the last two would trail behind the wagons so as not to seem a part of the company. In this fashion Tol hoped to keep a wider eye over the territory they had to traverse.
Darpo had the first watch, but before they settled down to sleep, Miya quietly related what she’d observed earlier in the evening.
She had lingered by Faranu’s wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous bandit. She was about to sneak a peek inside when Yull appeared, axe in hand. She had withdrawn, but not before she saw the wagon driver enter the canvas enclosure carrying a bucket of ripe apples.
Kiya scoffed at her sister’s tale. “They feed their prisoner only apples? No bread? No meat?” Miya stubbornly repeated what she’d seen.
“I’m surprised they feed him at all,” Tol said sleepily.
Quiet descended, broken only by the low whirring of insects. Tol’s rest was troubled, however. He dreamt he was lying on cold, hard ground (which was true) and a silent figure stood a few steps away in the dark, watching him. The sensation was so vivid he woke, hand reaching for his saber hilt.
It was very late, when even the night birds are still. Prop — ping himself on one elbow, Tol surveyed the camp. The wagons were arrayed in a semicircle, with the Ergothians in the middle. Each wagoner and guard slept in their conveyance.
Tol spotted motion. Kiya had relieved Darpo, and was walking outside the ring of wagon
s. Darpo snored softly behind Tol.
All seemed peaceful, so Tol lay down again, but when he fell asleep, the dream returned. This time his dream self got up, sword in hand, and challenged the phantom watcher. Without a word, the silent figure vanished into the greater darkness of the night. For an instant, Tol saw the figure’s profile by starlight.
Felryn!
Tol lurched awake. Kiya was shaking him hard.
“Husband!” she hissed. “Be quiet, or you’ll wake everyone!”
“Too late,” groaned Darpo.
It took Tol a moment to shake off the confusion of his vivid nightmare. He told Kiya what he had dreamed. In the telling, it all sounded very ordinary, not frightening at all, but Kiya did not sneer.
“Felryn’s spirit continues to watch over you,” she suggested. “If you dream of him again, don’t challenge him. Be friendly. Welcome him. He may have a message to impart.”
Orlien’s drivers and guards were rising. Only Miya, a notoriously heavy sleeper, hadn’t stirred. To wake her, Tol resorted to a trick he’d invented, and which Kiya had adopted as well: he bent down and kissed Miya on the forehead.
“If you’re not my husband or sister, prepare to die,” the Dom-shu woman murmured.
“Husband,” said Tol, grinning. “Dawn breaks. Arise!” Grimacing, Miya complied.
The caravan resumed its journey as the eastern horizon warmed from indigo to rose. Crows squawked from the hilltops, and deer darted out of sight as the wagons drew near. Kiya watched them wistfully. Fresh venison would be a welcome change from their campaign rations.
The winding trail they followed merged into a larger path that ran more westerly. The wagoners steered their ponderous carts onto this new track, jouncing hard over tree roots and deep ruts.
For the first time since leaving Orlien’s village they encountered other travelers, all on foot. They had the look of itinerant laborers not averse to part-time banditry. Rangy men, neither old nor young, their faces were hard and eyes sharp. Horses and laden wagons drew their gazes. Word would get around quickly; they hoped none of Faranu’s men were among the wanderers they passed.
The wagoners paused at midday to water the horses at a spring. A rude wall of fieldstone surrounded the waterhole. Tol and Darpo had been riding in the vanguard position; they sat on the wall watching the drivers tend to their animals. The black-haired wagoner who drove Faranu’s prison carried two buckets. One was shared by his team, the other he passed to Yull, who took it into the back of the wagon. A short time later he emerged; the bucket was empty.
“Thirsty fellow,” Darpo remarked curiously, and Tol nodded.
Yull went to the front of the wagon and hauled a heavy burlap bag out from behind the driver’s seat. He filled the bucket from it, spilling part of the contents on the ground. Then he went inside again with the laden pail.
Tol inspected the spill. Grain-oats, to be precise-trickled through his gloved fingers. The wagon jounced as Yull stepped down from its rear, and Tol dusted his hands and sauntered back to the spring.
Darpo queried him with a look. “What do apples, water, and oats suggest to you?” Tol asked.
“Horses,” the scarred warrior replied immediately.
Tol agreed. “Something odd is going on,” he said but had no firm idea yet of what.
They moved on. Nothing untoward happened until midafternoon. Tol and Darpo were trailing in the rearguard position, and Kiya was riding in front of the wagons. Frez and Miya were scouting ahead when a man on horseback approached, the first rider they’d seen.
A slight fellow wearing a leather jerkin, he cantered by Frez and Miya without appearing to notice them. As he drew near Kiya, however, he veered slightly toward her. Without warning, the Dom-shu woman nocked an arrow, drew, and shot the man from his horse.
The lead wagoner hauled back on his reins. The caravan lurched to a stop, beasts stamping and wagoners cursing the abrupt halt. Tol and Darpo galloped forward, ignoring the cries of the lead wagoner that Tol’s “savage” had shot an unarmed traveler.
Kiya dismounted and rolled the dead man over. She yanked back his hood, revealing the shock of braided hair and pointed ears of a woodland elf. When Kiya parted his jerkin, they saw he wore a ring mail shirt. Strapped to his back, its pommel only barely visible above the neck of his jerkin, was a concealed sword.
A warrior skilled in such a method of carry could wait until he was abreast of his target, then draw and stab in one lightning-fast motion. Kiya had acted to save her own life.
“How did you know he was armed?” Frez asked.
“I saw the shoulders of his jerkin rise each time his horse put a foot down. Something under his jerkin was bouncing slightly. A sword, a mace, something.”
Yull appeared, gesturing angrily at them to move along. Not knowing whether the dead elf was a lone warrior or someone’s scout, they rolled him off the road and tied his horse to the back of a wagon. The caravan continued on its way.
Around the next big hill, the road straightened, and they could see ahead almost half a league. Not another soul was insight.
Frez and Miya pulled their mounts to a halt. The Ergothian drew his saber.
“Woman,” he said, “tell Lord Tolandruth we’re in trouble.”
Miya wasted no time questioning the veteran soldier but wheeled Pitch in a tight circle. The wagons rolled slowly up behind Frez and stopped. Miya cantered down the line. As she passed her sister, Kiya nocked another arrow.
Before Miya reached Tol, the air around them flashed as bright as a sun. Pitch balked and reared, but Miya held on. The draft animals neighed in fright and yanked against their heavy traces. The wagons were suddenly burning!
Drivers and guards leaped for their lives. Pitch shied away, nimbly climbing the hillside sideways to escape the billowing flames. Miya held on for dear life and shouted, “Husband! We’re attacked! The wagons burn!”
From their place forty paces back, Tol and Darpo had seen the caravan halt. With a cry of “Fire!” Darpo pulled his sword and galloped ahead.
Tol drew his new dwarf-forged saber and followed quickly. In spite of the cries from his people and the wagoners, he saw no flames. The rearmost wagon, slightly askew on the road, looked the same as always. The driver was crawling away in the dust, beating at his pants legs. Yull emerged from the canvas enclosure yowling and slapping at his head and face with meaty hands. Neither man was on fire, though they obviously thought they were.
“It’s a trick!” Tol shouted, as Shadow galloped toward the beleaguered caravan. “There’s no fire! Watch out for an ambush!”
He left Darpo to guard the rear wagon. Ignoring the screeches of Yull and the driver, Tol spurred Shadow up the hillside and caught the reins of Miya’s terrified horse. Fumbling for the millstone, he clapped a hand to Pitch’s neck, and the horse calmed. Grasping Miya’s wrist, Tol broke the illusion for her as well.
“It’s an illusion,” he said. “There’s no fire! Are you all right?”
She was and very angry at being tricked. “I’m going to crack some skulls for this!”
“Fine! Follow me!”
Tol also broke the spell for Kiya and her horse. Likewise furious at being deceived, Kiya joined Tol and her sister as they rode to relieve Frez. They found him beset, surrounded by eight attackers on foot. He was keeping them off with sweeps of his saber. Her horse at full gallop, Kiya rose in the stirrups and loosed an arrow, taking down an opponent armed with a billhook.
A shower of stones fell on Tol and the Dom-shu. On the crest of the facing hill stood foes with slings whirling. Leaving Kiya to drive the attackers back with swiftly loosed, well-placed arrows, Tol and Miya rode to Frez’s aid.
Their opponents were nothing more than a rabble, armed with whatever arms they had gleaned from earlier victims. Tol’s dwarf blade-”Number Six,” as Mundur Embermore had called it-split iron and bronze with equal ease. He struck down two robbers with only two blows, cleaving a helmet (and skull) in twain and piercing a bra
zen buckler.
Having lost the element of surprise, the raiding party fled, leaving three of their number lifeless on the road. Kiya got another, a sling-wielder on the hillside, at a range of two hundred paces. Frez had a few cuts, as did his horse, but those were the only injuries among Tol’s party.
They rode slowly down the line of wagons, which had been abandoned by drivers and guards alike. Frantic to escape the phantom flames, the draft horses had torn free of their traces and run away into the distance.
Darpo was waiting by the last wagon. His eyes were wide as he hailed Tol and gestured to the wagon he guarded.
“My lord,” he said, “you must see this!”
Tol peered through the parted canvas. Lying in the bed of the wagon was what appeared to be a young horse, a colt, with a coat the color of clover honey. That made sense, given the rations Yull had been feeding their prisoner. Then the colt lifted its head and all such prosaic thoughts fled.
A single horn, white as cream, protruded from the animal’s forehead.
“Mishas save us!” breathed Frez. “A unicorn!”
The men stared in open-mouthed shock, but the Dom-shu women fell to their knees, gasping. Among their forest-dwelling people, the unicorn was revered as a demigod, the living embodiment of the wild.
“Sacrilege!” Kiya said, her voice choked with fury. “The young Forestmaster must be released!”
Tol did not share the Dom-shu’s reverence for the rare animal, but he pitied the hobbled beast and was angry at Orlien for lying to them. He climbed inside the wagon and drew his dagger. The unicorn watched him with soft, sad eyes, fringed with golden lashes.
“Easy, there,” Tol said soothingly. “I’ll not hurt you. Let me cut those bonds-”
As soon as the thongs holding the colt’s legs parted, the creature exploded into action, driving its horn at Tol’s chest. The Ergothian dodged clumsily, hampered by the close confines of the wagon. The cool ivory horn instead slid along his neck. Then small golden hooves smacked into Tol’s chest. He fell backward against the canvas. It split, and he tumbled out of the wagon to land on the dusty road.
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