"I caught a spy last night," Vahanian reported tersely. "Then this morning, we get a contingent of 'Mussa traders' who want to stay the night. There's something wrong and I want us out of here."
Harrtuck exchanged glances with Tris, who shrugged. Setting his jaw, Harrtuck took a step toward Vahanian. "Jonmarc-"
"Look," Vahanian retorted, wheeling on the fighter, "you hired me to protect you. I'm doing that. I think we've been scouted for bandits again. Maybe worse. I'm not completely convinced Kaine didn't have something up his sleeve when he split off part of the group. It smells, Tov, and I don't like it."
"We hired you to protect us, that's true," Harrtuck replied evenly, unaffected by Vahanian's temper. "But we've also been hired to protect the caravan. Are you just walking away from that?"
"Yes," Vahanian replied unapologetically, starting to roll up his blankets.
"Well, I'm not," Harrtuck answered, planting his feet and balling his fists on his hips. "I made a promise, and I'm seeing it through, at least until the Dhasson border."
"Nice knowing you," Vahanian clipped. "Because according to the vayash moru who saved my life the night I got thrashed, there's dark magic waiting at the Dhasson border for Tris. Something about 'what you need will find you on the way north,'" he said, still stuffing his things into a saddlebag.
"That's it?" Tris wondered accusingly. "You're leaving, just like that?"
Vahanian turned to look at him. "You're the ones who want to stay. Leave with me and I'll take you to the river crossing, and you can decide whether you're going to Dhasson from there or into Principality. I'll take you that far. But I'm not going to stay here and be a target."
"Have you forgotten what's at stake, Jonmarc, for Goddess' sake?" Harrtuck argued. "Tris is the best chance anyone's had to stop Arontala in ten years. Having that chance should be worth it, especially to you."
Vahanian looked away. "Ten years is a long time," he muttered angrily, turning back to his packing. "What happens in Margolan isn't any of my business."
"No, but what happened at Chauvrenne was," Harrtuck snapped. "Men died for you there, because of Arontala. Or is ten years too long to remember?"
Vahanian turned on Harrtuck with enough speed that Tris thought the mercenary would take a swing at the armsman. "No," Vahanian replied in a low, deadly voice. "Maybe I've put it behind me."
"Did you?" Harrtuck retorted. "And does that go for Shanna too?"
This time Vahanian did swing, connecting a solid punch that bent Harrtuck backwards but did not move the fighter from his place. Harrtuck did not return the blow, but rubbed his jaw appreciatively. "Damn good swing," he said. "Damn good. I taught you too well."
Vahanian stared sullenly at Harrtuck, rubbing his fist. "By the Whore, Tov, you deserved that."
"And if Carina hadn't only just healed you, I'd pound some sense into you myself," Harrtuck shot back. "Bandits or no, Jonmarc, we stand a better chance in a group than we do alone on the road, and you ought to know that. You're not running away from the bandits," he said challengingly, lifting his chin as if defying Vahanian to swing again. "You're running from Arontala. Now, do you want your chance at him or not?"
For what seemed like forever, Vahanian and Harrtuck glared at each other. Finally, Vahanian looked away with a curse and shouldered past them toward the tent flap.
"Where are you going?" Harrtuck demanded.
"To shoe the horses," Vahanian snapped over his shoulder. "If we're fool enough to stay here, I want them ready to ride on a moment's notice."
Tris said nothing until Vahanian's boot steps faded. Then he looked at Harrtuck. "That's the second time you mentioned Chauvrenne," Tris said. "Maybe it's time you told me what happened there."
Harrtuck took a deep breath and looked away. "I made it a rule a long time ago not to talk about Jonmarc, much, anyway," he said, rubbing his jaw.
"You know what's at stake," Tris replied. "I want to know what we're dealing with."
Harrtuck looked back at Tris as if taking his measure. "You're starting to sound like a king, my liege," he said quietly. "Perhaps the road is good for you." He paused, then pursed his lips as he came to a decision.
"I met Jonmarc ten years ago, when we had both signed on with the Eastmark army, out on the border with Dhasson. We were young and good with a sword. It was a good place to be," he said with a sigh, "for a while."
"After about a year, the army got a new commander. And at his heels was a Fireclan mage. You know the opinion fighting men have of mages as a rule," he said, with an apologetic glance at Tris.
"I know."
"The commander, a man of great honor in Cartelasia, began to change," Harrtuck recounted. "He started to use the army for his own gain. Jonmarc was a captain, and he didn't like what he saw. Then one day, his platoon got an order to collect the taxes from a village that refused to pay. He didn't like it, but he went," Harrtuck remembered. "The villagers were a stubborn lot. Marching soldiers into town didn't intimidate them. The order came to burn them out," he said. "Jonmarc refused, and his soldiers followed."
"What happened?" Tris asked quietly.
"They were hunted down and captured by their own army, and brought back in chains for court martial," Harrtuck replied bitterly. "The commander himself ruled on it, with Arontala one step behind him. Had the entire platoon executed for treason while Jonmarc watched, then took Jonmarc out to the village, torched it himself, and left Jonmarc there to die with the villagers." He fell silent for a moment. "Somehow, he escaped. And he's been running ever since." He paused again. "That's why I picked Jonmarc as a guide. He's not only the best damn swordsman I've ever met, but he has as much at stake as you, Tris, in seeing Arontala fall."
"Then why-" Tris began.
Harrtuck shook his head, anticipating his question. "Why isn't he chomping at the bit for revenge? Maybe because the only person he blames more than Arontala is himself. I don't know. All I know is that he was one of the sharpest strategists in the Eastmark army, and he's wasted most of the last ten years running silks and brandy on the River. I guess he just gave up."
"If he's as good as you say, and he smells a rat, maybe we should take him seriously." Tris held up a hand before Harrtuck could argue. "I agree with you about staying with the caravan, at least through the forest. But perhaps we should stay on guard."
Harrtuck chewed his lip, then nodded. "Aye, there's nothing to lose by sleeping with one eye open. I'll talk to Ban and Carroway."
"And Cam," Tris added after a moment's thought. "I have the oddest feeling that he and Carina are bound up in this some way."
"Just pray the Lady that Jonmarc's being overcautious," Harrtuck replied. "The forest's no place for trouble."
Tris headed for the tent opening. "Where are you going?" Harrtuck asked.
"To shoe some horses," Tris replied without turning. "Just in case."
Tris found Vahanian at work in the makeshift stable, reshoeing their horses, checking their gear and readying their provisions, his sword and his crossbow near at hand. If the other stablehands noted the sudden interest, they said nothing, leaving them to their work. For several hours, Tris and Vahanian worked silently, stopping late in the morning for lunch and catching up on lost sleep on the bales of hay. It was not until the afternoon sun lengthened the shadows into night and the stablehands headed for their beds that Vahanian finally spoke beyond a curt order or a pointed instruction.
"So," he said without looking up from the hoof he was inspecting, "I imagine Harrtuck told you about Chauvrenne." It was more a statement than a question, and after a moment's pause, Tris nodded. Vahanian cursed under his breath. "Obviously I didn't hit him hard enough."
"You hit him hard enough to fell a mule."
"Should have been about right, then."
"There's just one thing I want to know," Tris said, looking down at the horse he was handling, and working a new shoe into position.
"What's that?"
"Your friend the vayash moru says I don
't dare go to Dhasson. So what happens after we cross the border into Principality?"
Vahanian was silent for a moment, then answered without looking up. "You send a message to your uncle, and I get paid."
"And then?"
There was another pause, more awkward this time, and the sound of Vahanian pounding a horseshoe into place. "Look, Tris, I know what want. You want me to sign on with the great crusade. Well, my crusading days are over. The way I figure, with what you're gonna owe me, I can buy the silk franchise into Nargi. That'll double my profits and I can retire a rich man. Go to the River, get a boat, do some legitimate trading for a change, stop getting beat up."
"Give up," Tris added. For a moment, before Vahanian's expression slipped back into his familiar mask, Tris thought he saw a flash of something more, but then the fighter's eyes hardened.
"Yeah," Vahanian replied off-handedly. "I guess you can call it that. Harrtuck does. Makes no difference to me."
"Harrtuck says it used to."
"I got over it."
"Did you? Can you?" Tris pressed, letting the horse's hoof down and leaning against the stable wall.
"I was doing just fine until Harrtuck hired me to save your regal ass," Vahanian retorted. "And I have no intention of getting myself killed fighting something you can't possibly beat."
"Someone has to try," Tris replied. "Because he wants it all-all Seven Kingdoms. You don't think Arontala will stop with Margolan, do you?" Tris continued. "Where will you run then?" He paused. "I don't have that option," Tris said. "I lost my family."
"There's a lot of that going around."
Tris looked at Vahanian's back for a moment in silence as the fighter moved on to the next horse and began studying its hooves. "Shanna... was family?" Tris asked quietly.
This time, Vahanian was silent long enough that Tris did not think the mercenary was going to reply. "She was my wife," he said finally without looking at Tris.
"And Arontala... killed her?"
At that, Vahanian looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and pain. "You ask a lot of questions."
"The answers matter."
Again, a long silence, and then a curse and a long exhale, before Vahanian straightened and turned away. "I imagine you'll get it out of Harrtuck anyway," he said, running a hand back through his hair. "Yes, I blame Arontala," he said, his voice low and tight. "I was younger than you are, before I went into the army. Making a good living, or at least getting by, blacksmithing and pulling grave jewelry out of the caves in the Borderlands, from the tombs that everyone forgot about."
"One night, a mage showed up who called himself Foor Arontala. He offered me more money than I could imagine for a talisman he said was down in the caves. All I had to do," Vahanian said with a bitter, mocking tone, "was go get it and bring it back."
Tris waited out the next silence, wondering if Vahanian would go on. Vahanian's gaze was far away. "So I did," he said quietly. "Found it right where the mage said, in a tomb I hadn't seen before. And I brought it back. Slipped it onto a thong around my neck so I'd be sure I didn't lose it. Only that night, the Things came."
"Things?"
Vahanian swallowed hard, remembering. "Things. Like the 'magicked beasts' you keep hearing about. They're real. And they're evil. They came out of nowhere, and all they wanted was death." He paused, and his hand unconsciously rose to a scar that ran from his ear to his collarbone and down under his shirt. "We fought them with everything we had. I ran them through, hacked them to bits, nothing mattered. By dawn, there was no village left, no one but me. And the things disappeared like smoke with the morning light." He turned to Tris, his eyes bright with remembered pain. "The talisman called them," he said tightly. "Arontala had to know that. I brought them to the village. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it when they came."
"Why didn't you die, too?" Tris asked quietly.
Vahanian shook his head. "All I've ever guessed is that the talisman protected the wearer. Arontala probably knew that too."
"What happened then?"
"Then I took the damned thing back to the caves where I found it, made a pyre of the village and ran as far away as I could get. And I never saw the mage again, until he showed up a year later, behind my commanding officer in Eastmark." Vahanian bowed his head and leaned against the horse. "Is that enough of a story for you, prince?" he said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his tone. When Tris said nothing, Vahanian turned to him and shook his head.
"You don't get it, do you?" Vahanian said tiredly. "All the fighting in the world won't bring them back. And if you can't do that, what use is revenge?"
"Someone has to stop him."
Vahanian flung his arms wide in a gesture of hopelessness. "Stop him? You might as well darken the moon. Tame the vayash moru. Raise the dead. It can't be done. You'll be dead, and Arontala will win."
"I have to try."
"Go right ahead," Vahanian muttered darkly, checking his horse's provisions. "I'll ask the bards to tell me the stories. Hopeless causes make great tavern songs."
Beyond the stable walls, there was a dull thud and a muted thump. Before Tris could reply, Vahanian had doused the lantern, grabbed for his sword and crossbow and dropped to the stable floor, pulling Tris down with him.
"What the hell?" Tris rasped, but Vahanian motioned for silence, and gestured for Tris to draw his sword. Carefully getting to their feet, the two made their way to the open stable window.
"Look," Vahanian whispered, his grip tightening on his crossbow. "Out there."
Tris could see several dark shapes making their way through the shadows toward the sleeping camp. "Bandits," Tris said.
Vahanian shook his head grimly. "Uh uh. Slavers."
"How-?"
"Look at how they're moving," Vahanian whispered. "They're too professional for bandits. And that thud was a crossbow bolt. Too expensive for most bandits. We've got trouble."
"We've got to warn the others."
"Head back to camp," Vahanian said, starting to climb over the stable's open sill. "Rouse Harrtuck and Soterius-hell, anyone you can find. I'll cut behind them, see how many I can take out from the back."
Tris glanced questioningly at the mercenary, who scowled as if he could read Tris's mind. "No, I'm not running out on you. If my guess is right, you're going to need all the help you can get. Now get going," Vahanian snapped as Tris headed for the door.
"And kid," Vahanian whispered after him in a hoarse rasp. "Stay low."
Chapter Nineteen
Heeding Vahanian's advice, Tris stayed close to the underbrush, mindful that others prowled the scrub between the tumbledown stable and the caravan's camp. At the sound of footfalls to his right, Tris dropped to his belly, reaching for a dagger. Lying still, with his face pressed against the wet leaves, Tris saw the stranger's boots pass within a hand's breadth of his hiding place. It seemed to Tris that his heart was pounding so hard that the other must hear it, but the slaver continued past.
Breathing a silent prayer to the Goddess, Tris climbed to his knees, dagger still in hand, and made his way in a low crouch toward the camp. Grateful to fate for placing Soterius's tent on the side of camp toward the stables, Tris hugged the shadows until he was close enough to dart into it.
"Ban, wake up!" Tris hissed urgently.
"He can't hear you," a mocking voice said from behind him, and Tris felt a knife press between his shoulder blades. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened tent, he saw Soterius, bound and gagged, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes.
Tris raised his hands in surrender, letting his own knife fall. Then, as the slaver behind him stepped back to reclaim the fallen weapon, Tris lashed out behind him with his foot, praying that for once, he could replicate Vahanian's fighting footwork.
Clumsy as the attempt might have been, it caught his attacker off guard, and the slaver sprawled backward with a curse. Tris lurched for the man, pinning him to the ground, and hitting him hard enough on the chin for the man
to fall limp beneath him. Grabbing a leather strap from Soterius's riding gear, Tris bound the unconscious slaver's hands and feet, gagging him with a cloth. He retrieved his own knife and headed to where Soterius made garbled cheers through his gag.
"By the Lady, Tris, you got here at the right time!" Soterius exclaimed in a whisper, rubbing his wrists. "What's going on?"
"Slavers," Tris said tersely, looking back at their prisoner. "Jonmarc's circling behind them, but we saw at least a dozen making their way into camp. We've got to rouse the others."
Just then, they heard the clash of steel in the open area beyond the tents. "Looks like the party's starting," Soterius said with a nervous grin, drawing his sword and heading for the tent door at a dead run. "Let's not keep them waiting." Tris drew his sword, and breathed a hurried prayer for protection as they charged into the fight.
The attackers had chosen the cover of darkness to strike, but someone, friend or foe, had set fire to two bales of straw near the main caravan tent, lighting the night sky. Before they reached the action Tris and Soterius became separated, and while Tris battled two slavers, he glimpsed Soterius engaging a burly slaver almost twice his size.
A dazzling green flame cut through the dark sky, exploding into a million sparkling fragments with a clap like thunder. Seizing the opportunity his opponent's consternation presented, Tris dispatched the hapless slaver before the attacker could recover his wits. Tris chuckled as another red flame shot straight into the night sky, recognizing Carroway's sleight of hand. "Just keep it up, Carroway," he muttered under his breath as he felled a second slaver. He glanced up to glimpse the bard scooting from cover to cover, the better to launch the fireworks.
Vahanian's estimate of a dozen was wrong by at least a factor of three, Tris thought grimly. While the embattled caravan fought bravely, they had already lost half their company-including many of the guards-to the group Kaine led down the pass. Tris wondered just how much of a coincidence Kaine's argument with Linton had been, since it made the caravan that much easier for the taking.
Tris's opponent swung hard, nicking him on the shoulder. Tris could feel himself tiring, but the battle was far from over. By the firelight, Tris saw his assailant's teeth gritted in a victory grin. The fighter stiffened just as he readied another blow, staggering backwards. A red stain grew from the dagger lodged between his ribs. Without a word, the slaver stumbled and fell, clutching his chest, and Carroway sprang from the shadows.
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