Sword in the Storm (24 page)

“There was no princess,” said Connavar. “Though there was a bear.”

Garshon pointed to the knife at his belt. “Is that the blade that struck the beast?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

Connavar rose, drew the knife, reversed it, and handed it to the merchant hilt first. “It is very beautiful,” said Garshon. “If you ever consider selling it …”

“I will not,” said the youngster.

“I do not blame you.” Handing the knife back, he turned to the astonished Banouin. “I take it your young friend has not mentioned his heroics.”

“Not as yet,” said Banouin, seeking to mask his irritation.

“He tackled four robbers. Broke one man’s leg, stabbed another in the shoulder. The others ran. He was very compassionate. My guest would have killed one of them, but Connavar
stopped him.” The pale blue gaze moved to Connavar. “Why was that? Surely the world would be a better place with less robbers.”

“I have killed men who deserved to die,” said Connavar. “But I did so in combat. The robber was defenseless.” He shrugged. “I have no regrets.”

“Something only the young can say,” observed Garshon. Moving to a chest, he opened the lid and lifted clear a pouch, which he tossed to Connavar. “There are twenty silver pieces there. Please accept them as a mark of my gratitude.”

He saw the lad glance at Banouin, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Connavar tied the pouch to his belt but made no show of thanks. “I am keeping you from the pleasures of the hall,” said Garshon. “You will stay here tonight as my guests, and any services you require will be free: wine, women, food, and lodging.”

“Thank you, Garshon,” said Banouin, rising. “That is most gracious.”

“Not at all.” He turned to Connavar. “If ever you have need of my services, you have only to ask.”

Connavar nodded but did not reply.

Garshon walked them to the door, then returned to his couch.

How interesting, he thought. The fearless Valanus had been afraid of the boy. And now Garshon knew why. There was something very dangerous there, lurking beneath the surface.

Something deadly.

Conn was glad to leave the turbulent city of Goriasa. The air there seemed dense, full of harsh scents and foul aromas. And the Earth Maiden had been a huge disappointment. She had lacked the skills of Eriatha, and her breath had stunk of stale wine. On the open plain he felt himself relax. Here he could
smell the grass and feel the whispering breeze, cool from the sea.

For almost a hundred miles the land was flat with barely a hill to break the visual monotony. Rarely did they see travelers, and when they did, Conn was impressed by the knowledge Banouin had of them, identifying tribes from the various colors of the cloaks, shirts, or adornments worn by the riders. Banouin was greeted everywhere with warmth and recognition. The merchant had removed his Rigante clothing and wore a red knee-length tunic, leather leggings and boots, and a conical blue hat. The hat was old, the fabric worn away, exposing the wooden rim beneath. Banouin claimed it was a lucky hat. Conn’s clothes excited great interest in the travelers they met, for the design of his Rigante cloak of checkered blue and green was not well known among the Gath, and he was asked many questions about his homeland.

In the main people were friendly, and only once in the early part of their travels did Conn feel under threat. They came upon five riders wearing black cloaks. There were no smiles from the newcomers, who blocked the road and waited, grim-faced.

“Stay calm, Conn,” said Banouin, keeping his voice low. Lifting his right hand in greeting, Banouin edged his pony forward. Conn touched heels to his own mount and rode alongside. The five men wore curved cavalry sabers and carried short hunting bows. Conn glanced at their faces, assessing them. They seemed tough, and their manner showed they were tensed for action. Conn well knew that Banouin could fight without weapons, for he had spent many an afternoon with the foreigner sparring, but five armed men were not to be taken lightly. “A fine morning,” said Banouin. “May Daan smile upon the riders of the Gath and, more importantly, on those from the village of Gudri.”

“I know you, Blue Hat,” said the lead rider, a young man
with a drooping blond mustache and braided hair. “You are the merchant who brought honey sweets in the fell winter.”

“And you are the boy who was in the tree,” said Banouin. “Osta? Was that it?”

The man laughed aloud. “Ostaran, but Osta is what my friends call me. Are you carrying honey sweets?”

“Not this trip, my friend. You are a long way from your village. Is all well there?”

The two men chatted for some time. Conn saw the tension easing from the riders, and when at last they rode away, he saw Banouin breathe a sigh of relief. “That was close,” said the foreigner.

“They were planning to rob us?”

“Indeed they were.”

“How did you know they were from Gudri?”

“The cloak brooches. All in the shape of an oak branch.”

“So lives were saved by your knowledge of brooches,” said Conn.

“All knowledge is useful, my friend. But they would have killed us only if we had put up a fight. They are not generally wanton slayers.”

Conn smiled. “Have you considered carrying a weapon? Perhaps there will come a day when you cannot identify a brooch.”

“I know all the brooches. But tell me, Conn. What would you have done had they tried to rob us?”

“I would have stabbed the man to the left of the leader,” Conn answered swiftly.

“Why him?”

“Because you would have charged your pony into the leader’s mount, causing it to swerve to the right, blocking the others. The only man free to draw his weapon and attack you would have been the rider on the left.”

Banouin took a deep breath. “A good assessment, Conn. You are learning fast. Now let us move on.”

8

F
OR THE FIRST
five nights the travelers camped on open ground, but on the sixth they stayed at a small settlement known to Banouin. Some eighty people had built their homes on the banks of a wide river, earning their living by fishing the waters or towing barges down to Goriasa. The people were swarthy, and Banouin told Conn they had originally—many hundreds of years before—journeyed from the eastern mountains, where they had been a nomadic people. They were friendly and invited Conn and Banouin to join them for their communal meal, taken in a long wooden hall thatched with dried grass. At the end of the meal—black bread dipped in fish stew—several musical instruments were brought out and a lean fisherman sang ballads in a deep baritone. When the songs were finished, the people stamped their feet in praise, then went off to their homes. Banouin and Conn remained in the company of the village leader, a powerfully built black-bearded man named Camoe. His two young wives cleared away the plates, and Camoe offered his visitors jugs of beer. The drink was stale and flat, and Conn barely sipped it.

“How far are you traveling?” Camoe asked Banouin.

“All the way to Stone.”

“Dangerous country you will be passing through,” said Camoe. “Stone army is advancing on the people of the Perdii River. Big battles coming, I think.”

“I am well known to the Perdii,” said Banouin. “Their king, Alea, is an old friend of mine.”

“Alea is dead,” said Camoe. “Drowned, they say.”

“I am sorry to hear that. He was a good man. Who is king now?”

Camoe shrugged. “I have not heard. But it is said they have a hundred thousand fighting men waiting to rip the hearts from the Stone men. I think they won’t do it. I think this Jasaray is a devil in human form.”

“He is not a devil,” said Banouin, “but he is a wily general.”

“How long before they come here, you think?”

Banouin spread his hands. “Two years maybe. But they won’t trouble you, Camoe. They will buy your fish.”

“They will trouble all of us, foreigner. I am Gath. I will fight when called.” His gaze flickered to the small pack at Banouin’s side. “This beer turns the stomach. I remember when we had a fine harvest of red fish and bought several jugs of amber fire. Good days.”

“It so happens,” said Banouin, “that I remembered your fondness for it.” Digging into the pack, he produced two jugs of Uisge that had been wrapped in straw and tossed one to Camoe. The village leader broke the wax seal and hefted the jug to his lips. He took several swallows.

“Oh, but that is good,” he said. “It burns wonderfully all the way down. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a copper coin, my friend. It was good to see you again. There is a second jug in the pack for you to enjoy when we are gone.”

Camoe leaned forward and thumped Banouin’s shoulder. “You are too good to be a Stone man. Are you sure you weren’t adopted?”

The travelers slept that night in the hall and then continued their journey east. The farther they traveled, the more they heard of the advancing army of Stone. Jasaray was said to be
assembling an army of fifteen thousand men. It would be vastly outnumbered by the Perdii.

“Perhaps they will be crushed,” said Conn, “their threat ended.”

“I doubt it,” said Banouin, drawing on the reins and dismounting to give the pony a breather.

Conn joined him. “How will the battle be planned?”

Banouin thought about it. “Fifteen thousand men means four panthers and a wing of cavalry. Each panther is made up of three thousand fighting foot soldiers. The cavalry will be auxiliaries, tribesmen who are enemies of the Perdii. Jasaray will march into Perdii territory and try to coax the enemy into a mass charge. They will break upon his battle lines like water upon rock.”

“What if they do not attack him in that way?”

“Then he will raze their villages and settlements, taking their women and children into slavery. He will destroy their crops and cripple their economy. They will have to fight him.”

Banouin also took the time on the journey to continue teaching Conn more of the Turgon tongue and the language and history of Stone. Defeated in a distant war four hundred years before, the survivors had fled across the sea to found a new city. They had seen a blazing sign in the sky, a huge rock streaking from the clouds, trailing fire. It had struck a wooded hilltop, leveling all the trees. On this newly flattened land they had built a temple and around it a stockaded town. As the years had passed, they had subdued surrounding tribesmen and extended their authority. Gradually the wooden town became a stone city with great walls and aqueducts, temples, and places of learning.

Conn listened intently, but his attention grew more avid only when Banouin talked of wars and strategies and of the peoples conquered during the last twenty years. Great had been the suffering, said Banouin, and the destruction.

“I hate them,” said Conn. “What they are doing is evil.”

“In what way evil?” asked Banouin as they led the six pack ponies slowly along the crest of a series of wooded hills.

Conn pointed down to a small settlement along the banks of a river. “Those people have their own lives,” he said, “each dependent on the skills of his neighbor. They are a community. They live and thrive. It is a good life. I know this, for it is the same among the Rigante. They care for one another. The Stone people will take away what they have by conquest. Surely that is evil.”

“The question is much wider than that,” said Banouin, reining in his pony. “Come,” he said, swinging his mount. “We will take a detour to the high country.”

“Why?”

Banouin smiled. “There are sights there you should see.”

They rode through the morning and into the afternoon, ever higher. Both riders unfurled their cloaks, for the wind was colder there. By dusk they had reached a thinly wooded ridge of land, and Banouin dismounted, leading the ponies into a shallow cave, where he built a fire and prepared a meal of rich stew. In the firelight Conn saw that the walls of the cave were covered with paintings of deer and bison, lion and bear. Here and there were handprints in faded red, large hands with long thumbs.

“Who made these?” he asked Banouin.

“The Old Ones. There are still some of them living in the high country, hiding from the world. Very few now. Perhaps a hundred or so. They are like us and yet not like us. They are heavy-browed and have huge jaws.”