Sword in the Storm (28 page)

V
ALANUS LEANED BACK
in the hot perfumed water and stared across the new bathhouse with its marble columns and elegant wooden benches set in ornately carved recesses. It was a picture of elegance and style and a sight he had sorely missed during his missions among the barbarians. Easing himself deeper into the water, he felt his muscles relax. Splashing his face, he ran his fingers through his short-cropped white hair, then, closing his eyes, imagined himself back in the city with its theaters and gardens.

His contentment was sundered by a sudden commotion. Valanus sat up and glanced toward the marble-paneled doorway. Three Keltoi chieftains stood clustered there. The Stone officer suppressed a smile as a servant tried to encourage the chieftains to step inside and remove their clothing. One might as well teach a monkey to play the flute, thought Valanus, as teach these barbarians the essentials of civilized living. Dunking his head under the warm water, he rolled over and swam across the marble-tiled bath, emerging at the far end, just below where the three Keltoi were standing.

“It was only an invitation, Ostaran,” Valanus said, with a forced smile, “not a command. You don’t
have
to bathe. Some of your people, I understand, fear warm water.”

Ostaran gave a cold smile, then stripped off his shirt, leggings, and boots and handed them to the servant. The man held the items at arm’s length, as if fearing the garments would
stab him, then carried them to a shelf nearby. Ostaran sat on the side of the bath, dipping his feet into the water. His two companions watched him, their expressions grim. Ostaran breathed in deeply. “It smells of lavender,” he told them, then eased himself over the side. Once in the water, he splashed his face, rubbing his slender hands over his drooping blond mustache. Untying the two braids, he shook his hair loose and ducked under the surface.

“Not as bad as you thought?” asked Valanus as Ostaran surfaced. Looking up at the other men, he grinned. “Where a Gath can go, surely Ostro warriors can follow.”

“Not always,” said the first man, a powerfully built tribesman with a forked red beard. “I heard of a Gath who once stuck his head up a cow’s arse on a bet. Turned his hair green. I never heard of an Ostro who would follow that.” So saying, he gestured to his companion and they left the bathhouse. Valanus turned to see Ostaran smiling.

“You always smile when you are insulted?”

“He wasn’t insulting me. He was mocking you.”

Valanus called out for soap. A servant brought him a glass vial. The Stone officer poured the contents into his hands, then rubbed lather into his hair. Ducking down, he rinsed it, then rose again. “What do you think of the bathhouse?” he asked Ostaran. The Gath leader gazed around the building, scanning the four huge baths surrounded by stone columns, the high windows, and the elaborately carved benches and shelves. When he spoke, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Seems a waste of stone and labor,” he said. “A man can wash in a stream if he has a mind to. However, it is pleasant. I’ll grant that.”

Moving to the side, Valanus sat on a ledge close to the inlet pipe carrying hot water. It was warmer there. Ostaran joined him. “What have your scouts heard about Connavar?” he asked.

“There is no sign of him. The Perdii thought they had him trapped in the hills. They captured his ponies, but he killed two of their warriors and escaped on foot.”

“Two more? How many does that make?”

“Six—seven if you include the merchant he tortured to death in Alin. Apparently he captured one of their scouts. He left him tied to a tree with a message for Carac. He said to tell the king that he would be back to cut his throat, that nothing on earth would save him.”

“A somewhat angry lad,” Valanus observed, dryly. “But I must admit I would not want him for an enemy. You met him, didn’t you?”

Ostaran nodded. “He was with the honey man. We didn’t speak.”

Valanus chuckled. “You are a fighter, Ostaran. As am I. Be honest. He unsettled you, did he not?”

“Any man who would tackle a bear with a knife unsettles me,” admitted Ostaran. Lifting his hands from the water, he stared at his fingers. “My skin is wrinkling,” he said, obviously disconcerted. “I shall leave now.”

“Not before a massage, surely. We have highly trained slave boys who will rub warm oil into your muscles. Trust me, it is not to be missed.”

“You have no trained women for this task?”

“Young men are better,” said Valanus. “It avoids the complication of arousal. Or not, depending on your appetites. Come, try it. Then you can tell me all you have learned about Carac’s army.”

The two men stepped out of the bath. Immediately servants ran forward with warm towels. Once they were dry, Valanus led Ostaran through into a long room with seven flat couches. Two young men were waiting there. Valanus stretched himself out, belly down, on a couch. Ostaran sat down on the couch beside him, then rolled to his stomach. The two servants began their work. Valanus relaxed as the youth’s nimble
fingers stroked the muscles, easing out the last of his tension. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing he was back in Stone, where he could have dressed and taken a carriage to the amphitheater and watched the latest play before dining at the River Room.

The servant worked on the muscles of his lower back and hips, then along his hamstrings and down over his calves. Valanus rolled to his back, allowing the youth to complete his work on his quadriceps and finally his chest and neck. When the massage was over, the servant, using a rounded ivory knife, scraped the excess oil from Valanus’ lean body and offered him a white robe. As he donned it, Valanus saw that Ostaran had fallen asleep on the couch. The servant tending him glanced at Valanus for guidance. The Stone officer waved him away, then gently nudged the Keltoi. Ostaran opened his eyes and yawned.

“Good?” asked Valanus.

“Most excellent.” Ostaran sat up and stretched his shoulders. Valanus saw an old scar extending from his collarbone and up over his shoulder blade.

“Looks like a spear thrust,” he said.

Ostaran nodded. “A raiding party from the Perdii. It was months before it finally healed, and it still pains me in cold weather.” He rolled his shoulder. “Your boy has loosened it wonderfully. I thank you, Valanus, for talking me into this.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend. Now, tell me what you have learned.”

“You were right about Garshon. He is supplying iron ore for swords, spearheads, and armor to the Perdii in return for Carac’s silver. However, he has, on our behalf, reached an agreement with the Ostro, and they will supply Jasaray for the campaign.”

“How many men can you guarantee from the Gath?”

“Two thousand cavalry, as you asked for. Each with his own mount. When do we ride?”

“Only Jasaray can say. We will see him this evening.”

“I am looking forward to it,” said Ostaran.

“He does not speak your tongue, but I will translate for you. How is your instruction coming? When last we spoke, you could say ‘hello’ in Stone. You will need to do better than that as a wing leader.”

“I can say ‘good-bye,’ ‘how are you,’ and ‘watch where you’re going, you shit-eating barbarian pig.’ Will that do for now?”

“It is no joking matter, my friend. When the battle starts and the orders are issued, you will need to understand them. If you cannot, then Jasaray will not allow you to be leader.”

“I will learn,” said Ostaran.

“I am sure you will. Tell me, do you think Connavar will escape from Perdii land?”

“I do not see how he can. Carac has riders scouring the hills.”

“I think you may be wrong. Shall we have a wager on it? I’ll bet my horse against that gold necklet you wear.”

Ostaran laughed aloud. “My torque is worth fifty of your mounts. We barbarians are not as stupid as you think, Valanus.”

The skills of Parax the Tracker were known far beyond the lands of the Perdii. His talent was almost mystical. There was no animal track he could not read, no trail he could not follow. He had grown rich on the bounty offered for catching criminals and outlaws and even at fifty-one had an eye that could spot a broken blade of grass from the back of his piebald pony. Parax was whip-lean with dark, deep-set eyes and silver-shot dark hair that receded from his temples, giving him a sharp widow’s peak. He had a hard face leathered by wind and sun, and there were few laughter lines around his eyes.

“What are you thinking?” asked Bek, the lean warrior who led the four warriors in the hunting group.

Parax did not answer. Heeling his mount forward, he rode away from the group. He did not like Bek and abhorred his king, Carac. When the previous king, Alea, had died while hunting, Parax had ridden to the scene and scouted alone. It was said by Bek and the others that Alea had fallen from his horse in midriver and drowned. Parax knew they lied. He had found the spot where they had pulled Alea from his horse and dragged him to the river’s edge, pushing his head below the water. His right heel had gouged earth from the bank as they had pinned him there.

But it was not for the likes of Parax to oppose the methods of princes, and he had kept his findings to himself.

He had not been in Alin when the merchant had been murdered, but at his sheep farm twenty miles to the north. Carac had sent for him, and he had arrived a day later. It took a further morning to locate the tracks of the youngster, and then they had found him soon enough.

That was when the fun had started.

Parax had enjoyed it enormously. Bek had led his men in a breakneck gallop, and the boy had cut to the southwest, escaping into a thick stretch of woods. The riders had hurtled after him. Two had caught him. Both had died.

A week had passed since, and four others had followed them on the Swan’s Path. Bek was coldly furious, and this pleased Parax.

“I asked what you were thinking,” said Bek, riding alongside. “Ignore me again, you old bastard, and I’ll cut your balls off.”

Parax grinned at him. “That would take a man, sonny. And a better one than you.”

Bek reached for his sword. Parax swung his pony in close. His hand flashed up, and the point of a skinning knife touched Bek’s throat. “See what I mean?” The older man sheathed the blade. Bek lifted his finger to his throat. It came away with a spot of blood. “Now,” said Parax, “what were we
talking about? Oh, yes, the youngster. He’s canny for his age, no doubt about that. Left a false trail going east—and a good one—then cut back toward the west. He’s a thinker.”

“He’s on foot. We should have caught up to him by now.”

“Maybe,” agreed Parax. “But he’s moving over rough ground and choosing his route with great care.”

“What of his magic?”

Parax laughed, the sound full of scorn. After the last killings one of the survivors had talked about the boy having the ability to change his form. Three of them had walked into a clearing. Suddenly a bush had risen up before them, becoming a man. He had stabbed two of the hunters. The third claimed to have fought him off, and the boy had run away into the hills. Parax let his laughter trail away. “Surely you do not believe it, Bek. You think someone who knows magic would allow himself to be chased from tree stump to hollow all over these hills? All the boy did was remove his cloak, soak it in mud, make cuts in it, and thread branches and leaves through the cuts. Then he crouched in the undergrowth and waited for your men. When they came, he sprang upon them. The survivor did not fight him off; he turned and fled. I read the sign.”

Bek swore and cast an angry look at one of the men riding behind. “The Rigante must be found and returned to face justice,” insisted Bek. “Those are my instructions from the king.”

Parax said nothing. He had listened to the men talking and had pieced together the story. Diatka had betrayed the boy’s friend to a ghastly death. The boy had avenged him. This pursuit was not about justice. It was about fear. Carac’s fear. The king had ridden out with the first hunting party and had heard for himself the message from the Rigante.

“Nothing on earth will prevent me killing you.”

Carac’s fat face had blushed deep crimson. “Bring me his head,” he had told Bek. Then he had ridden back to Alin with
twenty men for a guard. A real warrior would have stayed with the pursuers, Parax believed.

The old hunter dismounted and examined the ground. It was bare and rocky, and no track could be seen. To the left, by a jutting rock, lay an oak leaf. It had obviously fallen from the boy’s cloak disguise. Parax ran his fingers through his hair. Hunting was like a courtship, a union of mind and heart. Slowly the hunter came to know his prey and, in knowing him, either liked or loathed him. Parax was beginning to like the boy. There was no panic in him, with his movements well planned and his route carefully considered. The previous day he had killed a rabbit with a thrown rock, skinned it, and eaten the flesh raw. He had also taken time to find edible roots and berries. And he did not run blindly. He doubled back occasionally to watch the hunters, judge them, and, when the time was right, pick them off.

Parax rode warily to the crest of a hill and shaded his eyes to scan the surrounding countryside. To the northwest were the Talis Woods. Did the boy know enough not to go there? Parax thought about it. He had traveled with the foreigner, and Banouin knew these parts well. He surely would have mentioned the dangers that lay in the dark heart of those woodlands. Where, then, would the boy head? The border with Ostro lands? It was likely. That was the direction he had come from, after all. Parax grinned. Sliding from the saddle, he sat down on the hilltop.

The boy was canny and tough. He would know what they were expecting. Parax flicked his gaze toward the northwest. Was he rash enough to chance those woods?

Hoofbeats sounded from the south, and the five riders galloped up the hill. Parax swore under his breath. What was the point of tiring out the ponies in such a way? The riders were all young men from Bek’s clan. Parax watched them, studying their faces. They were frightened now. Death had
come to six of their friends. None of them relished the thought of being next.