Fool's Errand (43 page)

Jeslyn harrumphed, crossed her arms, and let her already given answer stand. Thatcher turned to face Gideon.

“Captain, if we do take the bridge, I will ride up and talk to them. You stay back with Garan’s body and the others until I see how things go. If things go wonky, then all they get is me, and I can bet a Cyrian jail won’t be able to hold me any better than the Aton-Ri jail did. I was out in three days, and not because someone let me go if you get my drift. If, however, they seem inclined to listen to reason, then I will signal and the rest of you can join the party.”

Gideon was impressed with the boy’s bravery.

“While I don’t like the fact that you keep putting yourself out of range of our help, this may be the best plan. You be careful, though. You didn’t show up looking too well last time you ‘didn’t need our help’.”

“No problem, Captain,” Goldain replied. “I already started working with the kid. He knows now that hitting things with his fists or his sword works better than beating them to death with his face. He shouldn’t turn up nearly so bruised next time he ‘falls out of bed’.”

The northerner took his huge hand and ruffled the hair of the young rogue. Gideon sensed a deepening bond between the barbarian prince and the young thief. First Melizar, now Goldain. It seemed Thatcher had a knack for making friends and garnering loyalty.

“Well, since we can’t seem to talk Jeslyn or Thatcher into staying out of harm’s way, I guess we have our plan.” Gideon’s reluctant assent ended the discussion as they finished eating in silence and turned in for the night.

Thatcher rested much better this night than the previous few. Morning came without incident. While still at least a mile north of the bridge, they could see it was a bustle of activity.

“That seems like a lot of troops for one bridge, Captain.” Thatcher remarked.

“There are a lot more than I expected.”

“Well, nothing to it now,” added Goldain. “From the warning trumpets, the sentries of the bridge garrison already spotted us. Riding off now without approaching the bridge will likely draw a full, armed pursuit.”

“Would they really violate Parynland borders so easily?” asked Melizar.

“Honestly,” Gideon said with a sigh, “tensions are so high with all this ambush business I don’t know. If Xyer Garan was set up with the bandits, who knows how deep the connections may go.”

“Don’t worry, captain,” Thatcher assured them, “if there is a way to talk us across, I’ll figure it out.”

 Thatcher approached the bridge alone and hailed the guard captain. He could see bowmen atop the guard toward on the Cyrian side, with arrows nocked and drawn, beading down on him as he approached.

“Hello, good sir. We seek passage over the river as we ride to Varynia.”

The guard captain stared silently at Thatcher for a few moments before spitting into the dirt. His cold eyes locked onto Thatcher, but he made no move toward a weapon. That was some comfort at least. Finally he spoke.

“Who are you coming to our bridge like a beggar while your companions lie in wait across yonder field? These are dangerous times and spies are not welcome in Cyria.”

 The guard captain seemed uninterested in being either helpful or even cordial. Nonetheless, smooth-talking was a skill the guild did teach its members, so Thatcher calmly continued.

“We are part of the force dispatched from Aton-Ri and the nations east sent to clear Dragon Pass. We have successfully located and killed the ambushers plaguing the westbound caravans. Among us was a great knight of Cyria, Xyer Garan, who unfortunately fell in the battle. We, as his companions, have come to return his body and his belongings to Varynia that he might be buried and honored in accordance with the traditions of your nation.”

Thatcher felt this story might play better in the ears of the Cyrian guardsman than the true story of Garan. The time for truth would come later and would be better delivered by Goldain or Gideon. Hopefully, this version would be good enough to gain them passage.

“We have been expecting you,” the guard said with a nod as the hostility disappeared from his voice.

The guard’s statement, however, took Thatcher by surprise. How could they already have heard of the events in the pass? Why would they be expecting anyone to come this way? Thatcher hid his confusion as the guard captain continued.

“Envoys came before with news of the plan from Aton-Ri. We expected Cyria might be the first nation to hear of the success or failure of your mission. The death of Lord Garan is grim news indeed. There was no mightier knight in all of Cyria. Surely, it must have taken a company of Nephilim to bring him down.”

Thatcher thought flattery the better course.

“It was nearly that indeed. Xyer Garan’s impact on the battle is more of a tale than time permits. He has already been dead for a day, and I understand we are still more than two days ride away from Varynia. If you could let us pass, we might return him before he ripens any more than is avoidable.”

The guard captain nodded assent, and Thatcher signaled the others who approached the bridge as quickly as possible.

“Nice work, brother,” Goldain complimented Thatcher as they approached.

Thatcher’s voice dropped to a whisper as he conveyed to the others.

“Yeah, just might want to play along for a bit with my story about Garan being a fallen hero. It might get us a warmer welcome than the truth.”

The guard captain spoke as he stared sternly at Garan’s body draped over the back of the mighty courser.

“I will send a few patrolmen with you to escort you to Varynia and will send a message rider ahead to announce your coming.”

In fact, Thatcher noted that while he waited for Gideon and the others to reach the bridge, a lightly armored rider on a fast horse had already left on the road headed west.

“If you stick to the roads and push the mounts,” the guard captain continued, “you can make Varynia by nightfall tomorrow night. Fill your canteens in the river here. The waters are clean, cold from the mountains, and better than you will get from any wells on the way. Give me a quarter hour to get the normal dispatches together to send with the escort, and you can be off.”

As they rode for an hour or two past dusk, they passed through several villages on the way, stopping at none. Villagers and workers in the field stared at the travelers with suspicion, especially focusing their hard eyes on the strange-looking hooded mage with them. Shutters snapped shut and children were called inside as they rode through the small settlements peppering the Cyrian countryside. These people were obviously not accustomed to strangers. Thatcher, saddle-sore and weary, approached one of the escorts as they passed through another village without stopping.

“So are we riding all night, or is there maybe an inn in one of these villages where we might pass the night.”

The escort’s response was stern and gruff.

“No. No inns. Not for strangers anyway. By order of the new Field Marshal Arian, it is illegal in Cyria to harbor outsiders except in the official inns in the city. We will ride for another mile or two and camp in the wilderness. If we are up and on the road before dawn, we will make Varynia by late tomorrow night. You can all stay in the State Hostel of Varynia tomorrow night. It is permitted.”

Goldain commented quietly to Thatcher.

“I hope they don’t outlaw ale for visitors. This place doesn’t exactly have policies to encourage tourism.”

They made camp for the night and were up and riding for more than an hour before the sun peeked its face over the mountains, now far off in the distance behind them. The second day passed much as the first had with the same suspicious glances from villagers and the same stoic silence from their escort.

They did stop in one small hamlet, and exchanged their horses for fresh mounts. The new Cyrian horses were fit and strong, and it was an agreeable exchange. The only horse not exchanged was Garan’s warhorse, but an extra stallion, strong and capable, was appropriated by the escort. Garan’s body and belongings were transferred to this horse, thus freeing the courser from any load beyond its own barding for the remainder of the trip.

As they approached the gates of Varynia long after dark of the second day, the companions stood outside near a small copse of trees about fifty feet from the gate while their escort rode forward and exchanged whatever passwords or orders it would take for the watchmen to open the gate after dark. Satisfied they were supposed to be there, the gate captain finally opened the doors and let them in to the city.

Their escort took them straight to a walled compound. As they passed the gate to the small keep within the city itself, the heroes noticed the sign above the gateway.

State Hostel of Varynia
.

With inward-facing guards patrolling the walls and the solid-looking gates surrounding the large manor-house in the center of the compound, this felt more like a prison than an inn. They dismounted, taking their packs with them as a pair of squires led their horses off to a stable beside the main manor house. Xyer Garan’s body was led away by one of their escorts, and they were informed that they would meet with Princess Tarynna in the morning and that Garan’s body and belongings would be delivered to his estate.

They were brought in by the guard, and after a quick conversation with the dour-looking innkeeper behind the desk, they were shown by another worker to a large room on the second floor with six beds. They decided it best not to let their guard down too much and arranged to divide the watches between them to pass the night. For better or worse, they had arrived.

Gideon looked troubled.

“Something wrong, captain?” Thatcher asked.

“I was just wondering why we are to meet with Princess Tarynna rather than King Cyrus.”

“Maybe Cyrus has bigger things to worry about,” Goldain replied.

“Bigger than the security of trade for his nation and a fallen knight sent to represent Cyria?”

“I suppose we will find out tomorrow,” said Gideon. “I am just anxious about how they will take the true story of Xyer Garan’s end.”

Before dawn, Melizar awakened Thatcher with a gentle shake. Thatcher garnered from the mage’s index finger in front of his hood that this was to be a private discussion. His whispered voice further emphasized the point.

“It is the end of my watch, and I am to wake you to start yours, but I feel it will not be long before we are summoned to meet with the princess. I have no doubt it was not lost on you that the security measures at these particular accommodations seem more designed at keeping visitors in than keeping would-be intruders out.”

Thatcher nodded silent agreement.

“Then I will need that brilliant mind of yours to help me with something. I am no good at judging exact distances, but unless I am far out of my reckoning, the back wall of this room would lie somewhere above the stables to the west of the manor house.”

“Yeah,” Thatcher thought, recollecting the general layout of the building and the grounds. “That seems right.”

“Good. When we exit the hostel, I will need you to make an excuse to check on the horses and get a look inside the stables.”

“Check the horses? Why?”

“I’m trying to tell you why. I need you to pay attention, keeping your head clear and memory sharp. When we get to a secure place, draw me an accurate map of the hostel and the stables with distances. They may intend this to be a prison, but in the event things go poorly, I don’t intend to be an animal in a cage to be disposed of at will.”

Thatcher nodded his understanding.

“Yeah, since we walked in last night I have felt like a fish in a barrel here. I’ll get you your map.”

Melizar busied himself with books from his own pack, reviewing details of things written in a language that Thatcher had never seen. The mage was so engrossed in his studies that it seemed he had forgotten anyone else was even in the room. Although the single, round, barred window in the room faced west, the faint glow in the sky showed the sun had already risen on the far side of the manor house. Thatcher heard a knock at the door.