Inheritance (38 page)

“That is the Barda River in the distance,” Ager said. “I have sailed along it many times when working for merchants. They use barges to carry goods from Sparro to Daavis.”

“Well, that answers Kumul’s question,” Jenrosa said.

The two men looked at her. “What question?” Kumul asked.

“Prado is heading for the river,” Jenrosa said. “Ager said he must be meeting someone. What if the rendezvous is far from here, like in Hume? He can’t ride the whole distance and hope to stay ahead of pursuit—he’s carrying royal baggage, remember?”

Ager’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Prado is going to use the river. He’ll make much greater time! If Jenrosa hadn’t set us on the right trail, we would never have found out. Lynan could have been lost to us forever.”

“But what rendezvous?” Kumul asked. “This is making less and less sense to me. Why risk taking Lynan if not to return him to Kendra? Who could Prado possibly be meeting? Lynan’s not worth anything as hostage. Areava would pay to have him killed, not rescued.”

“He might not be worth anything as a hostage,” Ager said lowly, “but he’s worth something as a symbol.”

“What are you getting at?”

Ager shook his head. “I’m not sure yet—”

“Look!” Jenrosa cried, pointing. Kumul and Ager peered out across the plain but saw nothing. “Under those trees,” she said, almost shouting.

“Which trees?”

Jenrosa moved her horse so it was standing next to Kumul’s roan, and physically moved his head with her hands. “Are you blind! Those trees!”

At first Kumul noticed nothing, but after a moment he could see shapes moving in the shade of the small copse Jenrosa had found for him. He straightened in the saddle.

“That’s them,” he said with certainty.

By now, Ager had seen the distant figures also. “That was well seen, Jenrosa. It’s hard to be sure with only one eye, but I reckon they’re at least four hours’ ride ahead of us.”

Kumul lined up a finger with the copse, looking along the line with his right eye and then his left. He muttered a quick calculation and said: “Closer to three hours.”

“They’re moving,” Jenrosa said. “They’re riding out, heading straight for the river.”

“If we get to the Barda before they find a barge, we have them,” Ager said.

“The sooner we’re there, the better, then,” Kumul answered, and the companions kicked their horses into a ground-loping canter, trying to conserve the mares’ strength for a last dash. They left the wood behind and rode out onto the plain into the light, their hopes high for the first time since they had discovered Lynan missing.

The horses beneath Prado and his men could not continue their canter for long, and Prado slowed them down to a steady walk before they were blown.

“They will catch up!” Aesor shouted.

“We will get to the river first,” Prado told them. “That’s all that matters. Their horses cannot continue that pace for any longer than ours.”

“They could have fresher mounts,” Bazik said.

“And at least ten leagues to make up,” Prado angrily returned.

“But what if there are no barges at the river?” Aesor asked.

“The Barda bends sharply here, forming a steep bank. Pilots anchor there for the night. We’ll find something.”

“I bloody hope so,” Bazik said to Aesor in a voice low enough for Prado not to hear. “I’m not keen on tangling with Kumul Alarn.”

Aesor looked sourly at Bazik but did not reply. He fought the temptation to spur his horse into a gallop, but knew that if they exhausted their mounts too soon they were lost. He threw a glance at the prince, still slumped in Prado’s arms like a sack of wheat, and wished he was as blissfully ignorant of events. He told himself to concentrate on staying on his horse, but could not resist looking furtively over his shoulder every few minutes; each time he looked, he was sure the enemy was closer. He saw that they alternated riding between a quick walk and a canter. Bazik was right, they had fresher mounts and were pushing them to the limit.

They were over a league from the river when two things happened. The prince jerked into consciousness and groggily sat up; the sudden shift in weight upset Prado’s horse, and Prado had to pull back on the reins to stop the beast pulling to one side. Aesor cursed and for the hundredth time looked behind him.

“Prado!” he cried. “They’ve gone to the gallop!”

Prado savagely kicked his horse and it bucked, tossing its head high before breaking into a gallop and heading straight for the river, with Bazik and Aesor close behind.

Lynan had no idea what was happening, and all he could make out was the green blur of the plain and the smell of fresh water somewhere up ahead. His captors were in full flight, and he could tell from the rigid expressions on their faces that they were afraid. A deep recess in his mind figured out his friends might be the threat, but he had not the strength or the will to do anything about it. He tried closing his eyes to regain some kind of clarity, but the effect made him feel so unbalanced he had to open them again.

They were riding between trees now and their pace slowed. Lynan heard shouts behind him, distant and carried on a breeze. He recognized Kumul’s rumble and tried to shout back but could manage only a croak. The horse swerved to avoid a thorn tree, galloped forward again, then came to a halt when Prado pulled back on the reins. It stamped its feet and shook its head, foam whipping from its mouth.

Lynan could see a river about fifty paces ahead, and what looked like two broad-beamed boats at anchor near the bank. Bazik and Aesor appeared next to them, and Prado shouted, “Now! Our last chance!”

They spurred their horses forward again. Just before they reached the bank, Bazik and Aesor dismounted. Aesor ran to the barge on the right, the smaller of the two, and Bazik to the one on the left. Prado dismounted and took the reins of all three horses. Again, Lynan heard Kumul’s battle cry.

“Kumul!” he shouted, but it was a weak call, and only Prado heard. The mercenary lifted a foot and kicked the prince in the knee. Lynan cried out in pain and twisted sideways, only his binding keeping him in the saddle. He heard shouts in front of him and then screams. Prado used his sword to cut the rope and free Lynan’s hands, then hauled him off the horse. Aesor reappeared and pulled on Lynan’s hair until he stood up.

“Move!” Aesor ordered, and shoved him from behind.

Lynan tottered forward, carefully moving one foot in front of the other to keep himself from falling over. He reached the bank, and rough hands directed him to a plank, then guided him across. He felt the world shift under his feet and he remembered the last time he had tried to board a boat. “Oh, no…” he groaned, but before anything could happen he was manhandled aboard and pushed to the bottom. He tried to raise his head and received a punch in the face for his efforts. His jaw seemed to explode and he screamed. He heard the neighing and stamping of the horses as they were led on board. Twice, hooves missed his head by no more than the width of a finger. Prado was shouting orders and he felt the boat move out onto the water. Kumul’s cries were now closer than ever.

“Kumul…” Lynan tried again to lift his head, but it felt as if it weighed more than all the stone in Kendra’s palace.

Then he heard a loud crack, and he rolled on his back. A white sail flurried, fluttered, and then filled above him, and Kumul’s voice trailed behind and was eventually lost.

Kumul waited until he was sure the horses could make the distance, then lifted his head and shouted the war cry of the Red Shields, kicking his mount to the gallop. Ager and Jenrosa matched him. Kumul drew his sword and leaned over the saddle to hold it forward, parallel with the horse’s head; he had seen enough enemies peel away from him in a charge to know how formidable a sight he made in full flight, and he hoped it was enough to make Prado and his men panic and do something stupid.

They had obviously seen him, for they whipped their own horses to a gallop. It was now a race to the river, and Kumul realized with horrible certainty that unless something happened to stop them, the mercenaries with their prize would win the race easily. His heels dug into the roan’s flanks, trying to urge more speed from her tired muscles, but her head was beginning to sag and he knew she could give no more. Ager and Jenrosa had started to fall behind.

In fury and anger he shouted his war cry again and again. He saw the enemy disappear behind the trees of the river when he was still five hundred paces from them. The next minute was one of the longest in his life. He started pulling on the reins when the first trees whisked by him, and he looked for a clear passage to the river. He heard the sounds of fighting ahead and to his left, and he jerked the mare toward them. The vegetation grew more dense and at last he had to dismount. He started to run, tripped over a root, picked himself up, and rushed forward again. He burst through the last ring of trees and bushes and saw a barge starting to pull away from the bank, Prado with his men and horses aboard. He could not see Lynan, and a cold fear clogged his throat. He sprang forward, but by the time he reached the bank the barge was in mid-stream and the sail was unfurling.

He noticed the second, smaller barge and ran toward it, then stopped in his tracks. A man lay dead on the bank, his head split open from forehead to chin, and beside him were a snapped rudder oar and the torn remains of the barge’s sail.

“God’s death, no!” he cried. “Lynan!” But as he got closer he realized the dead man was too big for his prince.

Ager ran by him and knelt down next to the corpse. “A pilot,” he said grimly. He stood up and pointed at the retreating barge. “They still have him,” he added.

Joined by Jenrosa, they looked out over the river and watched the receding barge until all they could glimpse was the top of the sail, and soon that, too, disappeared from sight.

Cold water splashed over Lynan’s face, and he woke with a start. The first thing he noticed was that the pain in his jaw was reduced to a dull and constant background ache; the terrible throbbing had eased, and when he realized it was night and the sky really
was
dark, he knew his sight had finally returned to normal. Prado stood over him like the remains of his last nightmare, a bronze ewer in one hand.

“Well, at least you’re still alive,” Prado said levelly, and then ignored him.

Lynan moved experimentally and found his arms and legs reluctantly but surely obeyed his orders. He stood up slowly, letting himself get used to the gentle swaying of the boat. It was not as bad as he remembered, but last time he had been at sea and this time the vessel was sailing over nothing more dangerous than the quiet waters of the Barda River. The boat was loaded with bales of what looked like flax and hay, and his captors’ horses were tethered to the single mast. Aesor was sitting in the bow and Bazik amidships with the horses. He himself was at the stern with Prado, and next to him was a man by the rudder. The stranger sported a nasty gash on the forehead. Lynan saw the blue stripe on one of the man’s sleeves, and realized this was the barge’s pilot.

He was a short, thin man with golden skin and hair as dark as the night; a Chett, Lynan dimly realized.

“Welcome, sleepy one,” the Chett said in a deep singsong voice, and offered a faint smile. His right foot rested on a pedal leading to the rudder oar, and his hands held sheets that led through a complex of pulleys to the sail.

“My name is Gudon,” he said. “What is yours? Ouch!”

“If you don’t want to be kicked again, cut the questions,” Prado ordered.

“A timely reminder to keep my mouth shut. Thank you, beneficent master.”

Lynan did not know if Gudon was being sarcastic or not; nor, by his expression, did Prado. Gudon stared out over the river, looking blameless.

“Where are we going?” Lynan asked Prado.

Prado ignored him, but asked Gudon: “How far from Daavis?”

“Two days to Daavis, master, with a good wind. With no wind, it will be four days or more. With a bad wind, at least seven. With a really bad wind—”

Prado cut him off. “Fine, whatever. Just make sure we’re there in two days, or I’ll finish splitting open your head and then I’ll throw you into the river.” He tapped the hilt of his sword for emphasis.

Gudon nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Do what I am told, make the wind obey me, and get you to Daavis in two days. Otherwise I get the point.”

“Watch them both carefully,” Prado ordered Bazik, and moved forward to talk with Aesor.

Gudon glanced down at Lynan. “You are not a villain, then?” Lynan shook his head. “And are you getting off at Daavis?”

“Enough talking,” Bazik snapped from amidships. He jabbed a finger at the pilot. “You tend to the steering, and you,” he said, jabbing the same finger at Lynan, “you just keep quiet.”

Lynan rested against the stern rail. He gingerly touched the side of his face and was surprised how thick the stitching and weal running from his right ear to his jaw felt. He wondered what he had done to deserve it, having only vague memories of his first conversation with Prado. Had it only been the night before? It seemed so distant in his memory now. He saw Prado cut into one of the bales of hay and spread it around for the horses to eat. Watching him, Lynan realized that for the first time in his life that he hated someone so much he would gladly kill him and not regret it afterward.

The wind changed direction from northerly to nor’easterly. Gudon expertly jiggled the sheets so the barge’s sail would stay full, but the hull slipped sideways for a moment before righting itself. The horses neighed and stamped, and Bazik and Aesor rushed to help Prado calm then.

Lynan saw Gudon smile at him and he wondered if the barge’s slide had been entirely accidental. “Is your wound all right?” he whispered while his captors were distracted.

“Oh, yes, master. I’ve applied my haethu potion to it, and all will be well.”

“Haethu potion?”

“A wonderful thing. It heals small wounds, adds spice to sauces, flavor to water, and if you slip it in a girl’s drink, she will fall in love with you and become more fertile than all the seas in the world.”