Seeds of Rebellion (22 page)

Turning his head, Jason saw that he was sprawled at the feet of the lurker. The shadowy personage loomed over him. Jason rolled away from it.

“Look at it move,” Aram murmured.

Glancing back, Jason glimpsed the lurker streaking away, a dark blur slicing through the mist. He had never seen it run so fast. Thanks to the fog, he didn’t get to watch it for long.

“Where’s it going?” Chancy asked.

“To report our location,” Jason guessed. “Ferrin said the lurker brought reinforcements to Ithilum.”

“We must now place speed ahead of stealth,” Aram said. “You still in one piece?”

Jason arose, burrs sticking to his cloak. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What are the odds of me finding my horse?” Chancy mused.

“Not good,” Aram replied. “It was spooked and running hard. You’ll want to get away from here, Chancy. Find a spot to lay low.”

The other man gave a weak smile. “I knew this job paid too well. I swear, never say yes if you get offered more than your contribution merits.”

Jason walked over to his horse. “Is it calm enough to ride?”

“She’s as calm as we can wait for,” Aram replied.

Jason mounted the chestnut mare. She stamped a little. Aram kept a hand on her until she settled down, then remounted his stallion.

Chancy stood up and started dusting himself off. “Give me something to use if I get caught?” he asked miserably. “Some little tidbit? Some secret to trade?”

“Don’t get caught,” Aram said. “Violent forces are converging.”

Chancy sprinted toward the orchard.

Aram gave a soft kick, and his horse cantered away from the dismal farmyard with Jason close behind.

CHAPTER
10

A
persistent breeze shredded the fog into tattered wisps of vapor. Starlight began to penetrate the murky sky as Aram and Jason journeyed south. Their flight took them across desolate terrain, following overgrown trails through woods and improvising paths over fields and low hills.

Aram kept the horses moving at a good pace, but never let them run hard, balancing the desire for haste with the need for endurance. Jason was pleased to find his horsemanship continuing to improve. Riding felt more familiar and enjoyable than ever.

Whenever they came to high ground, Aram would pause to look back. Repeatedly, he detected no evidence of pursuit.

The night wore on uneventfully until they reached a low ridge overlooking their destination. A broad river divided a quiet little town. Similar amounts of buildings huddled near the northern and southern banks.

Peering back the way they had come, Aram moaned. “We won the race to Potsug, but not by much.”

Squinting into the night, Jason faintly perceived moonlit
shapes moving along a distant road. “It looks like a lot of them,” Jason said.

“Tark wanted you to meet him at the home of a stableman?”

“Gurig.”

“I only see one large stable. It’s on this side of the river. Come, we must hurry.”

Aram led the way down the ridge, after which they loped across a flat expanse to the village. The sleepy town had no surrounding walls or any other apparent defenses.

Even after slowing to a walk, the horses sounded loud as they advanced along a silent dirt road flanked by wooden buildings. They approached a modest residence alongside a large stable. Jason dismounted and knocked on the door.

“Be ready for an ambush,” Aram warned, baring the blade of his massive sword.

Jason pounded harder. A moment later a man bearing a candle opened the door. He had a high forehead and a flabby chin. He glanced past Jason at Aram astride his stallion. “Who are you?”

“I’m looking for Tark the musician,” Jason replied.

The man blinked in bewilderment. “Tark? I haven’t seen Tark in ages.”

“You’re Gurig?”

“The same.”

“Tark hasn’t been in touch? Hasn’t sent a messenger?”

“Not a word. Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes. If he contacts you, tell him he missed me.”

“Who shall I say he missed?”

“It’s better if I don’t explain. Good night.”

“Very well,” the man said with another glance at Aram, who did his best to hold his sword out of sight. “Safe travels.”

The door closed, and Jason returned to his horse.

“Tark is late,” Aram said.

“I hope nothing happened to him.”

“We cannot wait. We must cross the river immediately. We’ll decide where to proceed from there.”

“Lead the way,” Jason said.

“I noted two ferries from the ridge, one larger than the other. Both were dark, but enough money should rouse them. We’ll try the smaller one first.”

Aram kicked his horse to a trot, and Jason followed him to a shanty beside a large, flat raft. The glow of a dying fire seeped through the shuttered window. Aram rapped on the door.

A short, round-faced man with a black eye answered. His cheek was marked by the creases of a pillow. His sour expression faltered as he tipped his head back to gape up at Aram. “What do you want?”

“We need to cross.”

“At this hour? Three times the normal fare.”

“Four times if you hurry.”

“I’ll have to fetch the haulers.”

“Not necessary.”

The ferryman looked Aram up and down. “I suppose not. No discount for hauling it yourself. Payment in advance.”

“Fine, but we leave now. What’s the standard rate for two men and two horses?”

The ferryman hesitated.

Aram cracked his knuckles menacingly. “If you intend to fib, you need to think faster.”

“Ten drooma. A man is one, a horse four.”

“Sounds plausible. Do you have two bronze?”

The ferryman nodded. He ducked back inside. When he returned wearing a cap and a long coat, he exchanged two bronze drooma for a silver and then led them to the quay.

Aram and Jason guided their horses onto the flat raft. Jason leaned against a wooden railing. The ferryman reached toward a copper bell.

“Don’t sound the bell,” Aram said firmly.

“But the regulations—”

“How about you forget this time, and I return those bronze drooma to you.”

The ferryman scowled. “I don’t care how much you’re paying; I could lose—”

“Or I could drown you.”

“I’ll take the drooma.”

The ferryman unmoored the rectangular vessel. A thick rope ran through a device attached to the raft. The ferryman pulled a lever releasing a locking mechanism.

“Ding, ding,” the ferryman muttered. “Go ahead and pull.”

Standing at the front of the raft, Aram began to hastily haul the guideline hand over hand. The raft lurched forward, progressing rapidly. The moon had just set, and the stars did little to brighten the dark river.

“You aren’t looking for employment, by chance?” the ferryman asked.

Silently and tirelessly, Aram kept the ferry advancing swiftly. The shanty and small quay shrunk behind them. As the craft approached the center of the river, Aram showed no sign of flagging.

Near the middle of the wide river, something suddenly splashed aboard the raft. Aram whirled, casting off his cloak and drawing his sword. The ferryman yelped, scampering to the far side of the raft. Jason fumbled for the hilt of his sword.

The sopping figure who had boarded the raft raised a hand and spoke softly. “Pardon the intrusion. I’m a friend.”

“Ferrin?” Jason gasped.

“What are you doing here?” Aram rumbled, sword poised to strike.

“No time,” Ferrin insisted tiredly, water dripping from his clothes and hair. He clutched a long oar. “Cut the guideline.”

“What?”

“An ambush awaits on the far side. Sever the rope.”

“Absolutely not,” the ferryman asserted, striding forward.

Dropping the oar, Ferrin leaped to his feet and seized the ferryman by the throat. The startled man fumbled for the knife at his belt, but Ferrin released his neck and snatched it first. “You’re in no position to issue demands, boatman. Make another squeal at your peril.” Ferrin glanced at Aram. “Cut the line or we die.”

The broadsword arced through the air, slicing through the thick rope in a single sweep. The raft began to drift with the sluggish current.

“Add what speed you can with the oar,” Ferrin whispered, keeping the knife near the ferryman’s chin. “Will you keep silent?”

The ferryman nodded, massaging his throat. One hand strayed to a pocket.

“I already have it,” Ferrin said, letting a smaller knife fall from the crook of his arm to the deck. “Cover your ears, lie on your stomach, and hum a quiet tune. If you see nothing and hear nothing, you just might live through this.”

The ferryman complied.

“That was a quick grab,” Aram said, taking up the oar. “Snatching the hidden knife, I mean.”

“You should see me with two hands,” Ferrin replied.

Aram began using the oar to scull. The ponderous raft sped up and began to rotate. As Aram did his best to compensate for the rotation, the raft fishtailed forward.

“How did you get here so fast?” Jason asked.

“I’m reasonably good at my job,” Ferrin said. “I investigated the well Aram described, and the position seemed less than ideal for a rendezvous. After snooping around, I caught wind of a man named Chancy who had bought a pair of horses that matched your needs. He inadvertently led me to the barn where you encountered the torivor. I lingered long enough to confirm your direction, then rode harder than you could have. I led a second mount and alternated between the two steeds. I may have lamed one of them.”

“What’s the situation on the southern bank?” Aram asked.

“A dozen soldiers lie in wait, half of them conscriptors, led by a displacer. I crossed the river in a stolen canoe to reconnoiter. Once our adversaries ascertained that you were fleeing south, this town became the logical location for an ambush. Helps when you think like the enemy. Helps even more when you trained them.”

“How did the news beat us to the ferry?” Jason asked.

“I assume the lurker informed them. Not surprising.”

“What now?” Jason asked.

“We let the river carry us some distance before disembarking on the southern bank. How are your horses holding up?”

“Doing well,” Aram said. “We haven’t overtaxed them.” He continued to scull vigorously.

“Good,” Ferrin said. “What’s our destination? Does it matter?”

Jason thought for a moment. If Tark hadn’t made it to Potsug, he may have never delivered the message about the Word to Galloran. “We should head to the castle of the Blind King. Do you know the way?”

“I can get us there,” Ferrin said. “So the Blind King is Galloran?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jason protested.

“You didn’t need to. I once suspected as much, but discounted my theory after observing him. He looked too old, sounded too
pathetic, acted too eccentric. To think he was actually the famed hero! Felrook took a heavy toll.”