The Hero's Lot (25 page)

Errol nodded. The motion came easier this time. “Where are we?”

Conger's eyes lit. “We are in Basquon, just over the border from Talia, but there is much more . . . Ooh, there's a story there, boy, but it's not mine to tell.” He rubbed his hands with relish. “All in good time. First, the healer will want to see you. The princess has gone to fetch him.”

As if the mention of him had the power to call him forth, the door opened and a young man, his head covered by a short, conical hat, moved to his bed. Dark-haired with a short beard, he looked hardly older than Errol.

He lifted Errol's shirt, removed the dressing on his side, and laid his hand on the wound, his fingers light and deft. With a nod, he replaced the bandage and the shirt. “You'll live.” He said this as if he'd been uncertain of Errol's fate up to that point.

Errol smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. I had my doubts over the past seven days.”

Conger snorted, but the healer only nodded, either missing the jest or ignoring it. “Styrich poisoning,” he said. “You're lucky to be alive.”

Caution,
Errol told himself. “What can I do or not do?”

The healer waved a hand. “The poison has washed out of your system. You can do anything you have the strength to do. You haven't eaten anything for a week, so you'll be weak for a few days. Other than that, you're fine.”

Errol tried to clear the scratch out of his throat again, but when he spoke, it still sounded deep and raspy. “When will my voice heal?”

The doctor's head tilted to one side. “It may not. They tell
me you screamed the entire way here. A gargle of hot salt water may help the worst of it.”

He didn't like the sounds coming from his mouth. The rasp sounded harsh, angry, like Cruk. With a push that made his arms tremble, he shoved himself off the bed. His knees buckled as his feet hit the floor, but his legs calmed to a minor quiver after a moment. His stomach emitted a low rumble that lasted for a dozen heartbeats. “Conger, can you find me something to eat?”

The ex-priest nodded and followed the doctor out of the room. Errol traveled toward the door, one hand on the wall as a support. He stepped into a broad, marbled hallway decorated with white statues. An archway in the distance opened to a large fountain topped by an ornate carving of rearing horses. Water cascaded over the figures with sounds Errol associated with the Sprata.

Outside of Rodran's palace, he'd never seen such opulence. He made for a bench across the hall with engraved horses on the supports, their manes flowing in some imaginary wind. The lines of the wood beckoned to his fingers, and he traced carved muscles, the heavy finish smooth beneath his hands. An urge to cast came over him, but he had no question that required lots.

“Here you go, lad,” Conger said. He proffered a bowl of soup, thick with vegetables and lightly seasoned. “Thought you might want to start with something mild, and the soup might help your voice.”

“Where are we?”

Boots echoed down the hallway in the opposite direction from which Conger had come. “You're guests in my house, Earl Stone.” The man who sketched a fluid bow to accompany his words could have been Naaman Ru's older brother. Gray streaked his hair, but the mustache still glistened ebony beneath eyes the color of darkest onyx.

Errol tried to stand to return the courtesy, but shock and fatigue kept him on the bench.

“Do not trouble yourself, my friend,” the man said. “You are fortunate to be alive.” His voice, smooth as his bow, made common words sound as if he were reciting poetry. “I am Count
Rula. Please allow me to be your host while you recuperate. I understand that you are an honorary captain of the watch, yes?”

Errol nodded, bemused.

“Excellent. Please let my staff know of anything you require.”

The man's effusive speech and flawless manners left Errol flat-footed. “Count, why are we here?”

The count's dark brows lifted as if he didn't quite understand the question. “Why, so you may heal, Earl Stone.”

Errol shook his head, frustrated at his inability to communicate. “No . . . I mean, yes, I understand. But how did we get here? We're in Talia, and I was told that we detoured into Basquon.”

The count's cultured manner remained, but his friendly manner cooled despite the smile he still wore. “You needed cold, Earl Stone. My estate is surrounded by the ice of the Apalian Mountains.” He shrugged. “Let us say that Deas's providence has brought you here, shall we? Good day.” He bowed and moved past Errol and Conger, his long strides taking him out of earshot in seconds.

“Why are we here, Conger?” Errol asked. “It doesn't take a reader to know something strange is going on.”

The former cleric scratched his stomach as he answered. “I believe you have the compulsion the archbenefice placed on Master Ru to thank for that.”

“What?”

“After you got poisoned, Naaman Ru became strange, gave orders to take the caravan over the border to Basquon. He and Captain Elar nearly came to blows before the captain figured out what was going on. It turns out Ru knew there would be help here, though he sweated and fumed and cursed like a sailor in a storm the whole way.”

Errol nodded in understanding. “If I died he'd be free of his compulsion.”

Conger shook his head. “I'm not saying you're wrong, lad, but there's more to it than that. Once we came onto Count Rula's estate, Master Ru ordered his daughter into the wagon with himself and refused to come out. He's still hiding there, so far as I know.”

“Why?”

“Count Rula is his uncle and wants him dead.”

Errol took another bite of soup, savoring the flavor and feel of warm liquid against his raw throat but suddenly feeling exhausted. “I've felt that way myself—many a time—but we need Ru to guide us into Merakh. He can't do that if his uncle has his head decorating a wall.” He took a deep breath and looked at Conger out of the corner of his eye. “Why does his uncle want him dead?”

Conger's eyes fired with curiosity. “No one who knows is saying. Rula says we're welcome to stay as long as we like, but when we leave, Ru won't be going with us.”

Errol rubbed a sudden ache behind his eyes, and he could think of little save returning to bed. He set down the soup bowl and leaned back against the wall. Why did everything have to be so difficult? “Does he have the men to stop us?”

Conger nodded.

“Please help me back to my room. I need to sleep. And then we'd better counsel with Rale”—he sighed—“and Naaman Ru.”

 24 
The Shadow Lands

M
ARTIN AND HIS FELLOW TRAVELERS
halted in the pass, the scene spread before them like a storyteller's depiction. The mountains of the Sprata reared their crowns to the sky, cold and uncaring across an expansive sea of grass. The river, broad and sluggish a hundred leagues south of Callowford, created a border between the mountains and the plain.

“By the three,” Luis said, his voiced muted. “It's more a land for giants than men.”

Nothing to do with mankind stirred on that plain. In the distance a herd of wild horses ran, the thunder of their hooves silenced by the intervening space. They might as well have been phantoms.

“No men are there for a reason,” Cruk said. After the cast, the captain had stifled his protests and led them south without complaint, but his voice carried a sharper edge. “That's where we're headed.”

Martin followed his point to a spur of lower mountains, their peaks blunted by time and weather. The river turned to flow
through a gap in the range. “How long will it take us to get there?” Martin asked.

“A day,” Cruk answered, “perhaps two.”

They descended the pass, and Martin's sense of self shrank as the press of the forest receded. Their mounts seemed comfortable in that open expanse. The wind moved over the grass like a wave, and Martin imagined he rode not on a horse but a ship.

They stopped past midday to eat and let the horses graze. Cruk scanned the horizon, his face hard. Lines of tension carved his face and forehead. “We'll want to make camp near one of the trees. We may have to alter our route a little bit.”

“Why?” Karele asked. One hand made a circling motion. “There's nothing here save us and a few wild horses.”

The muscles in Cruk's jaw jumped. Martin could almost hear the captain grinding his teeth. “You may be right, solis, but I'm not going to bet our lives on it. If it comes to a fight, I'll want to use that tree to protect my back.” His shoulders bunched. “And if it comes to that, we may need to climb our way to safety.”

Cruk seemed more cautious than usual. “What worries you?” Martin asked.

The captain pointed at the horses. “Meat usually means meat eaters.”

As the sun set, they camped under a stunted oak tree, its leaves blunted by a yellowish cast when they should have been a glossy green. Scorch marks flared up the trunk as if someone had tried to topple it with fire. Despite the bare ground beneath the tree, Cruk dictated a cold camp. A gibbous moon provided enough light to distinguish shapes but failed to provide comfort.

“Sorry, Pater,” Cruk said. He rubbed a few stalks of grass between his fingers. The grass gave dry whispering noises as it disintegrated. “One stray ember and the whole plain will go up.” A rumble in the distance punctuated Cruk's warning. The captain pointed toward a dark cloud shaped like an anvil on the western horizon. “That may be our biggest threat. I'll take the watch.”

Martin rolled his cloak into a pillow and tried not to think about the canopy of yellowed leaves above him that filtered the
moonlight. Nothing could keep Rodran alive indefinitely. His last thought before sleep took him was a tired curse for Rodran's father, Rodrick, and the pride that had doomed the royal line.

Hands shook him. He woke to the smell of smoke.

“It's a grassfire. Time to ride,” Cruk said.

Moonlight still filtered down through the leaves of the stricken tree. Perhaps an hour had passed, maybe two. Dawn still lay hours away.

“We can't run the horses in the dark,” Karele said.

Cruk nodded. “We agree on that, anyway, and we won't until we have to. Let's move. That fire is leagues away. With luck we'll still be ahead of it when dawn breaks.”

Behind them, made small by the distance, a wall of orange flared. Unseen tendrils of smoke reached through the darkness to sting Martin's eyes. If they failed to escape, the heat would boil the skin from their bones long before the flames engulfed them, burning them black as they raced to the river. With luck, the wind would shift and they would die from the smoke before the fire's heat took them.

After what seemed like hours of riding at a walk, Martin turned to see the wall of flame straining skyward for a hundred feet roaring in the distance—much closer now, close enough to hear. The blaze roared in hunger, the crackle of burning grass and scrub mixed with the rush of air.

Ahead the river glistened like a promise of rescue in the distance, too far for them to reach at their cautious pace. Yet Cruk held them to a walk. The horses strained at their bits, lathered and eyes rolling. Surely they had to make a run for it. Cruk kept to the same brisk walk, glancing back every few strides to gauge the distance between them and that swirling orange vortex.

Martin loosened the reins. His mount surged forward. The tendons in his arms protested as he sawed the bit to keep his horse from dashing away. “We can't stay at this pace much longer.”

Cruk checked the progress of the wildfire behind them again before he gave a curt nod. “I know, Pater, but there are other dangers besides the fire.”

Martin shook his head. Nothing stirred in that ocean of dry tinder except the fire and themselves. “What?”

Cruk pointed off to the right, toward the southern end of the plain. “That.”

Martin squinted against the darkness, shielding his eyes against the light of the fire. Only shadows cast by the moon and flames were visible, but gradually the phantoms resolved into the shapes of horses streaming away from the threat. He shook his head. He saw nothing else—nothing to fear.

“Look at the grass behind the horses, Pater.”

Martin peered into the darkness again.
There.
Behind the horses a wave of motion trailed the herd across the flat landscape. Something tracked them, something that hid below the waist-high grass. The stallion in front charged for the closest bend of the river, leading the predators to them.

The wave crept closer to the herd, the distance shrinking in agonizing slowness. Martin watched in horror as a colt, straggling behind, stumbled and disappeared. The deflection in the grass paused for a moment before resuming its track behind the herd.

Military training was as much a mystery to Martin as theology would be to most men, but even he could tell the herd and its predators would reach the river before them. What was Cruk thinking?

“We have to beat them to the river,” he yelled ahead. “If they arrive before us, we'll never make it across.” Fear wove strident threads into his voice.

Cruk shook his head. The man must be mad. Then the captain pointed toward the river, a bit to the north. Martin repeated his efforts to see in the dim light provided by the moon.

A child's prayer, desperate and fearful, sprang to his lips. An identical wave in the grass angled toward their path, making for the herd. Cruk's reckless strategy became apparent at a glance. The captain strove for just the right pace for their mounts, waiting for the predators to cross their path in pursuit of the herd. If they went too fast, the pack would catch their scent, fire or
no, and they'd be torn to pieces; too slow and the fire would overtake them.

Cruk leaned toward him. “We have one chance, Pater. As soon as the pack ahead crosses and clears our path, we must ride for the river as fast as these sorry mounts can take us. Our only hope is that the approach of the second pack will slow the herd enough for us to get there first. When we reach the water, don't wait. Get to the other side. If we're separated, rejoin at the pass.”

A hundred potential flaws in the plan battled for Martin's attention. “What if the current's too deep and strong for the horses to cross?” He didn't wait for an answer, as his thoughts swung to the opposite problem. “What if the water's not deep enough to keep those things away from us?”

Cruk spared enough time from his scan to grimace and spit. “Pater, you know what will happen as well as I do.” He nodded toward Karele. “If you have concerns you might want to take them up with him.” The captain bit his words, his voice clipped and tight. “I seem to recall this route was his idea.”

The fire crept closer. Martin could feel heat now. The distances shrank and he could more clearly see dark shapes in the grass—forms that twisted and shifted in the moonlight as they ran, weaving shadows like dark tendrils of rope. In horror and guilt, he thanked Deas for each horse the first pack caught. Each time the mares panicked, the stallion brought them back under control, giving the second pack time to converge.

Thick smoke streamed past them as the fire roared and grew at their backs. A gust of wind brought a flash of heat like a premonition.

Cruk reined in, held up a hand, calling for a halt. “Any closer and they might smell us.” Martin stopped, tried to ignore the feel of heat growing against his neck. In front of them, no more than fifty paces away, furred shapes streamed toward the herd. Over the roar and rush of flames he could hear the triumphant howls of the dark wolves. They bounded toward their prey, their eyes red with reflected fire.

Luis's eyes widened. The secondus leaned forward in his saddle,
sweat streaming from the dome of his bare scalp down his face. He stared at the captain with single-minded intensity, never looking forward to the wolves or behind at the flames.

Karele sat his mount, his face pinched, but he looked at the river like a man seeing his salvation. Smoke settled into the lines of his face, painting his sharp features in soot. By the light of the fire, he looked like a ghoul. Doubt chewed Martin's insides. Why had they come this way?

The last of the pack cleared away, and Cruk's arm instantly snapped forward, waving them toward the nearest bend of the river. Martin required no additional urging. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks even as his hands slid forward with the reins. His mount sprang ahead, trailing behind Luis and Karele. The master of horses balanced in the stirrups, moving easily with his horse's gait, and he appeared to be talking to his mount. Martin surged past Cruk, who slowed, letting them pass before he closed in behind.

To Martin's right, the herd and packs angled in toward the river. The thunder of hooves rolled across the plain in defiant counterpoint to the howls of wolves and the roar of fire. The black water beckoned to him. He leaned forward to yell words of encouragement to his mount. The bay strove to keep pace with Karele and Luis, yet his horse, burdened with his greater bulk, slipped behind. Cruk came beside as they neared the water, one hand on the reins, the other holding his sword. Martin kept his eyes forward, willing and praying his horse toward escape.

Thirty paces from the water violence exploded around him.

The herd and the wolf packs surged around them. Howls merged with the screaming of horses, drowning Cruk's frantic commands. Karele and Luis had gained the safety of the river, their mounts splashing forward for half a dozen strides before they bobbed and started swimming.

Cruk swung his sword like a cleaver, chopping at wolf and horse alike, trying to clear a path. The horses milled in a panic, thrashing against each other. The herd's stallion went down under a half dozen wolves. Discipline among the rest of the horses
vanished. Animals no longer made for the river but splintered into a dozen different directions. Cruk flailed at the press. Martin could do little more than hold on and try to follow. His sword bumped against his leg, but he'd yet to swing the weapon. Fear of losing control of his mount or, worse, going down in the melee, kept both his hands on the reins.

The shoulders of his mount dipped, and he cried out before the spray of water told him they'd made it to the river. A stream of horses swam away from the slaughter on the bank. After a few steps the bottom dropped away and his mount swam, its head tilted up to keep its nose clear.

Ahead, Cruk slipped from his saddle to float beside his laboring horse. Martin copied him, praying his horse had enough sense to follow. The water dragged at him, and he kicked, trying to aid the labored efforts of his mount. Behind him, fire reached the bloodbath on the shore. The howls no longer sounded triumphant. Water frothed as every animal left on solid ground threw itself into the water to escape the heat. The scent of scorched hair and burning meat blanketed him. He covered his nose with his cloak and kept kicking.