The Hero's Lot (26 page)

The far riverbank drifted by as the current carried him downstream. His horse's kicks grew weaker. Curse his fat priest's hide; they weren't going to make it. He yelled encouragement to the mare, to no avail. He smacked the mare's rump. For a few moments, the beast surged forward. Then it lapsed into weaker kicks than before. Cruk's animal must have been stronger or less burdened; the watchman was beyond reach.

Martin resolved to hold on to his horse for as long as the animal could make any progress toward the far shore. Dead animals—some horses and some wolves—drifted past him in the current, their coats covered with blood or burns.

Halted by the water and bereft of fuel, the wildfire began to die, pitching the river into darkness. Things bumped into Martin in the darkness—hairy things he shoved away in revulsion. His eyes readjusted to the lesser light of the moon. His horse bobbed below the surface, struggled upward, and then went under again.
Martin let go of the reins. Perhaps the animal would survive without his weight dragging it down. Regardless, it would no longer serve him. He surrendered his sword to the depths of the river, filled his lungs, and pulled through the water for the far shore.

Martin thrust himself against the current. Stroke and pull. Time after time, he thrust his arms forward, then brought them back to his side. His shoulders burned as if the conflagration on the prairie had settled there, punishing him for his poor judgment. Time slowed to a crawl, yet the moon dropped toward the western horizon behind him. Then the passage of time stopped altogether.

A shaft of sunlight stabbed his eyes. He held up a hand. Acrid smoke drifted across his vision painting the yellow-green canopy overhead with dirty brown smears. His shoulders trembled, and pain ripped through them when he levered himself to a sitting position.

On the far bank of the river, blackened scrub and ash spread as far as he could see. He wondered if the tough oak where they had camped had managed to survive. He hoped so. It seemed important for some reason.

His boots made squelching sounds as he turned a slow circle, searching for signs of Cruk, Luis, or Karele. A narrow plain separated him from the low peaks of the Sprata Mountains, which formed a wall between him and the shadow lands. Dead animals clogged both banks of the river.

There was no sign of his horse. He knelt to say his lauds, even though he'd missed dawn by two hours at least. What day was it? Sometime on the trip south from Callowford he'd lost track. Without knowing the day he didn't know which portion of the liturgy to recite. Did Deas care whether or not he recited the wrong portion? Did Deas care whether he used the liturgy at all?

He sank to his knees. A hundred petitions filled his mind. He framed them in accordance with the format of the daily office and began. “Hear, O Deas, the petition of our hearts that most earnestly . . .”

Martin stopped. For the first time in his life the familiar words failed to bring him the comfort of Deas. Instead a weight of separation fell on him as he used his words to hide his desperation and his fear.

His anger.

Martin stared at the ground, the practiced eloquence of his education and experience draining from him. He didn't know what to say, didn't know if he should say anything. He rose and turned north. Without a horse, it would take him hours to find the gap leading him into the shadow lands—his only hope of reuniting with his friends.

He moved away from the bank in an attempt to escape the mud next to the river that pulled at his boots. As he approached the mountains, the ground sloped upward. Ancient trees formed a thick canopy overhead. Boles two or three spans across supported limbs that were larger than the trunks of most trees. As he moved beneath the shade, the brush shrank until he walked on earth covered by nothing more than a carpet of leaves. Old scorch marks—testimony to the durability of those hoary titans—blackened the trunks.

Closer to the mountains, the suggestion of a path ran north and south. Curious, Martin scuffed at the detritus beneath his boots. Layers of dead and decomposing leaves peeled away, revealing a block of stone a foot or more across. A few paces away the skeleton of a forgotten road broke through the carpet of leaves.

Despite his circumstances, Martin found himself intrigued. The church's training covered the history of Illustra, and he prided himself on knowing that history as well as any professor at the university. Yet he knew of no civilization that had ever occupied this part of the continent. Where did the road go? What destinations had it connected, and what circumstances forced its builders and users to abandon it?

He continued north, the weight of his sodden clothes forgotten in his sudden burst of curiosity. The remnants of the road proved treacherous, forcing him to walk to the side. He detoured back into the forest, scanning the ground. When he found the object
of his search, he hefted the oak branch and struck it against a tree. It felt solid enough. He leaned his weight on it. The wood flexed slightly but didn't break or crack. Heartened, he returned to the road.

After hours of walking his clothes were nearly dry, but the sensation reminded him that the river had claimed his waterskin as well as his sword. His stomach growled. Missing a few meals wouldn't hurt him, but he would need water. With a sigh he left the ancient road again and returned to the river.

Broad and deep, the Sprata flowed sluggishly. Martin sighed. Carcasses dotted both sides of the bank. If Cruk were there, the watchman could probably tell him how long an animal had to decompose before it ruined the supply. He looked closer. The animals hadn't even started to bloat yet, which meant the water was probably safe to drink.

The thought revolted him. Surely there would be some stream or brook he could find that fed into the river. He felt the end of his cloak, then lifted it to his mouth and pulled the moisture from it. It tasted like wool, but he detected nothing other than that. He pushed away from the bank and ascended back to the road.

The sun reached its zenith and began the long, arcing trek through the sky behind him to the west. The thrill of the unknown dissipated as his thirst increased and the gap through the mountains refused to show itself. Three hours before sunset he stopped.

The road ended.

A spur of the mountain range rose up before him, cutting across his path, blocking his way north.

For the next two hours he coursed along those hills, but they ran all the way to the river and ended in a sheer cliff fifty feet above the water. He had no doubt that he could survive the jump if the water was deep enough, but the current would be flowing against him. He would die of exhaustion before he regained the bank.

Not knowing what else to do, he returned to the ancient road. His mouth felt dry, but not enough to make him chance the river water. He seated himself on a broad stump. The road's existence mocked him.

He'd loved his history courses and fancied he knew the kingdom's annals as well as any man. Yet nowhere in the history of Illustra or in the time of the provinces before had cities in this part of the kingdom been mentioned. The implications disturbed him. And even more, the road didn't appear to go anywhere. It ran along the bluff that overlooked the river and then stopped at the mountain spur, blocking him from the pass to the east.

Why would anyone build a road that led nowhere?

He shook his head. They wouldn't.

He hefted his walking stick and retraced his steps to the end again. Trees on his left shielded the river from view. Enormous deadfalls blocked the way on his right. In front the mountains reared up, and behind the road stretched to the south. He stopped.

The deadfalls blocked his view. Cautious, he stepped across the jumbled blocks of weathered stone to the closest rotting bole. Climbing over it was out of the question. He backtracked around it, using his staff to force his way through the brush that had sprouted in the pools of sunlight. Deeper in the brush dwindled, and he made his way north. After a few paces he stopped, standing on the ruins of the road once more.

Of course. The road hadn't stopped. It had turned. The deadfalls kept him from seeing what should have been plain. The road now ran east. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the ruined street would offer a pass through the mountains. He snorted. If he was lucky, he wouldn't be thirsty, hungry, horseless, and alone. Besides, he didn't believe in luck. He believed in Deas's favor or its absence.

 25 
The Sword Master

T
WO DAYS AFTER AWAKING
in the villa of Count Rula, Errol walked with Conger toward the expansive back garden of the count's estate. The sound of practice swords drifted toward him as they crossed beneath one of the stone archways and onto the stone patio overlooking the garden. A red-banded hawk flew overhead, crying in defiance or frustration.

“No, Your Highness,” Count Rula said. “You are too far forward. The secret to the sword is balance.” Rula's hands adjusted Adora's stance, moving her shoulders back two fingers' width. “The weight of the sword must be compensated by the rear arm, placed on the hip or held so in back.” He shifted her arm to match his instructions.

“Which is better?” Adora asked.

“Held back,” Rula said. “But it is more fatiguing and requires greater endurance.”

Clustered around the grassy area where Rula instructed, every watchman observed the count's directions with intense scrutiny. Errol knew little about swordplay, but he recognized the deft
touch of a master swordsman, even so. Naaman Ru's prowess became easier to understand.

“Then I will train myself to hold it back,” Adora said. She jerked upright as Errol came into her field of view. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Earl Stone?”

Errol smiled. “Not anymore, hopefully. Village inns are a lot more dangerous now that I'm sober. I might have to take up drinking again.”

The princess smiled. “You're pert, my earl. You know what I mean.”

He nodded. “Count Rula's healer has pronounced me fit enough to leave my sickbed.”

The count eyed Errol with interest. “I'm told you're the premier staff man in the kingdom, Earl Stone. Your balance must be finely tuned for such a weapon. Have you ever given thought to learning the sword?”

Errol laughed so hard, spots swam in front of his eyes. “A captain of the watch tried to teach me. That's how I ended up with the staff. I'm probably the worst swordsman in the kingdom.”

Rula sniffed. “Ridiculous. If you're that good with the staff, the sword should come naturally. You just need the right instructor.” He came forward to rest his hand on Errol's shoulder. “Let me teach you.”

Errol took a deep breath. He would never have a better opportunity to approach Rula about the caravan master. “May we discuss it as we walk, Count Rula? After more than a week on my back, I need to stretch my legs.”

Rula nodded assent, but his eyes narrowed in speculation. “I am at your service, Earl Stone.” He turned to those assembled. “Shall we meet together at the third hour tomorrow, my friends?”

The count moved at a leisurely pace toward his gardens. He pointed toward a myrtle tree, thick with vibrant pink blossoms. “That one is my favorite,” he murmured. “The blossoms never fail to startle me.”

Errol nodded his agreement. “It's beautiful. We have something
like it in the Sprata, but it only blooms for a few weeks in the spring.”

Rula gave him a knowing look. “You didn't really want to talk about lessons in the sword, Earl Stone. I love my garden, but perhaps we should address the concern that requires a private meeting.”

Errol paused, searching the count's voice for any sign that he'd given offense. Basqus were given to be passionate people—quick to love, quicker to anger—but Rula's voice sounded open, courteous.

“Thank you, Count. I'm new to my title, so please forgive me if my manners are less than courtly.”

“Earl Stone, that is as courtly and well-spoken an introduction as I've heard from a noble in some time. Most of us have forgotten our manners, I think. Please continue.”

Errol bowed from the neck in a show of thanks. “I'll try to be brief. The details would take days.” He sighed. “The Judica has placed me under compulsion to find a renegade reader and kill him.”

The count's face darkened. “Monstrous. I thought the church had given up that disgusting practice.”

Errol shrugged. “For the most part they have. I seem to be the exception. The worst part of their charge is that the reader in question has escaped to Merakh.”

A kaleidoscope of emotions chased across the count's face—shock, rage, indignation, but also detachment, as if he knew what Errol would be asking. “Are your enemies so powerful, then?”

“They are. If I do not have a guide into Merakh, I have no hope of being able to satisfy the church's compulsion. I know of only one man with the knowledge of the Merakhi interior.”

The count nodded. “My nephew.”

“Yes,” Errol said. He kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, neither asking nor demanding the count's favor.

Rula turned toward a stand of lilac. The heavy scent filled Errol with a longing to be back in Callowford.

“Do you know why I despise my nephew, Earl Stone?”

Errol shook his head. “I don't want to presume on your hospitality, Count.”

Rula smiled. “You're plain-spoken, Earl Stone, but quite mannerly. Here, I will tell you the tale.” He moved to a bench under a flowering tree Errol couldn't identify. “Naaman has a gift for the sword that comes once in a century. I've taught enough men to know. In my nephew Deas combined vision, quickness, and an aptitude for the blade that is startling.” He spread his hands. “The sword is a tradition in our family. My brother and I were counted as the best swords in Basquon in our youth. In Naaman, our family's talent was distilled to its highest concentration.

“We trained him from the age of three, first in games children play with sticks, then with practice swords we cut to size for his stature, but by the time he turned ten he could best most men twice his age. By the time he turned fifteen, only my brother and I could match him.” Count Rula shook his head, his lips pressed together in a sign of regret. “By the time he was eighteen, Naaman could beat my brother and me at the same time.” Rula stopped.

“What happened?”

The count grew still, a stillness of suppressed rage. “Naaman's younger brother, Daman, fell in love with a girl, and she fell in love with him. Daman was a good lad, decent with the sword, but he would never have earned a spot in the watch, not even as a soldier, much less a lieutenant or captain.”

“Naaman loved her too?” Errol asked.

Rula nodded. “I'm not sure Naaman knows how to love anything but the blade.” He shrugged. “He thought he loved her—perhaps he did in the small, spare area the sword left in his heart. The end was so tragically predictable, it might have been laughable in a play.” He lifted his gaze to the sky. “Naaman challenged his brother for the right to Fiora's hand. Idiots,” Rula spat. “All they had to do was ask Fiora to decide.”

Rula grew quiet before he spoke again, his voice as soft as the breeze that ruffled the pale blooms in front of them. “Daman died so quickly.

“My brother banished his son and heir. Naaman vanished
across the strait.” Rula turned to look Errol in the eyes. “Your guide is an assassin. His heart is more quenched steel than flesh and blood.”

“No,” Errol said. “He loves. I have seen it.”

Rula started. “You would defend him? The man took you captive and then tried to kill you.”

“How do you know this, Count Rula?”

He lifted a hand. “I am a man with considerable resources. I have found myself wondering what has become of my nephew from time to time.”

“I need him,” Errol said.

Rula shook his head. “My brother and I vowed to give Daman justice if Naaman ever came within our grasp. The church's compulsion has inadvertently provided what twenty-five years and considerable wealth could not.”

“Count,” Errol said, “you may honor your vow to your brother, but my heart tells me he will not thank you for killing his son. Naaman Ru has a daughter he loves with all the passion the Basqus are known for. And he has a debt to pay to me. Will you let him honor it?”

Count Rula held Errol's gaze, as if considering a great request. “Perhaps . . . Earl Stone. We shall see what can be arranged.”

The next morning long shadows from the dawn sun stretched before Errol as Count Rula pointed to a spot on the flagstones. “Stand, boy.”

Errol obeyed without thought. Evidently his earldom ceased to exist the moment he became Rula's student. Errol didn't dare voice complaint. Despite the fact that his daughter would marry within the week, Rula was taking time from the preparations to exact his price for Ru's life—Errol would learn the sword. Naaman's freedom depended on honoring the count's request to train him, it seemed.

Without warning, Rula tossed Errol's staff. It floated across the space between them, and Errol's hands reached for it by
reflex, his palms and fingers almost hungering for the feel of the smoothed wood grain against his flesh.

“Good,” the count nodded. “Your balance is as good as any I've seen.”

“As good as your nephew's?”

Rula nodded. “Yes, boy, it's as good, possibly better.” He pulled the ash from Errol's grip and laid it aside. “Keep that balance in mind when you hold a sword, and the rest will flow from your experience.”

The count pulled a practice sword from a rack, examined it, and put it back. He did this repeatedly, working his way through the whole rack before starting on another. To Errol's eye, each sword differed from its neighbor by negligible amounts. At last he stopped, brought the chosen weapon to Errol, and placed it in his hands.

“Stand like I showed you, boy.”

Errol assumed the position—sword arm forward, relaxed, body turned to the side, and his free arm extended loosely behind him. He straightened in an attempt to correct a feeling of imbalance. Then he leaned forward once more. His free hand clutched at the air. Errol made a fist. Then he leaned back.

“What, by all that's sacred, are you doing?” Rula asked. “Be still.”

Errol tried, but the emptiness in his free hand disturbed him, and he sought balance that continued to elude him.

Rula shook his head, no longer disgusted but perplexed. “It's that hand. Try holding the sword with your left hand instead of your right.”

Errol complied, but no sooner had he assumed the stance when the small involuntary jerks in his posture resumed.

Rula frowned, his face thoughtful. “Perhaps I judged Captain Cruk too harshly.”

A wave of relief washed over Errol. “Does that mean I'm not suited to the sword?”

The count shook his head. “No, far from it.” He came to Errol's side and tapped him on the head with one finger. “Your sense
of balance is so developed that it's taken root in your mind. The emptiness of one hand while the other holds weight troubles you.”

Despite himself, Errol felt a tug, curious. “Then I guess I should stick with the staff.”

Rula smiled. “We're not done yet.” He took the sword from Errol and replaced it in the rack. Then he moved down the line, the swords growing smaller until, with a satisfied smile, he selected two identical practice weapons from the rack and brought them to Errol.