The Hero's Lot (45 page)

Rale pointed. “Perhaps. A carrier bird could have beaten us here, or perhaps Belaaz has managed to appropriate Valon's circle. If the village is empty, there's no threat. If it's not, then trying to skirt it will only bring investigation.” He sighed. “The horses can't take this heat for more than a day without water.”

They rode into Shagdal, each with one hand on the reins and the other on their weapons. Merodach guided his mount with his knees just behind Rale and Errol, both hands free to hold a bow. Cruk brought up the rear, his blunt face more grim than usual behind the red of his beard and mustache. Adora and Rokha held swords low and out of sight, flanked by Luis, Martin, and Karele.

Furtive figures appeared, then disappeared as quickly. Elsewise, nothing stirred.

Rale pointed to the well in the center of the village. “Merodach, take everyone and check the water. Make sure it's safe. Come with me, Errol.” He turned his horse toward the inn.

“Why are we going there?”

Rale's face hardened, like stone. “Never let an enemy think
you are soft, Errol. Mercy is a fine thing, but if it costs you men, you can't afford it.”

Errol dismounted and tied the reins of his horse to one of the posts that supported Sahion's porch. Rale had his sword out. They entered the large, open-air room next to the kitchen. Sahion sat at a table as if asleep, one hand clenching a dagger, the other pressed against a dark stain in his side.

Rale put the tip of his sword against the innkeeper's throat.

Sahion's eyes fluttered open at the touch. He laughed. “Ru would not have paused. Ha. Ruthless enough to rule the sand, that one.”

Rale increased the pressure on his sword. “You may find me less merciful than Naaman Ru. What happened here?”

Sahion laughed even as his face contorted in pain. Instead of answering, he pointed. Across the room the village's akha lay dead, cut from shoulder to sternum. A headless messenger bird lay like a pile of discarded feathers on the floor next to him. Flies buzzed over the carcasses. “They took my sons. Even the youngest. Liars.”

He pointed across the room at the dead man. “That stupid pig came to gloat, bragging—with messenger bird in hand—about how he'd been the one to arrange the conscription of my sons and about how my friends would never make it to the coast alive. I killed the bird first and finished him—” he spat—“with his own dagger. Akhen aren't supposed to carry weapons. You can't trust anyone anymore.”

“Where is everyone?” Errol asked.

Sahion waved a hand. “Gone—or preparing to leave. Killing an akha is mal-un. Everyone in the village dies.”

Rale sheathed his sword. “Let's go. If we hurry, we might be able to make the strait before the news of the ilhotep's death does.”

Sahion touched his forehead, then his lips at the news.

They pushed the horses as fast as they dared. Karele checked them every four hours. The fast trot gradually beat Errol's legs into jelly. Even the horse master began to look uncomfortable.

But they crested the rise overlooking the port of Oranis early the next morning.

The city teemed with Merakhi guards. Errol nudged Rale's shoulder and pointed by turns to four ships tied up at the dock. “Those look familiar.”

Rale nodded, his face creased with disappointment. “I'd hoped I was wrong. Those are the ships that turned us back. Now they're in port with us.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asked.

“There's no way to know for sure,” Rale said. “Once Valon learned Errol was in Guerir, there was no point in trying to keep him out.” He turned to Luis. “What happened to Valon's circle when he died?”

The reader raised his hands, palms up. “It is impossible to say with certainty. His death may have broken their minds. Perhaps one of his subordinates assumed power. Possibly, Belaaz took over somehow.”

“What's the worst possible outcome?” Rale asked.

Luis stared at the ships in the port. “Belaaz. If he was able to take control of the circle, then every reader down there knows what we look like. Karele will be able to shield us from their lots, but they still have their eyes.”

“This just keeps getting better,” Cruk said. “Even if we get past the readers and their guards, we have no ship to take us home. Anybody care to take bets on how long it will take our pursuit to catch up to us?”

Rale looked back to Luis. “We need information. Where is Tek?”

Luis shook his head. “I'm sorry. I don't have any blanks, and there's no wood here in the desert for me to use.”

“What can you tell us, Karele?” Rale asked. “Martin says your power exceeds that of a reader.”

Karele shook his head. “It's not my power. It's whether Aurae, the spirit of Deas, chooses to communicate or act.”

“And?” Rale prompted.

Karele shook his head.

A breath of wind ruffled Errol's hair in the moment, whispered in his ear. An incomprehensible thrill of hope, like a drink of cold water in the desert, coursed through him, and he wanted to laugh at the joy of it.

Martin and Karele lifted their heads and spoke at the same instant. “Tek will be here just before sunset.”

“Are you sure, Pater?” Cruk asked.

Karele nodded, laughing. “Aurae has spoken.”

Martin added his confirmation to Karele's.

Cruk grimaced but swallowed his doubt. “If you say so, but how are we going to get on board?”

“Fire,” Merodach said. He lifted his bow. “We'll have to get close enough for me to put arrows into the ships.” He pursed his lips. “I wish I had a longbow. It's got twice the range of this.”

Two hours past midnight, fire still raged on two of the Merakhi ships, and the other two were useless wrecks. Errol still marveled at Merodach's skill with a bow. His ability to plant burning arrows in the furled sails of the Merakhi longships amazed them all. Now the flames were bare pinpoints of light astern as Tek sailed away from the port of Oranis.

The sea was almost lake smooth, and Errol felt only the slightest twinge of queasiness. Karele stood next to him with Martin and Luis on the other side. The three men listened raptly as Errol told them everything he could remember of the book three times over, and still they asked for more.

“If only we could have brought it back with us,” Martin said. “The Judica would have to believe.”

Karele shrugged. “Perhaps, but some would no doubt question its authenticity or interpretation.”

Errol gazed off the raised deck in the stern of Tek's ship, holding the decision he'd made in Guerir close in his heart. He would not chance interference, not even from these men who received unexpected knowledge from Aurae.

Without warning, a stab of pain in his chest like the thrust
of a dirk left him clutching the rail for support. He groped with one hand against his unbroken flesh. Luis reeled like a drunkard, holding his head. Beside him, Karele and Martin dropped to the deck, gasping in shared pain. The priest, his face ashen, lifted a trembling hand to point northwest, toward Erinon.

“My Deas,” Martin breathed. “Rodran has died.”

Errol didn't need Karele's tortured nod to know it was true.

This second book of The Staff and the Sword series contained its own challenges, and I would like to thank my agent, Steve Laube, for going to bat for me and being the voice of experience and wisdom; my critique partners, Austin Deel and Tori Smith, for giving me the feedback I needed and for putting up with me when caffeine made me long-winded; the students at Martin Luther King Magnet High School and Croft Middle School in Nashville, for being interesting enough to be characters themselves; and as always, you the reader, for giving me the opportunity to tell you my tale.

After graduating from Georgia Tech,
Patrick W. Carr
worked at a nuclear plant, did design work for the air force, worked for a printing company, and was an engineering consultant. Patrick's day gig for the last six years has been teaching high school math in Nashville, Tennessee. Patrick is a member of ACFW and MTCW and makes his home in Nashville with his incredible wife, Mary; their four awesome sons, Patrick, Connor, Daniel, and Ethan; and their dog, Mel.

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A Cast of Stones

The Hero's Lot

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