The Jack of Souls (17 page)

“So
that’s
how it is,” Kogan said. “
Ain’t obliged.
Who was it freed you and brought you here? Who was it won you ’cross the river when you was like to be starved out and sold back to lords?” He glared at the drover till the man dropped his eyes, and raked the others with his gaze. “Everything you got you owes to me. And everything
I
got I owes that Phyros-rider, ’cause if it weren’t for him I’d be dead and hung this six months gone.”

Exclamations of surprise at this new intelligence.

Kogan spat.
“Ain’t obliged.”
His nose wrinkled above the matted beard. “Time you thought as free men, and stop skulking for handouts. Freedom don’t come easy, and it never stays without you have to fight for it.”

The Widow Larkin wrung her hands. “They don’t mean nothing by it, Father. They’re scared, is all. They don’t know no fighting.”

“Ain’t asking you to fight,” said Kogan. “I’m asking you to listen and do as I say.” He studied their faces in silence for several heartbeats, and found contrition and grudging resolve where there had been opposition. He nodded. “Listen then, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll keep our teams still whiles he rides past. Then we’ll make like the oxen panicked, and block this bridge with flipped wagons and such, so then that follow can’t get past.”

Kogan put the drovers in charge, and took ideas from the others. When they set to work, he was gratified to see some who had been loudest in opposition were now most vigorous in support. First, they parked the train of wagons as close as possible against the cliff wall, providing the Phyros-rider a clear channel along the edge of the road. Others emptied wagons on the side of the span, and prepared to flip them there. Boys tickled their noses with spear grass and dribbled the blood on their foreheads to feign injury in the wreck.

When shouts went up that the Phyros-rider approached, they were ready. Mothers held children close. Drovers hurried blankets over the oxen’s heads and fed them handfuls of grain to munch in darkness.

The Phyros galloped past in a clatter of hooves and rattle of harness, dragging two miserable-looking ponies behind, and thundered across the trestle.

Uproar—not all of it staged—erupted behind it. An ox nearest the trestle shook free of its drover and plummeted blindly over the edge with its wagon. A pair of mules dashed their cart against the cliff side and broke a wheel. But the priest’s flock stayed calm enough to think. The long line of wagons and carts moved out from the cliff face and jammed awkwardly against each other, blocking the path to the bridge for more than a hundred paces. They flipped a wagon at the rear of the jam, to make an obstacle against the knights if they should think to attack or push the peasants off the ledge. Kogan stationed a dozen men with bow staves in hand, unstrung, but visible, enough to discourage such a ploy. On the trestle itself they flipped no less than four wagons, and piled the place with bodies and beasts and baggage in convincing disarray so there was no hope of the flock moving forward.

When the Sapphire’s company appeared around a bend, they pulled up at the flipped wagon and blasted their trumpets for passage, but there was nothing to be done. The peasants made a good show of hurrying to restore order, but by jamming so tightly together they’d guaranteed a struggle to clear even a narrow path along the edge for the knights to pass in single file; every ox and mule had to be unhitched and turned or backed along the ledge, and often this resulted in even more tangling of traces and confusion. By the time they managed a path to the trestle and cleared a space across the span, full darkness had fallen, and the Phyros had long disappeared.

The Sapphire sent a party to give a cursory pursuit, but turned the bulk of his party back. In the torchlight Father Kogan glimpsed lips pressed tight with fury inside the sapphire blue helm.

“There is a bastard in Gallows Ferry who shall suffer for this delay,” said the Sapphire to his men. “When I am done with him, you may hang what is left.”

—From “Sermons of Hardan, First Priest of Arkus”

Of Hexes & Wedding Rings

W
illard rode at
an uncomfortable trot so the other horses could keep up at a canter. Molly had never had a smooth trot. Sir Beldan once described it as a runaway cart full of boulders on a badly cobbled hill. Of course, it had never mattered when he was immortal. Then, she could have trotted
over
him, and it wouldn’t have much changed his mood. But as a mortal man, it threatened to shake his teeth from their roots and his eyeballs from his skull. Worst of all was the misery it made of his back, where each jolting stride felt like the blow of a fish-bat in the hands of a mischievous imp:
Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop!

At least it kept him awake. If he fell asleep now he’d topple from his saddle and fall through twenty fathoms of air before he hit the river.

He looked back to be sure Brolli was still in Idgit’s saddle. Happily, she had a smooth, rolling canter, and Brolli had learned to stay seated for it. He was hopeless at a trot, for his legs were simply too short to embrace the animal’s sides.

“Glorious!” Brolli called, seeing the knight turn. He gestured with a long arm across to the glittering ribbon of the Bright Mother’s moonlight on the river below. His huge night-owl eyes were wide with excitement. “And this road! Cut through the mountains that separate our people for so long.”

“Blasted, actually. Our toolers cleared the river in the same way. Used to be logjams as big as islands and older than I am. Now open and clear for waterwheel traffic.”

“Magnificent! Your toolers have their own kind of magic, I think.”

“Not magic at all. That’s the point of toolery. And just wait till you see the cliffs of the Giant’s Gorge. That road will make this seem a garden path.”

Already they’d come a mile past Gallows Ferry across the sheer cliff face, the river on one side, a mile-high wall of soaring granite on the other, the wild wind in their faces as if they were hawks gliding above the moonlit waters.

Far behind them Willard could see a long stretch of the road, and still no sign of pursuit. Kogan’s ruse had worked beautifully. Ahead he could see an eastward bend in the cliff marking the place where a tributary river valley joined the Arkend from the east. As they rounded the bend they gained an expansive view of the eastward valley, dark with forest into which the Hanging Road dipped and disappeared. The road crossed the valley, beneath the trees, to the opposite side, where the cliffs of the Arkend rose again, even higher, and the road rose above the trees once again, etched into the cliff face and continuing north.

The Bright Mother illumined the confluence of the rivers. Willard reined Molly in and strained his eyes upon the water, searching for a waterwheel ship at anchor.

Brolli halted behind him.

“I can’t see any ships, Brolli.”

Brolli surveyed the new vista. “There are none. I am sorry. That would have been best for your rest.” Willard grunted. “But we can hide in there,” Brolli said, pointing to the forested valley to the east. “I will find a place.”

“Moons, I’m tired of camping and roads.”

“Try to think of it as an adventure.”

Willard waited for the quip about it being a Sir Willard ballad, but it didn’t come. It seemed the ambassador was learning. “We have no maps of this area, Brolli. I doubt if any exist except for the surveys the toolers made originally. We have no idea where to go in that valley.”

“We have no choice.”

“True enough.”

“A strange expression,
True enough.
Do your people see truth as something that can be mixed with untruth, as the teller sees fit?”

Willard waved him off. “I’m too tired for philosophy, Ambassador.”

“For a later time, then.” Brolli urged Idgit to walk up beside Willard on the cliff side of the road. He extended a hand up to Willard, his thick canines flashing in a grin. “Now that I am awake, it is time for me to take over the lead, and time for you to give up the wedding ring for safe keeping.”

Willard grunted. “And good riddance to them.” He slipped his hand into the saddle purse on the front cantle, found the purse by touch, and drew it forth. He tossed it to Brolli. “So much trouble over so small a trinket.”

Brolli threw the purse back. “This is not my ring, old man.”

Willard frowned. He slipped a finger in the purse and found two coins. A stab of cold fear pierced his middle. This was the coin purse he’d meant to give the bastard in Gallows Ferry. He searched the saddle again, this time pushing his whole hand in the pocket, but a moan of despair filled his chest even as he did it, for there were only ever two purses, and one of them he’d given to the bastard.

“What is wrong?” Brolli’s voice was sharp. “Sir Willard. What is wrong?”

Willard bowed his head. If he weren’t so weary he’d weep. “I told you we would rue it if my curse struck me. Well, it did. In the market, in Gallows Ferry.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

Willard turned to Brolli, his heart full of lead, all hope of rest and quiet flown. “I’ll tell you what happened: I gave your cursed magic ring to the bastard.”

—From
Lore of Ancient Arkendia,
collected by Sir Benfist of Sudlin

Fingers Over Fist

H
arric froze, his
legs still straddling the windowsill. He looked back to the door, beyond which he’d heard the voice. “Caris?”

“
Hurry,
Harric. I mean it.

He swung his legs back in and crept to the door. “Are you alone?”

“Yes! Open up.”

Harric moved the chair and lifted the latch, but cried out in alarm when he saw the glint of armor beyond, and tried to close it again. Caris cursed, and slammed it inward, staggering him back. Only then did he realize it was she who wore the steel.

“It’s me. Calm down.”

She shouldered past him in an enameled blue breastplate and matching shin and knee cops on full quilting. The blood color alone would cow any groom to silence or obedience, but a glance down the stairs confirmed she hadn’t relied on that. In the dim candlelight from his room he glimpsed all three of the grooms lying crosswise on the landing. She’d knocked them senseless. He blinked in silence, stunned by her quick justice.

“Wow, Caris.”

She shifted impatiently. “They stole your things.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong. It makes my escape a lot simpler.”

From her shoulder she dumped a heavy bundle of oiled canvas on the rug. Her hand went to her nose. “Gods leave me. What’s that smell?”

“Harts-horn. I needed the room to myself.”

“Hart’s what?”

“Ammonia,” he translated, though she gave no sign of recognizing that name either.

Harric slipped down the stairs to retrieve his purse from Leader, and his boots from Tartar. Leader groaned. The side of his head was swollen and blue.

“Caris,” Harric hissed up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway above. “Help me move these guys.”

“I need your help arming. Come back up here.”

“Arming will take a while. They could wake and raise an alarm while I dress you.”

She exhaled loudly through her nose, then stumped down the stairs. With Tartar and Leader suspended by the collar in each fist, she dragged them up the stairs like they were mere woolsacks. Harric struggled up with Third (who, fortunately, was the smallest), and they stashed all three in the narrow storage room off his apartment.