They continued to ride in silence for a while, and Hatu tried to keep concern over Hava’s loyalties out of his thoughts, but failed. He glanced over his shoulder out of habit and saw two distant riders.
“Riders behind us,” he said to Declan in a casual tone.
The smith said, “It’s a busy road.”
Hatu tilted his head slightly as if considering that remark, then said, “I’m carrying cheese and foodstuff. You just got paid for a load of armor, so I assume you’ve a tidy bag of gold on you.”
Declan let out a slow, long sigh. “True. Let me know if they start coming hard after us.”
Hatu said, “I will.”
He kept a surreptitious watch on the two riders: they were closing the gap between them but were not in any obvious hurry. Men on horseback should be faster than a pair of dray horses even with a largely empty wagon. Hatu decided they were probably not a threat and he saw no other sign of potential trouble.
His mind was occupied with thoughts of his early life, at school with Donte and the other students, when he realized that four riders had appeared over the crest of the hill and come to a halt before them, arrayed athwart the road, leaving no room to pass.
Declan said, “No sword?”
“Just my dagger.”
“Know how to use one?”
Hatu said, “If I must.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
Declan reined in and shouted, “Move out of the way, man!”
The four were wearing a collection of dissimilar armor, mostly leather or quilted jacks. The two in the center had leather headgear, while the two who flanked them were bareheaded. None bore a shield. “We’re collecting duty for those using the baron’s road!” shouted the man facing Declan. That brought chuckles from the other three.
Declan spoke quietly. “This will be a fight. I’ll take the two on my side.”
Hatu slowly adjusted his position so he could leap off the wagon and land exactly where he chose. “Obviously,” he whispered, as he studied the two men to his right.
He made his movements slightly more exaggerated, as if he were shifting his weight, then said loudly, “All we have are some cheeses and fruits for an inn in Beran’s Hill. How much duty does the baron claim?”
The first man laughed.
“They know about the gold,” Declan said quietly. “They know I was paid for a wagonload of swords.”
“What are the odds,” Hatu said, “that the two who are following us are with these pigs?”
“Let’s not wait to find out,” said Declan, as he sprang from the wagon, moving straight at the nearest rider. As he knew would happen, Declan saw the two horses closest to him shy back at the sudden lunge in their direction, the outermost one forcing its rider to turn it in a full circle. Declan stepped between the two mounts, bringing him within reach of the innermost rider. He brought his sword high, in what Edvalt had taught him was the proper position for receiving a blow from a mounted opponent, and felt the shock run down his arm as the rider delivered that blow an instant later. Declan kept moving and threw his weight into the right shoulder of the horse, just where it joined the neck, and the animal shied suddenly backward. Declan was relieved that these were not battle-trained war mounts. The horse started to wheel around so that it could kick Declan, and its rider had to fight to retain control.
Hatu seized on the distraction caused by Declan’s sudden move, drawing his dagger and throwing it with force at the outermost rider on the right, who, rather than keeping his eye on Hatu, had turned reflexively to see if Declan’s attack threatened him. Hatu was gratified to see his target tumble over the horse’s croup. He was out of the wagon and moving at a run as the rider hit the ground.
Hatu covered the distance between himself and the fallen rider in three quick strides and unceremoniously kicked the man’s head as hard as he could. It was a glancing blow, but enough to stun him. The dagger had hit with enough force to carve a nasty gash at the junction of his neck and shoulder, but it wasn’t a killing wound unless the stupefied fighter bled out before someone could tend to the injury.
Hatu retrieved the fallen rider’s sword as the rider next to him kicked his horse’s flank and the animal leapt at Hatu. Hatu threw himself to his right, striking the ground and rolling back to his feet as the horse passed to his left.
Meanwhile, Declan was realizing that he’d made a critical mistake, as he found himself caught between two horsemen, so he took a chance and dodged to his left, ducking under the neck of the outermost horse, which brought him into striking range of the other rider, who had just gotten his mount under control.
This was a lesson Edvalt had never discussed, let alone taught him: to be on foot facing two riders. Declan felt a stab of fear, which triggered a hot flash of anger.
In that moment, he felt a burst of clarity, a calm and precise certainty of what he was doing, even more intense than what had overwhelmed him in Oncon, when he was facing the slavers. It was as if time slowed, and he had a perfect awareness of what was happening all around him. He knew that he needed to take one step forward, not back or to the side, then turn around.
As if nothing impeded him, he was suddenly behind both riders, and neither of them was able to turn his mount. He set his feet firmly, and in that instant he could see that Hatushaly had unseated one rider, had picked up his sword, and was using the riderless mount as a shield against the other rider.
He could see to the end of the road, where the two riders who had been following them were now coming fast. One bandit was down, so they might face five instead of three. With that realization came more rage and in that rage more clarity.
Declan rushed between the wagon and the horse closest to it just as that mount’s rider tried to turn. He jumped onto the wagon’s wheel, then pushed off, throwing all his weight into the rider trapped between the wagon and his companion’s horse.
Declan carried the rider off his mount, and both men fell close to the outside horse, causing it to rear, its rider fighting to control his skittish mount while Declan kept his arm tight around the waist of the spokesman for the riders until the two of them slammed into the ground. Declan landed on top of the other man, knocking the wind out of him, and Declan was immediately on his feet, driving his sword’s point into the man’s throat before he caught his breath.
Hatu was still using his first attacker’s horse as a barrier and doing a good job of looking as frightened and uncertain as he could, hoping the man trying to kill him thought his dagger throw had been a lucky toss. Hatu had never had to face a mounted opponent while on foot, not even in training. Armed riders in Coaltachin were all members of the nocusara, and beyond the Kingdom of Night, open fighting was to be avoided at all costs.
The rider was showing frustration at the resistance, and from what Declan could see there were only two of the bandits left to steal the gold.
Hatu tensed as the horse he had been sheltering behind spooked and, seeing an opening, bolted to be free. For a brief instant Hatu realized he should have grabbed the animal’s bridle.
Hatu couldn’t see Declan and only one attacker remained on his side of the wagon, so he turned his full attention to that man. The rider set his heels to his horse’s barrel and the animal lunged forward. Through sheer luck Hatu avoided being trampled or beheaded—just. He threw himself in the right direction, then rolled to his feet, turning as the rider wheeled his horse around to charge him.
Just then the two riders who had followed them on the road arrived, riding hard. Hatu froze for an instant, and as he did so, one of the newcomers passed him to attack the bandit Hatu had just fought. He glanced to his left to see the rider’s companion likewise engaged with the swordsman Declan had faced.
Both bandits saw the wisdom of turning tail and tried to flee. The one Hatu faced made good on his escape, but Declan pulled the one he had fought out of his saddle the moment he began to turn away from the smith.
The newcomer who had helped Hatu turned his hors
e around, seeming content to let the rider escape. He looked down at Hatu and said, “How are you?”
“Fine,” said Hatu. “Bruises, but otherwise none the worse. My thanks.”
The rider was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired fellow with one of those instantly likable faces, a ready smile, and something cheerful about his striking blue eyes, all of which was in stark contrast to the brutal efficiency he had just demonstrated, which was a quality Hatu recognized from years of being around men like him. This cheerful man was a trained soldier, very well trained.
The rider and Hatu joined Declan and found the last remaining bandit, bloodied but alive, being held at sword’s point by the blacksmith. Hatu saw that the other newly arrived rider was also possessed of the bearing of a trained fighting man, but there was nothing jovial in his countenance. His hair was shot through with flecks of iron grey, his eyes squinted from beneath dark brows, and he favored a close-cut beard.
The more jovial fellow looked down at the bleeding bandit and said to Declan, “What do you want to do with this miscreant?”
The other rider said, “Let him bleed, I say.”
Declan said, “Maybe.” To the wounded bandit, who was obviously in pain, he said, “How did you know I was carrying gold?”
“Doesn’t take a scholar to see you ride into town with a wagonload of swords for the baron to know you’d leave with a sack of gold.”
“So you waited?” demanded Declan.
“We waited. All night. Figured you’d leave last night, but . . . you didn’t.” He winced and his color grew paler.
“He’s going to die,” said the dour rider. “If you have more questions, best ask them quick.”
“I don’t,” said Declan. With a quick jab, he used the edge of his sword to sever the man’s neck artery, then let go of his collar and stepped aside as blood fountained and the man fell over.
“If you don’t have a shovel, we’ll just have to leave him for the crows,” said the more cheerful rider.
“I don’t,” said Declan.
“Then crows it is,” said the older rider.
“I’m Tucker,” said the younger man, “and my friend here is Billy.”
Hatu nodded in greeting. “As I said, thanks.”
Billy’s mouth moved slightly, in what Hatu judged passed for a smile. “You looked to have things under control. Two down, the third about to be, and you”—he pointed at Hatu—“you’re quite the dancer.”
Hatu was about to say he’d never been trained to fight a mounted man but caught himself instantly. “Ah, I was trying to stay alive while I worked out how best to unseat him.”
Declan said to Hatu, “I’m getting good at it. I’ll show you sometime.”
Hatu didn’t know if he was joking or not. “Staying alive or unseating a rider?”
“Both,” said Declan with a wry expression.
Hatu shook his head, then turned his attention to the two newcomers and said, “So you two jumped in. Thanks.”
Declan nodded. “My thanks as well.”
“Well,” said Tucker, “we’ve traveled a fair bit together and don’t have a lot of use for bandits.”
“Put a few of them in the ground,” added Billy.
“Beran’s Hill?” asked Hatu.
“For a bit,” replied Tucker. “Then somewhere else.”
“Then if you ride with us,” said Hatu, “I’ll be pleased to feed you and give you a room at my inn.”
Billy’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened. “You’re an innkeeper?”
“I am,” replied Hatu.
“Bit young,” said Billy.
“You’re not the first to say that,” replied Hatu. He motioned to Declan, and they pulled the man the smith had killed over to the side of the road. “If you fellows don’t mind, those three horses would fetch a couple of pieces of silver from a horse trader we know. Be happy to split what Tenda gives us.”
“Keep my share,” said Declan, as he let go of the corpse and moved toward the second dead man, the one he had impaled after knocking him from the saddle. “You more than earned it.”
The two riders nodded and went off to gather the horses, which were now grazing in a distant meadow.
As Hatu helped Declan carry the second body over to where the first rested, he said, “More well-trained soldiers.”
“Yes,” answered the young smith. “There seems to be a glut of them around these days, doesn’t there?”
“So now we’ll have four to watch,” said Hatu.
“It’s good to have an inn, I guess.” Declan chuckled as he and Hatu deposited the second corpse on the ground.
As they moved to fetch the third dead bandit, Hatu began to wonder if that was remotely true, then thought that had Donte been with them they’d have needed no aid from the two newcomers. His mind turned to the lingering question of Donte and his tragic death in that dark, watery cave. His loss still hurt bitterly.
Donte sweated under a hot, setting sun as he arranged the nets on the drying racks. The racks were all crudely constructed but had served the family for a generation or longer. The village was called Calimar, and it lay on the tip of a little jut of land extending from the westernmost peninsula in the Barony of Marquensas. From a hill behind the village it was possible to see the ocean to the north and to the south.
Donte knew the name of the village because a man named Macomb had told him where he was when Donte had climbed out of the surf. Macomb had been night fishing when Donte had stumbled out of the darkness, his clothing soaked, shivering from the cold, and completely confused.
Donte had no memory from before that night, not one thing prior to crawling out of the surf. Occasionally odd images appeared to him as he awoke in the morning, but they were fleeting and unhelpful. The occasional flash of a sound, an aroma, or a movement seen out of the corner of his eye, but with all of these sensations it was as if they were behind a wall of dark smoky glass, hinted at, glimpsed, but never fully grasped. In the instant at which they presented themselves to him, Donte would feel the slight tingle of an emotion; then both image and sensation would be gone.
What seemed to trouble Old Macomb, as he was known, and his family was Donte’s apparent lack of curiosity about his past. Since coming to the village, he appeared content to fish with Old Macomb’s sons, grandsons, and nephews and the other fishermen of the village. At times he showed a streak of humor and apparently enjoyed pranks, but other times he was quiet almost to the point of seeming mute.
It was clear to them all that Donte had some familiarity with hauling nets and boat care. Donte worked without complaint, smiling at other men’s jokes, but hardly said a word.
Some of the villagers had said within his earshot that they suspected whatever had caused Donte to lose his memory—a blow to the head perhaps as he fell off a passing ship—had also made him simple.
In the time he had spent in the village he answered questions as best he could, but volunteered nothing, rarely asked questions of others, and ignored much of the daily life taken for granted by the villagers. If a joke was shared, or children played pranks on one of their own, he laughed, but he did not join in.
A couple of the village girls had tried to flirt with him at first, as he was a broad-shouldered young man with a nice smile and good looks once the bruises on his face had healed, but he seemed oblivious to their remarks and hints.
Inside he felt distant stirrings when the girls approached him, but these feelings were muted and more of a distant memory than any immediate urge. There was something that continued to nag at him, a sense more than a thought, that he should be somewhere else, doing something else, but this was also behind that wall of dark glass in his mind.
But a sense of need began to grow in him once he had regained his strength, and he felt the impulse to depart soon.
He just had no idea why.
When the last net was properly hung, Old Macomb came over and said, “Don’t worry about the nets anymore. We’re going to use them
again tonight. After we eat, we’re going to do some night fishing. A trader coming up the coast hove in while you were out netting, and he says there’s a run of bottom-wallowers headed our way.”
“What are bottom-wallowers?” Donte asked.
“Very tasty, is what they are,” replied the old man. “They’re night fish. They wallow on the seabed near the shore and cover themselves in silt so other fish can’t see them during the day. After sunset they come up and start feeding. Then when the sun comes up, they go wallow again. Don’t see them often—once or twice a year—so they fetch a handsome price if we can catch a netful or two. We don’t have to go far, and they won’t linger too long, so an hour or two we’ll be back hanging these nets again. You understand?”
Donte shrugged. “I think so.” He felt on the verge of saying something else, but the thought fled. Finally he nodded and turned toward the hut where he would eat with Old Macomb’s family.
As was his habit, he took the offered food and sat just at the edge of the family circle near the fire, close enough not to seem apart, but distant enough that he rarely was spoken to, which suited everyone. He was accepted, but only to a point. His odd behavior communicated to the family there was something “wrong” with him, and he knew that. He also had no idea what that “wrong” might be. He just lived from moment to moment, experiencing the flashes of images and voices, odd sensations of distantly felt anger, amusement, lust, and hunger, as faint echoes of his past life.
Yet even those tantalizing bits of experience, lingering behind that smoky glass wall in his mind, held no interest for Donte. He marked their passage as he would a flight of birds overhead or a school of fish passing under the boat, just something to notice briefly, but not worthy of consideration.
Someone said something funny, probably Old Macomb, and Donte noticed that people were laughing. He realized for perhaps the first time since arriving that his ability to perceive more than one thing at a time was impaired and felt a faint stab of concern. That wasn’t as it was supposed to be, he suddenly knew.
For a brief instant he attempted to seize that thought, not let it simply fade, and it lingered.
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