by Mark Eller
* * * *
When morning arrived, Ludwig discovered he was surrounded by a considerable number of people and beasts. This fact did not surprise him. The previous evening’s darkness had not succeeded in smothering the talk and curses of the people he traveled among. It was the makeup of those people he found surprising. By the sun’s growing light, he saw he walked with fifteen others, each holding the reins of two arvids. Ludwig recognized only five. The others most likely came from some of the other nearby caravans, which meant the brigands were far more organized than he had thought. It had taken skill, planning, and men to attack more than one target in a night.
Near the front a bone thin man popped out of the brush to speak with a grizzled fellow named Trel. Trel dropped back.
“We’re being followed,” he told Harlo. “Best we can tell there’s a fairly strong magic user back there. None of our small magics are enough to shake him from our trail.”
“Califrey,” Ludwig broke in. “He has an amulet.” He thought about his statement for a moment. “I think he has an amulet.”
“He should’ve given up by now.”
“Garland never leaves a trail,” Harlo said unworriedly.
Trel cursed. “Then we have to kill the magic user or we’ll never escape.”
“Ludwig will handle Califrey,” Harlo promised. “He‘s been using amulets all his life.”
“Can you stop him?” Trel demanded of Ludwig. From the expression on his face he had his doubts.
“I signed on as an arvid handler,” Ludwig answered. “I never agreed to fight in a magic duel.”
Frowning, Trel looked to Harlo, back to Ludwig, and shrugged. “Just keep him occupied. Do that much and we’ll pay you double.”
“Triple,” Harlo insisted. “The task is dangerous, and we’ve no hope without him.”
Trel nodded respectfully to Harlo. “As you say, he gets triple.” His humorless eyes narrowed as they fastened once more on Ludwig. “Just be sure you do your job.”
Ludwig thought on his empty purse. The end of this trip would see a silver half-rugdle and eight double gold ones placed in it. A man could do something with sixteen and a half rugdles, but he could do a lot more with almost fifty. Fifty rugdles would give him a few nights at a decent bordello. The right woman might make him forget dear sweet Meliandra for a day or two. Failing that, well, any whore would help him escape his memories of Gertunda. Then again, meeting a freshly castrated boar could easily do the same. The boar would have a much better disposition than his wife had ever claimed.
Would this task really be difficult? Probably not. Califrey was a fake. He had to be. No true mage would stoop to thievery when there were so many easier ways to earn an easy living. By Ludwig’s reckoning, Califrey could probably do little more than make pretty lights and follow a trail. The man’s clumsy light show had already proved his incompetence.
“You have a deal.”
