Ulin lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture, “I am training to be an alchemist, yet in truth, the only differences between the two arts are the ingredients and the final results.”
The Khur merchant leaned over the table between them, his eyes shadowed by his heavy brows. “You need conveyance to Flotsam. I need a cook. Perhaps we can make a deal agreeable to all …?”
Challie crossed her arms and kept her face blank. If Ulin was willing to do this, she would not argue. The wages they earned would save the city council a fat fee. “What would the job entail?”
“I have a cook wagon already outfitted and stocked. The caravan leaves tonight at midnight. You must be able to drive a wagon and cook enough to feed at least twenty-five people. You may be called upon to tend injuries, fight brigands, and perhaps”—he pointed a finger at Lucy—“defend yourselves. My men will respect you if you feed them well, but if they do not like the food, they will not hesitate to tell you about it with their fists or knives.”
“Fair enough,” replied Ulin.
Garzan clapped his hands, and an older woman poked her head out through a curtained doorway behind him. “Bring kefre and cakes for five!” he ordered. “Writing a contract is hungry business.”
In a few minutes Garzan, his overseer, Ulin, Lucy, and Challie were seated around a small table in the back room. The elderly woman served them strong, black kefre—a drink made from the bark of one of the few shrubs that grew in the Khurs’ desert homeland—in tiny cups and plates of cakes with bowls of honey for dipping.
Lucy was still hungry after her bout of seasickness and plunged into the fare with gusto. Challie ate sparingly and, for once, let Ulin do the talking.
The men sipped their beverages and exchanged pleasantries for several minutes before Ulin asked, “I am curious to know. How do you take your caravans past the Knights of Neraka? Haven’t they been guarding the passes for years?”
The rug merchant nibbled his honey cake and chuckled as he wiped away the crumbs. “It is as I thought. You are new to Sanction.”
“Just passing through.”
“Ah. Well, the Dark Knights covet this city for themselves, but they are not yet strong enough to take it. All they do is sit in the passes and prevent honest travelers and merchants from passing through.”
“But not dishonest ones?” Ulin remarked with a glimmer of a smile.
Garzan leaned back in his chair and twirled one end of his mustache through his thumb and forefinger. “Not the clever ones. We of the Khur have our own trails and our own ways over the mountains. If the Dark Knights know of our paths, they do not interfere. They owe us too much for their own trade to want to annoy our chiefs.”
Ulin nodded once. “Glad to hear it. So … what are your terms?”
A long and, to the women, somewhat tedious discussion followed about fees, wages, tasks for Ulin’s two “helpers,” and the length of the contract. Garzan’s overseer swiftly wrote the terms on a piece of parchment as they were agreed upon.
“Most of the train is bound for Khuri-Khan,” Garzan informed them. “However, some of the wagons will be added to another smaller caravan that will proceed to Flotsam. Sadly, we do not send many caravans there anymore. Since Malys destroyed their harbor facilities, their business has fallen considerably.”
“I can imagine,” Ulin said.
Garzan rose to his feet and opened his arms wide to include them all. “A safe journey, my friends. May the wind always blow at your back and your axles stay strong.”
Ulin, Lucy, and Challie rose and bowed their thanks.
The second stage of the journey began.
Do you ever keep a journal of your travels?” Lucy asked Ulin one afternoon. They were driving the wagon at the end of the caravan on the last leg of their journey from Delphon to Flotsam. Ulin and Lucy sat on the driver’s seat while Challie took her turn trying to nap on the pile of bedrolls behind them.
Lucy squirmed her abused backside to a different angle on the seat—not that it made much difference. The seat was little more than a board nailed across the front of the cook wagon and was probably used as an instrument of torture in Khurish prisons.
Ulin gazed at the distant horizon, his golden brown eyes lost in a world of private speculation and memories. When he did not answer right away, Lucy nudged him and repeated her question.
He heard her this time. “A journal? No, I’ve never had time. Why?”
“Because if you were writing one now, I have several words I would like to include.”
“Such as?”
Lucy swiped her sleeve over her sweating face. “Hot.”
“Dull,” Challie called from the back.
“Painful,” Lucy added. She held up her hands to examine the new calluses on her hands.
“Cold,” said the dwarf.
Lucy began to tap her hand on the sideboard and chant.
“Sweat at noon.
Freeze at night.
Endless wind.
Nothing in sight.
“Dunes of sand.
An empty waste.
We cook for the Khurs,
Who have no taste.”
She was rewarded by a dry chuckle from the rear.
“I’ll be sure to write that down,” Ulin said in tones as arid as the land around them. Things were getting bad when drivel like that was entertaining. Not that he disagreed with them. Their choice words for his imaginary journal were well chosen and could be repeated every day for the past twenty-eight days.
In the beginning, the journey had started with some variation and interest. The caravan slipped out of Sanction in the dead of night on a bleak path that skirted the large camp of the Knights of Neraka, who guarded the east pass. From there, the caravan wound through the Khalkist Mountains just north of the ogre realm of Blöde. The path was narrow and rough, full of ruts and rocks and holes big enough to break an axle, but it was a road. It wound beside a narrow, rushing river for some miles then began the steady and arduous climb over the high mountains.
It was then that Ulin began to develop a real respect for the drivers of the wagons and the small, tough oxen that pulled them. There were ten cargo wagons in all, with narrow beds and canvas tops that held a mixed cargo of fleeces, bags of pumice, a large box of wool dyes, and a few cases of delicacies such as dried mushrooms, bottles of Sanction wines, and dried fruit. Each wagon had a driver who drove his four oxen with only a whip and his voice, a skill Ulin could not master no matter how often he tried. Fortunately, Akkar-bin, the caravan master, took pity on his oxen the second day and produced a pair of bay draft horses for the cook wagon. Ulin ignored the brands of the Dark Knights on the horses’ hips and did not ask where they came from.
In addition to the drivers, there were four assistants and ten heavily-armed guards who rode nimble-footed Khurish horses at the head and rear of the train. Including Ulin and his companions, the caravan had a respectable number of twenty-seven, a number large enough to discourage all but the largest bands of brigands.
Ulin struggled for several days before he learned the knack of cooking for so many hungry people. After the second night of burned potatoes and skimpy helpings, the swarthy Khurs warned him he had one more night to prove himself or they’d stake him to a boulder and leave him for the vultures. Ulin took no chances. He cooked a simple stew based on one of Tika’s recipes, and he tripled the ingredients. The Khurs devoured all of it and gave him a reprieve for one more night. Each night it was the same. He would cook vast amounts of something simple and filling, and the Khurs would eat it and give him one more night’s reprieve.
It did not take long for Ulin and his “helpers” to establish a routine. Every morning before dawn, he, Lucy, and Challie fetched water, lit a fire, cooked gruel, bacon, and fry bread for breakfast, harnessed the horses, scrubbed the pans, packed the wagon, and drove through the day over the mountainous roads. At dusk they set up camp, built a fire, fetched the water, cooked the dinner, cleaned the dishes, tended the hors
es, and prepared for the next day. After a few hours of sleep they repeated it all over again. Ulin could not imagine how one man could do it alone.
Once the caravan descended from the mountains, it entered the desert wastes of the Khurs and the arid domain of the red dragon overlord, Malystryx. The work routine continued much the same. Only the landscape changed from rock and mountain to sand, barren hills, and scattered oases that were hot by noon and shivering cold by night. The drudgery of work and travel continued, with only one short break when the caravan reached the city of Khuri-Khan and paused for a day while the caravan master reorganized his master’s wagons and drivers and sent the new train on to Flotsam.
Ulin often wondered during the long hours of driving through the dreary, dun-colored landscape of what used to be Balifor, if this was worth the intensive effort.
Now that the trek was almost over, he could say “possibly” it was. They had saved some of their coins and earned enough to buy a wagon for the return to Sanction. They were all toughened by the work and the difficult travel, and they had learned a few things from the Khurs: how to prepare kefre, how to spice a stew so it burned off several layers of one’s tongue, and how to wrap a burnoose to stay on in a sand storm.
Best of all, to Ulin’s mind, Lucy had learned to cook. At least she could start a fire and boil water now. Together, they made a good partnership.
“Akkar-bin is coming.” Lucy broke into his thoughts.
Ulin straightened and saw a rider trot his horse down the file of wagons toward them. Akkar-bin, the caravan master, looked grim when he wheeled his stallion around beside the cook wagon—but then Ulin had never seen him look any other way. The man was the most laconic, humorless barbarian he had ever met, and not once on the long trip from Sanction had he seen him laugh. At least Akkar-bin wasn’t arrogant or contemptuous of the foreigners in his caravan like some of his guards. He was too emotionless for that.
“The point guard has found sign of draconians,” Akkar-bin said without preamble. “We’ll stop early tonight.” His horse sprang forward, and he rode back up the line without further explanation.
Lucy watched him go. “Wonderful. I suppose that means we won’t get to the watering hole tonight, which means no water.” She swiped her sleeve across her forehead again, wiping the dust and sweat off in muddy streaks.
Ulin made no comment. The news of the draconians did not surprise him. He knew bands of draconians, goblins, ogres, brigands, and exiles roamed the desert. Some were in the service of Malys and patrolled her extensive holdings. The more desperate ones were out for their own survival and attacked likely caravans or travelers at every opportunity. The caravan guards had seen indications of some of the marauders before, but this was the first time Akkar-bin decided to stop the caravan before sunset. Not that Ulin faulted him. He knew from experience that draconians—the foul, sentient spawn that were hatched years ago from corrupted eggs of good dragons—were ferocious fighters. The caravan would need to prepare.
Behind the caravan the brassy sun dropped slowly toward the blurred horizon where the desert faded into a sunburned sky. There was no wind, so the dust stirred up by the wagon wheels and oxen hooves hung like smoke over their heads. In three hours time it would be dark. If the draconians were out there, they would probably attack after nightfall.
Ulin scanned the desert. The land all about was drab: faded browns, tans, reds, and shades of sand. Seen from afar the desert looked like a wide, featureless plain, but in fact it rolled and rippled in solid waves, a tidal pattern engraved into the land by the wind. Here and there, tumbled, twisted ridges of rock broke through the sand and provided meager shade for the stunted, scanty shrubs that struggled to grow. It was a land that required determination to survive.
As Ulin studied the line of far hills to the east, he noticed a hint of green where late spring rains on the coast encouraged grasses and low trees to grow. They were so close to Flotsam, he fancied he could smell the sea breeze, yet he knew their proximity was part of their danger. The caravan was barely twenty miles from Blood Bay, which was close enough to the coast for marauders to find shelter but too far for travelers to expect help. If only the caravan could just keep moving until they reached the streets of Flotsam. Ulin was more than ready for this journey to be over.
Ulin raised his gaze to the vast darkening sky and studied it like a man hungry for something he cannot find. There was no sign of Malys. The monstrous red was probably in her volcanic lair in the midst of her Desolation to the southeast of Flotsam. But Ulin was not looking for her. He searched for another dragon: a gold named Sunrise who had become his friend, his soul mate, and his partner in magic. Sunrise had helped him years before in a confrontation with Malys and had saved his life more than once, but when magic began to fail, something happened to the young gold. For no discernible reason, Sunrise vanished without a trace. Ulin was still puzzling over the missing gold when his young wife and their two children died in a terrible plague, leaving the young mage empty, aching, and reeling from his losses. Even then Fate was not finished with the son of Palin Majere. A year later the forces of the green dragon, Beryl, destroyed the Academy of Sorcery—with some inadvertent help from Ulin—and captured Palin. Only Lucy with her strong heart and her shining, green eyes had held him back from the abyss of despair. Although he was forced to accept the painful truth that his wife was gone, Ulin could not quite believe or accept that Sunrise was dead. Somewhere, sometime, Ulin hoped he would look up and see the dragon’s golden form winging toward him.
He let out a slow breath. It would not happen this day. The sky remained empty, and his hope remained unanswered.
About an hour before sunset and far short of the planned stop at the water hole, the caravan master brought his wagons to the top of a broad hill and had them draw together in a circle. In the last light of day the tribesmen gathered all the dried dung and dead brush they could find for a fire. They cut thorny bushes and formed them into a corral for the oxen. The horses were watered from the precious store of barrels kept on the wagons for emergencies, then they were fed and tethered inside the circle of wagons.
Ulin and Challie lit the fire and hurriedly prepared a quick meal for the men while Lucy took care of their draft horses.
They were scrubbing the pans with sand in the lingering light of early evening when Akkar-bin approached them.
His cold eyes regarded them for a moment before he spoke. “Have you weapons to defend yourselves if the draconians attack?”
Lucy glanced up from where she was kneeling in the sand and hefted the large iron skillet she had been cleaning. “I was taught by a master,” she said, her expression and voice completely serious.
Ulin knew exactly what master she was referring to, for he had seen his grandmother clear the Inn at closing time with a similar “weapon.” He almost laughed when he saw Akkar-bin’s face. The Khur’s humorless gaze stared at Lucy as if he thought she had slipped into dementia.
“We have only small weapons,” Ulin said, drawing the man’s attention away from Lucy. “Is there a sword I could borrow?”
Akkar-bin grunted a reply and jerked his hand toward the wagon containing the shipment of swords. “Take one from the crate. They are straight blades intended for a customer on the Blood Coast. They will be easier for you to handle than our scimitars.”
With another blank look at Lucy he turned on his heel and strode away.
Lucy snorted a suppressed laugh. “That man is hopeless. There are rocks in the desert with more imagination.”
“Maybe,” Ulin agreed. “But he does know his business. I don’t know why you bother trying to goad him.”
“He’s a challenge,” Lucy replied, her grin wicked.
Ulin left the women scrubbing pots and went to the wagon Akkar-bin had indicated. With the help of the driver, he found a long crate labeled WOOL DYES near the top of the load. Curious, he pried off the lid. Inside was a layer of hand-sewn bags containing various colors of dye. Beneath that
lay perhaps a dozen swords, carefully wrapped in lengths of thick felt. Ulin pondered just who this customer was—a fuller who kept his own army? The driver winked and handed him several swords to try.
After a few minutes of hefting and testing, he found one to his liking and thanked the driver. Although Ulin was competent with a scimitar, he preferred the straight blade of a good broadsword, and this one seemed to be a fine one with a good leather grip and excellent balance. He carried his new sword back to the cook wagon and helped Lucy and Challie settle things for the night.
It proved to be a long and tense night that ended uneventfully with a red sun pushing above the skyline at dawn. There had been no sign of draconians or anything else threatening, and the caravan remained unmolested. Weary and relieved, Ulin and the girls fed the Khurs and prepared to get underway.
The caravan made good time that day, stopping only once at a tiny watering hole to refill the barrels and water the stock. The guards remained alert both before and behind the caravan, and Akkar-bin sent out scouts to keep a watch for signs of marauders. Near midday the caravan master called a halt at a small oasis already occupied by a clan of nomads. The safety afforded by the additional numbers of fighting men more than compensated the caravan for the fee charged by the clan chief for use of the wells. That night the Khurs slept well after thoroughly enjoying the services and refreshments offered by the tribesmen.
Heads were aching the next morning when Akkar-bin roused his crew and got them moving. Ulin had to treat several minor injuries won in fights the night before and a number of hangovers brought on by the powerful Khurish liquor. Nevertheless, the wagons were on the road in short order and headed east for their final push to Flotsam.
Perhaps it was the afternoon heat that bore down on them, sapping their strength and dulling their senses. Perhaps it was the effects of celebrating the night before. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep or the relief brought on by the impending end of the journey. Whether it was one factor or a combination of several, the effect was a lethargy that settled over the entire caravan several hours after noon. The men’s voices stilled until the only steady sounds from the train were the jingling of the harnesses and the plod of the oxen’s hooves on the sand-covered road. The drivers dozed on their seats.
Dragon's Bluff Page 4
