by Guy Antibes
“Do you not want another ally amongst the Wollians?” Desmon said.
“Ally? You are more a Wollian than Commander Ilsur, I think.” Banna pursed her lips, glaring at Desmon. “But I suppose you may be useful, if only for your language skills.”
“Ah, my language skills,” Desmon said. “If only for that, it will be my pleasure to serve you.”
Banna softened her face a bit. “You did help Sam Smith and me with the merchant.”
Desmon smiled as if Banna hadn’t said or implied anything derogatory. “I am here to serve.”
Her prickliness returned for a brief moment. “Whoever you really serve, that is. I am going to stuff myself. There is no telling what awaits us in the grasslands.”
~
The wagon tracks still existed, even after five days. Sam thought Emmy would be of no use, but when he pointed to wagon tracks with deeper ruts, she sniffed the tracks and followed them, even after they moved off the road.
Emmy led them to a wide, shallow stream and found where the tracks started three hundred paces to the right again. Sam looked back at the thirty soldiers behind him, plus a few packhorses. Banna had asked for and been given trousers to wear during the ride. She wore them underneath her dress, and Sam thought that was a good idea, for her.
They traveled for the entire afternoon and on until the day began to end, but didn’t come across anyone on their journey before they stopped for the night.
Soldiers created pollen tents for the four officers on the journey, as well as one for Sam and one for Banna before making their own. Of course, Desmon shared his tent with Sam, not bothering to make one for himself.
The flickering from a watch fire danced on the pollen canvas of the tent. Sam tried to remember not to touch the sides. He would rather wake up in the morning on the inside of the tent rather than the outside. He pulled his wool blanket close to him to ward off the night’s cold.
Sam could see the reflection of the light in Desmon’s eyes.
“You are awake,” Desmon said. “So am I.”
“Are you worried about a Polistian plot?”
“I am,” Desmon said. “I didn’t expect Viktar Kreb to make preparations for the conquest of Wollia, but that is the most likely scenario. It is obvious he is fomenting a revolt of the nomads, and then he will come in to restore order at some noble’s request. The exact same thing played out hundreds of years ago in Toraltia, you know.”
“Did the Polistians kill off the royal family?” Sam asked.
“They did. It is plain if you read a history of the events not written in Toraltia. No one will admit it, but Toraltia pays tribute to Vaarek to this day,” Desmon said.
Sam couldn’t believe it and said so.
“The next time you see your friend Harrison Dimple, ask him. He will know. It worked then, and it may work now, unless we can talk some sense into the Mandrim.”
Sam frowned. “Is that why you are out here?”
“Maybe,” Desmon said, “but only if the Mandrim aren’t controlled, and that is where you come in, Sam. According to Banna, you may be the only person who can eliminate the influence of the mysterious green pollen quickly. We won’t have time to let the pollen’s effect gradually lessen.”
Sam nodded, but Desmon probably couldn’t see him do that. “The effect of pink pollen only lasted when it was in contact with the skin, but while in contact, no memories were made. Sheep pollen made people follow, but they had to want to in the first place, I guess. I’m still a bit hazy on how that worked on so many miners. The green is much more potent, since it gets absorbed in the body,” Sam said. “Banna answered every question I posed, even those I knew she wouldn’t normally answer.”
“That makes it even more important that I am here to observe,” Desmon said.
“Doesn’t Wollia have other spies? Why you?”
Desmon took his time replying. “Because I am available and in Port Hassin. Ilsur does a good job of keeping order and keeping the right people informed. The armory theft requires more than one person. We can attack the problem from different angles.”
Sam could see that. But even if Ilsur wasn’t an official spy, he was an official snoop for the Potentate’s bureaucracy. He realized that Desmon wasn’t even dissembling about his role, like he usually did, so Sam asked some questions that had bothered him.
“What about Asul Kindra? Was he working for the Potentate?”
“Not at all, but I suspect Hardblow was. He might have even mistaken Kindra for the spy on board. Just as we thought, Kindra might have been involved in the weapons smuggling in Carolank. Vaarek isn’t without its factions either, you know.”
Sam’s mind instantly thought of Banna.
“Under Viktar Kreb, Vaarek has become a playground for opportunistic villains. The cast swords you found in Carolank probably have nothing to do with Kreb unless they get shipped to Norlank rebels,” Desmon said.
Without knowing all those involved, Sam’s mind spun with possibilities that could easily be so wrong. He decided he had to help the Wollians retrieve the armory weapons. For the first time, he wondered about the wisdom of traveling to Vaarek.
Chapter Seventeen
~
A fter another day of pursuing the wagons, Sam realized the tracks were getting fresher. He rode between the two Wollian commanders just before the column would have to stop for the night.
“I’ve been counting their camps,” Sam said. “We are closing in.”
Ahman had a worried look on his face. “Our expedition is crossing into Mandrim territory,” he said. “I’m not sure we can go on.”
“What?” Sam said without thinking. “We can’t turn back.”
“I have nearly thirty men to think about. The Mandrim are the best warriors outside the Lashakan clans.”
“But you have to think about Wollia! There has to be a Polistian or more than one among them. Don’t you need to find out?”
Ahman didn’t respond to Sam but looked away. Commander Ilsur looked off into the distance. “There has to be something we can do,” Ilsur said.
“Why not let some of us scout ahead?” Sam said. “Desmon, Banna, and I can go ahead. We don’t represent Wollia,” Sam looked ahead at Desmon, “not officially, anyway.”
Ilsur turned to Ahman. “That might not be a bad idea,’ he said. “You can wait just up ahead with your men, and I’ll take my two constables along with them.”
“You are taking a big risk, Ilsur,” Ahman said. Any trace of his arrogance was wiped from his face.
“I am willing. Why don’t you call a rest, while a few of us do a little scouting?”
Ahman stroked the tiny beard on his chin. “I suppose the men could use a big meal, now that we are close to the thieves.”
Ilsur nodded. “Good. We will join you and then depart in darkness.”
Sam rode up ahead to explain to the others how the plan had devolved.
Desmon looked back. “Ahman has his family to consider,” he said.
Sam could see through Desmon’s comment. The commandant was showing cowardice. “Think of him as our rear guard.”
“One that won’t budge from the camp until they wait a day or so before retreating back to Rakwall.”
“Ilsur is joining us.”
Desmon looked at Sam. “There is a reason Ilsur is aligned with me, and Ahman is not. Ilsur has the will and the loyalty to keep up the chase.”
Banna grunted. “And what worth will that loyalty be when we are caught by the Mandrim?”
“Are you going to stay behind?” Desmon asked Banna Plunk.
She glared at the spy. “I have my reasons for continuing. They have nothing to do with Wollia.”
Sam knew what her reasons were. They had everything to do with stopping Viktar Kreb. If the dictator was so intent on conquest, how could she possibly hope to stop him, even with all the gold she had stolen? Gold made poor weapons unless used to bribe one’s enemies or create questionable allies, he thought. Either way, she continued to w
alk a perilous path. The emergence of green pollen might make that path a more difficult one.
Once they had reached a clearing by one of the myriad streams running through the grasslands, they ate a meal, tasteless to Sam, despite the spices, before moving ahead. Emmy barked as they mounted and ran into the approaching darkness. They had to spur their mounts to catch up.
Eventually, Emmy returned to them, looking agitated.
“She is anxious to reach the wagons,” Banna said. “They are close.”
“We will dismount since we can tie our horses to the trees over there,” Ilsur said.
Sam could see the leaves, black against the inky blue sky. He put a leash on Emmy and held it while the dog pulled him forward. She left the road and led them up one of the endless hills. Sam could see the glow around the edge of the top.
They walked forward and looked down at a large village.
“Mandrim,” Desmon said. “One of their central villages. A tribal sultan resides in that one, I’ll bet.”
Ilsur nodded, his face lit by the faint light from lamps illuminating the lanes of maybe one hundred houses. Campfires surrounded the houses.
“This wasn’t on your map?” Sam asked.
The commander shook his head. “No nomad would divulge this village’s location. I will send a man back to warn Ahman. This is exactly what he feared when he stopped. Clan tents surround the houses. Those are cook fires that you see.”
Sam tried to count the fires, but there were too many. They were too late. The wagons were well-guarded. It might take an army to recover them. He watched the constable slink down the hill and disappear. They were down to five people and a dog against hundreds of the fiercest fighters of nomads, the Mandrim.
“We will verify the wagons stopped here and leave,” Commander Ilsur said. “At this point, we have no rear guard. Once Ahman is informed about the size of the village, he will break camp and retreat as fast as he can to Rakwall.”
Sam didn’t know if that would be considered cowardice or good sense. He shook his head as he viewed the village. Bravery or idiocy, he wondered about describing their actions, sneaking around the Mandrim settlement.
“In the square,” Desmon pointed to a cluster of torches flickering in the distance. “The wagons might be there.”
Sam couldn’t see well enough with his spectacles on in the dark, so he carefully put them in his coat and looked at the village. He could make out the lines of wagons. There must have been ten of them, now lined up in two rows of five.
He looked down at the lights and the campfires. “Is there nothing we can do?” Sam said.
“We’ve verified that they are in this village,” Ilsur said. “I, for one, don’t relish sneaking about when your eyes tell us that the wagons are there.”
“Not good enough for me,” Banna said. “There is a pollen artist in the village who needs to be questioned.” She rose and crept over the hill towards the Mandrim with Emmy right behind.
Sam looked at her, and his heart sank. “Take the constable and go. Desmon, you, too, if you wish. I can’t abandon Banna Plunk.”
“Good luck,” Ilsur said as he and the constable slipped away.
Sam was heartened that Desmon stayed at his side. “Shall we?” the sailor asked.
“You lead, I will follow,” Sam said.
He adjusted his sword, made sure his wand was secure, and crept after Desmon. To his right, he saw a cluster of nomads huddling on both sides of the road. Torches lit their faces. There must have been twenty of them, ready to defend the village against Ahman’s troops who would not be showing up.
They stopped for a pair of nomad sentries that hadn’t appeared when Banna passed through. Sam watched them walk past towards the men guarding the tiny pass to the village.
“It seems they expect us,” Sam said.
Desmon nodded but said nothing as he continued to the edge of the encampment. He spun nomad robes for himself and Sam.
“These won’t last long on me,” Sam said, putting his spectacles back on so he wouldn’t be distracted by the invisibility of the robes.
Desmon shook his head. “They won’t have to. The further we get into the village, the better our chances of being caught.”
“Of being caught?” Sam said. “Is that what your goal is?”
“Not exactly, but there are nomads at Rakwall. We could be exchanged for them.”
“That is what they are for?” Sam asked.
Desmon nodded. “Of course. Why else wouldn’t we just kill them?”
Of course, Sam thought. Hostages. If Ahman or Ilsur had told him that, he wouldn’t have wasted a thought on the nomads. Keeping them alive was merely a good insurance policy for such a time as this. But if the Wollians were willing to kill nomads, certainly the Mandrim could do the same to them.
They moved closer until they reached the tents when Desmon stood up and helped Sam to his feet. “I can’t speak their tongue any better than you can, so we both just nod and continue on our way if challenged.”
“You can’t? A fine translator you are.”
Desmon just laughed. “Come on.”
They walked through the tents. Children played in the dirt. Everyone wore the same dusky cloaks, and now that the sun had set, Sam could feel the air become even chillier. He repressed a sneeze as he walked through a cloud of dust the children must have created.
Onward, they trod, stepping through camps of nomads, speaking something. No one challenged them until they reached the village. Sam felt a hand grab his arm, twisting him around.
He looked into the eyes of a nomad. The man asked him a question, but Sam could only nod. The challenger called two of his comrades, who ran from another street.
Another man grabbed his other arm, the cloak shredded in his hands. Sam looked around for Desmon, but the spy had run away. Without a hope to fight the three men, two of whom held him tightly, Sam decided struggling would be futile.
One of the men spoke to Sam in what he thought might be Wollian, but Sam just shook his head.
“You speak Vaarekian?” another nomad said. Sam could hardly understand him.
“I do,” he said.
“What are you doing in our village?”
Sam had no reason to lie. “I wanted to make sure the wagons in your village square are filled with the weapons you stole from the Rakwall Armory.”
“We didn’t steal them, the Daragim did.”
“Daragim?”
“Our brothers who dot the grasslands with their thousands and thousands.”
He must have meant the other nomads.
“You are the Mandrim?”
“You are stupid, Wollian.”
“I am not a Wollian. I come from Toraltia.”
“You are far from home,” the Mandrim said.
“In more ways than one,” Sam replied.
The men stopped and took his weapons. One of the Mandrim stopped and dropped the Lashak sword in the dirt.
“You carry strange weapons for a Toraltian,” the nomad said. “A Lashak blade than no nomad would ever dare touch except for me, a fire poker made to look like a weapon, and strange spectacles. Do you need these to see?”
“To read,” Sam said.
The man took them off Sam’s face and tucked them into his robe. Now everyone appeared to be dressed in underclothes. Sam was thankful for the darkness.
They marched into the square. The wagons might have been covered with pollen tarps since Sam could see the shapes of weapons poking above. He was shoved towards the largest building on the square.
Inside, he was pushed into a chair in what looked like a waiting lobby. Two nomads carrying swords stood at either side of him. He waited until a nomad wearing yellow silk underclothes called to his guards. Sam was shoved inside a large room. Evidently, the sultan, the Mandrim tribal leader, didn’t live like a nomad. The room was decorated like the hotel lobby in Port Hassin.
The sultan, dressed in silks, lounged on a large chair. Sam would
n’t call it a throne, but he imagined that it served as one. He caught the whiff of incense and saw a three-legged brazier emitting smoke through a slotted dome covering the coals. The man looked at Sam and at his Lashak sword sitting on the rug, along with his wand. Sam wondered where his spectacles were. He hoped he would be able to wear them again.
“You are Toraltian, yet you speak Vaarekian? Are you a noble? You don’t dress like a noble,” the sultan said in good Vaarekian.
“I am a common boy. My name is Sam Smith. I was an apprentice-constable in the Baskin Royal Constabulary, but I ran into some trouble and was exiled. I am on a ship headed to Tolloy.”
“Why are you slinking about my domain?”
“I have certain talents,” Sam said. “I accompanied a small force of soldiers to retrieve the weapons. I volunteered to verify that the weapons are in the wagons in the square.”
“Then you would come with more soldiers?”
Sam nodded. He really didn’t know what Ahman would do. The fort didn’t have the numbers to attack this village and the nomads camped outside the cottages.
“I don’t know. I’m not the commander.”
The sultan stared at Sam for a bit before he said, “Pick up the Lashak weapon. I assume you know how to use it?”
“I have practiced with it,” Sam said.
The sultan smiled. “Then show me how good you really are.”
From another door, a disheveled Desmon Sandal was pushed into the room. Two armed nomads followed. The spy shrugged at Sam.
“At least I lasted a few minutes longer than you did,” Desmon said.
“He told me much the same story,” the sultan said. “That is a point for both of you. Now you will fight. If you do not try hard enough, my brothers will give you sharp encouragement.”
Sam understood what he said. He had fought Desmon enough in the past to know they were evenly matched, but Sam didn’t have as much confidence in Desmon, now that he was a spy. The Wollian could have been holding back.
Sam drew the Lashak sword. He kept the sheath in his left hand, taking whatever advantage he could.
“You aren’t afraid of the deathly power within the blade?” the sultan said. “It has been said the sword will kill the bearer if he is not a Lashakan.”
