by Aaron Pogue
Brady smiled. "I suppose we've got much to learn from one another, little lord."
"I'm not a little lord," I said, with a smile despite myself. "Call me Taryn. Just Taryn."
"Taryn from the Tower," Old Jim said. "It has a ring."
"It has a ring," Brady echoed. "Now lead us on, Taryn. Buy me a hot a meal and some decent beer, and I'll call you king if you ask it of me."
I had no answer for that, so I turned toward the sun and led them down into the plains. Old Jim told me stories of the dragon raids up north. Brady watched the rolling plains like he expected marauders at any moment. And I enjoyed their company all the way to the inn.
The town was unimpressive when we finally found one. Midday came and went before we passed the scattered rubble of the first ruined buildings, and then beyond that, houses still stood, but they were baked by the sun and charred by dragon flame. They bore no signs of life.
The town's square had sat directly on the King's Way: a courtyard broad enough to house a dozen market stalls just north of the road, and a thatch-roofed inn three floors tall on the south. A handful of shops had stood behind the market square as well, but they were razed in ruin now.
The inn had fared somewhat better. Scorch marks stained the thatch and along the whole west wall of the third floor had been caved in, exposing its rooms to the elements. But the building still stood, with a stable right up against the west wall and a new-painted shingle swinging in the wind.
Given the state of the town, I had little hope of finding rest at the inn, but my new companions held out hope. They pointed to a curl of smoke from the chimney, and a handful of horses in the stables. The horses did seem a promising indication to me, and I led my own off the road and through the open doors to a stable stall.
Up close, my horse looked like a battle charger compared to the others. He stood three hands taller than any of them, strong and healthy. The other four looked nearly starved, coats unbrushed and clinging with burrs. They looked hard-used, and at least one was still puffing. I saw nothing in the way of tack or barding for them, so they'd either been ridden bare or their owners had elected to keep their gear close to hand.
I wasn't interested in trying the same, but I stowed my saddle in a back corner of the stall and brushed the horse down myself. There didn't look like much of a chance a stableboy would be along to do it soon. After a moment's hesitation I did sling the heavy saddlebags over one shoulder, then rose and turned to find Old Jim and Brady watching me curiously.
"You take fine care of that animal, boy," Old Jim said, measuring.
"A horse's care in uninteresting circumstances has often determined the survival of its master in interesting ones," I said by rote. Then I felt the heat of a blush and shrugged one shoulder. "Caleb would have my hide if I didn't see her brushed down."
Old Jim's eyebrows went up that, but I wasn't sure why. Brady chewed his lip for a moment, and glanced back toward the road we'd left. "Caleb's the friend who's coming after you?"
I looked the same way and shook my head. "Not a chance. He's on his way to the Isle by now."
The other two exchanged a glance. I barely caught it. Then Brady jerked a thumb toward the inn next door. "Old Jim peeked in at the door. We're in luck. Someone's home after all, and stew's on the coals."
My stomach rumbled at the very thought of it, and I nodded my gratitude. We let Old Jim lead the way in, and he called out a gregarious greeting to the innkeeper. The innkeeper could almost have been Old Jim's brother—old and skinny with a face like worn leather. He had on an apron, though, over a rich red shirt turned up at the cuffs.
There was one other guest in the common room. He wore battered leather and linen much like my companions', stained in shades of black and gray. His hair was dark as well, and his eyes were flat, emotionless. He gave the three of us a full minute's hard stare when we came through the door, and other than that not even as much greeting as a nod. He turned his attention back to a glass of amber liquor and ignored us altogether.
The chimney needed a cleaning. The whole common room swirled with smoke from the fire, and it was an old enough problem that the soot-stained windows barely let any light through. Even with a fire blazing on the hearth the room held a late-night gloom, much-enhanced by my own exhaustion. A yawn cracked my jaw, and Old Jim patted me companionably on the back.
"Rooms for three weary travelers, by any chance?" Old Jim called as the innkeeper approached with three ceramic bowls of steaming stew.
"Room for more'n a dozen," the innkeeper answered. "Stayin' long?"
Brady looked to me for an answer, but I shook my head. "Today," I said. "Tonight. Leaving first thing in the morning."
The innkeeper nodded for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder. "Getcha dinner tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and three rooms with beds. Say two vints silver?"
I reached for my purse, but caught a look between Brady and Old Jim. I frowned. "Something wrong?"
Brady looked surprised at the question. Old Jim scrubbed at the bristle of a three-day beard and shook his head. "Didn't mention the horse." He cut his eyes to the innkeeper. "Horse in the stables, too." He looked back to me. "Don't wanna take advantage."
"No," I said slowly. I met the innkeeper's eyes. "How much for the horse?"
"Fodder and care? Another vint, I'd say."
Perhaps that would have been fair for oats and good tending, but I suspected she'd get straw if anything. I didn't want to look petulant in front of my companions, though. And I had the coin. That was no issue at all. I nodded acceptance and fished out three heavy silver coins. The innkeeper took them with a calculating look and left us to our stew.
I watched him go, then growled under my breath, "Tell me more about these bandit towns."
Old Jim choked on his stew. Brady gave a loud bark of laughter that drew an irritated glance from the specter in the corner. It loosened my spirits, too. I smiled over at him and tucked into my meal. The stew was really quite good. The fresh, hot rolls he brought out later were even better. The feather bed was best of all.
I slept deep and easy. Rich and satisfied. Free and in control.
And then I woke, bound hand and foot and quite alone. The building was on fire.
10. South of Tirah
Still groggy, I tried to wave away the heavy smell of smoke, but a knot that had been too loose to disturb me in slumber slipped tight as my movement. Coarse rope dug into my wrist, and I snapped wide awake in an instant.
I tasted the acrid soot in the air, heavier even than it had been in the common room below. And now I heard the pop and crackle of a much larger fire as well. I kicked with my left leg and felt a knot slip tight down there as well. Then I thanked Haven's name for Caleb's careful, cruel tutelage.
I could feel the panic. It prickled beneath my skin, it skritched at the back of my mind. I felt the bone deep urge to throw myself to my feet and run. I felt the rope cinched tight on my wrist and ankle, too, and that only drove the terror deeper. They'd counted on it.
But I didn't flail. I didn't move. I took one deep breath and forced it out, and the itch receded. Once more and I could think. I raised my head up off the pillow, glad to learn they hadn't left a noose around my neck, and spotted the loops around my other wrist and ankle. Loose, still. Loose enough, anyway. Perhaps.
Sweat slicked my skin, and that helped. It beaded on my forehead and streaked soot into my eyes. That hurt. I breathed, and thought of all my training, and trusted in Caleb's instruction to keep me alive. Slow, he'd said. If you don't already know the way, go slow. No matter how your instincts scream to rush, hurrying only gets you killed faster.
I could hear the flames. They were on the stairs now. In the hall outside. My door was open, and I could see the angry orange flare and flash from the corner of my eye. It distracted me. The heat did, too. It seared in my nose and stabbed at my throat. Still I breathed, deep and slow, because it was the only trick I knew. I worked the tiny muscles on the outside edge of my hand, on my
palm, like I was playing an arrow on the string. Like I was rolling a dagger for the strike. Like I was snapping with the whip. At last I pulled, a little tug of my hand, and even then the snare slipped tight, but it closed on three fingertips, and I shook it off with an almost condescending motion.
And then I knew the way. Then it was so clear that I could sprint. I tore the bond from my other hand and freed my legs. I heaved myself to the floor and searched the room from there, but my things were gone. My saddlebags. My boots. My sword.
I almost lost myself. The panic had never left, so I'd settled for holding it at bay with iron-hard control. But when I saw my father's gift was gone, grief struck harder than I could have imagined. And there was rage as hot as the fire. It nearly buried me, nearly set the panic free to fling me to my death. But I saw Caleb's sneering gaze behind it all. In the dark of my mind I heard him snapping, "Go. You've done the hard part. Just go!"
And so I caught one breath, and I went. No window in my room, but I saw my way. Out through the open door onto a landing already red with flame. There had been a wall torn off upstairs, right? I went three paces down and up a stairway billowing with smoke but not yet glowing with coals. Through another door, to a room that might have been directly above mine. Third floor. West wall. And, yes, a dragon's tail had done the damage, unless I missed my guess. It had torn the timber and plaster like paper. Smoke rushed past me like a river's current, dragging under drooping thatch and out into the clear, cool winter air.
I went across the room at a sprint. I gave myself half an instant to get my bearings; not long enough to lose my momentum or my nerve. I flung myself out through the gap and hung for a breathless moment suspended in the air. Then I hit the roof of the stables with a crash that screamed in all the bones of my left side. Old wood creaked and groaned, splintered like the spring thaw, and dumped me through into an empty stall.
They all were empty stalls. Of course they'd taken my horse. He was worth more than all four of theirs combined.
All four of theirs. It seemed so obvious now. "Could have been Old Jim's brother," I growled, disgusted. I pounded a fist on the stable wall. Outside, the inn's huge thatched roof groaned and boomed as it caved in, and I scrambled to my feet. The stable would burn soon. I threw a frantic glance around its interior, but I saw nothing of any value at all. I rushed to the door and caught myself an instant short of sprinting into the open.
Instead I stopped and cracked the doors, searching the square without for some sign of them. There was none. They were gone. Probably hours since. I heard the crack and pop of fire again and knew I couldn't afford the caution much longer anyway. For that matter, I would have welcomed an ambush. I would have torn them all to pieces to get back my father's sword.
I slipped out into the town square and moments later the west wall of the inn collapsed. Burning timber and smoldering thatch washed over the stables, and what remained of the inn fell in upon itself. For several long minutes I stood and watched it burn, too exhausted to even form a plan now that the immediate threat was past.
In time a little breeze stirred, sweeping down from the north with an insidious chill that cut through the hot pain still glowing in my arms and on the backs of my legs. I shivered and tasted the cleaner air, then turned my back on the fire.
And there on the ground, plain as day, were the hoof-prints of a handful of pathetic horses and my magnificent steed. The thieves hadn't even bothered to cover their tracks. I started that way and almost immediately collapsed as a sharp-edged turned against my bare foot. It didn't quite break the skin, but the pain was enough to leave me cursing.
A plan. I had to make a plan. It was dark. I hadn't noticed until now, but the sky above was dark. I thought perhaps I saw the pale glow of dawn toward the east, but it was hard to discern against the inferno just at my back.
Nearly dawn. Nearly a day since Mother and Caleb had left. I'd thought perhaps they wouldn't go. Perhaps they'd scour the city for me. Perhaps the king would insist that I be found. But no. It was not half a day's ride from the city to the inn. This was the only road through the mountains. If they had cared enough to tarry at all, they would have found me here.
So, no. She'd read my note, and she had gone. Just as I had wished. That still left me the Lord of Cara. He had called himself a friend. I could climb that path. More than half a day on foot, certainly, but I could survive the trip. Even barefoot. He could heal me up and he would give me a horse if I asked it of him. He would give me an escort to the very doors of the Tower of Drakes. He would send me home in safety.
But I would go without my father's sword. That one thought burned as hot as the inn's dark conflagration. They had my father's sword. I could ask the Lord of Cara for a force to hunt them down, to round them up and punish them. But we would not succeed. It would require two days' time, or three. More, perhaps, if he needed persuading to commit to such a foolish errand. The trail would be cold by then, the villains lost in the sprawling empty lands south of Tirah.
That much was true. I knew it with a certainty. They were from the north, as well. It rang too true to be a lie. Their mannerisms, their accents, everything about them cried of the towns on the coast. They were certainly bandits, though, or just cold-blooded survivors willing to burn a man alive to stop him coming for his sword.
No. They'd done it for the purse. Perhaps they would have killed me for just the horse, but that purse had been more than they could ever have dreamed of. I had been all my life among the people of the Tower, and we had no love of gold. I'd never thought to fear.
It mattered not. I did not care what they had wanted most; they had taken the sword. And I would not let them take it into the vast, wild plains to disappear forever. I would go and take it from them.
I searched the ruined houses for half an hour, praying for a pair of boots, and ended with two worn-out sandals—one with a broken leather thong—but they were enough to get me moving. I set out to the east as fast as I could go and burned the miles in the fire of my rage. When the sunrise reached the plains I saw their trail in the cloud of dust that hung against the sky, and I left the King's Way to pursue them into wilderness.
Their horses served them little better than my feet in the rough countryside. They had made the most of a head start down the broad King's Way, but they'd left it before risking another town. And by the time they'd gone a mile from the road they'd apparently abandoned any fear that I might chase them. I could see that in the signs they left behind on their trail: fresh prints in cracking stream beds, horsehair tufts on thorn bushes, and the bright red apron, now soot-stained and torn, thrown aside when they stopped to lunch beside a dirty stream.
When I found the remains of their camp, coals still glowed in the cookfire they'd built, and insects hadn't yet found the apple cores they left behind. I was catching them up. I stopped long enough for a drink to quench my thirst then pounded after them.
All afternoon I followed their trail, stomach growling with hunger, head and feet both aching from the hard pace. I didn't slow. And as evening faded into dusk, I topped a little rise, looked down into a dried-out gulch, and saw them making camp against the night.
They had my tent and nothing else for shelter. Old Jim and Brady picketed the horses while the one who'd played innkeeper tried to light a fire. He was using strips of the apron as kindling. The little one with the dark hair was poking through my saddlebags, and I watched him draw out my shortbow and string it. He took a bundle of arrows, too, then exchanged a word with Brady and turned my way.
He wore my sword upon his belt. I stifled an animal snarl. The little one was coming right to me. First watch. That explained the weapons. Naturally he would come up here. It was an excellent vantage. He'd lean his back against this gnarled tree and watch the north and west for any sign of pursuit. I crouched low and slipped carefully backward. I went ten paces down the shallow slope before I could afford to rise and move more quickly.
I moved quickly indeed, then. He had my bow a
nd my blade. He was wearing clothing good as armor. I had only flimsy sandals and tired legs. But I had righteous fury, and I had the advantage of surprise. That would serve me well enough.
I glanced back up the hill to the rise he'd have to top. He was still hidden, but I could hear the crunch of his steps. I searched the ground around my feet for something I could use as a weapon, saw what I needed, and reached it in four quick paces. I stooped, grabbed, and wasted one glance back. He was there. Ten paces up, skinny as a post, and eyes as wide as dinner plates. He'd spotted me.
But I already had my weapon in my hand. I twisted at the waist as I'd been trained. I swung with my shoulders. I stabbed my arm out straight, almost like a sword thrust, and threw the fist-sized stone. It caught him a finger's width above his right eye and dropped him like a doll.
Down in the gully, Brady called out, "Dal?" Old Jim caught on faster. He spat a vile curse. I ignored them both. I was already sprinting to the fallen form. He wasn't moving, but Caleb had always encouraged caution. I kicked him hard, right in the jaw, before I fell to my knees at his side and grabbed the bow. I had an arrow's fletchings at my ear and its broad steel tip trained on Old Jim before he'd made it within four paces of me.
He yelped and dropped to the dirt. Brady stood two paces behind him, looking shocked and stupid. The other old man was just reaching the tent to scoop up a battered crossbow already loaded. I put my arrow through his shoulder and had another ready before he'd even started screaming.
"Untie my horse," I shouted. My voice quavered, and maybe they thought it was fear. Maybe they thought it was remorse at shooting an old man. But it was rage. The fire burned hot in my veins. I had enough arrows left to kill them all before they could move. I had enough to spare that I could hurt them all first. It took everything within me to stop that arrow flying for what they'd done to me.
