Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga)

by Doranna Durgin

  "Another time," Ehren agreed. He looked at the Guards before him, and nudged Jada with his toe, catching her eye with a look that stopped her amusement cold. "You remember what I said," he told her. He stepped over her, raised his sword in a brief salute to them all, and left the practice room.

  There were still some places in this palace where he belonged, after all.

  ~~~~~

  Ehren's bright chestnut gelding gave the mildest of impatient snorts and tried to rub his nose on the inside of his foreleg. Ehren let the reins slip through his fingers to accommodate the gelding, a sensible but often hot-blooded creature named Shaffron.

  Today, however, Shaffron was tired— and Ehren was stretching a long day even longer. Seventeen days of travel, taking back roads across the breadth of Solvany from coastal Kurtane to the eastern border, and he was too close to the Loraka border station to stop for the night in the middle of nowhere.

  Shaffron, satisfied his nose had been properly tended, added a shake, rattling Ehren's teeth. Ehren swore mildly; Shaffron lowered his head, jingled the loose shanks of the bit, and waited for Ehren to decide what would happen next. Thrushes rustled in the underbrush around them, offering occasional liquid notes of evening song.

  "You should have been born a mule," Ehren told his mount. "Ricasso never does things like that." His second horse waited at the end of his lead with palpable patience— a stouter, taller gelding who had never decided if he wanted to be brown or black and thus was a muddle of the two. Today he carried supplies instead of carrying Ehren; yesterday he had taken the front.

  The two horses had shared pack and saddle duties for the past year, and shared the trail with Ehren as well. He conversed with them without reservation and on occasion would have sworn they spoke in return.

  But when he nudged Shaffron forward, Ricasso followed grudgingly, and his first step made a clinking noise. Damn. Loose shoe. Ehren had a moment's wistful thought— he might make it to the border station just fine, since they were on the well-tended main road— but it wasn't worth the chance the shoe might tear off, taking with it crucial chunks of Ricasso's hoof.

  "All right, boys," he said out loud. "That's it for the day."

  He found an opening in the scrubby woods to lead the horses away from the road. No water here, but they'd watered thoroughly within the hour and done nothing but walk in the cool of the evening since. He'd eaten well at noon, too, paying king's coin to a couple making a go of it on this hard soil in the shadow of the mountains. The jutting Lorakan ridges rose suddenly at the eastern border, and Solvany west of the mountains was an arid place, little populated.

  Amidst the ever-bolder thrushes and a quietly calling cuckoo, Ehren built a small fire for some tea and went about unsaddling the horses. As the daylight faded, he applied a brush to the sweat marks on Shaffron's back; Ricasso browsed, trailing his lead rope and never straying far.

  It was Ehren's thoughts that kept straying— back to the young couple who had fed him. Back to their anxious nerves at his approach, in spite of his prominent ailettes— painted leather squares tied off at the point of his shoulder— with the Guard crest on them.

  He was used to seeing relief, not concern. He frowned, applying a vigorous brush across crusty hair over Shaffron's loins while the horse stretched his neck and lips in silly faces of pleasure.

  But a moment later the gelding's head went up high, his diminutive ears pricked tightly up and forward. Ten yards away, Ricasso mirrored the movement.

  "Company, then, boys?" Ehren murmured. In a moment he heard it, too: conversation, a little loud. There was barely enough daylight for him to pick out two shapes as they approached and then stopped, looking at his fire. Shaffron snorted; Ricasso echoed it.

  The men exchanged glances, and one took a step forward. "Care for some company?"

  "As you please," Ehren told him, not particularly pleased himself. They blundered through the brush toward him, and Ehren resigned himself to it.

  "What's on the fire?" the second man said, a solidly padded outline with a voice that sounded head-cold hoarse.

  "Not much," Ehren said. "Tea, if you'd care to share it."

  "Oh, good, he's a generous sort," the first man said. They arrived in the firelight; the first man was scruffy and sported an ill-tended beard, while his well-padded partner wiped his nose on his sleeve. Charming. They wore rough brigandines with ailettes Ehren couldn't read in the darkness.

  "Border guards?" he asked, setting aside the horse brushes to pour himself some tea. "You'll have to provide your own cup, unless you care to wait for this one."

  "A patrol of sorts," the snuffly one agreed. "And we've got our own drink." And so they had, a leather bota with something stronger than tea, no doubt. With any luck they'd fall asleep early and not snore too loudly.

  Ricasso gave a mutter of a disgruntled snort at them.

  "He's got two," the bearded man said, and nodded— and without further word they jerked long narrow swords free of their scabbards.

  Ehren froze.

  "No harm to you, fellow, unless you give us trouble," the stout man said. "All we want's your horses. Seems fair, don't it, the two of us with no horses and you with two all to yourself?"

  "Depends on your point of view, I expect," Ehren said, holding his arms out to the side, one hand still gripping his cup. He could probably clear his sword before either of these two could reach him, but... not just yet.

  "You just move aside," the bearded man said, edging toward Shaffron, waving his sword to herd Ehren to the other side of the fire. Step by step, careful not to offend, Ehren moved, gaining distance between them.

  The sniffling stout man did a quick search of the ground around the fire. "Got saddles?" he demanded.

  "Two," Ehren said. But you've got to get the horses first. "And don't mix them, or the boys will get saddle sores."

  "The boys," the bearded man repeated mockingly. "Isn't that sweet." He watched Ehren as he groped for the saddle beside Shaffron, fighting the tangle of girth and stirrup leathers. As he tugged the saddle blanket free and tossed it at Shaffron's back, the horse jerked against the insubstantial tree that held him, neatly stepping sideways. The blanket slid to the ground.

  Ehren only smiled. The stout man scowled at him and muttered at his partner, "Hurry up, will you?"

  But when the bearded man reached for Shaffron's lead rope, the horse grunted and struck at him; the man leapt back with a curse.

  Ehren dipped his tea at the stout robber in toast and took a sip.

  "Ninth Level, just get the beast!" the stout man snapped, and wiped his nose again, shifting his gaze between his partner and Ehren, between impatience and growing uncertainty. "Try the other one first."

  With a glance at Ehren, and another at the snorting, wall-eyed prancing of Shaffron, the bearded man sheathed his sword in an angry motion that jammed the weapon home. He grabbed up both saddle and blanket, heading out for the rustle in the scrub that was Ricasso.

  "Wrong saddle," Ehren said.

  The stout man snarled, "Shut up!"

  From the fire circle they could see nothing of horse nor man, but the course of events was obvious without such cues. Ricasso's snort, the man's harsh command to stand, the slap of the saddle against the horse's back. A peculiar, solid thud, the snapping twigs of a body falling through brush. Agitated hoof beats and a fading sigh of a moan that was not repeated.

  Ehren looked the stout man in his piggish little eyes, his smile suddenly gone dangerous. "I told him it was the wrong saddle."

  The stout man hesitated; his sword wavered. "Endall," he called uncertainly, and turned his head ever so slightly, as if he might see through the dark brush to his partner. Ricasso snorted.

  Ehren had gained the distance he needed; he threw the tea on the ground, reached for his sword hilt... and the stout thief broke. Dropping his guard, he turned and fled.

  Ehren's sword rang free of the scabbard; he leapt over the little fire and ran for Ricasso, unwilling to expos
e his back to the bearded man however unlikely the threat. He tripped over the saddle, but saw the man clearly enough— a dark bundle of flaccid muscles that didn't respond to the nudge of his toe. Maybe dead, maybe not; certainly hurt. Ehren jerked the man's Lorakan-style sword free of its scabbard and threw it into the scrub. When Ricasso jigged up to him, rolling high snorts of excitement, Ehren grabbed the lead rope and swung up onto the animal.

  The sturdy, big-boned horse crashed through the brush as though it wasn't even there, the wide warmth of his body solid between Ehren's thighs, his movements full of power. His heavy hoof-falls steadied as they gained the road, and though he snorted eagerly, his canter remained even as they reached and passed their quarry.

  The stout man had taken a quarter mile at full run and his stride was turning to a stagger. When a shift of Ehren's weight brought Ricasso broadside in his path, the man stumbled to a flailing stop. He clumsily reversed track to head for the brush— though suddenly Ricasso was in his way there, too. And again, and again, with Ricasso cutting him off more quickly each time as he understood the game.

  Finally the thief stood still, panting. Without much hope, his eyes half closed and his head tilted back with his exhaustion, he said, "Please... don't kill me."

  "If I killed you, I'd have to carry you." Ehren rode up close and nudged the man with his booted toe, nodding back the way they'd come. With resignation and no few furtive glances at the brush, the man obliged.

  They'd only gone a few steps when Ehren realized Ricasso's gait was subtly uneven. Grabbing the horse's mane, he leaned over the sturdy line of Ricasso's shoulder and looked at his foot as it stepped in and out of view. "Damn," he muttered— and saw a dark flash of movement on the other side of the horse.

  Ricasso sprang forward instantly, and Ehren reached down to haul the thief back by his greasy shirt collar. "Don't tempt me," he growled, giving the man a little shake. "Now that Ricasso's lost that shoe, I'm really mad."

  ~~~~~

  Morning confirmed Ehren's hope that Ricasso's hoof had taken only minor damage. He pulled the shoe off the other front hoof to balance the horse out and resigned himself to walking until he reached the border station. Shaffron bore the pack and Ricasso carried his own saddle; the thief's bound hands were tied to one stirrup, and after his surreptitious attempts to loosen the rope annoyed the horse into snapping at him, he remained docile enough.

  The second robber still lay where he'd fallen, his chest crushed and bearing the clear imprint of two hooves. In the daylight, Ehren discovered their ailettes were nothing more than a meaningless combination of crests: Border Patrol, King's Guard, Local Guard— enough symbols of authority to catch the eye and make any law-abiding man at least hesitate.

  It made him think of the young couple and their trepidation at his approach. And that made him wonder what was going on in the borderlands, and what news he had missed as he'd scoured the coastal areas of Solvany. But gentle prodding got him no answers from his prisoner, and he left it at that. For now, it was the Border Patrol's problem.

  They crossed the Eredon River bridge at midday, with Ehren's feet more sore than he liked to admit. He turned the thief over to the youth and middle-aged veteran there, told them of the body alongside the road, and wondered out loud at the paucity of traffic that morning. He got plenty of cooperation with handling the thief, but only shrugs in response to his deliberately idle questions, so he took Ricasso into the crossroads beyond the border station. The small collection of amenities held everything for the weary traveler— an inn, a collective with a modest number of merchants under one roof, and what Ehren was looking for: a series of corralled shelters with a grain shed and a farrier's anvil and forge in the midst of them. Behind it all stood a barn for the higher paying customers.

  He hitched Shaffron outside one of the corrals and had to stop the farrier's hand as it reached for Ricasso's lead. "She's safe," he told the horse distinctly, not once but three times, waiting for the animal's ears to swivel forward again, and then pressed the rope into the burly woman's hand within the horse's field of view. "Just don't let anyone else try to handle him," he told her as she eyed the horse askance.

  Ricasso calmly eyed her back. At near-seventeen hands and with draft blood in his veins, his superbly conditioned bulk was more than intimidating. But in the end the woman sighed and bent to examine the horse's hoof, having apparently decided to trust Ehren's confidence in the matter.

  She grunted over the chunks of missing hoof— Ricasso's hoof walls had ever been liable to crumble— and said, "I'll have to make him a pair. Don't have anything this big on hand right now."

  "He toes in on the left side," Ehren said. "He'll do better if you leave a little length to the shoe on the outside."

  She grunted again, a noise he took to be assent, and led Ricasso to the hitching rail by her anvil.

  Ehren stripped Shaffron of his packs, gave the horse a quick curry, and saddled him up again. Then he hesitated, looking at the ring on his little finger.

  Varien had used the ring— and the blood tie from Benlan to his brother Dannel— to create the vaguest of guides. Just as Varien had told him, it now pulsed against his skin. Ehren didn't understand how it worked, which was fine; he was less sanguine about the need to trigger one last spell to confirm the bloodline when he had found the self-exiled royal family: Dannel and his T'ieran-blood wife, with whatever children they might have had.

  "I'll know when that spell is trigged," he'd told Ehren. Along with, "You are to ensure that there will be no interference from them— no threat to Rodar. In whatever way is necessary."

  "I'm no hired killer," Ehren had told him, as bluntly as was his wont. And Varien had just smiled. For the Guard... the Guard had been his life. Benlan's trust in him had fueled bone-deep loyalty at an early age, loyalty to the royal blood— even if the current king was in fact a royal pain in the ass.

  Ehren frowned now at the memory, and swung into the saddle. The ring nagged at him, and although he expected it would lead him in the obvious direction— through the trade route pass to Lake Everdawn, and down through the gentler hills beyond into Loraka proper— he intended to ride the area around the border station, and see if the feeling waxed and waned. It had certainly done nothing but intensify as he approached the border, so Varien had, indeed, aimed him in the right direction.

  Shaffron bobbed his head impatiently, his fine neck arched and as noble as it could possibly be. With his copious copper-flaxen mane and tail and the fine T'ieran-bred features that hid the true wealth of sturdiness beneath, he was a lady-pleaser, the horse that drew the attention— though Ricasso was the real pet, the one who wanted scratches and murmured words.

  Ehren gave Shaffron the slight shift of leg which meant go, and Shaffron, pleased to be free of the pack and ever the glorious show-off, jigged a fancy sideways prance down the Trade Road to Lake Everdawn.

  Ehren let him play. He was more interested in the ring against his finger, and the careful inspection he received from the few travelers he passed. Suspicion seemed to be the one thing that united them; he noticed not one of them was traveling alone, but always in pairs— or more. He didn't spend much time in this part of the country, but even so their sullenness— the quick glances of distrust they gave him— struck him as odd.

  But even odder was the road branch he ran into a quarter mile out, off to the south and into territory that had been largely impassible since the Border War several hundred years earlier. It was too risky, full of stray floating magics and fading ambushes and spells of confusion, all ready to snare the unwary traveler— but the ground showed definite signs of ongoing use.

  Someone, it appeared, was overcoming the dangers.

  He kept Shaffron to a cautious walk and investigated half a mile of the new road— finding that it turned rough fast, with barely an impression of wagon wheels as a guide. Once it crossed the river— via a crude, man-built ford that wouldn't last long against the rush of the water— the north-south line of r
idges rose again, enfolding the twisting road and any unwary travelers upon it. Complete with wild, leftover magics.

  But the ring practically purred upon Ehren's finger— and the moment he turned Shaffron around to return to the station, it quit. Sulking, he would have called it, if he was wont to make light of Varien's magic. Shaffron remained unaffected, settling into a steady, rolling canter with his characteristically high leg action— leaving Ehren plenty of opportunity to digest what he'd learned.

  There was a new road. It led south into the Lorakan mountains, a rough territory of unfriendly magics; its end point was unknown.

  And it was where he had to go.

  ~~~~~

  "No, sir, you can't mean to do it." The young Border Guard gave an emphatic shake of his head and spat around the corner of the guardhouse, into the weedy growth that held its ground despite heavy traffic.

  Ehren raised an eyebrow, amused. "I guess I do, at that." He waited for the man to check a small wagon for contraband— mostly, materials too similar to those Solvany produced on its own— and said, "Tell me about that road. Until this afternoon, I didn't even know it existed."

  "Ain't but a couple years old," the man said. He was young, without much more than a scraggly assortment of hairs on his upper lip, but he talked as though he'd been in the Border Patrol guard forever. Ehren kept his amusement to himself. "Some Therand merchant— guy named Ansgare— found himself a fellow who can avoid the magics, even with the way they wander around."

  "Any half-trained apprentice can do that." Ehren felt horse lips nibbling surreptitiously at his shirt and twitched his shoulder up to bump Shaffron away.

  "Not this, they can't. This fellow— he's young, too, maybe a couple years older'n me— just sees them naturally. He don't know a thing about casting spells, or setting charm warnings. He just sees the wrong places, when everyone else'd walk right into 'em. So he guides Ansgare's merchants straight from the Therand pass, along the mountains to us. Cuts off lots of time, and they aren't paying any of the Lorakan road tariffs."