Another guard, a smaller man who went by the name Stabber, pointed to the east. “The big caves are over there,” he said. “I saw some of them once when I was with a caravan that got off course in a sandstorm.”
Arlian looked where Stabber pointed, then noticed Black staring at him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to go dragon hunting yet.” He returned his attention to hauling water.
After that, however, every so often he found himself gazing eastward.
Some of the oxen, which had plodded on all this way without protest, began to weaken as the journey across the waste stretched on; a few became too feeble to continue pulling, and were unhitched and allowed to walk behind the wagons on ropes. Most of these recovered their strength; a few did not, and were butchered, cooked, and eaten, thereby extending the human food supply while conserving the grain the oxen ate—and incidentally providing the only meat most of the people aboard the caravan had had since leaving Stonebreak.
Arlian’s own team of four was reduced to three; he rotated them, two pulling and one ambling alongside, thereafter.
A guard’s horse stumbled on the stone and broke a leg, and that, too, provided a brief addition to the supply of meat while conserving grain. The guard was transferred to the masters’ wagon, leaving only three horsemen to ride alongside.
One of the older merchants died in his sleep, and was buried beneath a cairn of stones before the caravan rolled on. As required by contract his goods were divided among the survivors, with the masters taking the largest share and the wagon itself. His heirs back in Manfort would receive a refund of his initial investment, plus the proceeds from the sales he had made so far at the various stops along the way, plus a percentage of whatever profit the masters eventually wound up with.
Arlian had lost count of the days when at last he saw Black pointing at something ahead. He shielded his eyes with his hand and stared, trying to see what Black was indicating.
The horizon was very slightly nearer than it ought to be, Arlian realized. They were finally within sight of the southern edge of the plateau.
They were almost out of the Desolation, and the water and food had not run out.
They celebrated that night, roasting another of the dead oxen and consuming a case of the dead merchant’s wine. Divided among the forty-two surviving merchants, the three masters, the fifteen guards, and some fifty assorted drivers, servants, and family members, that came to little more than a few sips for each, but it was the spirit that counted, not the quantity, and no one was inclined to waste any more of their trade goods in such a manner.
Besides, they were all tired and ready to sleep, and most of them still had to inspect the wheels and traces to make sure nothing needed repair before the next day’s journey. Any wagon that delayed the caravan to replace a broken wheel would be fined by the masters.
At midmorning the next day Arlian was sitting beside Quickhand at the front of his wagon when one of the horsemen, a fellow called Knobs, rode up alongside.
“Ho, there!” Arlian called. “How goes it?”
“Well enough, my lord,” Knobs called back. “I think I see another hole in the rock ahead.” He pointed.
Arlian leaned out to see where Knobs was looking—just as something dark whipped out of the opening in the stone. Knobs gave a wordless cry of surprise and pain and clapped a hand to his shoulder.
Then Knobs, Arlian, and Quickhand were all staring at the black wooden shaft that protruded between Knobs’s fingers.
“Whoa!” Arlian bellowed, yanking at the reins.
The arrow was as long as a man’s arm, bearing two black feathers and one red, and had struck Knobs just below his left shoulder. The tip now made a visible bulge in the back of his shirt, and red was beginning to stain the white fabric—Knobs had not been wearing any sort of armor in the fierce heat of the Desolation, still miles from where anyone had ever encountered bandits.
“By the dead gods,” Knobs said thickly, as he stared at the wound.
Arlian stared as well, sick with horror, but even so he did not permit himself to be shocked into inaction. “Get down!” he shouted. “You’re a target there!” He stopped his team and set the brake, then snatched off his hat—it could only get in the way—and flung it back into the wagon; then he grabbed for his sword.
Another arrow whickered past, brushing Knobs’s horse on the flank before smacking against the side of the next wagon back and glancing off; the horse shied, and Knobs swayed drunkenly in the saddle.
“Shouldn’t we keep moving?” Quickhand asked, as he groped for his own weapons. “A moving target … and Black didn’t give an order…”
“I gave an order!” Arlian snapped. He’d found his sword; now he drew it, tossed the sheath back into the wagon, and leaped to the ground. Another arrow buzzed past him and thumped into his own wagon, burying its barbed metal head in the wood.
“But you’re not even a guard!” Quickhand protested. Arlian ignored him.
The lead wagon had stopped as well, and Black was also on the ground, sword in hand—and swordbreaker in his left; Arlian had not taken the time to find his, and his left hand was empty.
“Keep apart!” Black shouted. “Come at him from different sides!”
“Where is he?” Arlian bellowed.
Another arrow flew, and this one caught Knobs’s horse in the flank, behind the left foreleg; the animal reared, and Knobs, already dazed with pain, tumbled from its back to the stone.
The desert air was full of shouts and screams now, as the rest of the caravan became aware of the attack; some wagons stopped, but others turned out of line and kept moving in various directions. Some were trying to loop around and turn back, away from the ambush; others seemed to be trying to charge forward.
One of the other horsemen was approaching at a gallop, and Arlian had to dodge aside to avoid being trampled.
A fifth arrow missed the galloping horse’s face by inches, and it veered aside; its master struggled with the reins and spurs, trying to regain control.
Knobs’s mount, wounded, was galloping off across the stony ground, its saddle empty.
Arlian now knew where the archer was, though; he had seen the last arrow emerge, as if from the earth itself. Their attacker was hiding in one of the waterholes, popping up only long enough to aim and loose.
A moment later he and Black knelt over opposite sides of the yard-wide opening, peering down into the darkness, ready to kill the archer if he dared rise to fire again.
He didn’t.
“Get a lantern,” Black ordered.
“Quickhand!” Arlian shouted. “A lantern! Now!”
Quickhand had been helping Knobs to his feet; still supporting the injured man, he turned and bellowed, “Somebody get a light, blast you all!”
A moment later Stabber hurried over, lamp in hand.
Black and Arlian looked at each other.
“He could be waiting for us,” Black said.
“I know,” Arlian replied. “Give me the lamp.”
Stabber obeyed after only the briefest glance at Black. Arlian got down flat on his belly on the hot stone and crept toward the opening, sword in one hand and lamp in the other, until he was close enough to lower the light down into the hollow in the stone.
Nothing happened, and he saw nothing but bare stone. He crept closer, until he could lean down and stick his head down into the cave.
He found no one—but it was obvious that someone had been here. The hole in the stone was roughly spherical, and about fifteen feet in diameter; it smelled unmistakably of human sweat and urine. In the center was a rough wooden platform, perhaps ten feet high, with a ladder up one side—plainly, the now vanished archer had stood atop this to fire at the approaching caravan.
But the platform was by no means the only man-made object in the cave. Looking past it Arlian saw a bedroll lying open on the stony floor to one side of the platform’s base, a blanket bunched at one end; an empty wineskin l
ay beside it, and an earthenware mug atop the wineskin. Half a dozen candle stubs were perched on irregularities in the cave walls, and the stone above each was streaked with smoke stains, and half a dozen more were set on the framework supporting the platform. Orange rinds and crumbs of bread and cheese were scattered everywhere. Even a chamberpot stood in one corner—all the comforts of home, Arlian thought.
He peered a bit more intently into the gloom, and noticed something he hadn’t seen at first—two of those black arrows were thrust point-down into the chamberpot. He grimaced in disgust; that was a nasty touch!
It was no mystery where the archer had gone; a wide opening gaped in the south wall of the little cave, about six feet high and three feet wide—and Arlian, after seven years in the mines, knew at a glance that that opening was not natural.
“There’s a tunnel,” he called. “He’s gotten away.”
“Can’t you go down after him?” Stabber asked.
Arlian lifted his head back out, and had to squint against the sunlight; he momentarily regretted leaving his hat in the wagon. He glanced at Stabber, then at Black.
“He knows the tunnel and we don’t,” Arlian said. “He can hear us coming, and his eyes will be better adjusted to the darkness. And he may have friends down there—he didn’t cut that tunnel single-handed.”
Black nodded. “It would be suicide,” he agreed.
“We can cover the opening, though,” Arlian said.
“With what?” Stabber asked.
“Anything,” Arlian said. He happened to look between the wagons and glimpse Knobs’s horse just then; it was out on the sand, weaving unsteadily, head bobbing up and down, the arrow still projecting from its flank. “A dead horse, maybe.”
Stabber followed his gaze. “She’s not dead,” he protested.
“Not yet,” Arlian said.
“She’s not going to be! We can fix her up well enough.”
Arlian opened his mouth, intending to describe the contents of the chamberpot in the cave, then saw the expression on Stabber’s face and thought better of it.
“Some junk, then,” Arlian said. “An unused chest, maybe.” He peered back down the hole. “And we’ll want to wreck that platform, while we’re at it.”
In the end, Arlian was lowered down into the cave with a rope about his chest, ready to be snatched back up if anyone emerged from the tunnel. He collected the bedroll, blanket, and wineskin, snapped the two arrows in half, then flung the contents of the chamberpot—he judged it as at least two days’ accumulation—as far down the tunnel as he could.
Then, with the aid of ropes and several willing helpers, he disassembled the platform and framework and hauled the pieces out of the cave. Once out, he and the others rebuilt the platform over the opening, sealing it up.
While he had been doing this, others had captured the wounded mare and had tended to her injuries. Knobs, too, had been carefully ministered to.
For Knobs, the shaft was broken off short and pulled out through the back of his shoulder to minimize the damage the barbed head would cause. For the unfortunate horse no such method was possible; the barbs had to be cut out of the animal’s flank. She screamed and reared wildly as this operation was performed, despite the efforts of a dozen men restraining her.
“It’s all no good,” Arlian told Black quietly when he had emerged from the cave and had seen what had been done. “The arrows were poisoned.”
The two men were walking beside the caravan, seeing that all the wagons were back in line.
“You’re sure?”
Arian felt ill as he nodded. “Smell them,” he said. “You’ll probably be able to tell.”
As it happened, the arrow that had glanced off one of the wagons lay on the stone not far from where they were walking; Black stooped and retrieved it. He held it gingerly as he sniffed the head.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Simple, but probably effective in the long run.”
Arlian nodded again. “Slow, though.”
“Knobs is a strong man,” Black said as he tossed the arrow aside. “He may survive it.”
“I hope so,” Arlian said. He swallowed, sickened by the memory of that shaft through Knobs’s shoulder and the spreading stain on his shirt. They took another few steps, and then he added, “I take it we can expect more of this.”
“Maybe,” Black said. “I don’t know; I’ve never heard of anything like it. Tunnels through the stone?”
“Then it’s not the usual method?”
“Not at all. Usually there’s no trouble at all until the wagons start down the slope at the southern rim; then you’ll have rock slides, deadfalls, anything they can do to slow us down, maybe cripple a wagon so it has to be left behind.” He looked thoughtfully at the nearest wagon, a gaudy red-painted construction trimmed with gilt. “It’s almost as if they want us to turn back.
“But we can’t,” Arlian protested. “There’s no water—not if we follow the same route. We used it all.”
“I know,” Black said. “And they probably know it, too. So they know we won’t turn back, but they’re trying to discourage us.”
“To convince us to surrender without a fight?”
“Probably,” Black said. “He aimed for a horseman—he was after guards, not merchants.”
“And the poison … that’s to slow us down, too. Burden us with sick companions.”
Black nodded. They were nearing the rear of the caravan. “I think a few words with the masters are in order,” he said.
“I’ll come with you,” Arlian said.
Black put a hand on Arlian’s chest to stop him. “You’re not a guard yet,” he said. “You’re a merchant, and a very junior one.”
“My wagon’s at the front of the caravan,” Arlian said. “I think I have a right to express my concerns to the masters.”
Black looked him in the eye, then shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said, dropping his hand.
22
The Bandits Strike
The caravan finally began moving again around the middle of the afternoon, inching forward cautiously. People who had previously walked alongside, chatting easily with one another, now huddled in their wagons; the two remaining horsemen did not continue their regular trots up and down the caravan’s length, but instead dodged about, scouting for sinkholes or other hazards and staying much farther from the wagons than the norm.
Everyone knew now that they had lost the first round of the gamble every caravan faced. Bandits had found them. They were walking into an ambush—but what choice did they have? They couldn’t turn back. To the west lay mile upon mile of empty, lifeless sand; to the east the terrain grew ever more rocky and broken until it ended in immense cliffs above the Ocean Sea, where waves twice the height of a man smashed relentlessly against the jagged stone.
Bows were strung, oilcloth bundles of arrows unwrapped, swords polished, swordbreakers readied, helmets and breastplates donned, and maces brandished.
Arlian was annoyed to discover that his hat would not fit over his helmet, and the helmet provided no shade for his eyes. After some debate he settled on wearing the helmet.
As the others readied themselves, poor Knobs lay on his bedding in the masters’ wagon; his mare followed wretchedly behind, at the end of a long tether. Every trace of the previous evening’s jubilation was gone.
They trudged on much later than usual as the sunlight faded in the west, in an attempt to make up for lost time; there would be no chance to practice swordsmanship unless Black wanted to see what his pupil could do by firelight.
Arlian scanned the horizon, shading his eyes with his hand, when the call to stop was finally passed forward from the masters. “Where do you think that tunnel comes out?” he asked Quickhand.
The guard looked at him blankly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Does it have to come out somewhere?”
“Well, of course…” Arlian began.
Then he stopped. What if it didn’t come out anywhere? What if it were just
long enough for the archer to hide in? They might have trapped him, had they known.
But no—that made no sense. Who would have built such a trap?
But where could the tunnel go? Not the southern slopes, surely; the bandits couldn’t have burrowed under ten or fifteen miles of stone. The archer must have come out somewhere not far from the caravan—yet they had seen no sign of him.
Arian frowned. He didn’t like any of this. These bandits were being altogether too clever.
He slept in his own wagon that night, despite the heat; no one was inclined to risk bedding down on the stone. It took him an unusually long time to doze off.
He was awakened in darkness by a shout and the bellow of a wounded bull; he knew instantly that dawn had not yet come, yet he heard voices calling. He climbed to his feet and made his way out of the wagon by touch.
The moon had risen while he slept, and its light was eerily bright on the sand to the west; to the east the occasional patches of drifted sand shone palely against the dark stone, and shapes were distorted and hard to recognize in the maze of light and shadow, but he could see someone running.
Then the running figure vanished, just as two more figures appeared, pursuing the first.
Arlian leaped down, sword in hand.
The two figures slowed to a walk, moving forward cautiously; Arlian could see that they, too, held drawn swords. They came to a stop near the point where the first had vanished and conferred inaudibly, then turned and headed back toward the caravan.
“What happened?” Arlian called quietly.
One figure veered toward him, and he recognized Black.
“The bastard picked off two of our oxen,” the head guard said in disgust. “The sooner we get off this plateau and out of these rocks and meet these blackguards openly, the better I’ll like it.”
“Another tunnel?” Arlian asked, pointing toward the spot where the fleeing figure had disappeared.
“So it seems,” Black said. Then he realized who he was addressing. “Go back to bed, my lord,” he said. “We should reach the southern slopes tomorrow afternoon, and that’s when we can expect to face something more than a few arrows. You’ll want to be rested.”
Dragon Weather Page 20
