Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  Conger’s smile grew. “Is that all he wants?”

  The beginning of horror began to gnaw his gut, and his head spun.

  “That’s right, boy,” Conger said. “Without an omne to verify the lots, Weir can buy or threaten every man in the conclave. Anyone who stands in his way will end up dead.”

  Errol turned to stare back at the camp. “The watchman who volunteered . . .” He couldn’t finish.

  “Right again. Every one of them will lay down his life for you to keep Weir from buying the throne after Rodran dies.”

  “But what about the barrier?”

  Conger spat, punctuated the action with a few savory words. “The Weirs don’t believe in anything but their own power, boy.”

  A distant clack brought his attention back to Adora. She knew all this. How could she not? “What can I do to help her?”

  Conger laughed. “That’s the spirit, boy, but the answer is right in front of you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone improve as quickly with a weapon as you, lad.” Conger offered a diffident lift of his shoulders. “How did you do it?”

  Errol laughed at the memory. “I spent every spare moment getting stronger or working the staff.”

  Conger nodded. “Aye, that’s how it’s done.”

  So. Errol braced his hands against a gnarled tree root and pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks, Conger.” He grabbed his staff and headed back toward the camp.

  The noise led him back, but the silence between sword blows grew. By the time he stepped between two of the flat-bottomed wagons, they’d stopped altogether. When he caught sight of Adora, he understood why.

  Sweat stained the sleeveless cotton blouse that clung to her as she knelt in utter exhaustion. Her blond hair hung in a stringy tangle as she panted, face toward the ground. Adora’s shoulders were a wreck. Welts and bruises covered every square inch of the princess’s arms from shoulder to elbow. A trickle of blood flowed from a cut on the left one.

  Rokha stood over her, sword in the ready position, waiting. “Do you think your enemies will stop because you’re tired or hurt? That is precisely the moment they will strike hardest. Come, Princess. Summon some of that royal courage.”

  Adora staggered to her feet, her face slack with exhaustion. Her sword arm trembled, and she swayed as if drunk. Then she toppled to the ground, the sword slipping from her blistered hand. Rale came forward to gather the princess in his arms and take her away.

  Adora’s helplessness woke something within Errol, something that threatened to put him on his knees keening in grief or raging to kill Rokha. With a physical wrench, he shoved the emotion aside. He would end this. Rokha faced him at the sound of his footsteps, then retreated a step before she straightened to meet him.

  “Is this what you call training?” Errol kept his voice low. If he started screaming, he might not find the will to stop. “It’ll be days before she can lift a sword.”

  Rokha’s eyes widened at the threat in his voice. “If you step in, boy, she’ll hardly thank you for it.”

  “How can I not step in?” he asked. “You’re practically killing her.”

  “Do you want her?” Rokha asked.

  Errol clamped his teeth together around a curse. “What does that have to do with her learning the sword?”

  “Everything, boy.” Rokha came close enough to kiss him, pitched her voice so that only he could hear. “Do you want her?” she pressed.

  “Yes.”

  “And she wants you, boy. She’s run from every safety and security she’s ever known to follow you into Merakh.” Her mouth twitched in grim amusement. “We’ll probably all die there.”

  Rokha’s dodge confused him. She spoke of the princess in respectful, even warm tones mere moments after beating her to exhaustion.

  He shook his head, trying to understand. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  She lifted her hand to pat his cheek, but stopped just short. “You didn’t learn very much about women in Erinon, Errol. You’re a hero. Your name is on every tongue on the west coast. You’re omne to the conclave of readers, you’ve had your story entered into the book of records, and the king elevated you to the nobility.”

  He shrugged away Rokha’s list. “I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I was just trying to stay alive.”

  She smiled, and for a moment he thought of Anomar, Rale’s wife.

  “You have to let her do this, Errol,” Rokha said. “Adora was born to the nobility. Everything she has was given to her. She needs to prove herself worthy of you, to be able to marry you as your equal, not your inferior.”

  Inferior? Errol shambled away from Rokha in search of the princess, half afraid he’d find her conscious and wanting to talk. Just when he thought women couldn’t get any more complicated, they said or did something so incomprehensible that he had to start all over again.

  He found her by the lead wagon, the one Ru used to maintain his fiction as caravan master. Rale held a jar of salve that smelled of lemongrass and mint. Adora stared straight ahead, her eyes dulled by exhaustion.

  “Is she all right?” Errol asked.

  At his question, Adora stirred, blinked twice, and then faced him. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  Rale caught his eye and gave a slight shake of the head.

  Errol had no idea what his mentor tried to communicate, but Rokha’s advice still resonated inside him. “I have no intention of trying to stop you, Princess, but if this is how you intend to abuse yourself, it will take you forever to learn the sword.” His voice sounded harsh in the stillness surrounding Ru’s wagon, almost a bark. He’d never used that tone with Adora before.

  Her eyes widened at his response, and tears gathered at the corners.

  Errol stifled the impulse to gather her in his arms. Instead, he held out his hands to Rale, who surrendered the jar of salve and left.

  He didn’t trust himself to speak yet. Instead he took a generous glop of salve and proceeded to rub it into the ruin of her right shoulder.

  Adora winced and bit her lower lip but refused to give voice to the pain. Good. Maybe she’d be brave enough or stubborn enough to do what needed doing.

  Errol tried to ignore the feel of Adora’s skin. He willed himself to concentrate on the muscles beneath. The princess wasn’t thin, but neither did she possess the broad-shouldered athleticism Rokha owned after years with the sword.

  But the princess was built well. She was nearly as tall as Errol, and though he would never describe her as thick, neither was she as fine-boned as many of the ladies at court.

  He moved to the left shoulder, his hands working to relieve a knot in her muscles. After he’d kneaded most of the tension away, he worked on her forearms, spending extra time on her sword arm. She’d taken fewer blows there, and the softness of her skin sliding beneath his fingers distracted him. By the time he’d massaged his way down to her hands, his ears were burning.

  He capped the jar and stepped back. “How’s that, Princess?”

  “Adora,” she corrected.

  He nodded. “Adora.”

  The tears were gone from her eyes. She lifted each arm in turn. “Better. I think I might be able to fight again tomorrow.”

  Errol frowned at her ignorance. “No you won’t. This bout was not like Rokha’s earlier lessons—she was testing you. When you wake up in the morning you’ll feel as if every wagon in this caravan ran over you. The day after that it will be worse.”

  Her green eyes narrowed to slits. “If I can’t fight, then how am I supposed to learn the sword?”

  Only brutal honesty would work. “You weren’t fighting, Adora. You were taking a beating. Fighting is when you land a blow every now and then.”

  She bit her lip, but her voice was steady. “So what should I do?”

  Better. “Don’t abuse your body. It’s your weapon as much as a sword. Care for it.”

  Her chin came up at the tone in his voice. “I want to prove myself
.”

  He forced himself to laugh, even as he hated himself for it. “Getting beaten doesn’t prove much.” Errol shrugged. “Beating your opponent, on the other hand . . .”

  Adora’s eyes blazed, but she leaned toward him as if he had something she wanted. “How long before I can beat Rokha?”

  Errol shook his head. “Probably never. She’s worked at the sword for years, with her father, the best swordsman in the kingdom, training her. If beating her is your goal, put it aside and choose something more sensible. I can’t show you how to handle a blade, but I can show you how to get strong. Then you’ll be able to take what Rokha teaches and use it properly.”

  “I hate her.”

  Errol nearly asked why but decided against it. “Then use that, Princess . . . Adora. We’ll be in Merakh all too soon, and I . . .” His voice caught.

  “You . . . what?”

  He swallowed. His voice rasped into the narrow space between them. “I would like for you to live to see home again.”

  Adora closed the space between them so quickly he hadn’t realized she’d moved until he felt her lips pressed against his. He tasted the salt of her sweat. The way his head spun, it might have been the strongest mead. He tried to pull away, but her hands came behind his head, and her kiss became less aggressive, softer and more lingering. His awareness of everything but her lips against his vanished.

  When she released him at last, the cultured face she displayed at court had returned, smooth and controlled except for a flush in her cheeks. “I would like for both of us to see home again, Earl Stone. Please see me in the morning so you may begin my instruction.”

  22

  RIPPLES

  ERROL TRIED TO IGNORE the pain evident on Adora’s face. The challenge lay in ignoring his memory of Cruk’s attempt to teach him the sword months before. Afterward he’d woken so sore that movement of any kind qualified as torture. Adora’s beating exceeded his. The welts on her shoulders had faded somewhat overnight, but her skin was so mottled by bruises that her arms resembled molting snakes.

  Even so, as Adora rode she hoisted a pair of bags filled with rocks, alternating lifts with each hand and then lifting them both in unison. The extremity of her exertions left channels on her face where tears washed away the dust from the road. Errol adjusted his view of the princess. Before, he had looked upon her as a work of priceless porcelain, of surpassing value, but fragile. The radiance of her eyes and the golden splendor of her hair had awakened protective instincts in him that had surprised him.

  Now it seemed those instincts were hardly required. The glory of the princess’s beauty—from her smooth, flawless skin to the lithe grace of her movements—still stunned him, but there was more tempered steel to Adora than fired clay. She lifted the bags again, intent.

  “Good, Princess,” he said. “The motion will help work the soreness from your arms and strengthen the muscles for the sword.”

  “When can I spar again?” Adora asked with a grunt of exertion.

  Errol laughed. “Whenever you want.” Adora’s face lit with anticipation. “But if you want to be able to get anything out of the lesson, wait until most of the soreness is gone.”

  Her delicate eyebrows lowered, casting the sea green of her eyes into stormy shadow. “Very well. I hardly think I need your supervision to heft bags of rocks, Earl Stone.”

  The tone of dismissal was unmistakable.

  Errol tried to bow as he rode. He grappled with the saddle to recover his balance. “Your Highness,” he said. Then he moved forward to ride with Rale.

  Captain Elar Indomiel—who Errol would always think of as Rale the farmer—leaned forward as he rode, his eyes searching and intent. The captain’s face, usually open and friendly, now looked harsh enough for him to be Cruk’s brother.

  His gaze snapped to Errol. “I don’t like it, boy.”

  “What?” Errol asked.

  Rale looked on the verge of giving him a tongue lashing, but he growled his impatience instead. “You need to think, boy. One well-placed arrow in my chest and, honorary captain or not, you’ll be heading this church-forsaken mission into Merakh. In what direction are we headed?”

  “South.”

  Rale gave an exaggerated nod. “And how long have we been headed mostly south?”

  Errol shrugged. “Since we started.”

  “And if you were Valon or one of his circle, what would you think?”

  “That we were coming for him in Merakh, but he knows that already,” Errol pointed out. “He’s known that since the attack at Steadham.”

  The captain inclined his head. “Good, but not good enough. How many ports are there on our side of the strait? After that, how many ports are there on the Merakhi side?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s your job to know, boy.”

  “And when would I find time to do that?” Errol shot back. “I’ve been getting to know the men in the caravan, trying to keep Rokha from brutally beating Adora—who in turn, can’t make up her mind whether to keep me or kiss me—and now you expect me to know things I have no way of knowing. By the three, I wish I were back in the ale barrel in Callowford.”

  Instead of getting angry, Rale laughed. The sound bounded among the trees in the cool air of the Talian hills, clean and fresh. When he finished, he clapped Errol on the back. “It’s simple, boy. I’m one of the people you’re supposed to get to know.”

  Errol hung his head in embarrassment. “They said you were the second-best tactician in the kingdom. I forgot.”

  “A woman can addle your brains sure enough, Errol, but you’re second-in-command. You can’t afford to get distracted. It’s past time for you to begin your education.”

  “How long did it take you to become one of the best military leaders in the kingdom?”

  “Decades, but I can teach you the rudiments along the way.”

  Errol settled in for a long conversation, and he wasn’t disappointed. By the time the sun burned its way from bright yellow to orange to red, Rale had guided him through a mind-boggling array of military subjects that included pikemen, archers, light cavalry, heavy cavalry, sieges, supply lines, and more.

  “How do you keep up with it all?” Errol asked in awe. “Your head should be as big as a castle holding all that.”

  Rale chuckled. “Years of study reinforced by experience in the field. I could have done without that last part. I hate war.”

  “But you’re good at it.”

  The captain’s lips tightened around his answer. “When I was a sergeant, I studied tactics because I wanted to live. The worst thing in battle is to have some popinjay of a noble giving orders while his head is filled with tales of glory. I disobeyed a lot of those. After they promoted me, I kept studying because I wanted my men to live. The higher I went, the more I studied. I’ve always enjoyed learning about war. It’s using the knowledge I despise. Men bleeding to death calling for their wives or mothers never make it into the tales.”

  “Does it have to come to war?” Errol asked.

  “Except, possibly, for a few of the nobles, the kingdom doesn’t want it,” Rale said, “but everything we’ve learned tells us that the Merakhi and Morgols do. War’s not like dancing, Errol. It only takes one to start.”

  Ru called to them from his position on the lead wagon. The caravan master and Rale exchanged a long glance. Ru’s head tilted and his lip curled ever so slightly. Rale stared through Naaman Ru as if the man were made of water.

  “What do you want?” Rale asked.

  “Darcy tells me there’s a village a league ahead, watchman.” Ru managed to imbue the title with scorn. “We need to resupply. Caravans have to do that every now and then, you know. We need to make camp there.”

  Rale’s eyes flattened to slits. “How big is the village?”

  “What does it matter?” Ru asked. “We need supplies.”

  “No. We’ll camp here.” Rale shrugged.

  Ru’s face flushed at th
e dismissal. “We won’t make it to the coast unless we resupply. It’s either at the next village or some other place.”

  “How big is the village?” Rale repeated.

  Ru muttered genealogical imprecations under his breath and called for Darcy. The Gascon came forward, his smile fading as he caught the tension between the two men. “How may I serve you, Master Ru, Captain?”

  “How big is the next village?” Rale asked.

  “Minaccia?” Darcy asked. “It’s more than a village, less than a town. It has three or four inns, I think.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand. “Ah, but the women, Captain, they are a wonder.”

  Rale turned to the caravan master. “We’ll camp short of the village by five hundred paces. You can take the supply wagon on in and get what we need.” The captain gave Ru a long look. “I’ll be sending a pair of guards with you, just to help you out, Master Ru.”

  The implication of distrust resonated in Rale’s words and even more so in his choice of guards. Merodach and Orth were the two most skilled swordsmen in the camp after Ru himself. The master snorted his disdain and turned away.

  Darcy followed Rale and Errol, his face lit from within. “I’d be happy to go with the good caravan master,” he said.

  Errol covered his smile with a fake cough. Darcy’s sudden eagerness wasn’t difficult to understand.

  Rale didn’t share Errol’s amusement. “I expect you to remember your place and your duty, Darcy. I have no intention of letting you within fifty paces of the women of any village. You will stay here. Merodach and Orth will go.”

  “You expect trouble?” Errol asked. The choice to send the two best swords in the watch troubled him.

  “I always expect trouble. The worst part is I’m usually right. The closer we get to the coast, the more Valon can concentrate his forces against us. There’s a lot less ground to cover.”

  “Should I cast for danger in the village?” Errol asked.

  Rale shook his head. “Not yet. Save your blanks for when we’re closer to the coast. I think we’re safe enough for now. If there’s trouble, Ru, Merodach, and Orth should be able to handle it.”