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

by Patrick W. Carr

  Ahead the river glistened like a promise of rescue in the distance, too far for them to reach at their cautious pace. Yet Cruk held them to a walk. The horses strained at their bits, lathered and eyes rolling. Surely they had to make a run for it. Cruk kept to the same brisk walk, glancing back every few strides to gauge the distance between them and that swirling orange vortex.

  Martin loosened the reins. His mount surged forward. The tendons in his arms protested as he sawed the bit to keep his horse from dashing away. “We can’t stay at this pace much longer.”

  Cruk checked the progress of the wildfire behind them again before he gave a curt nod. “I know, Pater, but there are other dangers besides the fire.”

  Martin shook his head. Nothing stirred in that ocean of dry tinder except the fire and themselves. “What?”

  Cruk pointed off to the right, toward the southern end of the plain. “That.”

  Martin squinted against the darkness, shielding his eyes against the light of the fire. Only shadows cast by the moon and flames were visible, but gradually the phantoms resolved into the shapes of horses streaming away from the threat. He shook his head. He saw nothing else—nothing to fear.

  “Look at the grass behind the horses, Pater.”

  Martin peered into the darkness again. There. Behind the horses a wave of motion trailed the herd across the flat landscape. Something tracked them, something that hid below the waist-high grass. The stallion in front charged for the closest bend of the river, leading the predators to them.

  The wave crept closer to the herd, the distance shrinking in agonizing slowness. Martin watched in horror as a colt, straggling behind, stumbled and disappeared. The deflection in the grass paused for a moment before resuming its track behind the herd.

  Military training was as much a mystery to Martin as theology would be to most men, but even he could tell the herd and its predators would reach the river before them. What was Cruk thinking?

  “We have to beat them to the river,” he yelled ahead. “If they arrive before us, we’ll never make it across.” Fear wove strident threads into his voice.

  Cruk shook his head. The man must be mad. Then the captain pointed toward the river, a bit to the north. Martin repeated his efforts to see in the dim light provided by the moon.

  A child’s prayer, desperate and fearful, sprang to his lips. An identical wave in the grass angled toward their path, making for the herd. Cruk’s reckless strategy became apparent at a glance. The captain strove for just the right pace for their mounts, waiting for the predators to cross their path in pursuit of the herd. If they went too fast, the pack would catch their scent, fire or no, and they’d be torn to pieces; too slow and the fire would overtake them.

  Cruk leaned toward him. “We have one chance, Pater. As soon as the pack ahead crosses and clears our path, we must ride for the river as fast as these sorry mounts can take us. Our only hope is that the approach of the second pack will slow the herd enough for us to get there first. When we reach the water, don’t wait. Get to the other side. If we’re separated, rejoin at the pass.”

  A hundred potential flaws in the plan battled for Martin’s attention. “What if the current’s too deep and strong for the horses to cross?” He didn’t wait for an answer, as his thoughts swung to the opposite problem. “What if the water’s not deep enough to keep those things away from us?”

  Cruk spared enough time from his scan to grimace and spit. “Pater, you know what will happen as well as I do.” He nodded toward Karele. “If you have concerns you might want to take them up with him.” The captain bit his words, his voice clipped and tight. “I seem to recall this route was his idea.”

  The fire crept closer. Martin could feel heat now. The distances shrank and he could more clearly see dark shapes in the grass—forms that twisted and shifted in the moonlight as they ran, weaving shadows like dark tendrils of rope. In horror and guilt, he thanked Deas for each horse the first pack caught. Each time the mares panicked, the stallion brought them back under control, giving the second pack time to converge.

  Thick smoke streamed past them as the fire roared and grew at their backs. A gust of wind brought a flash of heat like a premonition.

  Cruk reined in, held up a hand, calling for a halt. “Any closer and they might smell us.” Martin stopped, tried to ignore the feel of heat growing against his neck. In front of them, no more than fifty paces away, furred shapes streamed toward the herd. Over the roar and rush of flames he could hear the triumphant howls of the dark wolves. They bounded toward their prey, their eyes red with reflected fire.

  Luis’s eyes widened. The secondus leaned forward in his saddle, sweat streaming from the dome of his bare scalp down his face. He stared at the captain with single-minded intensity, never looking forward to the wolves or behind at the flames.

  Karele sat his mount, his face pinched, but he looked at the river like a man seeing his salvation. Smoke settled into the lines of his face, painting his sharp features in soot. By the light of the fire, he looked like a ghoul. Doubt chewed Martin’s insides. Why had they come this way?

  The last of the pack cleared away, and Cruk’s arm instantly snapped forward, waving them toward the nearest bend of the river. Martin required no additional urging. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks even as his hands slid forward with the reins. His mount sprang ahead, trailing behind Luis and Karele. The master of horses balanced in the stirrups, moving easily with his horse’s gait, and he appeared to be talking to his mount. Martin surged past Cruk, who slowed, letting them pass before he closed in behind.

  To Martin’s right, the herd and packs angled in toward the river. The thunder of hooves rolled across the plain in defiant counterpoint to the howls of wolves and the roar of fire. The black water beckoned to him. He leaned forward to yell words of encouragement to his mount. The bay strove to keep pace with Karele and Luis, yet his horse, burdened with his greater bulk, slipped behind. Cruk came beside as they neared the water, one hand on the reins, the other holding his sword. Martin kept his eyes forward, willing and praying his horse toward escape.

  Thirty paces from the water violence exploded around him.

  The herd and the wolf packs surged around them. Howls merged with the screaming of horses, drowning Cruk’s frantic commands. Karele and Luis had gained the safety of the river, their mounts splashing forward for half a dozen strides before they bobbed and started swimming.

  Cruk swung his sword like a cleaver, chopping at wolf and horse alike, trying to clear a path. The horses milled in a panic, thrashing against each other. The herd’s stallion went down under a half dozen wolves. Discipline among the rest of the horses vanished. Animals no longer made for the river but splintered into a dozen different directions. Cruk flailed at the press. Martin could do little more than hold on and try to follow. His sword bumped against his leg, but he’d yet to swing the weapon. Fear of losing control of his mount or, worse, going down in the melee, kept both his hands on the reins.

  The shoulders of his mount dipped, and he cried out before the spray of water told him they’d made it to the river. A stream of horses swam away from the slaughter on the bank. After a few steps the bottom dropped away and his mount swam, its head tilted up to keep its nose clear.

  Ahead, Cruk slipped from his saddle to float beside his laboring horse. Martin copied him, praying his horse had enough sense to follow. The water dragged at him, and he kicked, trying to aid the labored efforts of his mount. Behind him, fire reached the bloodbath on the shore. The howls no longer sounded triumphant. Water frothed as every animal left on solid ground threw itself into the water to escape the heat. The scent of scorched hair and burning meat blanketed him. He covered his nose with his cloak and kept kicking.

  The far riverbank drifted by as the current carried him downstream. His horse’s kicks grew weaker. Curse his fat priest’s hide; they weren’t going to make it. He yelled encouragement to the mare, to no avail. He smacked the mare’s rump. For a few moment
s, the beast surged forward. Then it lapsed into weaker kicks than before. Cruk’s animal must have been stronger or less burdened; the watchman was beyond reach.

  Martin resolved to hold on to his horse for as long as the animal could make any progress toward the far shore. Dead animals—some horses and some wolves—drifted past him in the current, their coats covered with blood or burns.

  Halted by the water and bereft of fuel, the wildfire began to die, pitching the river into darkness. Things bumped into Martin in the darkness—hairy things he shoved away in revulsion. His eyes readjusted to the lesser light of the moon. His horse bobbed below the surface, struggled upward, and then went under again. Martin let go of the reins. Perhaps the animal would survive without his weight dragging it down. Regardless, it would no longer serve him. He surrendered his sword to the depths of the river, filled his lungs, and pulled through the water for the far shore.

  Martin thrust himself against the current. Stroke and pull. Time after time, he thrust his arms forward, then brought them back to his side. His shoulders burned as if the conflagration on the prairie had settled there, punishing him for his poor judgment. Time slowed to a crawl, yet the moon dropped toward the western horizon behind him. Then the passage of time stopped altogether.

  A shaft of sunlight stabbed his eyes. He held up a hand. Acrid smoke drifted across his vision painting the yellow-green canopy overhead with dirty brown smears. His shoulders trembled, and pain ripped through them when he levered himself to a sitting position.

  On the far bank of the river, blackened scrub and ash spread as far as he could see. He wondered if the tough oak where they had camped had managed to survive. He hoped so. It seemed important for some reason.

  His boots made squelching sounds as he turned a slow circle, searching for signs of Cruk, Luis, or Karele. A narrow plain separated him from the low peaks of the Sprata Mountains, which formed a wall between him and the shadow lands. Dead animals clogged both banks of the river.

  There was no sign of his horse. He knelt to say his lauds, even though he’d missed dawn by two hours at least. What day was it? Sometime on the trip south from Callowford he’d lost track. Without knowing the day he didn’t know which portion of the liturgy to recite. Did Deas care whether or not he recited the wrong portion? Did Deas care whether he used the liturgy at all?

  He sank to his knees. A hundred petitions filled his mind. He framed them in accordance with the format of the daily office and began. “Hear, O Deas, the petition of our hearts that most earnestly . . .”

  Martin stopped. For the first time in his life the familiar words failed to bring him the comfort of Deas. Instead a weight of separation fell on him as he used his words to hide his desperation and his fear.

  His anger.

  Martin stared at the ground, the practiced eloquence of his education and experience draining from him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he should say anything. He rose and turned north. Without a horse, it would take him hours to find the gap leading him into the shadow lands—his only hope of reuniting with his friends.

  He moved away from the bank in an attempt to escape the mud next to the river that pulled at his boots. As he approached the mountains, the ground sloped upward. Ancient trees formed a thick canopy overhead. Boles two or three spans across supported limbs that were larger than the trunks of most trees. As he moved beneath the shade, the brush shrank until he walked on earth covered by nothing more than a carpet of leaves. Old scorch marks—testimony to the durability of those hoary titans—blackened the trunks.

  Closer to the mountains, the suggestion of a path ran north and south. Curious, Martin scuffed at the detritus beneath his boots. Layers of dead and decomposing leaves peeled away, revealing a block of stone a foot or more across. A few paces away the skeleton of a forgotten road broke through the carpet of leaves.

  Despite his circumstances, Martin found himself intrigued. The church’s training covered the history of Illustra, and he prided himself on knowing that history as well as any professor at the university. Yet he knew of no civilization that had ever occupied this part of the continent. Where did the road go? What destinations had it connected, and what circumstances forced its builders and users to abandon it?

  He continued north, the weight of his sodden clothes forgotten in his sudden burst of curiosity. The remnants of the road proved treacherous, forcing him to walk to the side. He detoured back into the forest, scanning the ground. When he found the object of his search, he hefted the oak branch and struck it against a tree. It felt solid enough. He leaned his weight on it. The wood flexed slightly but didn’t break or crack. Heartened, he returned to the road.

  After hours of walking his clothes were nearly dry, but the sensation reminded him that the river had claimed his waterskin as well as his sword. His stomach growled. Missing a few meals wouldn’t hurt him, but he would need water. With a sigh he left the ancient road again and returned to the river.

  Broad and deep, the Sprata flowed sluggishly. Martin sighed. Carcasses dotted both sides of the bank. If Cruk were there, the watchman could probably tell him how long an animal had to decompose before it ruined the supply. He looked closer. The animals hadn’t even started to bloat yet, which meant the water was probably safe to drink.

  The thought revolted him. Surely there would be some stream or brook he could find that fed into the river. He felt the end of his cloak, then lifted it to his mouth and pulled the moisture from it. It tasted like wool, but he detected nothing other than that. He pushed away from the bank and ascended back to the road.

  The sun reached its zenith and began the long, arcing trek through the sky behind him to the west. The thrill of the unknown dissipated as his thirst increased and the gap through the mountains refused to show itself. Three hours before sunset he stopped.

  The road ended.

  A spur of the mountain range rose up before him, cutting across his path, blocking his way north.

  For the next two hours he coursed along those hills, but they ran all the way to the river and ended in a sheer cliff fifty feet above the water. He had no doubt that he could survive the jump if the water was deep enough, but the current would be flowing against him. He would die of exhaustion before he regained the bank.

  Not knowing what else to do, he returned to the ancient road. His mouth felt dry, but not enough to make him chance the river water. He seated himself on a broad stump. The road’s existence mocked him.

  He’d loved his history courses and fancied he knew the kingdom’s annals as well as any man. Yet nowhere in the history of Illustra or in the time of the provinces before had cities in this part of the kingdom been mentioned. The implications disturbed him. And even more, the road didn’t appear to go anywhere. It ran along the bluff that overlooked the river and then stopped at the mountain spur, blocking him from the pass to the east.

  Why would anyone build a road that led nowhere?

  He shook his head. They wouldn’t.

  He hefted his walking stick and retraced his steps to the end again. Trees on his left shielded the river from view. Enormous deadfalls blocked the way on his right. In front the mountains reared up, and behind the road stretched to the south. He stopped.

  The deadfalls blocked his view. Cautious, he stepped across the jumbled blocks of weathered stone to the closest rotting bole. Climbing over it was out of the question. He backtracked around it, using his staff to force his way through the brush that had sprouted in the pools of sunlight. Deeper in the brush dwindled, and he made his way north. After a few paces he stopped, standing on the ruins of the road once more.

  Of course. The road hadn’t stopped. It had turned. The deadfalls kept him from seeing what should have been plain. The road now ran east. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the ruined street would offer a pass through the mountains. He snorted. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t be thirsty, hungry, horseless, and alone. Besides, he didn’t believe in luck. He believed in Deas’s favor or its absence.
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br />   25

  THE SWORD MASTER

  TWO DAYS AFTER AWAKING in the villa of Count Rula, Errol walked with Conger toward the expansive back garden of the count’s estate. The sound of practice swords drifted toward him as they crossed beneath one of the stone archways and onto the stone patio overlooking the garden. A red-banded hawk flew overhead, crying in defiance or frustration.

  “No, Your Highness,” Count Rula said. “You are too far forward. The secret to the sword is balance.” Rula’s hands adjusted Adora’s stance, moving her shoulders back two fingers’ width. “The weight of the sword must be compensated by the rear arm, placed on the hip or held so in back.” He shifted her arm to match his instructions.

  “Which is better?” Adora asked.

  “Held back,” Rula said. “But it is more fatiguing and requires greater endurance.”

  Clustered around the grassy area where Rula instructed, every watchman observed the count’s directions with intense scrutiny. Errol knew little about swordplay, but he recognized the deft touch of a master swordsman, even so. Naaman Ru’s prowess became easier to understand.

  “Then I will train myself to hold it back,” Adora said. She jerked upright as Errol came into her field of view. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Earl Stone?”

  Errol smiled. “Not anymore, hopefully. Village inns are a lot more dangerous now that I’m sober. I might have to take up drinking again.”

  The princess smiled. “You’re pert, my earl. You know what I mean.”

  He nodded. “Count Rula’s healer has pronounced me fit enough to leave my sickbed.”

  The count eyed Errol with interest. “I’m told you’re the premier staff man in the kingdom, Earl Stone. Your balance must be finely tuned for such a weapon. Have you ever given thought to learning the sword?”

  Errol laughed so hard, spots swam in front of his eyes. “A captain of the watch tried to teach me. That’s how I ended up with the staff. I’m probably the worst swordsman in the kingdom.”