Lakhoni

by Jared Garrett

  Strong hands grabbed his shirt, pulling him roughly away. Suddenly he was on his back, road rocks jabbing him.

  “Back off, boy.”

  Blinking and spitting dirt, Lakhoni tried to get a look at his attacker. A burly man with leather breeches, boots, and no shirt loomed over him, his face a snarl. “Thought to try to sneak up and steal some goods, did you?”

  Lakhoni pushed himself to his feet. “No! I wasn’t trying to steal. I . . .” He thought fast. Not a good start. “I saw your caravan and wanted to see if I could make a deal with you.” He looked around, seeing that the caravan had continued, but another burly man was running toward him. Of course. These men had to be guards.

  The first man must have been scouting off the road, where Lakhoni couldn’t see him.

  “No deal. Just keep your distance or it’s the brick fields,” the first guard said.

  “Razo.” The other guard came to a stop. “What’s going on?”

  “This pup was trying to steal. Thought he was sneaky.”

  The second guard turned to Lakhoni. “You alone?”

  “What?” Lakhoni knew he had to find a way out of this. He looked down, trying to buy some time to think.

  “He hid in our dust most of the way. Not a very good scout if that’s what he is,” the first guard, who had to be Razo, said. “I watched him the entire way. He came out from behind some bushes back a ways.”

  “I wasn’t trying to steal!” Lakhoni said. “I was trying to talk to the man on the wagon!”

  “You say that now,” the second guard said. He and Razo could have been twins. They were exactly the same height and were both as broad as two normal men. But the second guard had hair on only one side of his head, and it was very short. A long scar ran from the top of the man’s scalp, down the left side of his face, and continued on his chest.

  “We have no reason to believe you,” the second guard continued. “And we don’t care. Stay away.” He pulled a glinting dagger from a sheath strapped to his waist. Another metal weapon! “Or you won’t even make it to the brick fields.”

  “No, please,” Lakhoni said. He didn’t have to feign the desperation in his voice. Why did things always go so completely wrong? “I’m not a thief. I’m not a scout. I’m going to Zyronilxa, but I ran out of food and broke my bow.”

  Razo stepped closer to Lakhoni, producing a long dagger. Scar-scalp grabbed Razo’s shoulder. “Razo, this is not the time for play.”

  “I just want to give the pup something to cry about to his mother,” Razo said, a leer forming on his face. “Teach him to stop sneaking up on caravans.”

  “It’s not worth the time,” Scar-scalp said. “Let’s go.”

  “Please,” Lakhoni said. He stepped after them as they turned away. “I beg you. My village is gone. My family killed. I just . . .” Calm. Center. Make it real. “I’m hungry.”

  The guards ignored him and kept walking.

  Steeling himself for what would probably happen next, Lakhoni burst into a run. If the guards wouldn’t listen, maybe he could get their chief’s attention. He ran past the guards. They must have been taken by surprise, because he was well past them before he heard their shouts.

  Lakhoni began shouting when he was twenty or so paces from the wagons. “Please let me join you!” He sucked in dusty air, coughing it back out. “I’ll work for food!” He glanced back. Razo and Scar-scalp were closing. He lowered his head and pushed himself to run faster.

  As he reached the last wagon, he shouted again, feeling the guards right behind him. “I’m not a thief!”

  A heavy body slammed into him, bearing him to the road again. The man felt like a bag of rocks! Lakhoni squirmed, and tried to get away, shouting the entire time. “Please! I want to work for you!”

  He saw that the guard pinning him was Scar-scalp. “I’m not a thief,” Lakhoni said, spitting rocks and dirt. Air squeezed out of him. The man was heavy!

  “Stupid pup!” Scar-scalp said.

  “Yed!”

  Scar-scalp looked up. Lakhoni craned his neck to try to see who had spoken. He couldn’t see the man, but what he did see gave him hope. The wagon had stopped.

  “Let him up,” the voice said.

  Lakhoni looked back to Scar-scalp, noticing that Razo now stood behind Scar-scalp, his dagger in his right hand.

  Scar-scalp—the voice had called him Yed—stood. He grabbed Lakhoni by an arm and yanked him to his feet. For a moment, Lakhoni’s body left the earth. Then he was on his feet, his bones jarred from the impact. Yed stood behind him, his rough hands gripping Lakhoni’s arms tightly. Lakhoni coughed to clear his lungs and throat of dirt and fear.

  “Boy,” the voice called. “Who are you?”

  Lakhoni blinked to clear his vision. “My name is Lakhoni.”

  A few seconds of silence passed, during which Lakhoni was finally able to focus on the speaker. It was the man who Lakhoni had originally intended to hail, the man sitting on the bench at the front of the last wagon. Lakhoni saw that the other wagons had stopped. Two more guards had materialized too, one on each side of the caravan.

  “Swords, boy, I didn’t ask your name,” the man on the wagon said. “I asked who you are.” The man’s voice was high-pitched for a man. He wore his hair full, long, and loose. It looked like a black waterfall streaming from his head. His clothes were all shades of blue.

  Lakhoni pushed his thoughts into order. This had to work. “I’m an orphan. Raiders destroyed my village and killed my family.” He glanced around, feeling Yed’s grip on his upper arms grow tighter. He remembered something Gimno had taught him. I could break this grip.

  “What does this have to do with us?” The man on the wagon shifted slightly, turning more to face Lakhoni.

  Lakhoni forced himself to look the man in the eyes. “I’ve been traveling to Zyronilxa. I thought I could find work there.”

  “Where is this village of yours? This destroyed village?”

  “Far to the west. Nearer to the Wastes than to here.”

  The man sat back slightly, his bushy eyebrows raised. Lakhoni made himself continue looking at the man’s face, not wanting to show fear or make it look like he was lying. He wondered if this man was the chief of the caravan. His clothes and bearing certainly made him appear wealthy. His long, pointed chin, flat cheeks, and tall forehead almost gave his head the shape of a goat’s. And his eyebrows acted like two very hairy caterpillars; they were the most expressive part of the man’s face.

  Finally the man spoke, his eyes tightening slightly. “You want me to believe you have come from that far away to Zyronilxa, all by yourself? That you survived an attack on your village and a journey that must have taken you through winter, but now, only forty miles from Zyronilxa, you need help?”

  Stay close to the truth. Fighting back the urge to swallow, Lakhoni nodded once, firmly. “Yes. I didn’t do it on my own. I met people who helped me.” He gestured down the road behind him. “There was a village somewhere back there that fed me and helped me. But I broke my bow and ran out of food.”

  “They didn’t give you enough food for a few days’ journey?” The man was smiling now. He couldn’t know Lakhoni was lying. There was no reason to add more details about what had happened in Simra’s village.

  “No. They were poor. I worked for my food there.” Lakhoni met the man’s piercing gaze. “I can do the same for you.”

  “I see,” the man said. “But what can you do for me? You’re too young and small to be a guard. Do you know your way around oxen?”

  “No. But I can learn fast. And I can cook.”

  “Really? Why would a young male pup like you know how to cook?”

  “My father was a better cook than my mother,” Lakhoni said, pushing back at the torrent of memories that wanted to invade. “He taught me.”

  “Paztar!” Lakhoni jerked at the new voice. It came from a man on the next wagon. “What is keeping you?”

  The goat-faced man yelled back. “I am working out th
e details of employment with this little thief!”

  “I’m not a thief!”

  Yed’s grip tightened and Lakhoni’s arms were pulled toward each other. Pain streamed through his shoulders. “Show respect to Paztar.”

  “Well, finish up!” the other man yelled. “Dark will fall soon.” Details of employment? Sudden hope flooded Lakhoni.

  “I’m not saying I believe you,” Paztar said, turning back to Lakhoni. “Or at least all of what you say. But if you were a thief with your skill, or lack thereof, you would be dead. You don’t strike me as a dishonest person.” He directed his next words to Yed. “Release him.” He continued, “But if you are unable to cook, this will be a very short arrangement.” Paztar faced front and gestured with one hand at the ox-tenders. “Let’s go.”

  As the caravan began to move, Yed gave Lakhoni’s arms one final squeeze, then let him go with a push. Lakhoni hurried to catch up to Paztar’s wagon.

  Yed kept pace beside him. “I’ll be watching you, pup.”

  Reaching up to grip the side of the wooden wagon, Lakhoni turned to Yed. “I’m not a thief.”

  “Let’s hope not.” At that, Yed dropped back to join Razo.

  Lakhoni faced forward, glancing intermittently up at Paztar. He wanted to express his thanks to the man, but the merchant had forgotten him already.

  But if dinner is terrible, that won’t last.

  Lakhoni wondered when the caravan stopped for meals. The sun was maybe two hours away from setting. There would be food soon, he told himself, his stomach protesting.

  I hope they like soup.

  Chapter 33

  You Don’t Name Food

  “What a waste of perfectly good meat!” Razo’s voice echoed around the camp.

  Better than eating charred, overcooked meat off a knife every day. The soup had some wizened potatoes and carrots in it as well. The water had come from the stream that ran right next to the campsite. Lakhoni dug through the box of food supplies that Yed had brought him earlier. There had to be some salt. How could they possibly not have—

  He found it. Pulling the block of salt out of its pouch, he used the stone cooking knife to scrape some into the boiling pot that was suspended over the fire. He set the block aside and searched the supplies for more seasonings. Hurrying, he found some leaves, rubbed them between his fingers, and sniffed them. A sharp, thick flavor, like winter moss, filled his nose. That should work. He broke up the leaves with his fingertips, sprinkling them into the soup.

  With the sun near the horizon, the caravan had turned off into a large flat area that bordered the road. It was clear that the space had been designed for traveling parties to use as a place to spend the night. A large fire pit, ringed by dark, slate rocks occupied the center of the space, while the remainder of the space was almost completely free of plants and rocks. Several heavy posts were sunk into the ground near a few trees that bordered the south side of the space. That was where the oxen had been tied.

  The wagons were arranged in a circle around the campsite, which had to be thirty paces in diameter at least. Firelight danced red and gold off the pale, weathered wood of the wagons and the sunburned faces of the guards.

  Lakhoni dipped a clay bowl into the soup. The cured meat should be soft enough by now. He sipped. More salt.

  “Pup! The smell is good, but our stomachs are still empty!” Yed, strode toward him. “Are we eating tonight?”

  Lakhoni nodded, concentrating on scraping salt into the soup. “In a minute. Almost ready.” He quickly crumbled one more fragrant leaf into the soup and stirred. That would have to do it.

  He looked around, his stomach practically crawling up his chest to get at the food. Between the four guards, six ox-tenders, and three merchants, there were a lot of mouths to feed. He had better wait to eat until everyone else had a chance. “It’s ready,” he said, pulling out a stack of ceramic bowls from the supplies box.

  “Come and eat!” Yed called out.

  Using one bowl as a ladle, he served the soup quickly, making sure each bowl got plenty of meat. These men were surely hungry; he didn’t want to make any of them angry and give Paztar reason to be displeased. Most of the men skipped the shallow wooden spoons, tore a chunk off the tough travel bread Lakhoni had left out on a wooden platter, and simply slurped while walking to a place they could sit. Cringing slightly, Lakhoni glanced around, certain the men would find reason to complain.

  “Needs more meat,” one of the guards said. Lakhoni didn’t know his name. This man was shorter than Yed and Razo. His head was completely bald and burnished by the sun to a shiny nut brown. His bare torso, however, sprouted with thick, black hair, broken only by a scar than ran from his right chest down to his navel. The man’s hands were covered in scars small and large.

  Lakhoni decided it would be best if he didn’t try to defend his soup. Best not to get in an argument.

  “Salty,” said Razo, grumbling into the thick beard that jutted out from his chin. The beard looked like a woodland animal that had latched onto the man’s chin. It waggled and jittered with each movement Razo made. Soup dripped into it after each noisy gulp Razo took.

  Lakhoni eyed the soup pot, his stomach near to declaring all-out war. He tried to forget the hunger; he would eat last. He could take no chances.

  When the first man, the merchant who had sat on the front-most wagon, returned to the soup pot for more, Lakhoni let out a long, quiet breath. He scooped the man more soup. Good enough for seconds must mean he had succeeded. The merchant caught Lakhoni’s eye and offered him a nod, his jowls shaking, then waddled back to his wagon. The man was as big around as Salno had been, but he wore far richer clothing than Salno had. Instead of leather, this man wore material that looked like it had been woven. It looked incredibly soft and light. In the firelight, it gleamed deep purple.

  Lakhoni crouched next to the fire and boiling soup, waiting his turn while helping others get seconds. With dismay he noted that the last time he ladled soup out, the bowl he was using as a scoop scraped the bottom of the thick metal pot. The aroma of the stewed meat and vegetables was pure torture now.

  Finally, a stack of dirty bowls began to grow next to him. The look Yed gave him told Lakhoni it would fall to him to clean up the dinner dishes. But first . . . Lakhoni grabbed a bowl, dashed to the stream that ran to the south of the campsite, and filled the bowl with fresh water. Moving fast but carefully, he made his way back to the pot and poured the water in. He stirred with the cooking knife.

  His stomach took over as his body began to jitter with hunger. Before he could register his own movements, he had a bowl of soup in one hand and a large chunk of tough bread in the other. Heedless of the scalding temperature, Lakhoni dipped the bread in the soup and tore a bite off.

  It was only after his second helping as he cleaned out the soup pot with his bread that the hunger jitters finally faded. The camp grew quiet as he cleaned the dishes in the stream, and the oxen shambled around to his right to find the tastiest morsels of grass. As he finished his work, the song of crickets began to register in his ears. It was accompanied by the soft whisper of wind sighing through nearby trees. Lakhoni wondered at the business-like feel of everything. In his village, dinner was always followed by talk, music, and sometimes dancing. Simra’s village had been much the same. Lakhoni had not heard laughter or even seen a smile today.

  Shoving thoughts of grim men and musical nights away, Lakhoni searched for a place to sleep. The campsite was mostly covered in gravel, which probably wasn’t a problem for the other men since they had bedrolls to sleep on. Lakhoni opted for the grass near the stream. He pulled out his blanket and rolled it around himself as he lay down.

  “Pup!”

  Instantly alert, but blinking at the bright morning sun, Lakhoni sat up. “My name is Lakhoni.” Morning already?

  “And my name is Febol.” The huge, bear-chested guard stood near the fire pit. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice a sarcastic growl. “Now get up and get
some breakfast out before I skin your lazy bones. Pup.”

  Febol. Lakhoni smiled inwardly. His name means ‘bear.’ Lakhoni sprang to his feet, the pains of the previous day remarkably faded. He stuffed his blanket back into his bag and went in search of breakfast food.

  In less than an hour, the wagons were on the road again. Lakhoni walked next to Paztar’s wagon again. After a while, they came to a fork and started heading off to the left. Lakhoni hastened his steps and caught up to the ox-tender on this side of Paztar’s team.

  “We’re going to Zyronilxa, right?” he asked when he came abreast of the man.

  “‘S’right.” The man was so tanned by the sun that he looked like a walking piece of cured meat. His ragged trousers were covered in colorful stains. He spared Lakhoni only a bare glance.

  “So the right one goes somewhere else?”

  The man made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a shout, brushing his whip-like tool across the left haunch of the ox. “Right one goes to Zyronilxa.”

  Alarm flared. “Then where are we going?”

  “Zyronilxa, like you’n asked.”

  “How can both roads go to Zyronilxa?”

  “One goes direct, t’other take ya t’the brick fields.” The ox-tender’s accent was so thick that it was hard to understand what he said. But after a moment of processing, Lakhoni understood.

  Lakhoni recalled Mibli mentioning the brick fields as a place a spy might go to be punished. This didn’t sound good. “Which one is this?”

  “This what?”

  Lakhoni threw his hands in the air. “This road! Which road is this one? Are we going to Zyronilxa or the brick fields?”

  “Sor’d’fars! T’the brick yards, o’course.”

  Curiosity and fear warred within him. Were they taking him there after all? He couldn’t help it if all there had been for breakfast was old cheese, bread, and wheat-tea. “Why?”