“And the worst of both,” interjected Herodius.
“The very worst of both,” agreed his leader. As Phillipian guided the knight out of his cell, he continued, “Carefully crafted, naturally. We didn’t want them suspecting a ruse. The most rancid batch of ale we could brew and good goat cooked too long and seasoned with spices sure to turn a sensitive Sartan’s stomach wrong.”
“And it worked?”
“Visits by the patrols shrank to nearly none. The last time Captain Cicero brought his men here was nearly two seasons ago. I believe it will likely be two seasons more at least before he shows his face again.” Phillipian chuckled at his own cleverness. “An army may travel on its stomach, but even it has its limits. I have no doubt that past descriptions of Sonos have left the Sartan commanders with little inclination to add such a useless backwater village to their holdings.”
It was a ploy that Nermesa would have never thought of, and he suspected few others would have, either. He bowed his head to Phillipian’s cunning, then dared approach the headman about a more intimate subject. “And what happens to me?”
“Malkuri speaks for you, and in Sonos her word is respected by all. Her skills have healed many who otherwise would not be alive today . . . myself included.”
Nermesa did not press Phillipian on the last. “So, I am free to go?”
“With a horse, yes. The one left behind by the brigand, as a matter of fact.”
As they neared the door, someone else entered. Malkuri looked at Nermesa in great relief, then gave the headman a grateful blush. Clearly, the Ophirian had feelings for Phillipian, but would not act upon them.
“Thank you, Phillipian,” she said. “I am in your debt.”
“Considering what you did to save my life, hardly.” He guided them both out of the meeting house. “Fortunately for all of us, Captain Cicero chose not to accept my invitation, or else we’d all be dining on some rather disturbing fare instead of the fine meal awaiting us.”
AND IT WAS a fine meal, as the headman had promised. The ale was robust and well flavored, while the goat was spiced in a manner the Aquilonian had never experienced, with rosemary and other seasonings that he could not identify. He sat between Malkuri and Phillipian, ostensibly because he was friend of one and guest of the other, but more because Malkuri insisted on the distance between herself and Sonos’ leader.
Phillipian took her choice in stride and seemed to content himself with plying Nermesa with general questions about Aquilonia. He finally answered one of the knight’s own questions, the one concerning the headman’s background.
“Yes, I am part Aquilonian, though I’ve not seen the kingdom in many years. My father was the son of a merchant whose caravan passed near here en route to some of the more distant city-states. But one journey, he met my mother, daughter of the headman then, and chose to stay behind. Unfortunately, when I was just entering my tenth year, she died of illness, and my father returned to his homeland. I was schooled there for the next several years with the expectation that I would join the family business.” With a wry grin, Phillipian concluded, “I did, just long enough to ride down here with the caravan and bid my Aquilonian heritage good-bye. I have never regretted it, either—save when that bear mauled me, and I lay minutes from death.”
At this point, his eyes strayed to Malkuri, who found much of interest in her food. Nermesa marveled that a man who had been in such dire condition as his host had just hinted could be walking around looking as if nothing had ever happened.
Perhaps reading this in Nermesa’s expression, Phillipian indicated his torso. He adjusted his garments just enough so that the knight could see a small portion of his chest.
What Nermesa did see was a horrific pattern of long, wicked scars from what had surely been claws.
Covering up the area again, Phillipian nodded toward Malkuri, murmuring, “Three months she stayed with me, when all others had given up.”
With that, he turned to his ale, hefting the mug and quaffing a good portion of the contents.
The rest of the meal was eaten with friendly, innocuous conversation. All but a few of the inhabitants of Sonos sat at the tables set in the middle of the dirt square. Those whose turn it had been to cook and serve did so with courtesy and no complaint. Others switched off with them midway through the meal, ensuring that no one had to wait long to enjoy it.
“Is this a Corinthian custom?” asked Nermesa at one point.
It was Malkuri who answered. “No, this is a Phillipian custom.”
Sonos’ leader chuckled. “Once a week, to keep the community bound together. Everyone shares the responsibilities equally, including the headman.”
It was the first time since leaving Tarantia that Nermesa truly felt at ease. He savored the time, well aware that it was fast coming to a close.
In fact, no sooner had the meal ended than Phillipian put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Come with me.”
Malkuri followed after them as they headed for a broad, square house with a stone base. Nermesa rightly assumed that this was the headman’s home.
“Enter freely and unafraid,” Phillipian said to the knight.
The interior was modest, more so than the Aquilonian would have expected. There were two rooms—the common area and a door that Nermesa assumed led to the place where Phillipian slept.
“As leader of Sonos, I can do no less than offer a guest my own quarters.” Phillipian indicated the door. “The bed is clean and will give comfort.”
“I can’t accept—”
The other man cut him off. “To refuse would be an affront that might make us enemies.”
Not certain exactly how true the statement was and unwilling to find out, Nermesa acquiesced. “Thank you.”
“Tomorrow morning at first light, you can take the brigand’s horse—saddled and with full provisions—and head along the trail you’ll find on the northwest edge. Keep to it and you’ll come up into Aquilonia near the pass Sarta holds. Your trail is good for a single rider, but not for a caravan, so the Sartans have paid little mind to it. Ride through that region only at night, though, to ensure the utmost safety. Is that clear?”
“Very much so. Thank you.”
“Sonos is no friend of Sarta, as you know. Times are growing dangerous in Corinthia and even beyond. Before your arrival, there was word that Nemedia was sending overtures to Sarta.”
Nermesa nodded. “This makes sense with what I know.”
“But do you know that Ophir seeks to make a pact with Sarta’s greater rivals, such as Tebes? Like Nemedia, it claims to do so because of the belief that it is the Nemedians who have attacked their caravans. The city-states are aligning themselves even as we speak . . . and I fear that this war will encompass more than my beloved Corinthia, Nermesa Klandes.”
The Black Dragon could not argue with him. He had not heard of Ophir’s intentions and looked to Malkuri for verification.
“There is little I hear of the world of men in the woods,” she responded carefully. “But, yes, this sounds like Ophir.”
“But the trade agreement—”
Phillipian all but prodded him in the chest. “I fear that King Conan’s trade agreement will soon become like dust in the wind, scattered beyond regathering. If this war happens, as it seems it will, not even Aquilonia will escape it.”
“I must return home.” Although what he would do when he did get there, Nermesa did not know. All he had was his own story of how the sorcerer, Set-Anubis, aided the brigands. How could that help solve anything?
“First light,” repeated the headman. “You need the rest.” He turned to the unlit stone fireplace. “And you will need this.”
Reaching up into the chimney, Phillipian retrieved a long bundle. Unwrapping it, he presented the contents to the Aquilonian.
“Yours, I believe.”
Nermesa could not hide his pleasure as he took the sheath and sword. As he pulled free the weapon, the knight drew comfort from it. Desp
ite its troubles, it still gleamed.
“A brilliant piece of craftsmanship,” uttered Phillipian.
Malkuri touched the flat of the blade ever so cautiously, then nodded. “The spirit of the lion has been imbued in it. It will always protect you as much as it can, Nermesa, for it has found you worthy to wield it.”
Bolontes’ son did not know whether that was true or not, but he did feel much better now. Sheathing the sword again, he grinned at Sonos’ leader. “Thank you . . . thank you very much.”
“Not at all. Now, since it is dark already, may I suggest you retire?”
“What about you?”
“I will sleep in here. There are furs by the fireplace that are quite comfortable.” Phillipian opened the door, then ushered Nermesa inside. The bed was not the cot that the Aquilonian had expected, but a true one, such as Nermesa might have slept in back home.
“One of the few benefits of the nearness to Sarta is the occasional caravan that must pass this way. I admit that a bed was something I missed from Aquilonia. It was worth the haggling, trust me.”
“I cannot—”
“You will.” And with that, Phillipian shut the door, leaving Nermesa to reluctantly accept his gift.
The sight of the bed had a mesmerizing effect on the knight. Suddenly, he felt extremely exhausted. It was all Nermesa could do to undress and set the sheathed sword beside the bed before nearly falling onto the plush cushions.
But as he settled down and started to drift off, a sound from the other room momentarily stirred him to waking. At first, he did not know what it was, but then a feminine giggle answered all.
Malkuri had indicated that it had been some time since she had been with anyone, and so she had turned to Nermesa out of loneliness as much as anything else. However, from what he could hear, it was clear that with Phillipian, loneliness was not at all a factor. At least for this one night, Malkuri would be with the man she truly cared for but could not accept.
Turning in the opposite direction and pulling the blanket over his head, Nermesa gave them the privacy they deserved.
HE WOKE IN the dark to a hand over his mouth. His first thought was to reach for his sword, but then he noted the feminine feel of the hand. A moment later, Malkuri’s throaty voice whispered in his ear.
But what the witch whispered were not words of endearment.
“The Sartans have returned,” she warned.
11
CAPTAIN CICERO’S MEN rode in from the same direction that they had come earlier, but this time fanned out as they entered Sonos. From Malkuri’s urgent warning, Nermesa had expected the Sartans already to be well into their hunt throughout the settlement, but the witch told him that he could thank Phillipian for the early alarm.
“When he became leader, he had sentries set up some distance around Sonos, especially from the direction that the Sartans would use.”
Already she and Nermesa had slipped out of Phillipian’s home and headed for where Malkuri said that he would find a waiting horse. Of the headman, there was no sign, and Nermesa had to assume that he had rushed out to stall the Sartan officer.
From the east, the Aquilonian heard a booming voice that had to be Cicero’s and the sound of something wooden being broken. He paused, caught between his own fate and wanting to aid those who sought to protect him.
But Malkuri would not permit him to turn back. “You must go! Phillipian insists! If you are not here, he may be able to convince them that they are wrong! If they find you, then it could be worse for Sonos!”
“But what brought them back?” He envisioned the moment when the one soldier had noticed him watching from the cell. Had the man been suspicious after all and informed his superior?
“I do not know! Here, your horse!”
A figure bearing the reins of the steed materialized in the dark. Nermesa belatedly recognized him as Herodius.
“There’s some small provisions in the saddlebag,” the bearded guard muttered. “Best could be done.”
“Thank you,” Nermesa replied, as the man thrust the reins into his hand.
“Best get him goin’,” Herodius added to Malkuri. With that said, the guard hurried off, no doubt to lend support to his headman.
The Aquilonian watched the man depart, aware that he had likely underestimated Herodius. The guard’s loyalty to Phillipian could surely not be questioned.
There was a crash from the east. Malkuri pushed Nermesa to the horse. “Go! Leave now!”
He leapt up into the saddle. “Should you stay here?”
Even in the dark, Nermesa could sense her brief smile. “They will not find me. They never have. Fare you well, Nermesa Klandes. May the lion continue to watch over you.”
The Aquilonian gave her a grateful nod, then turned his mount in the direction that Phillipian had earlier described and quietly rode off.
It still galled him that he had to flee rather than help the people of Sonos, but Malkuri had rightly pointed out Phillipian’s belief that a lack of any sign that he had been there in the first place would do better for the locals. Captain Cicero’s men would probably break a few more things and shove some of the inhabitants around; but if their search came up empty, then the headman would be able to convince them that they had made a mistake. Nermesa had to trust in the able Phillipian.
But none of that meant that the knight was better off than his protectors. It was possible, even likely, that the Sartan officer had also sent some men to watch the surrounding forest, which meant that Nermesa had to pick his way carefully.
His mount proved adept at moving with caution, no doubt a trait taught it by its former master. Nermesa gave thanks to Mitra for the ironic twist of fate; he who had been hunting brigands now in part owed his life to one.
The trail required care to follow, for it was not one used by caravans. Nermesa hoped that the Sartans would overlook it, but he dared not expect them to do so. The Aquilonian kept his sword out, ready for any sudden attack.
An hour passed, then a second. He could no longer hear sounds from Sonos. Whether that meant that the patrol had left, Nermesa could not say. For the sake of Malkuri, Phillipian, and the rest, he prayed that it was so.
When what was nearly another hour had passed, Nermesa finally dared pause long enough to dig into the provisions. They consisted mainly of dried fruit, nuts, and some leathery substance he assumed was meat. He ate a few of the first two, but chose to save the last for when his hunger was such that he would not mind fighting with it.
To his surprise, as dawn approached, he saw the mountains separating Corinthia from Aquilonia. From the angle, he was also not all that far from the northeastern tip of Ophir. He urged his horse on, his hopes of reaching home growing as the peaks ahead did.
But midday still found him far from the beckoning mountain range and forced at last to stop for a rest. The area was more open here, but still enough woods and hills dotted the landscape to give him some shelter from other eyes. He located a shady spot near a running brook and tethered the horse where it could lunch on tall, green grasses.
From the brook, Nermesa refilled the water sack that Herodius had also left him and which he had emptied along the way. He also took his fill from the brook, wiping his face clean at the same time.
A survey of the region revealed no evidence of other people and so the Aquilonian dared to sleep a little. He kept his sword handy, just in case somehow someone would come across him.
But his nap went uninterrupted and when Nermesa awoke, he saw he still had an hour of daylight remaining. After seeing to both his and his horse’s needs, the Black Dragon mounted, then continued on toward the beckoning mountains.
Well into the night, Nermesa understood that he would still not reach the mountains until late into the next day. Regardless, Bolontes’ son pushed forward, wanting to cut the gap as much as possible.
A short time later, though, he came to a sudden halt as flickering lights warned him of others in the area. Circling around them, Nermesa
counted at least three fires.
The source of the flames did not prove to be soldiers, as he had feared, but rather a small caravan. Nermesa listened for voices but heard none. While the caravan might have been one in which he could have found transport to Tarantia, he dared not risk speaking with them. Here, they could very well be Corinthian or even Ophirian. Both would find it very curious that an Aquilonian should be traveling in stealth here. They were just as likely to slay him or, barring that, keep him bound until they could turn him over to soldiers.
Although the wagons had created a circle, he was finally able to determine that they were not headed for Aquilonia but rather another part of Corinthia. Seeing no more reason why he should risk discovery, the knight turned his mount away and quietly continued toward the mountains.
Near dawn, he paused to rest again under the protection of a gnarled ridge. Nermesa did not sleep, too eager to reach the mountains before dark. As soon as he felt both himself and the horse ready, on they went again.
When the land finally gave way to the first and smallest of the peaks, he sighed in relief. Once across them, he would be back in Aquilonian territory. Surely there would be some outpost to which he could report. If they had messenger birds, perhaps a note could even be sent to Tarantia.
Phillipian’s instructions still held true. Nermesa again hoped for the best for the headman of Sonos and his people, including Malkuri. He wondered where she would move next. Perhaps, with Nermesa gone, it would be safe to return to her old hut. Certainly, doing so would keep her near Phillipian.
He was forced to shrug off any further thought of the pair, for the terrain became more and more treacherous. Despite Phillipian’s warning to travel only at night, Nermesa decided it best to make what progress he could during the day. The path was well-worn, yes, but that did not mean that it did not have its threats. A recent rockfall forced Nermesa to guide his horse on foot for a time. At another area where the trail sloped alarmingly, he sighted far below the skeletal remains of a pack animal. Whether the owner’s remains also lay below, Nermesa could not tell, but it was a grim reminder that home was still very far away. He could not imagine how well he would have done at this very point had he traveled in the black of night as suggested.
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