A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Errol saw a bargaining point and reached for it. He really wanted a drink. “If you let me have a drink now, I promise to be an apt pupil for the rest of the day.”

  With a grimace and a shake of his head, Luis handed him a skin. Errol lifted it to his mouth and drank.

  Cruk’s voice intruded on his bliss. “By heaven, is the boy into the ale already?”

  Errol lowered the skin, saw the big man red-faced and glaring at Luis.

  Luis gave a shrug. “I have to teach him how to read. We struck a bargain. Ale now, reading for the rest of the day.”

  Cruk growled his disgust. “If we’re attacked, it’s going to be hard enough to fight without worrying whether the little sot there is sober enough to stay on his horse and ride to safety.”

  “I’m not giving him that much,” Luis said.

  Quickly, Errol raised the skin and took another deep pull.

  Luis pulled the skin away from him in mid-drink. Errol surrendered it, but the cool amber liquid had done the trick. Memory still lurked, but the ale tamped it down enough for him to function.

  “Now,” Luis said, “the first thing you need to know is the alphabet.”

  True to his word Errol applied himself to Luis’s tutelage as they rode. From time to time Martin, Cruk, or even Liam would drift back to the two of them and check on his progress. Martin gave a nod of approval each time, and Liam would praise his efforts, but Cruk usually just grunted.

  For some reason Errol couldn’t identify, Liam’s encouragement annoyed him. He searched the young man’s words to find some hidden insult but could find none. Liam’s presence broke Errol’s concentration, and he made a series of foolish mistakes. Seeing the other man smile irked him.

  “This isn’t as easy as it looks, you know.”

  Liam nodded in agreement, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze. “As well I know. There were times when I thought learning to read and write were the most difficult things I ever attempted.”

  Luis snorted. “Liam is being modest. Antil says he’s never seen as quick a pupil.”

  Errol sighed. It had always been this way. He glanced over at the blond-haired god next to Luis, riding as though he were part of the horse. Liam excelled at everything he put his hand to. Roughly the same age as Errol, his shoulders bulked large under his shirt, while Errol’s garment hung on him like a sack. Where Errol was dark, Liam was light. He could outride any horseman in Sorland province, could read and speak in three languages, and was skilled enough with a sword to make Cruk sweat. And on top of all that, every village girl or woman looked on him as though something higher than man had deigned to walk among them.

  If Liam had been cocksure or arrogant, it might have been bearable. Then Errol would have been able to take comfort in the other man’s overweening pride. But no. Even in temperament, Liam proved to be more than human. In spite of his perfection, he remained genuinely modest and kind. His support to Errol during his reading lessons carried the same heartfelt well-wishes that he gave to everyone.

  Errol wanted to be like him so much it hurt.

  Late in the day’s ride, Luis decided Errol’s education would progress more rapidly with more teachers. Martin and Liam agreed to work with him. Cruk refused.

  “What’s it like?” Errol asked Liam during his lesson.

  Liam’s brows lifted a fraction and he smiled. “What is that, Errol?”

  “Being perfect at everything.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not perfect. No one is.”

  Errol exhaled. “You know what I mean.”

  “We’re all the same,” Liam said. “I just concentrate and try really hard at everything. Anyone can do it if they just try hard enough.”

  Errol stared. Did Liam really believe that?

  “Now,” Liam said, “recite the vowels and consonants.”

  He really did.

  They rode west, the miles lost as Errol worked his lessons. When he stopped to take notice of his surroundings, rolling hills thick with new grass formed a rim around them on three sides. Cruk guided them to a river, the Stones he called it, and led them through the shallow water for a mile or better before he led them up onto a rocky bank next to a thick copse of fir trees.

  “I think we’ll stop here,” he said as he slid to the ground. “If Merodach is tracking us, he’ll have a hard time of it.”

  Luis took charge of the cooking. “Here.” He handed a pot to Errol. “Fill this with water from the stream. It’s going to be beans and cheese tonight.”

  Errol wrinkled his nose. He hated beans and doubted whether even Luis’s skills would be able to make them palatable. But he fetched the water.

  Cruk and Liam took charge of the horses, unsaddled them before wiping them down with a square of wool cloth. Unbidden, Liam took out a heavy brush and curried each of the mounts in turn. Horace nickered and shook his head as the brush smoothed his coat.

  After dinner, Errol took the dishes to the stream, scrubbed them with sand, and rinsed them. When he returned to camp, he found Cruk waiting for him. The big man held two wooden swords. Errol found his grin unsettling.

  “We still have an hour or so of light left, boy.” Cruk beckoned toward a stretch of mostly flat ground next to their camp. “It’s time to teach you how to defend yourself.”

  “Why?”

  The grin faded from Cruk’s face, replaced by the same look of deadly seriousness he’d worn when he fought Dirk. “Because if Merodach comes at us, I’m going to be too busy to keep you from getting skewered by the men he’ll have with him.” Errol caught the sword, held it with both hands toward the middle.

  “It’s not like you have any choice in the matter. Hold it by the pommel, boy. It’s not a stick.”

  Errol knew Cruk well enough to know he spoke the simple truth. If he refused to fight, Cruk would just beat him until he complied. With a sigh, he gripped the sword in his right hand. It was really just a handle attached to four thin wooden laths, bound at intervals by leather strips. He held it out in front of him, as he’d seen others do, but the sensation of imbalance caused him to stumble.

  Cruk’s shoulders slumped. “You can’t be serious. You really don’t know how to hold a sword?”

  “When have I ever needed to fight?” Errol shot back. “What honor or glory is anyone going to get from beating the village drunk?”

  Cruk’s shrug conceded the point. “Glory or not, they’ll kill you if given the chance. We’ll start at the beginning, then, the very beginning.” He turned so that he presented his right side, sword arm forward. “Stand like this.”

  “Why?”

  That earned him a growl in response. “If you’re going to ask that every time I tell you to do something, this is going to take a lot longer. Liam didn’t ask so many questions.”

  Errol’s face heated. “I’m not Liam.”

  “You should probably tell him why, Cruk,” Martin called.

  Errol turned to see the priest seated on a fallen oak, flanked by Luis and Liam. He turned back to Cruk. “Do they have to watch? Isn’t it bad enough I have to do this? Do I have to have an audience?”

  Cruk smiled. “Do you think you’ll get to choose how and when you’re attacked?”

  And then he struck. The blow came so quickly that Errol wasn’t even sure he saw it coming. He had a faint impression of a blur coming toward his ribs, then a loud clack! sounded as Cruk’s sword landed. His breath exploded from his mouth, and he dropped his sword to hold his side.

  A blow landed on his head, making him see stars.

  “What did you do that for?” he yelled. “I wasn’t even holding my sword.”

  “Lesson one,” Cruk said, lifting him to his feet. “Don’t ever drop your sword. You’ll die.”

  The laughter from the edge of the clearing didn’t help. He didn’t want to learn how to fight. He just wanted a drink. Why couldn’t everyone leave him alone?

  Cruk waved his weapon. “Pick up your sword.”

  Errol did so.


  “Now, try again. Stand like this.” He nodded. “That’s better. Now what do you do if someone attacks you?”

  “Run.”

  Cruk shook his head. “Yes, if you want to get cut down from behind. You parry, boy.”

  He must have noted Errol’s confused look. “A parry is when you block your opponent’s strike with your sword. Here—aim a blow at me.”

  Errol struck toward Cruk’s midsection. He would have aimed for the neck, but the idea of deliberately trying to cut someone’s head off repulsed him. Cruk waited until the last instant before he parried. The shock of contact vibrated up Errol’s arm, and he dropped his sword. That earned him a quick rap on each shoulder.

  “I told you, never drop your weapon, boy. Every time you let that sword out of your hand, I’m going to beat you until you pick it up.” He gave Errol a grimace of a smile, smacking him in the ribs.

  “Now, there are three basic parry positions. They look like this.”

  Errol watched as Cruk’s sword moved smoothly from one position to another designed to protect against attacks to the head and body.

  “Now,” the big man said, “you do it.”

  He mimicked the moves, then looked up to see Cruk rubbing his temples and shaking his head, disgust written on his face. “When you get attacked, try not to make too much noise as you get killed. You might distract me.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Martin said from his seat on the log. “Remember, Cruk, he’s never held a sword before. Be patient.”

  Cruk turned toward the priest. “We don’t have time to be patient. Merodach is out there. He’ll kill us all without pausing for breath.”

  Errol remembered the cold blue eyes that stared at him as he fled across the Cripples. “Does he like killing so much, then?”

  That brought Cruk up short. He straightened, lowered the point of his practice sword until it almost touched the ground. “Like? Merodach doesn’t like, dislike, love, or hate anything. He does what he’s ordered to do. The man is as close to stone as you can get and still breathe. He’s the perfect captain of the watch.” His sword rose back to the ready position. “Again, boy.”

  Errol raised his sword to block the blow that came slowly toward his head.

  Cruk grunted. “Now the outside.”

  The attack came toward his sword arm. Errol parried.

  “Now the inside.”

  He moved his sword across his body, deflecting the strike.

  “That was better,” Luis said.

  Cruk rounded on him. “Better? If I were moving any slower I’d be stopped.” He gestured at Liam with his weapon. “Come here.”

  Liam rose from his seat. As he approached, Cruk tossed the sword. Liam caught it deftly in one hand. “Work him through the parries until he can’t lift his arm.” He glanced toward Errol. “And remember, if you take it easy on him, you might as well cut his throat yourself.” He turned toward Martin and Luis. “I’m going to scout around before it gets dark.”

  Liam stepped into Cruk’s place, gave Errol an encouraging smile. “Actually, you’re not doing so badly. That’s just the way Cruk teaches. I hated him when he started training me. Just concentrate.”

  Errol waited until Cruk left the clearing, then lowered his sword with relief. “Why don’t we stop for a drink?”

  Pain bloomed in his right side.

  “I’m sorry, Errol. Don’t ever lower your weapon until your opponent is either dead or unconscious,” Liam said, his dark blue eyes earnest. “Now, parry.”

  Errol forced his arm up to block.

  Liam grinned. “Good. Now try to go faster.”

  An hour went by, and the sky darkened. Errol stood drenched in sweat. Liam looked like he might have gone for a walk. “How can you keep at this for so long?”

  Liam shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ve worked for Knorl in the smithy since I was fourteen. Lifting a sword gets easy after you’ve stroked a hammer for a few years. When we get back I could ask Knorl to let you help out.” The smile ran from his face, and it became pensive. “You’d have to give up drinking. A smithy’s dangerous enough without ale in the mix.”

  Errol felt Martin’s gaze on him. He lifted his sword instead of answering.

  Liam nodded. “Try to go faster.”

  By the time they finished, Errol had lost count of how often Liam uttered that refrain.

  And when he woke the next morning and tried to roll over in his blanket, he groaned. Every part of his body felt as though it had been beaten with a sword. He thought back and realized most of them had. Even those places that miraculously escaped chastisement ached. He gave serious thought to running away and letting Cruk and the rest of them continue to Erinon without him. He discarded the idea when he shifted his legs. Running was out of the question. He doubted if he could even manage a crawl. If he could have moved, he would have dragged himself across the ground to where Cruk lay, grabbed those evil practice swords, and thrown them in the river. At that moment all he wanted was sleep.

  A boot thumped him on his backside. “Get up, boy. We’ve got company.”

  Errol opened his eyes to chaos.

  8

  WINDRIDGE

  BLANKETS, cooking utensils, and every other loose object, including Errol, was thrown onto the back of the nearest horse as they scrambled to get away from the telltale signs of their camp. Cruk threw water on the remains of their campfire, then kicked apart the ashes. “There’s no way to keep them from knowing we were here, but it might keep them from knowing when we left.”

  Errol tossed away the empty skin of ale he’d filched during the night. He mounted, then bit his lips against a sob as his groin muscles screamed in protest. Horace followed Cruk, Martin, and Luis from the clearing. Errol scrubbed the sleep from his eyes as he ducked a low-hanging branch. They were nearly a mile out from camp, cutting back and forth among the pines, when a thought struck him.

  “Where’s Liam?”

  Cruk frowned at him. “Keep your voice down, boy. Sound travels too well when the air is still.” He twitched the reins, and they moved off to the left to ride through a stand of cedars. “I sent him to lay down a false trail. Luis says we need time.”

  Errol shook his head in confusion. Why didn’t they just run? “Time? Time for what?”

  Luis dismounted and pulled a knife and two blocks of wood from his pack. “Time for this. Come here, Errol. It’s time to begin your real education.”

  Martin dismounted and held his hands over the knife and wood. The priest intoned a prayer that sounded as though he’d done it many times before. Even before he finished, Luis began whittling chunks from a block of pine he held in his hands. He turned the blank in precise increments, chips of the soft wood flying. Martin drifted away to speak with Cruk. Errol gaped as the block smoothed and its contours melted until it no longer resembled an obelisk, but a sphere.

  As he worked, Luis swayed over his work, his brows knitted in concentration, his voice crooning. “A reader’s work is to fashion lots, Errol. These lots represent the choices before us, in this case to turn south and make for Escadrill, or take the road north and ride for Windridge.”

  Errol stood transfixed as the grain seemed to flow under Luis’s hands. “But how does it work?”

  A smile split his face, though his eyes never wavered from his craft. “Readers must know the choices that they spin. Otherwise the result is mere random chance. Some are born with the ability to imbue the lot with some essence of what we know. Much of our craft lies in our ability to ask the right question.” His hands stilled, pausing long enough to look Errol in the eye. “I want you to go to my saddle. In the left bag you’ll find several pieces of rubbing cloth. Bring them here.” He put the wooden sphere on his lap and started carving the next block of pine.

  When Errol returned, carrying the various grits of cloth, Luis favored him with a smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Escadrill or Windridge?” he asked.

  Errol shook his head. “I’ve never
been anywhere except for Callowford and Berea.”

  Luis nodded. “That’s too bad. This would go more quickly if you could assist.”

  A thrill coursed through him. “Me? I don’t know anything about making lots. How could I help?”

  Laughter answered him. “Casting lots is at once more difficult and easier than you realize. Only a reader can cast a lot, and we’ve already established that you have the talent.”

  With a flash of resentment, Errol thought of the compulsion that had been laid upon him, but Luis’s knife and hands wove a spell that captivated him, and he pushed his irritation to the back of his mind.

  “As for the rest of it, it’s a simple matter of concentrating on each choice as you fashion the lot that matches it.” The reader frowned at the wood as he turned it. “Pine’s not the best. The grain is too loose. Walnut would have been better and maple best of all.” He sighed. “But we don’t have time, and softwoods are the quickest.”

  He set the second sphere in his lap, retrieved the first and then took up the roughest cloth and attacked the lot with brisk strokes. A mist of sawdust floated up to Errol’s nose, and he sneezed.

  “Sorry,” Luis said. “That’s one of the hazards of the craft, I’m afraid.”

  Ten minutes later, his brow damp with effort, Luis held two identical spheres to Errol for his inspection.

  Errol reached out to take them, then stopped. “Shouldn’t we be wearing gloves or something?”

  Luis nodded in approval. “Good. That’s very good, but we only have two choices here and we don’t have time for such exactitude. Now, take the lots and close your eyes.”

  Errol did so, held one in each hand.

  “Can you tell any difference between them?”

  He hefted the lots, felt their weight and grain against the ridges of his skin. Unsure, he swapped hands. The difference between the two spheres resting in his palms was so slight he might have been imagining it. He changed his grip, held them with his fingertips and rolled them back and forth, searched for any variance in the grain. He opened his eyes.