The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

Conger had pulled his shoulders up so high, his head was almost invisible. Errol gestured to the two guards on either side of the defrocked priest. They hauled him to his feet and escorted him into Errol’s presence, where he stood staring at his feet and darting glances at those assembled around their group.

  “So now you wave your hand and the watch does your bidding?” Ru asked, his voice caustic. “How high you’ve risen. Do you think that will save us when we get to Merakh?”

  Their hands on his back, the guards pushed Conger closer to Errol. As his old friend straightened, Errol could see he still wore the tattered remains of his priestly garments—a threadbare collar, and a stained chasuble. “By our G— I mean, that is, to say . . . I’m glad to see you again . . . uh, Earl Stone.” Sweat beaded on Conger’s forehead, and he darted quick, furtive glances at the crowd.

  “I’m still Errol, Conger. The title’s still new, and most of the nobles here refuse to use it anyway.”

  Conger frowned as he paused to scratch an armpit and belch. “Beggin’ your pardon, Errol, but why am I here?”

  Guilt, sharp and cold, laid an icy line across his throat. “The archbenefice insisted I take a priest. My friend, Martin, is gone. You’re the only other priest I know . . . and trust.”

  Conger shook his head. “Can’t see how it applies—I’ve been dismissed.” He gave a slight lift of the shoulders. “But if the church says go to Merakh, who am I to argue?”

  His attitude toward a penance that could likely result in his death caught Errol off guard. “You’d go just because the church told you to? So many of the men I’ve met in the church are out for their own interests.”

  Conger’s face and tone became solemn. “Errol, the church is made of men, and wherever you have men, you have problems, but the church has been the bulwark against the evil that’s overtaken Merakh and the steppes. Without its influence . . .” He shrugged.

  “Without the church, we might actually live our lives in peace,” Ru finished for him.

  Errol looked at the small band gathered around him. There was nothing more to be gained by talking. “We’ll leave tomorrow disguised as merchants.”

  Ru sneered. “I suppose you’ll be the merchant and make me your guard.”

  “You’ll do whatever Earl Stone tells you to do,” Rale said. He shifted his weight, slid his hands closer to the center of his staff.

  “You would try me?” Ru asked.

  Errol stepped between them. “You’re the merchant. I will be your second.”

  The caravan master’s eyes narrowed. “And who will be my first?”

  Errol nodded toward Rale. “Him.”

  The smell of horses permeated the thin mist early the next morning. Despite himself, Errol’s heart quickened with excitement. A small train of empty wagons, appropriated by the archbenefice, lined the roadway just outside the main walls of the imperial compound. Ru shook his head in disgust. “Doesn’t anyone on this island know anything about being a merchant? We’ll be found out before we’ve gone a league.”

  “What’s wrong?” Errol asked.

  “Look at the wagons.”

  The caravan train wasn’t as big as Ru’s, but the wagons looked pretty much the same, as far as Errol could tell. “So?”

  Naaman rubbed his temples. “Didn’t you learn anything while you were with me? They’re empty, boy. Are your church friends trying to get us killed?”

  That was a question Errol didn’t want to answer. Rale shifted closer on his horse. “The king’s isle is the ultimate destination for goods, Ru. They don’t produce anything here. We’re just taking the wagons to the port. We’ll find a cargo then.”

  Ru’s face showed what he thought of this arrangement, but for the moment he seemed satisfied.

  A tap at Errol’s shoulder startled him and he spun. Liam stood before him, hand outstretched and smiling. Errol clasped hands, kept his own from being crushed, just.

  “I wish I could go with you,” Liam said. “But the archbenefice and Captain Reynald forbade it when I asked.”

  Errol nodded. As well they should. Liam would be Rodran’s successor. Erinon could hardly risk sending its future king on a mission designed to kill a minor nuisance. “They’ll need you here, I think,” Errol said.

  “Still, I’d prefer to meet the enemy of our kingdom head on, as you are doing, rather than stay here endlessly teaching nobles the art of the sword when they have no intention of using it.”

  Errol didn’t know what to say, so he merely nodded.

  “Deas keep you and grant you favor, Errol,” Liam said. He spoke the customary parting with sincerity, laying it on Errol’s hearing like a blessing.

  “Thank you. I’ll need it.”

  The sun rose, cleared the trees to burn off the thin mist, and still they waited.

  “What’s the holdup, boy?” Ru asked. “The sooner I’m away from this place, the better.”

  “Think, Father, what would make a man delay his departure?” Rokha asked. She stood to one side, smiling.

  After a few more minutes that dragged like hours, she came. Accompanied by one of her ladies, she stopped a dozen paces away and waited. He crossed the intervening space with no conscious awareness of having moved.

  “You’re leaving,” she said. The princess sounded almost angry.

  As if he had any choice in the matter. “I am compelled, Your Highness.”

  Adora nodded. “Will you . . . come back?”

  Her voice caught on the last two words. Errol knew the question that lay behind her hesitation. Would he live? “I will try, my lady.” Ever so softly, he let his voice caress the last two words.

  Her companion bristled at this. “Your tone is overly familiar, Earl Stone.”

  Adora coughed. “My uncle has been persuaded to have me accompanied. This is the Lady Sevra, the daughter of Duke Weir.”

  “And sister to Lord Weir,” the woman said.

  Errol saw him then—Lord Weir, standing twenty paces back, staring at Errol, smiling, his eyes gleaming with triumph. Errol’s face burned, and he gripped his staff until his knuckles cracked. “Your uncle would really marry you off to him? That strutting toad?”

  “Lord Weir’s blood is the noblest in the kingdom,” Sevra spat. “Daughters of privilege are not permitted to marry beneath themselves.”

  Errol let his voice carry. “I don’t see how you could marry any lower than him.”

  Weir’s hand went to his pommel, but he didn’t draw, didn’t give Errol the excuse he wanted.

  Adora’s companion laughed in Errol’s face, her breath hot, sour with wine despite the early hour. “You taunt him in vain. My brother will not sully his reputation with the blood of an uncouth peasant.”

  Errol stepped forward, thrusting his face down until his nose nearly touched Sevra’s. “Your brother would fight the meanest beggar as long as he was sure of winning. He’s a coward and a bully.”

  She paled, retreated a step. “My lady, I think we should withdraw.” Without waiting for Adora’s consent, she showed her back to Errol, moving to join her brother.

  Adora dropped her gaze to the grass at her feet before she peered up at him through her lashes. “I have to go. My uncle says my reputation is to be guarded.” Her posture appeared meek, but glints of anger and plans flared in her eyes.

  Errol watched her leave. After she disappeared into the guardhouse to the palace grounds, he mounted Midnight and turned the horse toward the sea.

  At that moment he didn’t care whether he lived or not.

  10

  The Beron Strait

  THEY LEFT THE WAGONS BEHIND with a trader at the docks and prepared to board a three-masted ship to cross the Beron Strait. They would sail with their horses and then obtain a commensurate number of wagons in Port City, where their trip south would begin in earnest. The smell of fish and the detritus of the shore filled Errol’s nose as they coaxed the animals aboard. The rocking motion of the ship brought back vivid memories of his last miserable crossi
ng, and the back of his throat tightened in expectation.

  A voice broke the sound of the sea. “Horses? I hate horses. They mess up my ship. Why don’t you just get new ones in Port City?”

  Errol fought a premonition of nausea and made his way forward, leaving Naaman and Rale to deal with their Bellian captain, a thin, bearded man named Salo. At sea the breeze would blow from behind him and carry the scent of his seasickness away.

  For a few happy moments after the lines were cast, Errol allowed himself to hope he might weather the crossing in fair order. Then they sailed through a gap between two of the breakwaters that defended the island, and he lost hope. His stomach rolled as if the moors of his internal organs had been removed. The ship pitched, yawed, and seemingly moved in two directions at once. He grabbed the rail and puked violently into the sea. It would take three hours to make the crossing. It might as well be three days. He slumped to the deck, flung an arm over the manrope, and tried to aim between the balusters of the rail.

  Rokha came to him sometime later, put a hand to his forehead, and laughed. “I should challenge you now.”

  What was it that people found funny about seasickness? “I concede. You can have the second, and I’ll give you the first if you’ll kill the captain.”

  She patted him on the head. “Here, take this. It will help a bit. Not as much as if you’d taken it before we sailed, but it will keep you from the worst of the stomach pains and sweats. I don’t leave port until I’ve had some.”

  He pried his eyes open. She held a cup of a brownish-red powder, offering it to him. “What is it?”

  “Zingiber root. Why didn’t you ask the captain for some before we sailed?”

  This pulled his gaze up to hers. She looked pale, but otherwise seemed hale enough. “I’ve never heard of it before. The herbwomen in my village don’t use anything like it. Of course, Callowford is far from the sea, so there would be no use for such.” He grabbed the cup with an unsteady hand and took a mouthful of the powder. It turned to paste on his tongue as he struggled to choke it down. “Why would the captain carry this? He doesn’t need any—he’s a sailor.”

  Rokha laughed again, but it carried a sympathetic sound to it. “All captains carry it. Sick passengers are bad for business, Errol. A ship’s captain is just a merchant with a boat.”

  He stared. All captains had it. Jonas Grim. “I know a sailor I’d like to kill.” He closed his eyes, willed the zingiber root to take effect as she laughed. “What makes you think I’m joking?”

  She sat on the deck beside him and looped an arm through the rail. “You’re not a vengeful man, Errol.”

  The powder might have started working, or possibly the sound of Rokha’s voice kept him distracted. “How do you know?”

  She chuckled. “I don’t lie to myself, Errol. My father used you. He kept you locked up for weeks, forced you to cast lots so he could profit, and threatened to kill you. Then you escaped and won the favor of the king.”

  This last pained him. “For a while, anyway.”

  “The point is,” she went on, “you could have used your influence to find my father and have him—and me—imprisoned for what he did. But you did not.”

  “I was too busy for revenge.”

  “My point exactly.” She stayed by his side in silence.

  He gulped another mouthful of powder, amazed that the first had managed to stay down.

  “Do you love her?”

  His stomach tightened at the question. Errol tried to convince it to relax. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She stiffened. “I didn’t think you were the type to surrender.”

  Errol shrugged. Was he giving up? He didn’t know. So many of his choices had been taken away. “I’m not surrendering, but there’s not much I can do about Adora now. She’s back in Erinon with Weir, and I’m on my way to Merakh.” His eyes burned behind his lids. “It’s like a challenge in the guard—sometimes you lose whether you surrender or not.”

  They rode the swells, the smell of salt heavy in the air, wet from the spray.

  “What about Skorik?” he asked.

  “He’s like my father.”

  “How so?”

  Rokha laughed. “He hates you too.”

  Errol snorted.

  “Skorik wanted to own me, not win me,” she said finally.

  Rokha had always reminded him of a hawk, so proud, so fierce. She—

  A distant thumping of feet brought his eyes open. Men lined the ship on the starboard side, pointing, intent. Shouts of alarm carried forward on the wind from the poop deck. The ship heeled hard to port, rolling Errol and Rokha across the boards until they hit the bulwark in a tumble of arms and legs.

  Errol pulled himself up, followed the points of the sailors closest by. Salo’s ship bounced up and down on the chop, obscuring his vision. Then he saw it—a lean ship with three masts bearing down on them out of the south.

  “Foolish, foolish.” He cursed himself over and over.

  Rokha shook him, had been shaking him. Her words registered at last above the sound of the sea. “What’s happening?”

  He spun to meet her, yelled over the tumult. “We planned too far ahead. Valon is attacking.”

  Five hundred paces distant, men with crossbows lined the deck of the other ship—it appeared to be a cog. Errol did a quick count. They were outnumbered at least three to one. On the aft deck Salo screamed orders to add sail. Errol watched with sick fascination as the cog turned to port, trying to come in behind them. He wobbled his way back to the captain.

  The ship lurched, moving away from the enemy and away from Port City as well. What was Salo doing? He stumbled into Rale, screamed to get his attention. “We have to get to Port City.”

  Rale gave a brusque shake of his head. “No, lad. We turn or we die. Salo knows what he’s about.”

  Errol stared across the distance. The other ship seemed larger already. “But they’re gaining.”

  “Aye. The question is, can we make the mainland before they get close enough to pincushion us with those crossbows? If they pick off enough of the crew, they’ll be able to overtake us and board.” His face hardened. “That would be bad.”

  An empty feeling in the pit of his stomach washed over him. By the three, he was tired of fighting. “How close do they have to be?”

  Rale shrugged. “Crossbows are fairly long but not accurate. If they close to two hundred paces, they’ll fill the sky with bolts. Thank Deas for the rough sea.” He grabbed Errol by the arm, guided him to the ladder that led up to the aft deck. “Let’s find out what our captain intends.”

  Salo called orders as he watched the enemy ship pull inexorably closer. A glance told Errol that he and Rale were not welcome on the deck, but Salo didn’t order them away.

  “How long before they’re in firing range, Captain?” Rale asked.

  A scowl creased Salo’s face, turning the weathered cracks of his skin into crevices. “An hour—maybe a little more.”

  “Is that long enough to make land?” Stress pulled Errol’s voice higher, merged it with the wind screeching through the rigging.

  “No.”

  Rale nodded. “What do you need, Captain?”

  Salo rolled his eyes. Errol heard him say something about landwalkers with a lot of swear words in front of it. “I need a way to keep those cursed bowmen from shooting my lads out of the rigging, and if someone does get shot, I’m going to need a replacement.”

  “You don’t have extra crew?” Errol asked.

  “It’s a three-hour crossing, boy. Why would I waste profit on men I don’t need?” He turned back to Rale. “As long as I’m asking for the impossible, I’d like to know the intentions of that other ship out there.”

  Other ship? Errol followed Salo’s gaze. At first he couldn’t make out anything except the gray-green swells. Then the silhouette of a low-decked ship appeared in the distance, dark figures at the rail. The zingiber root roiled in his stomach.

  “Your thoughts, Cap
tain?” Rale asked.

  “If they mean us ill, we’re done for. That longship is faster than these high-decked cogs, and it’ll be on us inside an hour. On the other hand, if they mean to aid us, it’ll cost them sore to buy our passage. Those crossbows will wreak havoc from the cog’s higher decks.”

  “Could we signal them?”

  “Aye, but are you willing to bet our lives on the answer?”

  Rale nodded. “Come, Errol. We have work to do.”

  He followed Rale down the ladder. Every man not a part of the crew lined the starboard rail, staring at the gaps closing between the three ships. Rale moved to the first watchman. “Do you have a longbow?” The watchman shook his head. “Have you ever served aboard ship?” Another shake.

  Rale moved on, moving from watchman to watchman, always asking the same two questions. Afterward, two men with longbows stood beside him. Another man, who possessed a sure gait despite the rolling of the ship, walked aft to put himself at Salo’s disposal. Two bows. One additional seaman.

  Rale pointed. “We’re about to discover the intentions of that second ship.”

  Rokha stole up beside Errol, her hand on her sword, her teeth bared. The faster vessel, the longship, pulled within two hundred paces of the cog as it in turn continued to pursue Salo’s ship. The cog’s high decks fore and aft were filled with crossbowmen. Yet the longship appeared empty. Where had they gone?

  With a suddenness that made Errol start, a dozen black-garbed men sprang into view pulling longbows. Watchmen. The longship crested a swell, and the bowmen launched. A volley of arrows sailed toward the forecastle of the other ship, peaked, and then plummeted. Cries and shouts sounded, and two-score crossbows loosed.

  The men on the longship ducked behind the low bulwark, and bolts that would have pierced chain mail instead plunged harmlessly into the side of the ship. Now the men rose and fired volley after volley at the cog. Screams of the wounded and dying came to Errol over the waves, and over them the sound of command.

  Another set of bolts came from the cog, but merely a third of what had come before. Errol’s heart soared. The men in the longship ducked again. Hidden and unseeing, they didn’t see the cog immediately release another volley. Black shafts streaked toward the deck.