The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  “We can’t go that way, my friend,” Martin said. “If we are to help Errol, we must have aid to do it. Our path must lie another way.”

  Karele shook his head. His finger tapped the map again. “No, if we are to help Errol, we must make haste. No other route will get us there in time.”

  “And how do you know this?” Cruk barked.

  “Aurae,” Karele said.

  Cruk shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything. Is this an audible voice?”

  The solis grew still. “No, Captain, Aurae speaks in silence to those who listen.”

  Cruk glared. “Then you go to some quiet place and tell Aurae to speak to me, because I am not taking us into the shadow lands to die. The place is troubled by the dead as well as those that live there.”

  Karele’s lips turned ever so slightly up at the corners. “Surely you exaggerate, Captain.”

  Cruk bolted to his feet. “Surely I do not! The place is a killing ground for young toughs and brainless men who think with their swords. We are not going that way.”

  The healer looked up. Cruk towered over him, threatening, but Karele remained seated, his finger still on the map, as if his physical connection to the symbol of their intended destination could compel them to take that route.

  “We will go to the shadow lands, Captain,” he said. “And we will survive. If we do not take this route, Errol will sail into the Forbidden Strait without us, without me to protect him. And he and all with him will be killed by Merakhi sailing on galleys commanded by ghostwalkers.”

  Martin shuddered. The healer’s flat-voiced pronouncement knelled Errol’s death as if it had already happened.

  “You’re a fool,” Cruk snapped. “The survival of this mission is in my charge. I choose the route, and I say we’re going to Windridge. If you want to choose how we go from there, you may do so.” He pointed a thick finger at Martin. “The watch will not let its charge die.”

  Karele rose, his motions unhurried. “I thought Errol was your charge.”

  “He’s not here; Benefice Arwitten and Secondus Montari are.” He pointed to Karele’s mount. “Tomorrow morning you will get on that horse and go where I tell you.”

  Karele’s face at last showed signs of anger. “Even if it means Aurae says Errol will die?”

  Cruk hawked and spat. “I’ve never seen evidence you can talk to Deas’s spirit, and I’m not going to take the word of an addled healer.”

  “I saved your life, Captain.”

  Cruk shook his head. “Not if you take us into the shadow lands—you only prolonged it. I prefer to live a little longer, thank you.”

  “There is another way,” Luis said.

  Cruk and Karele turned to the reader.

  Luis’s hands held a pair of pine blanks and a knife.

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, and a look of resignation softened the harsh lines of his face. With a slow nod, Cruk accepted the reader’s suggestion. Martin could almost feel Cruk’s sense of powerlessness. Karele held the power to control the cast of the lots. It was an argument Cruk could no longer win. If the lots indicated they should journey into the perils of the shadow lands, Cruk would gain nothing by accusing Karele of tampering with the outcome. To do so would be tantamount to an admission that a greater power worked through the solis.

  Martin left Luis to his craft, the issue settled. Tomorrow they would ride south. Some days from now they would turn east through the Shattered Hills into those blasted lands. So be it. As he settled into his blanket with his saddle for a pillow, Luis’s voice came soft and low from a few paces away.

  “Deas is in the lot. Let the cast be true. Do we go through the shadow lands?” A moment and a rustling sound later his voice came again. “Yes.”

  Eleven draws later the issue had been decided.

  20

  The Domain of a Woman

  A SENSE OF WRONG settled on Errol’s mind as they passed the remaining villages of southern Gascony. By the time the caravan zigzagged its way up the Apalian Mountains to approach the hilly farmland of northern Talia, the feeling nagged like a whiff of corruption and weighed on him like an unwanted prophecy. Yet he couldn’t identify the source of his discomfort. Nothing appeared to be amiss. The weather had turned fair. Farms teemed with crops, and their caravan even had aerial entertainment of a sort to offer distraction from the tedium of the ride: A large red-banded hawk flew overhead, sweeping the sky each day, looking for prey.

  “Errol.” Adora’s call from the front of the caravan caressed him like the brush of her fingers against his skin. With a last check behind, he left the rear of the caravan, urged Midnight into a canter past Rokha, who rode the middle guard, and slowed as he reached the princess.

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Adora fixed him with green eyes the color of the sea under sunshine and smiled. She reached across and rested one hand on his where they held the reins. A tendon in his wrist jumped involuntarily. “Would you be willing to ride with me for a while, Errol?” She waved a hand at the other members of the party. “I don’t know your friends very well, and I find myself wishing for conversation.”

  Errol nodded. The thought of refusing Adora anything never entered, and would never enter, his head. “Of course, Princess.”

  “Can’t you call me Adora?”

  Errol bowed his head, then stole a glance at the tail of the caravan. “If you wish—for a while, anyway.”

  She favored him with a smile. “I wish. Tell me, why do we keep to such a strange route? It’s as if we don’t know where we’re going from one day to the next.”

  Laughter cleared away his sense of unease. “We don’t.” At Adora’s look of confusion, he rushed to explain. “Valon commands a circle. He can track us from moment to moment, but so long as our decisions are random, he can only determine where we are, not where we’re going to be. That’s how he found us in the strait.” His laughter died at the memory of Garrigus slumped on the deck, his blood filling the cracks in the boards.

  “But surely he’s guessed our destination by now—and the provinces we will pass through to reach it.”

  Errol nodded. “No doubt, but Basquon and Talia cover a large area. Valon could spread his agents and wait for us, but he would be unable to come at us in force. And if he concentrates his men, the likelihood of catching us becomes small.”

  They spoke for an hour or more, until Errol’s conscience forced him back to his position at the rear of the train. Adora, unwilling to suffer the dust the wagons and horses raised, stayed at the front. Rokha drifted back to join him, her lips twisted as if she smelled something foul. “When did you become her pet, boy?”

  “What?”

  Rokha shook her head as she looked at the ground. “Errol, you have so much to learn about women.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If a woman becomes too sure of you, she won’t want you.”

  Now he understood. “She’s scared. Adora needs to be sure of someone, and I want her to know I’m hers. Wouldn’t any woman want her husband to be constant?”

  Rokha rolled her eyes. “You’re not her husband, boy. Not even close. If you don’t plant a seed of doubt in her highness’s mind, she’ll take you for granted. She wants a man, Errol, not a lapdog.”

  He could hear the truth of Rokha’s advice in her words. With a bitter laugh, he turned and caught Rokha’s gaze. “I believe you, but whenever she looks at me . . . I lose myself.”

  Ru’s daughter sighed with her eyes closed, then spat. “Boy, you need to learn to handle a woman as well as you handle that staff of yours or the princess is going to stop looking at you as a man and start looking at you as a plaything.” She dug her heels into her mount’s flanks and galloped back toward her spot at the middle of the caravan.

  The road wound upward through a gap in the mountains ahead. Peaks towered over either side, their tops shrouded in mist and snow. When Errol looked back, he was surprised to see how high they had climbed.

  The watchma
n next to him chuckled. “First time through the twins, my lord?”

  Errol nodded.

  The guard, a Gascon named Darcy, threw back his arms and sang a song of hills and mountains and snow. When he stopped, he turned a face flushed with excitement toward Errol, his smile crinkling his eyes with wrinkles yet making him appear youthful at the same time. “I was raised not five leagues from here. It is beautiful, no?”

  Errol nodded.

  “Ah, you have good taste, my lord. At summer’s twilight maidens who still your heart with their beauty pour from their fathers’ estates to harvest the finest grapes in the kingdom. With their own feet they crush them until the air hangs heavy with the scent of the vineyards. The wine master performs his magic, and then the entire world savors the wines of the Arryth, from the vineyards of Gascony, Talia, and Basquon.”

  Errol laughed. Darcy, taking his amusement as an invitation, waxed eloquent about the region that had birthed him. According to the lithe, dark-haired watchman, in his home region the stars shone brighter, the women were at once more virtuous and sensuous, and the food was incomparably better than anyplace else in the kingdom of Illustra.

  Darcy pointed. “Ah, my young lord, you are in for a treat. Up ahead is the pass between the twins. From that point we will descend into heaven along the border between Talia and Basquon, but there at the crest you will see both provinces spread before you like a banquet, the hills and farms laid out like a blanket to welcome you home to your rest.” He paused to kiss the fingers of his hand. “There is no sight like it on earth. You’ll—”

  The hiss of an arrow interrupted Darcy’s eloquence. With a startled curse, he pulled his horse in front of Errol’s, a crossbow filling his hands. Up ahead, a rain of arrows fell on the caravan. Men and women dove for cover, seeking protection behind the wagons.

  Errol searched for the source of the attack. The sunlight bathed the twins in bright yellow, but down by the gap, huge boulders created deep shadows. Errol tapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Aim your crossbow into those shadows.”

  Darcy shouldered the weapon and fired. A split second later a cry of pain hung in the cool air. The rest of the caravan seized on Errol’s insight and filled the shadows by the road with arrows and crossbow bolts. A chorus of screams echoed and splintered among the rocks. Then a score of riders charged from the shadows toward the caravan.

  Darcy grunted, struggled to reload his crossbow from atop his horse. With a curse, he flung the weapon away and drew his sword.

  Errol swept past him, his mind filled with one thought—Adora. He unslung his staff, knobblocks on each end, as he galloped to the front of the line. An arrow flew wide of him. He heard her scream first. Then he saw her. A large man in boiled leather charged him, sword upraised. Errol blocked an awkward stroke and cracked the man across the temple. His eyes rolled, and he toppled from his horse. Behind him another man charged, his reins in one hand and a punja stick in the other. Errol slipped the blow and thrust the end of his staff at the man’s neck. The weapon and reins slipped from the man’s grip as he clutched his throat, trying to pull air past his crushed windpipe.

  Adora’s cry behind him stilled his heart. He wheeled Midnight to see a man pulling the princess from her horse. Errol charged, his staff whirling above his head.

  A hooked knife appeared at Adora’s throat. “Stay back or I’ll open her up!”

  Errol skidded Midnight to a halt. “Free her and I’ll let you live.”

  The man laughed, spittle bubbling on his lips. “Oh, I’ll live. I’ll be rich.” He pressed the point of his dagger against Adora’s throat. “Now, drop your weapon.”

  Errol hesitated, but Adora’s eyes, wide and unblinking, compelled him. His staff clattered against the stones of the road.

  “Come here,” the man ordered.

  With the sounds of fighting around him, Errol nudged his horse forward. The man signaled his companion. “Kill him.”

  The man gave a gap-toothed smile and raised his notched sword. Errol could only watch.

  A blur of motion resolved itself into Rokha. With a curse, she launched a sword cut at the arm of the man who held the dagger to Adora’s throat. “Roll, boy!”

  Errol jumped from his saddle as the sword descended. He landed badly, felt something tear in his chest, and sucked air in pain. Spots danced in his vision as the man spurred his horse, trying to run Errol down. With a gasp, he lurched from the horse’s path. In the corner of his eye he saw Rokha backing from the man who had held Adora captive—but he could not see the princess.

  A great underhanded sweep of the horseman’s sword almost had him. He flattened against the ground, tried in vain to get to his staff, but the man maneuvered his horse over the weapon each time Errol tried to reach it.

  Rokha continued backing toward him. With a flurry of strokes she opened up a small space, turned, and stabbed the mount of the man trying to run Errol down. With a scream, the man’s horse reared. The rider kicked free of the stirrups, twisted in the air, and landed on his hands and knees.

  Errol snatched his staff and rose to his feet. Fire burned across the ribs on his right side. He parried a sword stroke, tried to strike at the man’s legs and missed. He couldn’t extend the arm on his wounded side. His opponent’s eyes flattened, and he circled to Errol’s right.

  Sword strokes rained on Errol. Each parry sent burning coals of pain across his ribs. He couldn’t last. Shallow breathing created black spots that danced across his vision. With a scream of pain and frustration, he countered, striking with the end of his staff as if it were a pike.

  The bandit parried the first strike, missed the second. The knobblock crunched into his face. Errol followed with a thrust at his throat. The bandit dropped. Errol spun, looking for opponents. Rokha slipped a stroke from her man and lunged. Her sword found a weak spot in the bandit’s mail. With a screech of metal on metal, her blade slid into the man’s chest. Rokha twisted her wrist, and the man shuddered and collapsed, pulling her sword down. She put a foot on his ribs and yanked the blade free.

  The fighting was over. Fierce and glowing, Rokha turned to Errol, threw her free arm around him, and pressed her lips against his in a savage kiss. When they parted, her mouth brushed his ear with lips and laughter. “You owe me on several counts, Errol. You can thank me later.”

  Adora’s gaze rested on him. He rushed to her. “Are you all right?”

  Without answering, she sidestepped him and walked away, her face smooth. Errol could see no emotion written there, but her eyes had darkened to the color of storm clouds. As she passed Rokha, the caravan master’s daughter caught her by the arm.

  “Unhand me,” Adora said. “Do you know who I am?”

  Rokha laughed and tightened her grip until the flesh of Adora’s arm bunched around her fingers. The princess winced but bit her lip in silence.

  “I know exactly who you are,” Rokha said. “You’re a spoiled little princess who almost got a man killed because she doesn’t know how to defend herself. Look at him.” She gave Adora a shake. “Look!”

  Adora turned. Her gaze froze Errol where he stood.

  Rokha growled her words in disgust. “He threw down his weapon for you—for you! If I hadn’t been here they’d have split him from head to belt because you were too helpless to offer any defense.” She spat.

  “Are you finished with my arm?” the princess asked, head high.

  Rokha dropped it, tilted her head back, and laughed. “It’s nice to see you’ve got some backbone, Princess.”

  Adora walked past her.

  “Princess,” Rokha called, “that’s not the first time Errol has felt my lips against his.”

  Adora’s back stiffened at the jibe, but she neither stopped nor slowed.

  A cloud that no pastoral beauty of the Arryth or banter from Darcy could alleviate descended on Errol. Even the fact that the caravan had emerged from the fight with only a few injuries failed to cheer him. His attempts to apologize to the princess for Rokha’s behav
ior were rebuffed before they’d begun. Each time he approached her, she would find some purpose or interest that needed her attention and guide her mare away from Errol without a word. After the fourth time, he gave up.

  Disconsolate, yet unwilling to ask Rokha’s advice—the woman had gotten him into enough trouble already!—he sought Rale. Perhaps the captain could instruct him in the ways of women as well as the staff. Errol nudged Midnight forward until he rode almost knee to knee with the erstwhile farmer.

  Rale stared ahead, his eyes scanning the landscape as if searching for new enemies as he chewed on his lower lip. “Strange.”

  Errol fumed. He needed Rale’s advice, not random observations on some trivial oddity, yet a nagging voice told him to put aside his childish behavior. If the captain noticed something amiss and felt compelled to comment on it, Errol should know of it. He sighed. “What?”

  “The attack,” Rale said. “They seemed intent on killing you.”

  A burst of caustic laughter erupted from Errol’s lungs. “What’s so strange about that? It never stops.”

  Rale gave him a look that brought a blush to the roots of his hair. “Errol, a leader has to be able to set his emotions, his prejudices, and his assumptions aside. When you’re in charge, you must notice everything.”

  Errol accepted the rebuke with a nod. Doubtless Rale knew of his troubles with the princess. How could he not? Rale made a habit of noticing everything. By now he would have seen Adora rebuff his attempts at reconciliation, but his mentor’s correction seemed misplaced. “I’m not the one in charge. You’re a captain of the watch again and one of the best tacticians in the kingdom. Everyone says so.”

  “And I’m one arrow or sword thrust from being dead, boy. Who will watch out for you then—one of the watch?” He nodded. “Surely, they would do their best to protect you, but none of them are qualified to lead you into Merakh. Perhaps Captain Merodach—but can you trust someone who tried to kill you?”