The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  They moved on. The sun passed its zenith. Rohbe stopped, watching as the sun arced over the narrow walls of the canyon and was lost.

  “We are committed now, yes,” Rohbe said. “I hope they cannot gain the passage any other way. No.”

  Hours later, darkness fell. They kept going. Deprived of sunlight by the vertical walls and lacking soil, nothing grew in the chasm. Unrelieved stone, loose or fixed, surrounded them on all sides. They paused to light torches, then walked in the yellow pools of light. The deepening gloom pressed against the illumination, compressing it until their field of vision shrank to a pair of spans.

  Martin fought his body’s hunger for sleep. Until he came to the end of the road or emerged from the canyon into the shadow lands, he would keep moving. The shadows beyond his torch deepened. Then the torch died and the darkness became complete.

  A boom sounded in the distance behind them. For a moment his heart leapt with hope as if a drum called to him. The sound came again and skittering chills ran down his arms and legs. There could be no mistaking the source: something had hit the door.

  They broke into a run.

  28

  Spawn

  A SOUND—HALF SCREAM, the rest a howl—chased Martin and his teacher through the cut. He fell, not for the first time, and curled his arms to protect his head. Stunned, he lay on the unnaturally smooth ground littered with rocks from above. He waited, hoping. The boom sounded again, and his heart resumed its rhythm. A brief screech of metal against stone sounded, and Rohbe pulled at him, goading him to his feet.

  The door was shifting.

  A chorus of howls carried a ravenous note of hope. He followed Rohbe down the cut. Time and again he tripped, the stones casting him down to the floor. His legs ached with bruises as if he’d been beaten, and blood plastered his tunic to his right shoulder.

  The booms continued to sound behind them, despite the distance. The channel funneled the sound toward them. Only his own labored breathing, whistling in and out of his lungs with notes of his desperation, kept him from hearing more.

  The moon rose. Hints of silver light touched the rocks at the top of the chasm. He drove himself forward. If they lived long enough, there would be a window of time, an hour or perhaps two, in which the moon’s light would enable them to see well enough to run without risk. He prayed their pile of rocks would hold through the night. Then he prayed that if they did not, the barricade would hold until they made it safely away.

  He navigated his prayer as he negotiated the trail, moving from best to worst outcome. By the time he finished, all of his haggling had been reduced to a simple request to die well. Another screech came to his ears. It seemed his last prayer might be the one answered.

  In some indefinable way, this calmed him. His vows had never promised him an easy life. They demanded he be ready to sacrifice himself. He banged his shin against another rock, stifled a curse. True, the sacrifice seemed to hint at a life of service, but no one guaranteed him that would be the case.

  As he ran, Martin mourned the fall of Erinon, castigated himself for his weakness in failing to save Errol and, through him, the kingdom. He shook his head in the darkness. No. He could only do as much as his flesh could bear. The responsibility to save the kingdom did not fall to him. If Deas wanted it saved, then Deas would find a way to save it.

  The moon’s reflected light obscured the path ahead. He could no longer see the floor of the cut. Martin scrubbed his eyes with one hand and squinted, laboring to bring the path into focus.

  He nearly ran into Rohbe. His teacher stood peering up at a pile of rock whose top was hidden in darkness. A rockslide filled the chasm.

  Panic consumed Martin, eating away at his resolve. His teacher clambered up a few feet of rock, his breath whistling in panicked gasps. A cascade of loose stone flowed toward Martin, and his teacher slid back to his side.

  Rohbe breathed a moan and scrambled upward again with the same result.

  “It won’t hold our weight. They’re going to get us.”

  Martin slid the metal staff through the back of his belt and moved toward the wall. “I won’t stand here and wait to die.” He scrabbled upward, searching with his hands and feet for stones large enough to bear his weight without shifting. Ten feet up, he called to his teacher. “Try again by the chasm wall. The larger rocks will serve you better.”

  Howling screams chased him upward. Time after time the slide gave way, erasing much of his progress. Sweat poured from him, and his movements slowed. Against the far wall he could hear Rohbe’s whimpering sobs.

  “Climb, Teacher Rohbe. Climb. We are not beat yet.”

  And with a shuddering moan, Rohbe began to climb.

  After what seemed like hours, Martin reached the crest. The moon still shone overhead, and across the top of the slide his teacher sat unmoving.

  “Teacher,” Martin called. “We made it. I think we should take our leave of this place.”

  Rohbe didn’t answer, didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. Then Martin saw the reason. The top of the rock pile, broad where Martin sat gasping, narrowed toward the other wall. His teacher sat on a large stone at the precipice.

  The slightest move would pitch him down the way they had just come.

  “Move toward me, Teacher. The pile broadens.”

  Rohbe stretched out his arm. A scree of rock trickled from beneath him. With a sob, he huddled into himself once more.

  Cries of pending triumph and hunger called from the ruins.

  Martin lay on his belly and slid toward his teacher. Two paces away, the rock crumbled beneath him, and he scrabbled backward.

  Rohbe’s eyes, widened in terror, reflected the moonlight.

  Slowly, as if there weren’t spawn behind yammering for their blood, Martin reached back and pulled the metal staff from his belt, extending it. Rohbe didn’t grab on until Martin tapped him on the knee. When he did, Martin pulled him toward the far side of the slide—and their escape.

  The slide gave way. The sound of rocks hitting the chasm floor echoed and reechoed around them as Martin fought to pull Rohbe to him. Rocks covered his teacher to the waist as they slid down, picking up speed. With a lunge Martin grabbed the man’s robes and pulled him close, trying to lift him from the rockslide that threatened to swallow them both.

  Rocks the size of his fists poured around them, and he flung his arms up over his head. At the bottom, he rolled to end up on the chasm floor once more. Moonlight streamed into the narrow gap overhead. To one side Rohbe groaned as he rose but seemed largely unhurt as he began to run. Martin longed to be away, but he’d lost the staff. Sense or intuition drove him, and he delved through the loose stone until he felt the smooth metal against his skin.

  He lumbered after his teacher who raced away, twenty paces ahead. As he dodged the rocks and boulders littering the narrow canyon he listened for the telltale sound of ferrals.

  Behind him, toward the ruins and the door, the howls turned triumphant. Sweat slicked his grip, and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. His heart hammered like a forge, and he labored to breathe. Ignoring the tightness in his chest, the fire in his lungs, he ran, praying the rockslide would keep them safe.

  The howls grew closer, but soon, as the sky and the chasm grew completely black with the moon’s descent, he heard howls of frustration. He picked his way forward, groping with the tip of his metal staff like a blind man finding his way in the street.

  Moments later he blinked, stopped to rub his eyes and stare. Outlines. He could see outlines like faintest edges of gray against black. He surged ahead. Dawn was coming. The sky overhead appeared as a shade of charcoal against the ebony backdrop of the mountain. He prayed the sun would hurry.

  A doglike yelp of pain sounded behind him accompanied by the sound of crashing rocks. Then snarls and more yelps. Martin exulted. They couldn’t get past the slide.

  Up ahead, no more than half a league distant, a hint of green beckoned to him. Renewed, he raced toward safety. Halfway
there he caught up to his teacher. He sat huddled against the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs. Martin called to him.

  “It doesn’t end,” Rohbe whimpered. “It’s spelled, going forever and ever and ever.”

  He hauled Rohbe to his feet, half carrying him along. “Come, teacher, the shadow lands are just ahead. I can see them.”

  Seconds later the howls sounded again, louder, much louder. The spawn had cleared the slide.

  Rohbe went limp at the sound, but the incarnation of Martin’s fear calmed him. The tightness in his chest faded, and the fire in his lungs receded. He ran toward his hope, dragging Rohbe with him. The howls told him just how quickly he lost ground, but he didn’t bother to look back. Doing so would only cost him time he couldn’t spare. He bent his will toward his goal, concentrating on pulling from heart, bone, and sinew every ounce of speed his body could give.

  He hoped for dawn with a desperation that passed beyond emotion to something physical. His feet flew, driven, yet the howls gained. The charcoal gray of the chasm lightened to the color of lead. He chanced a look behind.

  A seething mass hurtled toward him. The pack was still too far away to make out individual entities, but they surged forward with frightening speed. Martin gripped his staff and ran even as a small part of his mind told him the truth he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  It would be close, less than a hundred paces, but they had his scent and his sight now. And dawn had been too slow. When he heard the sound of the pack’s breathing and the pad of their feet, he turned, brandishing the staff.

  By the three, they were huge.

  Jet black with red eyes, they resembled a cross between a dog and a lion, except larger. Other than the eyes, which regarded him with unblinking intensity, the only part of the spawn that wasn’t black was the teeth. They gleamed with a sickly greenish-white cast in the dim light. The lead ferral, bigger by far than any mastiff, raced forward, teeth bared and snarling.

  Martin lowered the staff. The ends, pointed to needle sharpness, made it a lethal weapon.

  “Come then, dogs! I adjure you by Deas in heaven, you may strike my flesh, but I deny you my soul.”

  An arrow sprouted in the lead animal’s chest as if by magic. Martin stared at it transfixed.

  “Run to us, you fool!” a voice called behind him. “The canis cannot abide light.”

  Martin turned, threw Rohbe’s slack form across his left shoulder—the man was featherlight—and hobbled toward safety. A hail of arrows flew around him and over him to pincushion the spawn. But the beasts came on. Martin threw an awkward swing behind with the staff, smacking one of the beasts on the muzzle. The hound snarled. An arrow grazed Martin’s right shoulder, leaving a streak of fire on his flesh.

  The end of the chasm loomed before him. A dozen men stood on niches carved in the rock, pulling and releasing arrows as quickly as their hands could move. The first poor shot would kill him.

  Weak sunlight opened in front of him beyond the shadow of the chasm. He fell forward into the light, landed badly, and rolled with Rohbe, struggling to breathe. Behind him the spawn, bristling with arrows, howled their frustration before turning back.

  He sucked in air with a great whoop. Hands hauled him to his feet. Rohbe lay curled on the ground, his eyes unseeing.

  “You run well for a fattened priest,” the same voice said.

  Martin waited for the spots to stop dancing in his vision. After a moment in which he savored each breath, he noticed he stood upon a grassy hillside that descended to a broad river. The sun faced him, cheerful and yellow.

  “Did the dogs take your tongue, priest?” the man demanded.

  Martin turned. He knew this man. Weeks after Martin’s return to Erinon, Abbot Mann Lugner, an abbot of the Einland province under Martin’s authority, had excommunicated this noble based on flimsy charges and had appropriated his land.

  The man laughed at Martin’s recognition. “So you remember me, eh, Benefice?”

  Martin bowed. “Lord Waterson, I am in your debt.”

  One of the men approached Rohbe and spoke to him gently, encouraging him to sit up. The other men stood calmly waiting.

  “I don’t want you in my debt, priest. I want my life back, the life your corrupt little abbot stole from me.”

  No provision existed under church law that would allow Martin to undo Waterson’s excommunication. Abbot Lugner’s injustice would stand. He needed to change the topic.

  “I had companions. We were separated on the west side of the Sprata. They would have come through the gap along the river. Can you take me to them?”

  “Oh, you want something of me now, priest?” Waterson laughed. “I seem to remember a time when I wanted something from you, but you were unwilling.” His face clouded. Then the cloud burst. “I was innocent!”

  One of the other men, tall and dignified, stepped forward. “We’ve had no word of any newcomers to the land.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But this is not surprising. We’re not due to be relieved for another week. If your friends came through the gap, then they have been met and taken south.”

  “Enough, Lieutenant.” Waterson made a cutting motion with one hand. “I’m sure you can find your own way, priest.” He smiled without humor. “You can appreciate that our duty requires us to stay here.”

  The lieutenant turned to face Waterson. “This is unbecoming of you, Marcus. The canis are unlikely to attempt the passage again so soon.”

  “Then you take him,” Waterson said. “I was told that in exile I would never have to look at a priest again. Now even that is taken from me.”

  The lieutenant nodded but gave no response or reproof to the ex-lord’s words. “I will take you to the city, Pater.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Martin gestured toward the huddled figure. “What about Rohbe? Can we take him with us?”

  The lieutenant shook his head, but before he could speak, the man tending to Martin’s former teacher stood. “His mind has been broken by his ordeal. We have a wagon back at our camp and will take him back to the city when we’re relieved. So long as he is like this, he will be cared for.”

  Martin nodded his thanks and knelt next to Rohbe. “Thank you, dear teacher, for protecting me, instructing me. I pray Deas’s blessing as you continue your journey.”

  Rohbe turned weak, rheumy eyes toward him and shuddered, “And . . . y-y-you.”

  With a heavy heart Martin picked up his metal rod and followed the lieutenant as he shouldered a heavy pack and led the way down the grassy slope toward the river, limping now that the danger had passed. In fact, he hurt in almost every place he could imagine. The man did not stop for his discomfort but led at a pace that allowed Martin to keep up. They followed a bend around the river that hid them from the rest of the party, and finally the lieutenant halted.

  “Please forgive me for having you walk so far without relief, but I discerned no dire hurt upon you, and your presence causes Marcus pain.” He pointed to a large rock. “Sit, and I will tend your hurts.”

  Martin complied with a groan.

  “My name is Shal,” the man said as he rummaged through his pack. “I noticed blood on your shoulder. My needlework isn’t the prettiest, but I’m thorough, and it won’t open up again once I’m done.”

  The shoulder still burned, and Martin’s legs were a mass of aches and bruises. He laid his cloak on the ground beside him and doffed his shirt. If the sight of a half-naked priest seemed unusual to Shal, he gave no sign of it.

  He poured a thick yellow liquid onto a square of cloth. It smelled of tar. “This will sting a bit.”

  When the cloth touched his flesh, Martin flinched and clamped his jaws around a scream. “You have a gift for deprecation.”

  Shal nodded with a smile. “Lana, my wife, tells me that is so.” He tapped the wound with his finger. “Can you feel that?”

  “No,” Martin said.

  His impromptu healer threaded a need
le. Martin didn’t care for the size of the instrument or the thickness of the thread, but under the circumstances there didn’t seem to be much that could be done about it.

  “Please forgive Marcus,” Shal said as he worked. “He is still relatively new to his exile, and recognizing you stirred his resentments. Though dour, his skills have been useful in guarding the old passes.”

  “He’s angry because he’s innocent,” Martin said. The admission cost him a pang that matched his external aches.

  To his surprise, Shal laughed. “Many of the men and women here are innocent, but it doesn’t matter. Guilty or innocent, exiles are welcome here. As the land of last resort, we have few problems with the lawless in Haven. There’s nowhere else for them to go.” He nodded toward Martin’s breeches. “Let’s have a look at your legs. When Martin revealed them, Shal gave a low whistle. “It’s a wonder you can walk.”

  The exile pulled a jar that held a hint of the same tar smell as the liquid, though not as strong. When he poured a generous glop of the brown goop on his hand, Martin braced himself. Shal laughed.

  “It shouldn’t hurt so much, although it will feel very warm for a few moments.” He continued to chuckle as he tended Martin’s injuries. “We don’t often see a priest in Haven. What were you banished for?”

  Martin stared. “What?”

  Shal raised his head, met Martin’s stare with that same placid look. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but you’ll find the healing process goes quicker if you get it out in the open.”

  “I’m not guilty of anything.”

  Shal nodded in an obvious attempt to humor him. “Most newcomers say that. Nobody will judge you here. You’ll find sympathetic ears when you’re ready.”

  Martin shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. I wasn’t exiled. I was led here by my guide to find a ship west to Basquon.”