Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  This Shade wore two intersecting belts across his torso, each filled with a dozen throwing daggers. A straight, single-edged short sword hung from his belt. Ohanzee agreed to cover this formidable weapons rig with a hooded riding cloak, which could easily be dumped in the event of trouble.

  Shades, being only half Umbra, did not have the shifting skin pigments of their non-human parent, but Ohanzee’s skin was as black as night. His glassy, black, whiteless eyes, resembling a full-blood Umbra’s, gave the Shade the appearance of darkness incarnate. Goldain’s had ordered that Ohanzee ride with Melizar as the mage would be the best person to guard against any kashaph arts the Shade might possess should his loyalty to the mission come into question. Ohanzee and Melizar made a fearsome and mysterious pair even in disguise.

  Two hirelings would drive the fourth wagon. The first was a young girl, not even quite Thatcher’s age, named Jeslyn. She was not technically a hireling but rather had shown up to voluntarily join the caravan. Goldain had rejected the idea completely, but the girl insisted. He smiled as he recalled her reaction.

  “Look, giganto, you may be a big, bad warrior but my father was a Rajiki guard with one of the first caravan’s to disappear. He taught me to ride and shoot before I could walk. I may be a girl, but I am a girl who can put an arrow in a bird’s eye at fifty yards. You can refuse to let me join your caravan, but I will follow anyway. I plan to find what happened to my father and avenge myself upon any who harmed him. You may own this caravan, but you don’t own the road and you don’t own me. There isn’t anything you can do short of chopping my head off that can keep me from going.”

  Faced with such determination, Goldain knew the girl would be better off inside the caravan than following behind. At least inside, she wouldn’t starve. He made her promise to stay with the wagon if trouble broke out, keep under cover, and use her bow if she could do so without drawing too much attention.

  Riding with her was another warrior hireling named Bardrick. He wielded a battle-axe and buckler. Along with his twin brother, Kylor, Bardrick joined seeking adventure. Goldain charged Bardrick with guarding this wagon and this girl from any who came close. This brought grumbles from the would-be hero.

  “But, boss, I came to split bandit skulls and ravage robber hides. Now you have me babysitting some string bean girlie who wants to play bow and arrow? C’mon, stick her with someone else that don’t mind missing a fight like my brother!”

  “I considered that,” Goldain responded, “but since your brother is also an archer, there would be no close combat protection for either of them, thus putting both at risk. Follow my orders or find your adventure elsewhere.”

  The disgruntled Bardrick agreed, but Goldain was not at all confident this overeager braggart wouldn’t abandon his post at the first opportunity. The northern prince pulled aside one of Tropham’s men, named Reyas, who was to be secreted in this fourth wagon.

  “Trooper, you keep your eyes peeled. If Bardrick leaves his post guarding Jesslyn, you fall back and defend the girl.”

  “Yes sir!” Reyas said, saluting.

  “Good man,” Goldain encouraged, patting the trooper on the shoulder before continuing his inspection of the caravan.

  Bardrick’s brother, Kylor, and Priest Duncan would drive the fifth and final troop wagon. Kylor was a novice scout, tracker, and quite a respectable archer. A finely crafted scimitar hung at his side, and he carried a well-made yew longbow. Kylor was much more stable of temperament than his twin was. His sturdy longbow was the longest ranged weapon in the caravan, thus it made perfect sense to station him at the rear.

  Some critical tongue wagging came from an unexpected quarter—Duncan.

  “You see, there you go again, putting me and my short legs as far from valorous tales as possible. How am I ever supposed to get something to fill my report to the council from all the way back here? I see you left place for my brother on the first wagon, but he’s already done with his valor quest. What are you doing to me, northerner?”

  This complaining pushed Goldain quite outside his usual jovial self. He was not the organized leader Gideon was, and taking charge of all these details wore heavily on his patience and his mood.

  “Look, Duncan, you are a healing priest, right? Well, I want you as far from getting dead as possible since you are the one who has to patch us all up after the battle. In addition, from back here you can best see who gets hurt and can make your way to them. Saving the lives of many wounded and dying men surely is something worthy of inclusion in a valor report for a healing priest, no?”

  Duncan’s face flushed.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. You are a better tactician than you give yourself credit for, and I apologize for questioning your plans. You are right, and I shall endeavor to serve well in the role I have been assigned.”

  Goldain gave the Durgak a reassuring clap on the shoulder and ambled off to see to other last-minute details. Arreya, preferring to be on foot, would run ahead of the caravan to keep a lookout and give the earliest possible warning of any impending attack. It was common for caravans to hire Fenratu trackers or scouts. From a distance, perhaps, she might be mistaken for one. To aid in this illusion, she agreed to wear a raggedy, hooded cloak that she could easily discard should trouble arise. She carried her hunting spear and wore her dagger at her waist.

  The last wagon held only the supplies and provisions for the caravan during the journey. The drivers for this caravan were the last two hirelings to arrive. One, the caravan cook, was a rotund man with a severely balding head. He face bore a straggly beard, with bits and pieces of his last few meals hanging around like a smattering of leftovers saved for a later snack. An apron, looking as if it had gone unlaundered since the day it was made, covered his tatterdemalion wardrobe. The squalid hireling claimed to be an excellent cook and said he could wield his meat cleaver as well as any warrior could swing a hand axe. The cook’s proper name was Podam but preferred the nickname Cookie to his given moniker.

  Beside him would ride a traveling minstrel named Rarib. Goldain had seen uncomely people before, but this individual defied all natural laws of ugliness. He was as thin as skin stretched over bare bones. A large, hawk-hooked nose protruded from his face, paired with bulging eyes that gave him a look as if invisible hands were constantly throttling him. Cup handle ears hung from the sides of his head with earlobes dangling impossibly long, wagging freely to and fro beneath. This man was an eyesore to be sure, but when the hideous bard opened his mouth in song, one immediately forgot about his disturbing visage.

  His voice was clear, sweet, and powerful as it carried one away to a place of calming and peace with reality far behind. His ballads could bring the most stoic listener to tears, while his joyful songs drew laughter from the dourest countenance.

  Bardsong all carried the power of koach, or “nature magic”. Unlike the arcane, Ayabim driven powers of kashaph or the One Lord’s granted oth powers meted out by the Malakim, oth powers neither came by study nor by prayer. They were mysterious and natural abilities granted by the One Lord to certain individuals or races for His own reasons and purposes. There were talented musicians among every race who could tap into the power behind music. It was not just being exceptional musicians, but rather that true bards could wield their melodies like a force, some rivaling powerful kashaph mages or wizened oth-wielding priests.

  Rarib’s own contribution would come from using his koach-infused bardsong en route to lift the spirits and the feet of the marchers and the animals. Furthermore, in battle, his song could rouse the courage of the faintest heart among them, driving the meekest man to great and mighty deeds. Goldain agreed the man could sing, but could not imagine this ugly scarecrow controlling such great power. Still, some traveling music would certainly lift the spirits, and the power of a bardsong in the midst of battle graced many heroic Qarahni tales of old, so having even a mediocre bard along would doubtless prove a boon to their mission.

  As they were making the final prepa
rations for departure, Xyer Garan arrived. He was truly a daunting figure, mounted on a massive black destrier, fully outfitted in plate barding matching Garan’s own onyx armor. The steed was the largest horse any of them had seen, standing eighteen hands high. Of course it would need to be a stout and sturdy mount to bear the full armored weight of Xyer Garan in addition to the plate barding. The beast bore a trapper over the barding displaying proudly the coat of arms of the Kingdom of Cyria. Garan had attached a cradle to his armor in which to rest the hefty black lance in his right hand. From his left arm hung a jousting shield upon which the Cyrian crest blazoned. Here rode a fierce knight, ready for battle. Goldain, concerned at the powerful image this knight projected, addressed the Cyrian captain.

  “With all due respect, Captain Garan, the idea of the plan is to look as though we are not a battle-ready target. In that war array, few armed companies of disciplined soldiers exist who would look to engage you. It defeats the purpose.”

  Garan answered without even bothering to turn and face the Qarahni prince.

  “I did not come along to play the part of a fool or commoner. I am along to ensure victory in battle. I have arrayed and outfitted myself to that end. I shall ride at the rear of the caravan to serve as rear guard during the march and to give my warhorse the best running charge should we encounter trouble.”

  Goldain fought the overwhelming urge to knock Garan off his high horse, literally. Fortunately, he remembered Gideon’s tale and decided not to rise to Garan’s provocations. Instead, he turned and addressed the rest of the assembled group.

  “Apparently with the money these merchants saved on their ragtag mercenaries they splurged on hiring at least one knight to come along for the journey. Captain Garan’s heraldry will also mark his presence heading west toward Cyria as reasonable. I hope that the bandits will assume the merchants persuaded him to travel with the caravan for their safety. A single knight, even one the size of Captain Garan, should not be enough to deter a determined group of bandits. Still and all, let’s have two more of Captain Tropham’s footmen hide in a wagon just to help offset the strength shown by our valiant knight.”

  Xyer Garan was considerably irked at his inability to provoke the northerner. Thus far, he had failed to bait the Parynlander into a fight at the council meetings, and now he found himself unable to get a rise out of a Qarahni. The northern clansmen were notoriously hotheaded, so something definitely strange was afoot with this group.

  Xyer prided himself on battling in self-defense, but that was because of his talent of goading men into drawing steel against him with only a few words. The fact that neither the Parynlander Gideon, nor any of his companions, seemed willing to be provoked was both interesting and frustrating. He had never seen men exhibit such self-control. It was impossible that these men were acting normally. He was certain they had colluded about this feigned passivity to provoke him even more. Well, he had not begun to plumb the depths of his powers of obnoxiousness. There would be ample time on the road to test their resolve to maintain calm demeanors and peaceful hearts.

  Bumps in the Road

  As the morning sun crested the horizon over the Sea of Zimri, spreading golden rays of new day’s hope across the port city of Aton-Ri, the caravan of intrepid adventurers set their feet upon the westward road toward Dragon Pass and the Durgak metropolis of Stonehold at the heart of it. It was late spring and the warm morning sun on the back of Thatcher’s neck offset the slight spring chill in the air. Fields of flowing green grass glistened with the morning dew, punctuated only by sporadic patches of farmland tilled and planted in ordered shapes among the otherwise freeform meadow. A handful of farmers, busy in the early morning with their spring planting, stopped briefly to observe the faux caravan before returning to their labor.

  Thatcher was truly an adventurer now. It was his plan that this force of experienced warriors were marching to carry out; his plan! The very idea of it consumed him. Suddenly, Thatcher glanced at his wagon-mate and caught Kohana staring at him as though he might have grown a second head. The young thief, taking quick stock to determine the reason for his companion’s strange stare, realized he was grinning madly with contentment. Kohana would just have to get used to it, for now anyway. Contentment was rare nowadays, and Thatcher was going to relish the feeling while it lasted.

  The well-traveled road from Aton-Ri to Stonehold was smooth and impeccably maintained. Bolstered by good weather and mounted on an endurance fit Rajiki horse, one could cover the hundred-fifty miles or so in three long days of riding. Their journey, despite the clear and favorable climate that accompanied springtime in southern Rajik, would take considerably longer.

  They had men marching and mule-drawn carts. Since the ambushes occurred west of Stonehold, with care they could rotate the troops between marchers and the riders in the wagons. This would reduce the need for rest to some degree, but if they were to sell the illusion of a lightly defended merchant caravan, once they passed Stonehold, there would be no further switching. The troops in the wagons would have to find ways to stretch and stay limber and battle-ready in the close quarters, and the caravan would need to proceed slowly enough to assure the marching troops were still fresh for battle whenever it came.

  The journey would take seven to eight days at the distance the mule carts and marchers could cover per day. The swift, feline huntress Arreya seemed impatient proceeding at such a crawl. She often bounded considerably ahead of the group, sometimes well out of sight, scouting the terrain ahead. The relative peace within the borders of Rajik, however, yielded little of interest to report.

  During one such report, Thatcher heard her informing Tropham, with much excitement in her voice, that she had spotted a small hunting party of Centaurs far off in the distance.

  “That’s nothing to worry about, Arreya,” Tropham replied. “Centaurs have little interest in the road or the traffic on it. They are no danger to us.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “So you don’t think they will come to meet with us?” she asked.

  “Doubtful,” answered Captain Tropham. “Centaurs are pretty standoffish. I suspect once they realize we are not a threat, they will move on.”

  Thatcher agreed with Tropham’s assessment. Free roaming nomads of the plains, the reclusive followers of the Malakim known as Raphaela, the healer, lived in harmony with the Rajiki tribes. The young girl, Jeslyn, and her missing father, belonged to one of the southern Rajiki bands, the Blue Arrow tribe.

  The Rajiki, like the Centaurs, are nomadic, frequently visiting Aton-Ri to trade hides and rare herbs they gather as they move about. Well-made Rajiki arrows are highly prized by serious archers across all of northern Ya-Erets.

  The most poignant fact Thatcher knew about Rajiki was to give them a wide berth when practicing his thieving trade in the city. Thatcher’s guild master, Magar, regularly advised the Aton-Ri Rogues Guild against picking Rajiki pockets. The nomads are keenly aware of their surroundings, and many ambitious young thieves died with one hand in the pocket of a Rajiki hunter.

  Rajiki vigilance is exceeded only by their archery and equestrian skills. A loose collection of feudal bands, Rajiki nominally acknowledge fealty to the Sultan of Rajik—the greatest of their warlord chiefs who makes his home in the city of Klalih’. Thatcher had heard from Aton-Ri merchants that Rajiki have a few large settlements in fixed locations, but mobile villages following the herds of deer and wild cattle roaming the plains populate most of southern Rajik.

  During a rest break, Thatcher approached Arreya. With a few well-turned phrases he might leverage his personal knowledge of Centaurs to raise his position in her eyes another notch or two.

  “So, Arreya, you ever seen a Centaur up close?”

  “No,” she answered eyeing the young thief with a guarded look as if preparing for another tall tale. “I have heard tales of the Centaurs from travelers visiting the Djarmangara, but none live there natively.”

  “Really?” Thatcher said, with a rise
in his voice. “I thought Centuars were common everywhere. They are common enough in the northwest.”

  “The tight constriction of the jungle underbrush is far too restrictive for their large bodies. One must be small and sleek to move easily in the Djarmangara. I have always found them fascinating. Do you know much about them?”

  “I know some,” Thatcher replied, not wanting to overstate his passing understanding and wreck her estimation of his abilities and knowledge. “Centaurs often travel with Rajiki to Aton-Ri and Stonehold where they trade handicrafts. Centaurs are amazingly skilled woodworkers. Adami with enough money to afford them highly value genuine Centaur carvings.”

  “So they gather much gold from their handicrafts?”

  “Not really. Gold is of little use in Centaur society, but they have learned well the value it carries when seeking steel weapons and armor from Durgak and Adami smiths. Metalworking is almost unknown among Centaurs and Rajiki blacksmithing is unrefined, thus quality steel is highly prized by both.”

  “I have always dreamed of seeing one up close,” she said. “Do you think we might meet any on this journey?”

  “I’m not sure,” Thatcher said, laughing slightly, “but your predatory appearance would doubtless prove unsettling if you tried to force the question.”

  “I see,” Arreya nodded. “I might not get much beyond the range of a bowshot.”

  “Perhaps,” Thatcher said, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “If you spend enough time in Aton-Ri you may have an opportunity to meet one of the traders under safer conditions than charging a herd of Centaur hunters in the open plain. When we are back in the city, I would be happy to take you to the open square in the metalworking district where they come to trade.”

  She smiled, but Thatcher saw a lingering hint of doubt behind her eyes. She still didn’t trust him yet. Given time, he would see that change.

  Goldain called for everyone to mount up again. The prince seemed determined to make the best time possible even with the slow pace of the mule train.