A warrior's joyrney d-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Feeling a mix of pride and apprehension, Tol asked, “Why me, sir?”

  “To remind Lord Odovar not only what I owe you, but what he owes you as well.”

  He slapped Tol sharply on the back. “Make haste! If we hurry, we can reach Lord Odovar before Lord Morthur does. He’s a lazy sort, and may visit two or three taverns before heading back to the High House.”

  “Why must we arrive before Lord Morthur?”

  Egrin’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile revealed his good humor. “Showing a fool to be a fool is easy, but showing a fool to a fool may save a man’s life.”

  Glowering over the half-timbered houses of Juramona, the High House was almost a second town in itself. The seat of the Lord Marshal perched atop the man-made hill built by a thousand prisoners of war and had its own stable, armory, larder, and great hall. It was in this last that Lord Odovar conducted the affairs of his domain, subject to the will of his over-lord and master, the emperor of Ergoth.

  Tol arrived with Egrin, Manzo, and three other guardsmen. He rode behind the warden, Lord Vakka’s saber held tightly in his sweating hands. They ascended a steep ramp made of logs into the lowest courtyard, then dismounted to walk up the spiral ramp that encircled the mound. Every structure on the hill had a flat, sturdy roof, manned by gangs of spearmen. The spearmen wore simple pot helmets and painted leather cuirasses over quilted jerkins. They were not Riders of the Great Horde, but hired men. Horseless, their only purpose was to defend the High House, for which they were paid in salt, meat, and bread.

  The second-to-topmost tier was the marshal’s hall. Egrin, Tol, and the guardsmen were held at the door until a lackey returned with Lord Odovar’s permission for them to enter. It was granted, and Egrin marched in boldly at the head of his men.

  Odovar was seated in a tall chair on a carpeted timber platform higher than the rest of the floor. He’d washed away the filth and blood of the past several days and wore a finely woven crimson robe and sash. Leather bands, sewn with red and blue gems, encircled his forearms, and a heavy gold chain rested on his chest.

  To Odovar’s left, on a lower bench, sat a handsome, well-fleshed woman. She was garbed in a white cloth that seemed to shine with its own light and, combined with her pale skin and light hair, gave her an otherworldly radiance. A large sapphire hung from a golden chain around her neck, and similar blue stones sparkled in her dangling earrings.

  At the marshal’s right hand stood a thick-waisted, bald man. He wore a stiff linen robe with a red velvet stole draped around his neck. His hands, like his belly, were big and soft-looking. A tight smile never left his face as he watched Egrin’s group approach.

  The walls of the great hall were plastered and whitewashed, making the round room seem even larger than it was. Fires flickered in standing brass braziers on each side of the marshal’s high chair, and heavy tapestries in bold, deep hues hung from the rafters behind the raised platform.

  Egrin stopped abruptly, slapping his boot heels together and raising high his dagger. “My lord! I have come as you bid. How may I serve you?”

  Odovar gave the pale woman’s hand a squeeze and kiss, then dropped it. His forehead was swathed in a linen bandage, almost obscuring one eye.

  “Where is Morthur?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Egrin replied. “He delivered your summons and departed. I came here straightaway.”

  “In some swill shop, no doubt,” Odovar said, answering his own question, “or chasing a milkmaid around the dairy barns.” His lady simpered, and the bald man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

  “I see you brought the Pakin’s sword,” Odovar added. He held out his hand.

  Tol was reluctant to relinquish the weapon. Egrin nudged him, and Tol approached the high chair with arms outstretched, the gilded saber balanced across his hands. Odovar rose and took the sword. He swept it back and forth through the air, admiring its weight and the flashing glints from its gold chasing.

  “A masterful blade,” he said. “Made by the elf smith Exanthus, I’m told.” He took the hilt in both hands and brought the saber down in a powerful chop. “Should sever the traitor’s head with no trouble. What do you think, Lanza?”

  He reversed his grip and offered the weapon to the bald man beside him. Lanza took it gingerly and scrutinized the fine filigree on the blade with a practiced eye.

  “The hilt is typical Daltigoth, but the blade is Silvanesti work, right enough,” he said. “You could probably cleave the altar stone of Solin with such an edge.”

  Odovar took the sword back. He seated himself again and leaned toward his lady, showing off the sword’s exquisite inlay to her.

  “My lord, I would ask a boon of you,” Egrin said.

  The marshal, only half listening, merely grunted. He chucked his lady’s chin gently with the sword hilt, and she giggled, fluttering long eyelashes at him.

  Egrin forged on. “My lord, I ask you to spare the life of Vakka Zan.”

  The whispered dalliance between Odovar and his lady died. The marshal turned his full attention to Egrin.

  “What?” Odovar demanded. “Did you say spare the traitor?”

  “Spare a noble hostage,” Egrin countered.

  Odovar leaped to his feet, hand clenched around the sword hilt. “How dare you plead for that rogue’s life! You’ve gone soft on the Pakins, Egrin!” The marshal’s voice rose to a shout. “I will exterminate this traitor. There will be no peace until every Pakin has his head removed from his shoulders! Vakka Zan will die, and the emperor will know he has a strong hand in the Eastern Hundred!”

  The hard plaster walls echoed Odovar’s shouts. His lady gazed up at him worshipfully, and bald Lanza nodded approval. Odovar resumed his seat with a forceful thump, his face flushed.

  Egrin spoke quietly, trying another approach, “My lord, this is Tol, the boy who saved you from Lord Grane day before yesterday.”

  Odovar squinted from under his bandage. “Yes? So it is. As his reward, find a place for him in the stables or the cookhouse.”

  “Yes, my lord. You may not know it, but the boy also saved my life in the fight outside the town gates.” Egrin related how Tol had thrown himself on Vakka Zan, saving Egrin from certain death. The tale seemed to please Odovar. His high color faded, and he smiled.

  “A game lad indeed,” he said. “I should put you to work in the High House.”

  Egrin glanced at Tol. “My lord, I must tell you-I gave the boy the Pakin sword. He saved me, and I defeated Lord Vakka. By right of combat, the Pakin’s life belongs to me then, does it not?”

  Odovar’s massive hands closed into fists. “Greater things are at stake than the rights of single combat. The Pakin must die.”

  Egrin paused, giving his lord’s words due consideration, then said, “Will you at least agree, my lord, the sword belongs to Master Tol?”

  The marshal laughed shortly, unpleasantly. “Give a Silvanesti-forged blade to a peasant boy? What would he do with it? Plow a furrow?”

  Egrin nudged Tol. The boy stepped forward. He was quaking inside, but as before his voice did not betray his fear.

  “My lord, I gladly would give the Pakin sword to you-”

  Odovar snorted. “My thanks, boy!”

  “-in exchange for the life of Vakka Zan.”

  The marshal was out of his chair and down from the platform in one bound. “What knavery is this, Egrin? You bring a peasant brat to bargain with me, like some market day fishmonger? Saved my life or no, if I give the word his head will go on a spike next to the Pakin’s!”

  Tol’s hard-won courage failed. He stepped back, trembling.

  “The boy meant no harm, my lord,” Egrin said quickly. “I told him what to say.”

  Odovar skinned back his lips in a broad, cruel smile. “I am not an ogre, after all. I accept your gift of the Pakin’s sword, boy.” He bowed his head mockingly to Tol. “And I, Odovar of Juramona, will not take the life of Vakka Zan.”

  Tol almost fainted with relie
f at the marshal’s generosity. Yet the warden looked grimmer than ever.

  “No, I will not take his life-you shall,” Odovar announced, thrusting a finger at Egrin. “In the main square of Juramona, at dawn tomorrow.” He handed the sword to Egrin. “You may borrow my Silvanesti sword to do the job.”

  Smoothing his crimson robe and tightening the sash at his waist, Lord Odovar resumed his seat. The great hall was still, save for the hiss of the braziers. No one moved or spoke for a long minute.

  “Go,” said the marshal at last, waving dismissal. “Practice your swing, warden. I don’t want a botched job tomorrow.”

  The warriors saluted. As they withdrew, Odovar had one last spear to cast. “Bring brave Master Tol with you to the execution, warden,” he called out. “We have him to thank for both sword and traitor.” Egrin did not acknowledge the cruel command, so Odovar shouted, “That is my order!”

  Egrin turned and saluted. “It shall be done, my lord.”

  The warriors and Tol remained silent until they had left the High House. Once on the streets of Juramona, Tol said, “I never meant to cause Vakka Zan’s death!”

  “You didn’t,” Egrin said grimly. “This is by the will of the High Marshal alone.”

  Tol lowered his voice so only the warden could hear him. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Right is the word of the emperor, and through him, his princes, lords, and marshals. If you intend to live in Juramona, Tol, you’d better learn that truth straightaway.”

  Chapter 4

  A New Life

  Tol was lodged with the stableboys that night, given a berth in a bank of wooden bunks, a rough homespun blanket, and a clay cup from which to drink. The room was warm and smoky from the two banked fires, and alive with snores and snorts, coughs and groans. Crake and Narren were nearby, but sound asleep. Tol kicked off his unnecessary cover and tried to follow their example. Sleep eluded him. His mind wouldn’t settle down.

  Five days had passed since he’d left the onion field with Lord Odovar. On their journey here, the marshal had promised to send word to his mother and father. Things got so lively later on, Tol didn’t know whether anyone had been dispatched to the farm after all. He didn’t dare pester Lord Odovar about it. The marshal seemed all too easily angered.

  Tol jerked awake, surprised to realize he’d fallen asleep. The boys’ hall was quieter now. Glowing embers on the twin hearths had died, leaving the room fully dark and chillier than it had been.

  Accustomed to living by the rhythms of night and day, Tol sensed dawn wasn’t far off. With the sunrise, he remembered, would come the execution of Vakka Zan. He climbed down from the high bunk, threw his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and slipped outside.

  The flagstone courtyard between the boys’ hall and the stable was slick with dew. It wasn’t actually raining, but a heavy mist silvered the morning in a fine, damp veil. After a drink at the well, Tol passed through the silent stable into the street beyond.

  No one was stirring in Juramona at that hour. Following the directions Crake had given him the night before, Tol tramped down the noisome track to the town square, where the execution was to take place. It wasn’t a very big place, nor was it a square-more a rough rectangle. On market days it would be thronged with hundreds of folk, eagerly trading. On this misty morning, there was nothing to see but a tall wooden platform and a few men sleeping on the ground next to it.

  Tol approached. As he drew within a few paces, the man nearest him bolted to his feet in a clatter of arms.

  “Stand off!” the man shouted, leveling a wicked-looking billhook at the boy.

  Tol held up his hands. “Friend! Friend! I am lately come to Juramona with the warden of the Household Guard!”

  “And his name is?” the soldier demanded.

  “Egrin, Raemel’s son.”

  The soldier raised the billhook and rested it on his shoulder. “Aye, that’s him. A right good commander he is, too.”

  “Why are you men here?” Tol asked.

  The fellow hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guarding a prisoner. He’s losing his head this day.”

  Tol was surprised. Lord Vakka was already at the place of his execution? He voiced his curiosity, and the guard replied, “We marched him out here just after midnight. Lord Marshal’s orders. ‘No warm beds for traitors. Let ’im soak in the chill of night,’ he says. So here were are, soakin’ it up with him.”

  Beneath the tall platform Tol could make out a solitary figure huddled next to one of the center posts. The man’s wrists were chained to the post and his head rested against them, hiding his face, but his fine head of colorless hair marked him as Vakka Zan.

  The guard coughed nervously. “Uh, no harm’s done of course-the Pakin is chained and no one could get to him but through us. Still…” He studied Tol from under shaggy brows, then continued in a lower voice, “You won’t say nothing to the warden about us all sleepin’, will you?”

  Tol shook his head solemnly, then asked, “Can I talk to the prisoner? Only for a moment?”

  The guard hacked and spat, pondering the request. At last he said, “Say your piece. But no touching, nor giving, or taking away anything. Understand?”

  Tol swore to abide by the rules, and the guard moved off to roust his comrades from their slumber with the butt of his bill. Coughing and grumbling, the soldiers rose and shook off the clinging mist. Two set to work lighting fires in iron baskets beside the platform.

  The Pakin prisoner stirred, raising his head. Tol approached him cautiously. Stripped of his fancy armor, Vakka Zan was revealed to be a slender, youthful man, somewhere between Tol and Egrin in years. Though disheveled and damp from his night in the square, he had remarkably refined, almost girlish, features. His hands and face were streaked with dirt and dried blood. A mighty greenish-blue bruise covered the left side of his jaw. Despite all that, he was a striking fellow. His hair was shoulder length and white, his skin very pale. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so white as to be nearly invisible. But his eyes were strangest of all: The irises were pink and the pupils, a deeper red. In the heat of battle, Tol had not noticed the man’s oddly colored eyes.

  “What do you want?” Vakka Zan said sullenly, interrupting the boy’s silent scrutiny.

  “Are you an elf?”

  The Pakin noble laughed bitterly. “You’re not the first to ask me that!” He shifted position, chains rattling loudly. “I’m no Silvanesti. There’s a strain in the Pakin clan that’s born without color in hair or skin. We’re known as the ‘White Pakins.’ ” Vakka Zan fixed the boy with his strange, pinkish eyes. “Have I satisfied your wondering?”

  Tol nodded, missing the sarcastic tone. What he really wanted to say was hard to get out. Finally, he blurted, “I’m sorry you are being killed today!”

  “You and me both.” Vakka Zan leaned back against the post and cradled his chains in his lap, adding, “Why do you care? Aren’t you loyal to the Ackals?”

  Tol looked at the mist-slicked stones at his feet. “I helped capture you. I was the one who stopped you from killing Lord Odovar’s warden.”

  The Pakin’s eyes widened. His face remained blank for a few heartbeats, then contorted into a ferocious snarl. Screaming, he hurled himself at Tol.

  The boy was so shocked he didn’t respond until the white fingers were almost around his throat. With a sudden burst of self-preservation, Tol threw himself backward. The chains pulled Vakka Zan up short, but he hurled himself against them again and again, trying to reach the boy. Flat on his back, Tol scrambled away on elbows and heels.

  Guards came running, shouting for quiet. When the Pakin refused to calm down, they pummeled him with the butts of their billhooks. He went down under their blows, but continued to scream threats at them all.

  The corporal of the guards hauled Tol to his feet. “Sweet Mishas, what did you say to him?”

  Tol stammered a reply, and the guard said, “So it’s true, eh? You helped capture him.” To his men he sho
uted, “Easy, boys. Don’t kill him! Lord Odovar will have all our heads if the Pakin dies before his time!”

  The heavy mantle of clouds had lightened, heralding the dawn beyond the rain. Massed, slow hoofbeats sounded on the stony street, and a contingent of the Household Guard, led by Egrin, appeared at the south end of the square. They were most imposing in their scale shirts and angular helmets. Egrin deployed them around the platform. While the riders moved into place, Egrin rode through the guards, who drew back out of Old Acorn’s path. He halted beneath the edge of the platform.

  “Stand up, my lord,” he said to Vakka Zan. The Pakin noble tried, then slumped back to the ground.

  “Get him up,” Egrin said quietly. Two footmen dragged Vakka Zan to his feet. At Egrin’s order, a bucket of clean water was brought, and the Pakin noble was allowed to wash his face and hands.

  “You’re to die soon. I can’t change that,” Egrin said. “But there’s no reason you have to perish like a pig, in mud and filth.”

  “Your time will come, all of you,” Vakka Zan replied fiercely. “When word of this outrage reaches the true emperor, this entire settlement will be razed, and everyone inside will die a slow death!”

  “The true emperor is our liege, Pakin III, who reigns in Daltigoth, not the charlatan you bow to,” Egrin said.

  “The throne in Daltigoth is held by a usurper, with no right to the Pakin name! His head will soon rot on the highest spike in the empire!”

  A crowd of townsfolk was gathering, drawn by the promise of a rare spectacle. The mob parted as Lord Odovar arrived on horseback in full armor, with Morthur Dermount beside him. Trailing them, the marshal’s retinue rode under a wide canvas awning supported by poles carried by mounted servants. Tol recognized bald Lanza and the marshal’s plump, blonde lady.

  “Your voice carries far,” Odovar boomed at Vakka Zan. “But I doubt it will reach the Pretender in his squalid exile’s camp.”

  The Pakin recovered his composure at the sight of his enemy. “It may reach Lord Grane,” he said coldly.