Guardians of the Flame - Legacy

by Joel Rosenberg

  Those with nothing else to do dragged the dead slavers off, away from the camp, to rot on the forest floor. Normal procedure was to leave the slavers' bodies where they fell, as an announcement and a warning. An exception had been made; because of the intermittent rain, Daherrin had decided—wisely, in Slovotsky's opinion—to make a rough camp here for the night, giving both warriors and former slaves a good rest before starting the long march Homeward in the morning.

  Tarpaulins were pitched as lean-tos, sheltering some from the rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, while others stood around the six cooking fires that defiantly shot flame out into the rain.

  Getting close to half a thousand ex-slaves treated, fed, and bedded down for the night was a major operation, but Daherrin had it well in hand by the time Slovotsky and Ahira dismounted from their horses.

  The dwarf issued a few quick orders to a lanky, teenaged horseman, then reached up and gave him a friendly slap on the leg. "Good. Be sure to run down the chart—and I want you to personally account for everyone on the team; we don't want anybody hurt and lost."

  "Understood, Daherrin." The boy spurred his horse away.

  "You have any casualties?" Daherrin asked.

  "No problem. Aeia wounded, the wound treated," Ahira said. "Nothing else worth talking about."

  "Looking good," Daherrin said, with a gap-toothed smile. "Don't like two dead, but it'll probably hold at that."

  Walter shook his head. "What do you mean, probably? The guard said—"

  "We don't have a report from the group that took on the outriders." The dwarf shrugged. "But not to worry—there were only two men in the slaver advance, and we had six waiting for 'em."

  Hooves sending mud splashing into the air, Geveren's pony galloped up. Even before the horse had completely stopped, the battered dwarf had dismounted, stumbling on the muddy ground.

  "Ahira, Walter Slovotsky," he said. "We have a problem."

  "What—"

  "Valeran is dead. And Jason Cullinane is gone." His expression grew grim. "When the shooting started, he ran. He took his horse and ran away."

  CHAPTER NINE:

  Jason Cullinane

  I have saved myself; what do I care about that shield? Forget about it; I'll get another one that is just as good.

  —Archilochus

  I'm going, too. The moment that the words were out of his mouth, Jason Cullinane had known that it was a terrible mistake.

  But it had also been expected of him, required of him. Everything was expected of his son. By him, as well as everyone else.

  Including Aeia and Valeran. Well, perhaps Aeia would have smiled tolerantly at him, even if he hadn't volunteered, but the old soldier, who didn't seem to approve of much that Jason Cullinane did or was, had responded to Jason's hasty words with a brief nod of approval, the highest praise that the old captain had ever deigned to confer on Jason.

  It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. So what if other sixteen-year-olds were expected to use a sword, bow, or gun, to put themselves in the way of flying crossbow bolts and sharp steel edges—why did Jason have to be like everyone else? The others were all so stupid—didn't they know that swords could cut, that bolts could pierce too-weak flesh?

  Didn't they know?

  * * *

  "Easy, boy," Valeran murmured as they crouched in the brush off the trail, waiting in the downpour for the slaver advance to ride by. "This is what Karl would call a 'piece of cake,' " he said, the English words awkward in his mouth.

  Valeran's left hand patted the crossbow that the old captain rested easily on his knee. "Just a bit of simple, basic butchery. It will be bloody, but easy—we've practiced and discussed it enough, eh?"

  "Yes, Valeran," Jason whispered back, grateful that he had to whisper, knowing that if he tried to use his voice, it would break.

  It should have been easy.

  Their horses were hidden farther down the trail, all well hitched; it was six from Home against the two advance riders, with a simple plan, one that should have been foolproof. If the main part of the attack had already started—if they heard gunshots from down the trail—they were free to take their pistols from their oilskin wrappings and use them. Otherwise they were restricted to crossbows and swords—and the throttle loop that Jason's old friend Mikyn, crouching in a crooked limb of an old oak, had waiting as a surprise for the slavers.

  It should have been easy.

  Down the trail, hooves beat against mud in a loud, rapid tattoo.

  "Get ready," Valeran said.

  The two horsemen rode down the path, the second trailing a full twenty yards behind the first, clearly to minimize being splattered by flying mud.

  Gently, like a strand of spider's web floating to earth, Mikyn's noose dropped from the cover of the rain—

  —and settled around the suddenly outflung arm of the trailing horseman.

  The slaver's reflexes were superb: With a shrill cry, he fastened a gloved fist around the cord and pulled, hard. Mikyn, unprepared, fell from the tree, landing hard on his side in the mud.

  This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

  It should have been easy.

  The other slaver, hearing the cry, wheeled his horse around, fingers clawing for a weapon.

  This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

  Valeran rose to his full height, bringing his crossbow up.

  "Shoot the one in front!" he called out, taking aim at the slaver who had pulled Mikyn down, and who now, his sword held out and down, was bearing down on the stunned boy. But doing that necessarily forced the old soldier to ignore the other slaver.

  This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

  The slaver drew and threw a knife.

  Time lost its forward motion, and froze into an awful moment:

  —Valeran, his strong fingers curled around the crossbow trigger, leading the slaver carefully, knowing that this was his only chance at the grizzled man bearing down on Mikyn—

  —a flickering of steel as a throwing knife tumbled end over end through the air—

  —Jason, his arm reaching out as of its own volition, trying to shout a warning to his teacher and mentor, to the man who had been more of a father than he could ever be—

  He had to warn Valeran. He had to. But time was frozen for him, too; he was part of the scene, frozen into the same icy slice of time, not merely an observer.

  This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

  And then it all resolved:

  —The horseman bearing down on Mikyn looked puzzled as his sword tumbled from nerveless fingers, clumsy hands reaching up to feel at the crossbow bolt buried feather-deep in his chest.

  —Two other bolts sprouted from the other slaver; yet another grew from the neck of his now-rearing horse.

  —And Valeran slumped back to the ground, a wood-handled throwing knife buried hilt-deep in the bloody mess that had been his right eye.

  This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

  It should have been easy.

  Jason ran. And kept on running.

  CHAPTER TEN:

  Decisions

  Three may keep a secret, if two are dead.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  "We don't have much time," Ahira said, staring out into the night. The rain had faded to a drizzle, but it was enough to mask Jason's trail. Just a couple of miles farther, the forest opened on the cleared land of the holdings outside of Wehnest; he could go in any direction.

  Go after him now? Riding down a forest trail at night was a fine way for horses and people to lose eyes; maybe once they broke through into cleared land they might be able to make some safe progress.

  But cleared land was miles away. It might as well be light-years.

  Ahira didn't like it at all.

  Why did humans have to make a bad situation worse? The dwarf shrugged. It was typical.

  "He might turn back," Aeia said, taking another mouthful of stew. "I doubt it, but he might. Stubbornness runs in the fami
ly," she said, a little proudly.

  Bren Adahan shrugged, the flames of the cooking fire dancing in his eyes. He ran dirty fingers through his sandy hair. "I don't see what the problem is. As Mikyn tells it, Jason . . . left after the matter was decided; it wasn't cowardice—"

  "Says you." Walter Slovotsky shook his head. "And says me, for that matter. All it looks like is squeamishness. But what if it looks like cowardice to him?"

  Trust Walter to put his finger right on the problem.

  Adahan didn't understand; he shrugged again. "So? We find him and explain otherwise. It's not uncommon to panic, one's first time in a fight."

  "Tell that to the boy," Ahira said. Please tell that to the boy.

  "Very well; I'll go after him," Bren Adahan said, spreading his hands. "But, again, I do not see the problem. We can send easily half a hundred men to find him, persuade him to come back, even force him if they have to."

  Aeia's eyes flashed at that. "Force my brother?"

  "Never mind that, Aeia. Think again, Bren Adahan," Daherrin said. "Think again."

  "Excuse me?"

  "He's telling you to think it through," Aeia said. She spoke slowly, patiently, as though explaining something obvious to a half-witted child. "Jason isn't just my little brother; he's also Karl Cullinane's son—don't you think that any member of the Slavers' Guild would give his right leg to have his hands on the emperor's son?" She swallowed more stew. "It's got to be done fast. We don't have much time until the word gets out."

  That was true. Word of Jason's desertion had quickly spread among the Home warriors—and probably the ex-slaves. Gossip travels at around the speed of sound, even though it feels like the speed of light. Those Therranji heading back to Therranj would quickly spread the story; even those going Home would soon pass the news throughout the valley, and from there to an outbound trader.

  Within weeks, word would be out: Jason Cullinane was traveling. Alone, unprotected.

  When the news reached that bastard Ahrmin, would he try to kidnap the boy to use as a lever to pry Karl out of Holtun-Bieme? Or would he just torture the boy to death, and use that to draw Karl out to where he could be killed?

  Did it matter?

  Ahira shook his head. It didn't look good at all.

  "Got to find him before it's generally known," Daherrin said. He shook his head. "Don't like this much at all; this sorta thing is not my job." He called to his second, "Three or four days until we should be seeing the dragon?"

  "Four," the answer came back. "If he makes it Home on time, and if we get to the rendezvous on time."

  "Ellegon! That's the solution," Bren Adahan said eagerly. "Couldn't Ellegon find him?"

  "Sure." Walter Slovotsky poked a stick into the fire, then pulled it out and considered the glowing ember at its tip. "If they're close enough, Ellegon can read him—the two of them have been around each other since before Jason was born; Ellegon can read him from a greater distance than he can Karl, even. But that's not much; the dragon's got to be reasonably close." Walter shrugged. "Jason can cover a lot of ground in four, five days. Ellegon doesn't dare get too close to towns; he's too liable to get shot out of the sky."

  Ahira nodded. "Let's assume he's going to at least stop off in Wehnest. Maybe we can catch up with him there—we'll bring in some of the slavers' gear, and play merchant as a cover."

  Aeia set her bowl down. "Fine with me."

  Bren and Walter both spoke up. "You are not going," they said in unison.

  "Really. How interesting." Aeia tilted her head as she looked over at Ahira; it was one of Andrea's gestures. "Do you think I'm not going?"

  Ahira didn't like it, but he knew as well as anyone that he didn't have the authority to stop her. Besides, it was a family affair.

  "Aeia," Walter said, "you're not going. And that ends that discussion."

  She stared off into the dark for a moment. "Have you ever heard my father talk about threats, Uncle Walter?"

  Walter frowned.

  "He says," she went on, "that if you make them strong enough, and mean them sincerely enough, you almost never have to follow through. So . . ." She eyed him levelly. "If you're going to try to keep me out of this, then you'd better find three or four big men to chain me down, because he's my little brother, and I'm not being left behind," she said, one hand on the butt of her pistol. "And they'd damn well better not want to live, because when I get unchained, I'll kill them. Dead."

  Despite himself, Ahira grinned. He looked over at Walter. "She's going."

  "I worked it out."

  Ahira laughed. "Aeia, I think you've spent too much time around Tennetty. Hmmm . . . who else do we want?"

  Bren Adahan stirred at the ashes. "I'll come. I already said I would."

  Hardly surprising, considering that Aeia was coming.

  "You're in." Ahira nodded. "But we'd better leave it at that: Aeia, Bren Adahan, Walter, and me. Any more, and the size of our group will draw attention. Can't have a whole troop of dwarves marching into Wehnest."

  Walter Slovotsky grinned. "I don't know. It might be kind of fun to see Geveren and the others marching in, singing, 'Heigh-ho, heigh-ho.' Could draw a lot of attention."

  "Shh," Daherrin considered the flames for a moment. "What do we tell the dragon?"

  "Simple," Walter said. "The usual rendezvous south of Wehnest still where it used to be?"

  "No," Daherrin said, then visibly reconsidered. "Well, yeah, if you're thinking of the one we used to use when you were seconding Karl—we just moved it back last year. It's the clearing, just 'bout three days out. Where we first ran into slaver powder, back when he was running the team."

  "Right. So we'll meet Ellegon there."

  Daherrin spat into the fire, a sizzling glob that vanished in a hiss of steam. "That wasn't what I meant. Ellegon isn't going to be happy about losing the boy—what do I tell him?"

  "You just tell him the truth," Ahira said. "The truth. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. With a bit of luck, the truth will be that Jason, Aeia, Bren, Walter, and I are heading back toward Home."

  "Without luck?"

  Ahira picked up a log that was half as thick as his arm. It was a bit long for the fire; he gripped it firmly and snapped it in two. He turned to the others and looked over the faces, shining in the firelight.

  "Without luck, we're all dead."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Jason, Alone

  What is left when honor is lost?

  —Publilius Syrus

  By the time dawn broke, Jason was sure of four things: first, that he'd been a coward to run; second, that there was no way he could go back; third, that he was hungry; and fourth, that he was tired.

  As dawn broke redly across the cornfields, the weariness beat down on him like the rain had; a dull, metallic morning taste clung to his teeth.

  But it just didn't seem to matter. Still, he pulled a piece of jerky from his saddlebags and let the leather-hard meat soften in his mouth before chewing.

  "See," he explained to the brown gelding that his father had named Libertarian, for reasons he wouldn't explain, "I'm not just anybody else. I'm supposed to be special." He mumbled around the mouthful of jerky. "Supposed to be special." He was leading his horse, as he had been doing for most of the night; it was one of the lessons from him that had apparently sunk in; he had always said that cruelty to animals was unforgivable.

  But what could he do? Jason considered his situation, turning it over once again in his mind. He had a bit of money in his bags, his swords, pistol, and rifle, his horse and saddle, and the clothes on his back.

  And that was all.

  What would Valeran have done?

  Valeran. He let the reins fall from his fingers, fell to his knees in the mud, and wept. What would Valeran have done? Valeran wouldn't have had to do anything; he wouldn't have run like a coward in the first place; he would have stood his ground.

  Jason never knew how long he cried, but when he stopped, he was kneeling i
n the mud on the road, his horse waiting patiently.

  He got to his feet and rubbed at his eyes.

  There was something Uncle Lou had once said, something about how if you don't know how to solve all of a problem, try solving a piece of it and working from there. He called it "getting a man on base," whatever that meant.

  But it made sense. May as well give it a try, he decided. Ahead was Wehnest. If he wasn't going to turn around and go back—

  "I can't," he said. "I can't go back."

  —well, then he'd have to either stay there, go through the fields, or go forward. He'd walked the horse long enough; he picked up the reins and swung himself to the saddle, nudging the gelding into a slow walk.

  He patted at the rifle in its saddle boot. Clearly he'd have to do something about the guns; they identified him as from Home. Home warriors weren't popular everywhere; there were always some who wanted to try to earn guild rewards. While concealing his pistols was easy, he knew he should throw the rifle away, but Jason had studied smithing under Nehera; the barrel alone represented hours upon hours of hard work, and it would be wrong to just toss that away.

  Besides, it might be handy to have a gun.

  And, besides, he thought, almost choking on the tears welling up, it was a memento of Home.

  He didn't deserve it, but he'd keep it anyway.

  Down the road, at the bottom of a gentle dip, a circle of low grasses surrounding an ancient oak interrupted the cornfield, its leaves arching over a well. He wasn't sure whether the well had been dug specifically for travelers and their animals or if it had formerly served a habitation, but it had been maintained: the bucket was made of new ash, and the rope was both sturdy and neatly coiled.

  He watered his horse first, then set it to grazing.

  Jason stripped to the buff and brought up another bucketful, giving his clothes a brief washing, wringing his tunic and leggings as vigorously as he could, spreading his clothes in the sun to dry.

  He brought up another bucketful, and dumped it over his head before he could lose his nerve.