by Stefon Mears
“Despite your many attempts,” added Amra with a grin.
“—the title probably passes to the duke, who no doubt wants it back in his branch of the family instead of his brother’s.”
“That’s a lot of speculation,” Cavan said. “Besides, it’s not like they could keep this information from the king. It’s his land…”
A cold feeling washed over Cavan. The hairs on his arms stood at attention.
“What?” Amra said.
“Kent. He’s steward of the land in the king’s name until I inherit it. A gift for fostering me.” Cavan stood. “If the duke is playing with this land, Kent’s in trouble.
“I need to get home. Now.”
2
The first caravan leaving Riverbend by the east road set out before dawn. Two dozen wagons full of goods, and a half-dozen more bearing merchants and their servants. The goods wagons were covered, but Tohen could tell what they carried by the arrangement of the caravan.
Four heavy draft horses for each wagon, crates stacked no more than two high under their tarps. Two score caravan guards, led by grizzled-looking soldiers who had the instincts to keep looking south of the road, even though Tohen and his three men could not be see in the pre-dawn gloaming.
Iron from the Dragon Spikes, no doubt. The best iron came from the Dragon Spikes. And likely some of those crates carried gold as well.
Too rich a caravan to trust to forty guards. Not with orc clans ruling the grassland between the Dwarfmarches and Oltoss. No doubt the merchants had a wizard tucked away among their number. Perhaps even two.
The best kind of caravan for Tohen to see. With so much at stake, no merchant would hire new guards. Not in a place like Riverbend. They’d only trust those they knew well. Which meant Cavan and his cronies were not among their number.
Tohen settled into the great goldenrods of the field, to wait. And watch.
He was gambling. He knew it. The only word he’d been able to find of Cavan put him on a barge south, bound for Daeron’s Bridge. If that were so, then by now Tohen’s chase was all but done. He’d waited too long, and he’d never catch his prey. Cavan would have his choice of a dozen roads out of Daeron’s Bridge before Tohen could make up enough ground to make a difference. Not without calling in a big favor, and he wouldn’t waste that favor on a guess.
Tohen would have to find a fresh lead to follow, at the cost of precious weeks, while word began to spread of Cavan’s new value.
And even if those caravan guards were the liars Tohen pegged them for, Cavan had at least as likely a chance of taking either of the two roads west of Riverbend, off wherever it was he was going. Some adventure, no doubt.
But Tohen had hunted men for twenty of his forty years. His black curls had begun to fleck with snow over the past ten, but he’d served those ten as chief hunter for Duke Falstaff of Nolarr. Tohen was a short man, but his muscles and black eyes were hard, and his tanned skin almost as dark as a forest elf. He was as good with bow as with sword, and he carried a hatchet at his waist to cut free whatever proof of deed his lord required of him. Like all the duke’s hunters, he wore boiled leather studded with steel, and he’d long since learned the art of keeping that leather from creaking when he moved.
Tohen had honed his instincts through the years. And his instincts told him those caravan guards were fools enough to try Cavan on their own.
No doubt they’d failed. And if they had, then Cavan knew he was hunted now.
Tohen knew little of Cavan, but what he knew said that Tohen’s quarry was not a man to run. Once he learned that the duke had offered gold for his head, Cavan would be bound back for Oltoss at speed.
And so Tohen had set his camp east of the Red River, whose waters rushed past swift and blue, not red. It took its name from the blood that had been spilled into it during the War of Three Kings, hundreds of years ago. He and his men had cut a small clearing among the tall, great goldenrods where they would find it easier seeing than being seen. And where even their horses could bed down out of sight.
Great goldenrods grew higher and thicker than their lesser cousins. Regular goldenrods might grow to a man’s waist, but great goldenrods could sometimes tickle his chin. The licorice in their scent came stronger, and their stalks more wheat golden than green. But their flowers were the same yellow.
Here the great goldenrods grew high enough that a pack of goblins could disappear into them, should a pack ever grow brazen enough to raid Riverbend.
And here in that camp, Tohen and his men waited. Three experienced hunters in their own rights, with the scars to prove their worth. Even if two of the three lacked patience. Rudyar, the big man whose scar cleaved the left half of his bushy, sandy blond beard. Lutik the Lucky, who’d lost his right eye to an arrow that had somehow missed his brain. Lutik was skinny enough to hide behind a stalk of even common goldenrod, and bald as the day he was born. Qalas, with the ebon skin of the distant south, which made his dark blue eyes all the more compelling.
Rudyar was a good man with an axe, and a better man with a bow. Lutik couldn’t shoot since he lost an eye, but somehow he’d gotten even better with that beast of a two-handed sword he carried. And he swore he could hear it when people tried to sneak up on his blind side. Qalas was near as good a shot with his great double-curved bow as Tohen was with his longbow. And while Qalas eschewed the sword, he had a master’s hand with his halberd, equally ready to stab with its spike, cut with its axe, or crush with its steel-wrapped base.
Last night all three had questioned Tohen’s decision. Rudyar had wanted to find Cavan in the town. Take him there. As though the duke’s arm reached this far, and could pluck them out of a mayor’s dungeon if they were caught murdering a paying customer in an inn.
Lutik would have had them sailing south for Daeron’s Bridge.
Fools.
Qalas, at least, had a reasonable suggestion. He’d wanted to set up west of town, where they could watch two roads and the river. Maximize their chances of spotting Cavan on the move. And if Cavan did go west, Tohen would reward Qalas with a handful of silver.
The other two he rewarded last night. With bruises.
This morning all three’d been quick enough to rise when he woke them, and quick enough to break camp and ready the horses while Tohen handed out watered wine and salt beef to break their fast.
The smell of the great goldenrod all around them flavored the air with licorice. An odd mix with the weak tartness of their drinks, but it eased the boredom of yet more salted beef. Tohen considered breaking out the green apples, but those would wait until they were on the move. Until their quarry had been sighted.
But for now, Tohen waited in the predawn chill. Imagining goblin raids and puzzling through the best ways to set Riverbend’s defenses against such small, quick foes.
Finally the sun rose above the Dwarfmarches, that broad stretch of grassland beaten down by twice-yearly migrations between the Dragon Spike Mountains in the north and the great Black Shield Mountains in the south.
The sun’s warm kiss felt good, and as it rose it showed the sky to be clear and pale above.
Good hunting weather today, Tohen noted. Good for hawking, had he brought a hawk.
By the light of the rising sun, Tohen watched two more caravans pass on the east road. The first only six wagons long, but moving swiftly. Spices, to be sure. The second, trunks of greenwood from Croma’s Forest. Fifteen cartloads worth, most likely that merchant’s biggest shipment of the year. Tohen almost lost time wondering where the merchant would sell so much. The greenwood was a good enough hardwood, but not popular in Oltoss.
Most important, Tohen knew that Cavan was not among the guards. Easy enough to tell, for the guards were all wood elves, tall, proud and dusky in their leafy armor. Their long hair in greens and browns and reds. Perhaps the greenwood was bound for the Wailing Woods then?
“We’ve lost him,” Rudyar said. “We should split up. Two head for Daeron’s Bridge, two for—”
&
nbsp; “We haven’t lost him,” Tohen said, not turning his eyes from Riverbend’s eastern gate. “But if you’re so confident, by all means, head south. But ride fast, Rudyar, because after I finish with Cavan, I’ll be coming for you.”
That was enough to quiet the big man, who went back to checking the horses, the packs, the supplies — anything he could check that would give him space from Tohen. Perhaps Rudyar was finally learning a thing or two.
The sun was no more than halfway up the sky when Tohen saw what he’d been waiting for. Three horses. Hobbies, light and swift. A blue roan, a bay, and a blond chestnut. Riding the chestnut was a smiling man, blonder than his horse and twice as pale, all in white. Ehren, he was called, priest of Zatafa. On the bay, a woman all in black leathers, with too much sword sticking up over her shoulder. Tohen wondered if Amra was as good with that sword as her reputation said, or if she counted on her looks to distract opponents.
And on the blue roan, a lean, swarthy man in green and brown with soft brown hair and the same chin and nose Tohen saw stamped on the gold crowns of Oltoss.
Cavan.
“You were right,” Rudyar said, grudging respect in his tone, and showing enough wisdom not to apologize.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Lutik, who already had his sword half-drawn as though he meant to ride them down by the town gates.
“Those are hobbies,” Qalas said, shaking his head. “And they’re fresh. They’ll leave our rounceys behind, and then they’ll be ready for us.”
“Very good, Qalas,” Tohen said. “And we know where they’re heading. We’ll have plenty of time to catch them on the road.”
Tohen watched as the trio set a decent pace. Good for traveling, and not enough to tire out their horses quickly. An easy pace to match. An easy pace to exceed by just the right amount.
Yes. Tohen would have all the time he needed to catch them on the road.
3
The east road out of Riverbend was wide enough for an army to march down without trampling any of the great goldenrod growing in fields on either side of it. The dirt packed down so tight it was almost like brick, but springy, it was so easy to walk or ride. Dust didn’t even rise under their horses. Some remnant of old sorcery from before the War of Three Kings. At any other time, Cavan might have speculated about the spells, how the road was built.
But right now, Cavan thought about Oltoss. About Kent, with his short, silvery hair and his long silver beard. The laugh that always echoed in his brown eyes even after the sound faded away. The quick, clever hands that could carve a rough stone into a masterpiece. The broad belly that he always claimed proved his success.
The only father Cavan had ever known.
And Kent might be dead right now. Or languishing in the duke’s dungeon. Or any of a hundred other possibilities that Cavan didn’t want to think about. But he couldn’t seem to think about anything else.
He hadn’t been back in so long. So very long. Reed and Alec must have gotten married by now. That was always Kent’s plan for them. Let his sons help build the business enough that the second or third daughters of prominent families would let their bride prices outweigh their lack of titles.
Cavan hadn’t even met Rena, Kent’s new wife. Cavan knew she was the widow of a count whose titles had passed to his children — perfect for an old widower like Kent. Younger, though if Cavan knew Kent, Rena’s relative youth meant nothing compared to any business sense or connections she brought to their union.
Was she in danger too? Were Reed and Alec?
He hadn’t dared ask around for news before they left Riverbend, in case the news included the price on his head. No point calling attention to himself.
So Cavan had even resisted asking about news when he traded the pair of assassins’ swords for a double-armful of red and yellow roses delivered to Polli the fiery barmaid along with his note of apology — with enough left over for extra fodder for their horses.
And now, this traveling pace. Faster than when they’d ridden with the caravan, but still too slow. He wanted to dig in his heels and let his blue roan hobby, Dzink, outrace the breeze.
But Oltoss lay clear across the Dwarfmarches and long leagues of orc country on both sides. Too far to ride in a day or a week. A turn of the moon, perhaps. So Cavan attempted patience…
Above him, the morning sun mocked his mood by shining down warm and cheery from a pale blue sky. Even the air was sweet with the scent of great goldenrods. The sky should have been gray with clouds, to suit his mood. And cold. Perhaps an unseasonable cold snap.
But the sun refused to cooperate. Perhaps because Ehren sang it verses praising Zatafa, as he did whenever the road before them was long and the sun shone bright to start the day. The habit was one of Ehren’s few faults — especially as he had no gift for melody, despite his good natural tone.
Cavan had heard this one so many times he could have recited the chorus in his sleep.
O’er the world men seek their gold
by digging in the ground.
They must look up, these men so bold,
where truest gold is found.
Zatafa fair, Zatafa bright,
Zatafa light the way.
For into even darkest night
will shine the light of day.
Ehren would probably sing until the time came to rest the horses. Cavan half-expected that any minute a flight of swallows would show up to accompany him like something out of a bard’s tale.
No songbirds as yet, though. Few birds in the sky at all so far. Mainly the odd crows or jays on a long flight. And a pair of red tail hawks circled over something south of the road, a fair distance away. Something about the hawks niggled at Cavan’s memory, but his thoughts paid it no mind.
“Here,” Amra said, tossing Cavan a golden apple. “If you don’t chew on something you’ll grind your teeth to powder.”
“Oltoss is so far—”
“Eat,” she said, one eyebrow coming up. “And listen.”
Cavan glared at her, but Amra only smirked back. Her bay mare seemed to smirk too. A horse not nearly sweet enough to merit the name Caramel — in Cavan’s opinion — but it always seemed gentle with her.
Cavan bit into the crisp apple. Sweet, juicy, and … almost warm.
“Where did you get this?” he asked around a mouthful of apple.
Amra nodded her head at Ehren. Of course. One more wonder from that pack of his.
“Do you know the difference between a live warrior and a dead one?” she asked.
“Skill,” he said, brow furrowed as he wondered where she was going with this.
Ignoring them both, Ehren continued to sing, and Cavan and Amra let their horses fall back a few paces for their conversation.
“Patience,” she said.
“Please,” he said, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “The moment those assassins mentioned the duke’s hunters you were ready to draw your sword.”
“Exactly,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I was ready. I still am. If one of them sprang out from a tall patch of goldenrod, I’d have his head off before he knew I’d drawn my sword.”
“So how does—”
“If you were capable of waiting long enough for me to draw breath, you’d already know.”
Cavan made a show of taking another bite from the apple, but had difficulty maintaining his irritated expression against the sweetness of the fruit. The apple tasted almost as though someone had laced it with honey.
“Ready to act isn’t acting. Ready to fight isn’t fighting.”
“And ready to piss isn’t pissing. What’s your point?”
Amra chuckled through a sigh, but then her face grew serious. “We have a long ride ahead of us. No speed we could get from our horses would make a difference.”
Horses, thought Cavan, and hawks…
But Amra was still talking. “We may not be able to save—”
“You’re right!” Cavan said, sitting straighter in the
saddle. But he was smiling. “Horses aren’t the answer. But I know what is.”
* * *
The sun was still short of mid-day when Lutik came riding back, rushed. Not good. Never good when the point man came back in a hurry. Especially since it was usually a mistake.
Tohen sighed and spurred his rouncey to go meet him. To his right Qalas was already muttering as he matched pace, and to his left Rudyar fingered his axe as he did the same. A wicked thing, that axe, with a curved blade on one side and a spike on the other.
The four hunters gathered in the middle of the wide, hard road. The sun was too warm on Tohen’s steel-studded leathers, but that was just the feel of the hunt to him. If anything, feeling too warm was like telling his sword arm to be ready, the time is near. His stomach rumbled agreement, hungering as much for the fight as for salted beef to gnaw on.
And from the look in Lutik’s eye, the time to fight might be near indeed.
“They’ve left the road,” Lutik said, panting as though he’d run back from his point position instead of riding. “South.”
“South?” Tohen said. The only side road within two days’ ride went northeast, not south, and they were nowhere near it. “Why would they go south? This road is the most direct—”
“Hawks,” Qalas said, shading his eyes and looking skyward. “Am I wrong, or have those two red-tail hawks been circling the same spot since we set out from camp?”
“So they’re hunting,” Rudyar started, but Tohen stilled him with a hand. Tohen looked up at the hawks, then back at Qalas. He’d noted the hawks as well, but until now he’d assumed what Rudyar assumed.
“They have, so far as I can tell. What about them?”
“Rumors,” Qalas said. “An orc clan. Some say the Firespears have a priest who uses red-tail hawks as his eyes and ears.”
“Cavan can’t be foolish enough to ride toward orcs,” Rudyar said. But Lutik only shrugged and added, “those hawks are circling to the south.”
