Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  The mage puffed up in annoyance. “Well, who told you to bring her to the tavern in the first place? And why in Korak’s name does she know so much about our mission?”

  They stared each other down silently. Dagorat resisted the urge to say something he may regret later.

  Felix broke the tension. “Well, I have some errands to run. Why don’t you two go home and wait for Liberon?”

  Dagorat spun around, thus avoiding Cyril, and Felix took his leave. He made his way back to the house without speaking, staying ahead of the mage.

  The deafening silence continued at home. Dagorat retreated to his room to pack for the long journey ahead. He found his burglar’s tools, two neat rows of fine quality implements in an unassuming leather pouch. Taking out a lock pick to inspect it, he found it hard to concentrate and put it back. Sigh. He hated being at odds with his best friend. Cyril was the only one who understood him. At least, most of the time. Not now, apparently. Why do women always make things more complicated?

  Some willow bark tea would be nice; maybe it would settle his mind. His growing admiration for Katrina warred with his distrust. This quarrel with Cyril overshadowed years of friendship. The ever-present longing for his home in Easterly, the simple folk and his family there, was eclipsed by concern for their welfare in the face of the new Golgent threat. And, on top of all his worries, nothing compared to the possibility of discovery and execution once he stepped foot in Easterly.

  Tomorrow held no promise of things getting better.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LAST WAGON

  AT DAWN, A COVERED WAGON arrived at the house. A disheveled Dagorat, Cyril, and Liberon loaded their belongings and supplies. Dagorat had trouble staying focused; he absently helped load while he kept an eye out for Katrina, hoping for a chance to say good-bye. But she never showed. Time dragged until they deposited the last sack into the wagon and climbed in the back. The groggy driver would take them to the caravan staging area and surrender the reins. With a sharp “git up,” the driver flicked the reins and the horses broke into a brisk trot, clattering their way through the still-quiet streets.

  Upon arrival at the staging area, Dagorat marveled at the chaos. Around fifty wagons scattered the area, waiting to take their place in the caravan. People scurried about like ants; voices filled the dust-laden air. One fool carrying a sack on his back darted across their path and spooked the horses. Merchants milled around everywhere, trying to sell last-minute provisions. A Karnalian woman approached, but quickly left in disgust when Liberon shrank away from her in horror. Mounted soldiers, men with pennants, mothers chasing children, and officials shouting orders completed the unruly scene.

  In the midst of the commotion, Dagorat spotted Darius, the caravan master, atop a central wooden tower, wearing a distinctive red cap. A number of assistants fluttered around him, waving different colored pennants according to his directions. Presumably, these were signals for the wagons and soldiers below. Clever setup, he thought. Very efficient.

  The driver pulled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a smooth halt. He took out a piece of chalk and wrote “48” on the footboard. “You’re the last wagon,” he said before jumping off. “Have a good sojourn.”

  “How long do you think it will take to put all these wagons in their proper places?” Cyril asked brusquely. A hint of anger lingered in his voice from yesterday’s spat, but at least they were back on speaking terms.

  “Not sure,” Dagorat said. “I’ve never been in a caravan before. Too many guards for my taste.”

  Cyril mournfully examined their supply of dried rice, beans, and jerky. “I wonder if Brother Maynard truly understands the sacrifices I’m making.”

  Dagorat glanced over his shoulder, still hoping for a glimpse of Katrina in the distance. “Me, too. We’ll add something extra to the bill.”

  Liberon made an exaggerated choking sound. “Brother Maynard is paying you? And you’re going to ask him for more?”

  “And why not?” Dagorat asked. “There’s a lot of expenses. And danger. And don’t forget the huge loss of income. Cyril’s abandoning his business for several months.”

  “Don’t fret.” Cyril patted Liberon’s shoulder. “The fee will be fair and reasonable.”

  The young monk scowled. “Still, I don’t like the idea. I thought you were helping us.”

  “We are.” What did he expect? Dagorat thought. They deserved some compensation for the dangers they were about to endure. The risk of being discovered, eating trail food, bathing in cold water, hunting for fresh meat, and of course, separation from Katrina. How ironic that it took years to find such an intriguing woman, only to leave her days later. “As for any extra expenses, we’ll call it my annoyance tax.”

  Cyril gave a hint of a smile. “I suspect we have some time before departure. Let’s go to the tower and see Darius. We should thank him for allowing us passage on such short notice.”

  “Why? We didn’t really leave him a choice.”

  The mage rolled his eyes. “Have you learned nothing from me over all these years about diplomacy?”

  Diplomacy? Oh. Of course. He meant playing politics. “You want to keep the wheels greased in case we ever need a favor from him again.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dagorat told Liberon, “Guard the wagon. We’ll be back shortly.” As he and Cyril walked away, he glanced back and mentally marked their wagon’s place as third from the right of a large oak tree. Most of the wagons showed their age, wood grayed from exposure and metal fittings dripping with rust. The majority were of Mentirian design, with high sides, a peaked canvas roof and a linen awning over the driver’s bench. Any one was indistinguishable from the next. A small number of Jalkenese types, with lower, rounded canvas roofs, lay scattered among the rest.

  On their way to the tower, they also came across three privately owned wagons. Murals on their wooden planks depicted storm clouds with glowing eyes, circling ravens, and gaudy signs proudly proclaiming them the property of Blackfang the Magician.

  Cyril stopped and stared at the trio, and heaved a sigh. “Perhaps we should augment the annoyance tax.”

  A horn sounded nearby, and a mounted platoon of the Mentirian Guard moved out from the staging area onto the road. The soldiers’ polished steel armor gleamed in the morning light. All bore the copper emblem of the bear claw on their breastplates – the same emblem stamped on the golden-claw coins of the realm. Four squads, of eight horsemen each, fell into formation behind the Captain of the Guard, who wore golden epaulets and a crimson plume on his helmet. On the Captain’s right rode a lieutenant decked out in royal blue shoulder guards. Craning his neck, Dagorat eyed two other platoons waiting in the staging area, both flanked by lieutenants. With the stories of raiding highwaymen in the area lately, he was glad to see the caravan would be well-armed.

  Then another horn sounded, and a loud cry of “First wagon!” carried over the field. Not much time left before departure. They hurried the rest of the way to the tower where Darius kept careful, competent watch over the proceedings. Cyril waved up to him; he had a quick word with his assistant and climbed down, fidgeting with nervous energy. “Is there something wrong?”

  Cyril offered a bow. “No. I just wanted to thank you for helping us.”

  Darius relaxed. “I can always bend a rule for you, Master Cyril.” He flinched and glanced around. “Sorry to speak your name.” His shifty eyes moved from side to side. “I don’t think anyone heard.”

  “Thank you for remaining discreet,” Cyril said. He handed Darius a silver-shield.

  “I’m sorry to place you last, by the way, but I already made the list for the Captain. To suddenly place a late-comer at the front would have invited too many questions. And nobody ever wants questions from Captain Beltrane.”

  “Twelfth wagon!”

  Darius eyed the tower. “I think you should be going. I know you’re last but wagons will be rolling out quickly now. You don’t want to drift behind.”
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br />   “Of course. See you on the road,” Cyril replied. They bowed again. Darius climbed back up to his post while the other two headed back to their wagon. A snort escaped the mage. “There. Did you notice how nervous he was?”

  Dagorat grinned. “You were right.” The last remaining ill feeling between them bled away as they shared a hearty laugh. Good. He’d hate to spend the journey at odds with his best friend.

  As the pair approached their own wagon, the departure calls were up to number twenty. They ran the last few yards when they spotted Brother Felix, arms flailing, jabbering at a disturbed-looking Liberon.

  “What happened?” Dagorat asked Felix.

  “It’s Brother Roderick. The odd monk who kept watching you? He’s gone.”

  “Missing? Or dead?” Cyril asked.

  “I meant missing. When we all met for Morghens, he was gone. And his room was emptied.”

  “I knew it,” Dagorat said. “He did have something to do with the theft.”

  “Brother Maynard asks your forgiveness for not listening to you.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t hold Maynard responsible.”

  Cyril interjected, “In no way does this alter our mission. It just gives us another clue.” He focused on Felix. “Tell Brother Maynard we shall not fail.”

  “Thirty-two!”

  “I will.” Felix handed him a sack. “Here. I brought you some fruit cakes and dough knots for the trip.” Shouts for wagon thirty-three interrupted him briefly. “You must leave soon, and I must return to the abbey.” He fished a vial of oil from his pocket, touched a drop to Liberon’s forehead and uttered a prayer. Then he poured some water from another vial into his hand and sprinkled it on the wagon. “May The One watch over you all.” Tears formed in Felix’s eyes as the affable monk walked away.

  “I didn’t have a chance to thank him.” Cyril rummaged through the sack. He popped a dough knot into his mouth and offered one to Liberon, but the young monk shook his head silently.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Dagorat asked him.

  “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

  “Nervous about what?”

  “I’ve never been out of the city before.”

  Cyril patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a wide world to see. Soon you’ll grow accustomed to the quiet and beauty to be found in nature.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Dagorat, taking him by surprise. He let out a wide yawn and his eyelids grew heavy. “You take care of him. I need some sleep.”

  “I’m sorry I gave you such a strong dose of that potion. Your sleep pattern should be re-settled by tomorrow.”

  The cry for wagon forty-eight sounded. Cyril and Liberon hastily clambered onto the driver’s bench, while Dagorat climbed into the back. Liberon picked up the reins and tapped the horses’ backs. They started forward through the thick haze of dust kicked up by all the other traffic.

  Dagorat laid a blanket on the floor, and placed a sack of rice at the head for a pillow. He lost his balance when they lurched over a deep rut, but caught himself. The wind carried the stench of horse manure, and the creak of the wheels sounded like a rusty orchestra. He gazed past his companions through the opening in the front of the wagon. A long line of peaked canvas structures, like enormous tents, extended before them, fading into the wall of dust. Voices from behind caught his attention; he peeked out the back flap and found a platoon of Mentirian Guards bringing up the rear of the caravan. As the rhythm steadied, the world dimmed out, and he collapsed onto his makeshift bed.

  ***

  A bump in the road jostled him back to consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and listened to Cyril speaking. “That’s called a willow tree. Its bark contains an ingredient for curing headaches.”

  As he lay there, he drifted back into a dream of Katrina. Her green eyes, silky brown hair, innocent face, and radiant smile. In a soft voice he whispered her name. “Katrina.”

  “I’m right here, Dag.”

  What? His eyelids snapped open.

  “Dreaming about me, were you?”

  He sprang up and knocked his head on one of the wooden ribs supporting the canvas roof. “Arouch!” He rubbed the spot.

  Katrina laughed and pointed at him. “Hope I was wearing something becoming. Or was I wearing anything at all?”

  “Why must I suffer blows to my skull whenever you’re around?”

  “What’s going on back there?” Cyril said. He handed the bag of treats to Liberon and poked his head in. His eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger at Katrina. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Don’t get upset, old man. It’s your fault that I’m here.”

  “Old man? My fault?” Cyril’s face reddened.

  She pointed at Liberon. “You posted him as a guard back at the staging area. You deserve to have the whole wagon stolen.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?” Cyril asked again.

  “For one thing, there should be a substantial reward for this job of yours. I want in. Besides, I was getting tired of Mentiria. How many times can I rob Abernathy? It’s not fun anymore.”

  Cyril furrowed his brow and stared at her. “You stole from my friend.”

  “He’s not your friend. You should hear what he says about you.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Cyril the Stuffy.” She smirked at Dagorat. “And his trained pet.”

  Dagorat jumped in. “Cyril, maybe we should let her stay. We might need her skills before this is over.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think our mission is what’s motivating you.” Cyril went back to his seat and took the reins from Liberon. “But very well. Make your decision by morning whether she stays or goes.”

  Dagorat sat down next to Katrina. A scent of mixed berries lingered around her. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that before. “Seriously, why are you here?”

  “My inquiries about Shadowtooth got some attention. I had to leave the city. Given the options, traveling with you sounded much more inviting than waiting for the Guild to find me.”

  “If you choose to come along, I can’t promise any gold. Or even if we’ll live to see the end of it.”

  Her head snapped toward him. “That bad, huh. Are we stopping in Jalken or are we going all the way to Easterly?”

  “Easterly it is. And possibly further.” Dagorat rubbed the bruise on his head and winced.

  She moved his hand away. “Let me see.” Her fingers gently probed the spot. “You didn’t draw any blood, but there’s a small bump.”

  He sat still, thoroughly enjoying the feel of her fingers in his hair. After a moment, she said, “Past Easterly, huh? Well, better to die with you, doing something honorable, than alone at the hands of a filthy Guild Enforcer. You’re stuck with me.”

  One thing was certain. Dagorat wouldn’t argue with her.

  ***

  Horns blared, ending the first day’s journey. They found themselves in the middle of a spacious glade, dotted with stone circles surrounding patches of open dirt blackened by ashes. The field had obviously been used as a resting place for countless caravans over the years, and allowed for twelve campsites of three to five wagons each. A symphony of chirping birds, chattering voices and rustling trees replaced the din of wheels and horses.

  Small groups of wagons settled in the grass on either side of the road. Blackfang’s troop formed a tight circle off by themselves. No hustle or bustle came from them, as if abandoned. A haggard old bearded man with bundles of kindling on his back made his way through the campsites. “Kindling for a copper-jack!” Some people took him up on the offer, while others branched out into the woods to gather their own firewood and water. A patrol of three guards with torches made rounds of the camps, offering to ignite cooking fires.

  As the last wagon, they had little choice for a campsite. Liberon tugged on the reins, and they came to rest next to number forty-seven. The driver of forty-seven and the woman with him waved to Liberon and Cyril. They waved b
ack and fetched Dagorat and Katrina from the rear. As a group, they walked over and greeted their neighbors in the proper Mentirian fashion.

  Forty-seven’s driver flipped off his hood to reveal a receding mop of brown hair streaked with gray. “I’m Craicwyth, master bowyer, and this is my wife, Magda.” After the rest of the introductions, Dagorat and Katrina headed toward a nearby stream for water. Craicwyth and Liberon volunteered to fetch wood.

  Cyril produced two copper-jacks and handed them to Liberon. “Here. Buy a bundle or two from the old man.”

  “That’ll get expensive if you do that every evening,” Magda said. “There are woodsmen and vagabonds hawking wares at all the sites.”

  “Quite true, good lady. Call this a celebration of a successful first day.”

  Liberon soon returned with the bundle of kindling and some small logs. Craicwyth took out a tinder box, saying, “I never wait for the guards.” With a secretive grin, Cyril reached into his pocket and withdrew the small metal box he’d purchased from the Gnomes in Mentiria. He lit the tinder and twigs, and soon the fire spread to the logs. Craicwyth stared at the box in awe. “That’s the damnedest thing I ever did see.”

  “The fruits of Gnomish ingenuity,” Cyril said.

  “Clever little buggers, aren’t they?”

  The group made small talk as their rice and beans cooked. They learned that Craicwyth and Magda made a long journey every other year. He made his living by crafting longbows from the strong, supple yew trees of the Ryvin Forest near Mentiria, and then traveling to Jalken and various other towns to sell them at an extravagant price. On his first trip, Magda had stayed home but chafed at being forced to wait for his return. Since then, she’d accompanied him every time. This would be their seventh sojourn together, but only their first as far as Ethelton.

  After a companionable dinner and tea, their neighbors retired for the night. Liberon yawned and stretched. “We’ll be on the road for two months. I wish you could open a magic door or something, Cyril.” He snapped his fingers. “Then we’d simply step through and land in Easterly.”