“I’m sorry.”
He waved off her sympathy. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve just heard that so many times I get annoyed. It’s not your fault. I’ve learned some tricks to make it bearable and after almost eighteen years I’ve gotten used to it.”
He returned to the paper as Brigid looked on. She could hardly believe they were nearly the same age. Just looking she would have guessed he was around fourteen.
Five minutes later he put the pen down and sprinkled sand on the page to absorb the extra ink. When it had dried, he blew the excess off, rose, rolled the pages up and slid them into a leather tube before putting all his supplies in a saddlebag.
“All done. Did you find my performance entertaining?”
“Oh, yes. I wish I could read and write. It’s always been one of my dreams. Dad says it’s a waste for a woman to know such things. Not that he knows more than a few words.”
“What an ignorant worldview.” Yaz shook his head. “Do you come out to this field often?”
“I’ll be here every day for the next month, then we move on to the next pasture. Why?”
He grinned. “Just curious. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
Yaz removed Thunder’s hobble and mounted. He rode off with a smile and nod.
Brigid watched until he was a speck on the horizon. Though her situation hadn’t changed, she felt much better after meeting Yazgrim Yeager. She very much hoped she would see him again.
Rondo Tegan stood in the dawn light staring down the road leading to the town of Gator Alley and grimaced. Why were the best finds never somewhere pleasant? A ruin on the beach perhaps. Not too many monsters or traps to deal with. A nice cache of gems or better yet a collection of rare tomes, that would impress the high sages.
Instead his research led him to this squalid collection of huts that stank of tanning leather, salted meat, and unwashed people. The town was little more than a single, muddy street running between two rows of buildings perched on stilts that jutted out into the murky water.
It was a rare clear day in the Vast Swamp and the sun beat down on his black robes, making them into an oven. The four mercenaries he’d hired did nothing to improve the odor of the town. The men stood behind him, arms crossed, looking intimidating. They were the best he could find for the meager sum his master in the Dark Sages would allow him for this expedition.
Rondo believed deep down that his master simply wished to get him out of the citadel for a few weeks. He’d show the horrid man, he’d show everyone that doubted him. If his research was correct, a huge tower, untouched by explorers for centuries, lay near the center of the swamp. When he found it and the treasures inside, no one would ever mock him again.
“Boss?” The lead mercenary, a bruiser named Koltin who wore leather armor studded with iron spikes, spoke with a lisp caused by a nasty wound that had removed half his lower lip. “Are we just going to stand here, or do you want to look for a guide?”
Since Rondo had paid them for three weeks of guard duty and they were only two days into the job he figured he could stand in the street all bloody afternoon if he felt like it, and they should keep anyone from bothering him.
That’s what Rondo wanted to say but given Koltin’s reputation and temper he refrained. The Dark Sages would hunt down and kill Koltin if he did anything of course, more out of principle than any affection the group held for Rondo. Knowing he’d be avenged did little to make Rondo feel better about his potential murder.
“Of course. I believe the local tavern is the best place to ascertain that sort of information. Even a pit like this must have a place to get a drink. If I lived here, I’d spend every day drunk into a coma.” Rondo lifted the hem of his robe so it wouldn’t drag in the muddy street. “Come along.”
He slogged down the street, checking the signs as he went. Most of the buildings appeared to be homes. A handful advertised leather or cured meat for sale. A single doctor/barber sat on his porch polishing a straight razor. Rondo would have just as soon taken his chances with a wound as let the man touch him. The risk of infection was lower that way.
They finally came to a big building with a sign that featured an overflowing mug. He had yet to see a building with a written sign. Surely there must be at least a few literate residents of this burg. Whatever, Rondo turned off the street and stomped up the half-log steps to the tavern door. He pushed it open and walked into the cool, dark interior.
An entirely new variety of stink assaulted him, this time featuring stale beer, tobacco, and vomit. Rondo couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than the stench of the street. At least the common room was empty. The only other person in the place was a portly man dressed in a plain tunic and trousers with an apron over them behind the bar polishing a stein.
The publican gave them a polite nod. “Help you fellas?”
“We’re looking to hire the finest guide available to take us into the swamp,” Rondo said.
The publican raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look much like hunters. Wha’d you want out there?”
“Our business is not your concern. Can you recommend a guide or not?”
“Best swamper in town is old Moz. He lives in the last house goin’ out of town to the north on the right side of the road. You can’t miss it. There’s a giant gator skull big as you are tall out front. Old Moz speared it back three years ago.”
Rondo nodded and without another word turned and stalked out. An old man named Moz didn’t sound very promising, but you couldn’t always judge someone by a name. Perhaps he’d be pleasantly surprised.
It took less than a minute for his group to reach the edge of town. The last house on the right was just a single-room shack that jutted out over the still water. A narrow walkway surrounded the building and a flat-bottomed skiff was tied to the railing. The skull the publican mentioned looked more like it came from a dragon than an alligator, but closer examination revealed a lack of certain distinct ridges that identified a dragon. Pity, a dragon skull that size would have been worth several hundred gold scales.
Rondo glanced back at Koltin. “See if anyone’s home.”
The giant mercenary had barely taken a step onto the wooden walkway when the shack’s door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man with white hair, a close-cropped beard, and the dark skin of a man from the deep south stepped out. He was dressed in all-alligator leather. The heavy breastplate still had the beast’s head in the center.
Eyes as cold and hard as fresh-knapped flint glared out from under a heavy brow. “Need something?”
“Are you Moz?” Rondo asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Rondo Tegan. I’m looking to hire a guide and was informed you were the best. I have a map but finding a particular spot in the Vast Swamp is best left to the professionals.”
“Got that right. I’m Moz, but I don’t run charters.”
“I can pay you handsomely,” Rondo said.
Moz shook his bushy head. “Money’s no good to a dead man. Those ruins are all deathtraps. I stay well clear of them and recommend you do the same.”
“That’s not an option,” Rondo said. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“No.”
Rondo bristled. Damned if he was going to be turned down by some swamp monkey. “Koltin, convince him.”
The mercenary half smiled and advanced on the bored-looking Moz. He drew back a ham-sized fist.
Before he could throw the punch, Moz stepped inside his guard and drove straightened fingers into Koltin’s throat.
The mercenary choked and gasped, staggering a step back.
Moz caught hold of his wrist, twisted, and cranked it behind Koltin’s back. With his free hand Moz grabbed Koltin’s hair and slammed his nose into the railing around his walkway.
Koltin fell to his knees, blood running down his face.
The scuffle had exposed a section of Moz’s forearm. It bore a brand that resembled two crossed, curved swords. Rondo knew that mark.
> The three mercenaries took a step to help their defeated leader, but Rondo put out an arm. “You’re an Alteran Ranger.”
“Retired.”
“I wasn’t aware. I apologize for my excess zeal. This mission is very important to me. If you release my guard, I promise you will have no more trouble from us.”
Moz nodded and let Koltin go. The mercenary stood and glared daggers at him. The retired ranger stared back, unimpressed.
“Koltin, that’s enough.”
Koltin snorted a stream of blood onto the walkway and stalked back to Rondo’s side.
“There’s a lad named Cork lives three doors back on your left,” Moz said. “He knows the swamp and is just dumb enough to guide a ruin expedition. He’s probably your best bet.”
“Thank you.” Rondo offered a polite bow. “The recommendation of an Alteran Ranger is good enough for me. Good morning.”
Moz turned his back on them and disappeared into his house. Rondo let out a low sigh and turned toward the village.
When they had moved out of hearing distance of Moz, Koltin said, “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”
“After my mission is complete, feel free to get yourself killed. Until then you will keep your distance from the ranger.”
“Why are you so scared of an old man?” Koltin asked. “He took me by surprise once, but me and the boys could beat him easy.”
“You and your boys would all be dead ten seconds after you drew your weapons. During the last war with the Kingdom of Carttoom, King Rend ordered the rangers to cross the border into enemy territory. They did so much damage, King Carttoom surrendered in a month, giving up considerable land for the promise of the rangers’ withdrawal. Retired or not, Moz is no one we want as an enemy.”
Koltin grunted but let the matter drop. He was almost certainly going to go after the ranger again, but hopefully not until after his contract was up. That was the best Rondo could hope for.
They reached the house Moz indicated and Rondo knocked. A few seconds later it opened and a pox-scarred youth in battered leathers stepped into the opening. He looked from Rondo to Koltin and back again. “Yes?”
“Moz recommended you for an expedition into the swamp. He doesn’t do trips out to the ruins but assured me that you were up to the task.”
The boy puffed up at the praise. “Moz said that? Well, it’s true enough. Do you have a destination in mind?”
“I have a map,” Rondo said. “It’s rough but gives several landmarks.”
“Can I see it?”
“Once we’re on the water. When can we set out?”
“Let’s talk price first,” Cork said. “How many days are we talking about?”
“I don’t know for certain, but let’s plan on a week to be safe and if it turns out to be less, that’s fine.” Rondo thought a moment. “Two silver scales a day.”
“Four and you pay for our supplies.”
“Three,” Rondo countered. “And I’ll pay for the supplies.”
Cork drew a breath to make a counter of his own then his gaze darted to Koltin and his scarred, bloody face. “Sounds good. Five silver scales will get us what we need. Give me two hours and I’ll be set.”
Rondo counted out the coins and dropped them in Cork’s hand. “That is acceptable. One of my men will go with you to help carry the items.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Rondo’s new guide set out with one of the mercenaries back to the center of town. Rondo wasn’t optimistic about the quality of food they’d be eating for the next week, but at least his mission was finally, truly underway. He’d eat nothing but slugs for a month if it assured him of success. He had to find something. Returning empty-handed wasn’t an option.
Chapter 3
Yaz got up early yet still found the house silent and empty. He doubted Mom slept at all some nights and Dad was always gone before sunup. Yaz might’ve had the temperament to be chief, but the hours made him think twice about fighting for the job, family tradition or not.
He dressed quickly but didn’t go downstairs immediately. He’d been thinking about Brigid quite a bit since their surprise meeting yesterday. While she was certainly pretty, what stuck with him was her father telling her learning to read and write was a waste of time. How could anyone think that? If you couldn’t read or write you couldn’t learn except by spoken word. That was so limiting. He had to do something to help her.
At the end of his narrow bed was a trunk that held Yaz’s few possessions. He flipped the lid up and pawed down to the bottom. Lying on the wood plank was his old slate. When he first learned to write he’d clumsily copied his mother’s letters. Other times he’d take his stubby pieces of chalk and draw. He smiled. Those had been the days. Mom spent his first eight years mostly at home teaching him. Now he seldom saw her for more than an hour at a time. It was kind of silly, but he missed those long days together.
His suggestion that she take a day off so they could go riding together or just sit for an afternoon and talk about anything was met without enthusiasm. She wouldn’t even tell him what she was researching that was so important.
He shook his head in resignation and pulled the slate out. Next, he got his writing kit and a scrap of paper and jotted down the alphabet in simple block letters, upper- and lowercase. That should give her plenty to practice. There should be chalk for sale in the bazaar. He’d stop and get a couple pieces on his way out.
An hour later he and Thunder were out the gate and trotting toward Brigid’s pasture. Yaz brought his bow and quiver of arrows today as well. Hopefully he’d spot something, even if it wasn’t a wolf. An adult deer brought good coin for both meat and hide. None of the sages had work for him at the moment, so if he wanted to add to his coin pouch it was hunting or look for some other job.
Yaz grinned when he spotted the sprawling old oak. It was the only tree for hundreds of yards in every direction. He couldn’t imagine how this one tree ended up so far from its fellows. Maybe some bird with an acorn that slipped out of its beak a couple hundred years ago.
He reined in just short of the tree and hobbled Thunder next to a nice clump of clover. The pony set to eating with enthusiasm. Maybe the fine grazing would put some meat on his scrawny carcass.
Further out into the pasture he spotted Brigid and her flock. She wore her blue dress today and carried her crook more like a war staff than a shepherd’s tool. Yaz whistled to get her attention. Brigid waved when she spotted him and hurried over, trusting her dog to mind the sheep.
She had a bright, happy smile when she reached him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“Why?”
“You’re the chief’s son and I’m a shepherd’s daughter. No reason in the world we should be friends.”
What an odd way to think. “No reason we shouldn’t. I brought you a present.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You did? No one ever buys me presents.”
“I didn’t buy it.” Yaz dug the slate, chalk, and paper out of his saddlebag. “Here.”
She hesitated before accepting, clearly not exactly sure what he’d given her. “Thank you.”
“It’s to practice your writing. Unfold the paper.”
She did as he asked.
“I wrote out the alphabet for you. Getting used to writing the letters is the first step in the process. This is the slate I used when my mom taught me. I thought I’d pass it on to you.”
Her lip trembled and he feared she might cry. “I don’t know what to say.”
“The thank you was enough. Would you like to try it out?”
She brightened at once. “I’d love to.”
Yaz spread out his wolfskin cloak and they sat side by side. For the next half hour Brigid slowly and painfully copied all the letters. When she finished she was beaming. “I did it.”
Her penmanship was dreadful, but her enthusiasm made up for it. “You sure did. The more you practice the more natural it will feel. By the time you’ve used up the ch
alk you should be a fair hand at the basics. I’ll have to write up a few simple primers for next time so you can try reading.”
She looked away. “Why are you doing this? I’m nobody. Helping me isn’t going to get you anything. My father has already begun arranging my marriage.”
Yaz cocked his head. “I don’t want anything from you. I’m doing this because I hate the idea of someone that wants to learn not being able to. For as long as I can remember, and that’s my whole life, I’ve loved books. First when my mother read them to me and later reading them myself. Both my parents have always encouraged me to learn everything I can. I want to share that with someone else.”
She looked back, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “Really?”
He made a little X over his chest. “Cross my heart.”
“In that case—”
A deep growl from down in the valley cut her off in midsentence. Yaz scrambled to his feet. The sheep dog was standing off a trio of big, black wolves. He went straight for his bow.
Brigid ran for her flock, her gifts abandoned on the cloak.
“Wait!”
She paid him no mind.
“Gods curse it!” Yaz stepped through between the string and stave, bent his bow across his knee, and hooked the string in the notch at the end of the stave.
He stuck four arrows in the ground, nocked a fifth, and drew. The instant the feather tickled his ear he loosed. The arrow spun through the air, arcing over Brigid’s head, and piercing the center wolf through the neck.
It went down.
The next arrow was in the air before the first wolf stopped thrashing. He got the left-hand wolf just behind the shoulder, piercing it through the heart.
Yaz drew his third arrow but couldn’t loose. Brigid had moved in front of her dog, blocking his angle at the same time. She spun the crook like a staff.
The wolf bared its fangs and lunged.
She cracked it in the side of the head, a glancing blow that barely stunned the eighty-pound animal.
Brigid recovered, ready for a second clash. The wolf lowered its head and crouched.
The Black Egg Page 3
