Two other stick men also turned and ran. Basil put an arrow in the posterior of a man who was belaboring Zaval with his staff. The man cried out in dismay and fell to his knees. Filpa did not waste the opportunity and kicked the man in the back of his head, sending him hard to the ground beside Zaval.
While Filpa helped Zaval sit up and wiped blood from his face, Basil said, very calmly, “I do not think we should wait for the local justice to sort out the why and right of this affray. We have no time to waste.” To the blue-cloaked man, Basil said, “We must leave, but your aid deserves more thanks than we have time to give.”
The blue-cloaked man put away his sword and said, “I will not spend my time explaining why I helped men who were attacked by Vir Telihold ruffians. If you are heading to the Rulon Mors temple, I will be glad to accompany you on your road.”
Sandun, who had now caught his breath, said, “We have need of haste. Ride with us.” He held out the reins of one of the horses to the strange man who had helped them. The man in the blue cloak took the reins and mounted the horse as though he had spent his life riding.
Filpa took out a cloak and wrapped Zaval in it. Groaning, Zaval was helped onto his horse by his three companions. Swaying dangerously, Zaval managed to stay on his horse as they slowly rode across the wood-planked bridge that crossed high above the river.
“Keep hat low, Zaval,” said Filpa. “Eston will cloud guards’ minds at east gate. They know nothing. Soon we escape Anessa before anyone matches acorn with oak.”
Apparently very few who’d witnessed the fight wanted to draw the attention of the guards, and so behind them there was little comment and no alarm from the city watch, at least not yet. They presented their tokens at the east gate, and the guards waved them through with a profound lack of interest.
Outside the gate, Zaval chided Filpa, “You and your big mouth.” He gasped in pain as his horse stepped down on a loose stone. “When do you learn to tell a lie without bringing down heaps of trouble upon us?”
Filpa looked rueful for a moment, and then he cheered up and said, “At least we fight beside real opmi from Kelten, yes? That story we can tell our children, say!”
Sandun and Basil looked at each other and shook their heads in bemusement. Sandun wanted to disabuse Filpa about who the only real opmi of Kelten was—Sir Ako. But he told himself that he had donned the armor, taken the vows, and was now called Sir Sandun. If he wasn’t a real opmi of Kelten, he was the nearest thing to it.
They traveled for half a mile before Zaval, through gritted teeth, said that he had to stop and rest for a moment.
While Sandun examined Zaval’s injuries, he listened as Basil talked to the man in the blue cloak.
“Who are you? I watched as you swiftly disabled six men. You are a puissant warrior.”
“I am called Blue Frostel, and I am a true student of Rulon Mors. I was intrigued when I heard that four men had come into Anessa claiming to be headed for the Rulon Mors. I did not know any of you, and I wondered at your story. When the disciples of Vir Telihold attacked you, I held back for a moment, curious as to your strange way of fighting.
“Outside the city, this one”—he pointed at Filpa—“called you Keltens. I find that hard to believe though I confess that it is not impossible. As I guess that you are not going to Rulon Mors Temple and since none going to the Flame Iris Temple would conceal that fact, I suspect you may be heading to the Great Sage Temple.”
Blue Frostel looked at them carefully when no one replied, and then he said, “I see. Your friend here is injured and will need care. Allow me to accompany you to the Great Sage Temple in his place.”
Sandun demurred, but Blue Frostel pressed his suit. “This is partly my fault. Had I intervened earlier, I could have dissuaded those hotheads of Vir Telihold from attacking you. I see now their quarrel with you was entirely in error. In truth, I guessed as much and yet did act. Also, I have climbed up to the Great Sage Temple once before, which is more than most people can say.”
In his heart, Sandun liked Blue Frostel. The warrior talked like a man who was enormously confident in his ability to go anywhere in the world. It was evident from his voice and manner that he neither expected nor cared if other men followed him. Most men who had power acted and talked as if they would be obeyed, which was natural because weaker men would almost always defer to the stronger man. But Blue Frostel acted as if he were above such concerns, as though there were a hidden shield that protected him from life’s vicissitudes.
Despite his heart’s reaction, Sandun’s mind held reservations. Although he refused to second-guess befriending Valo Peli, there was no doubt that Arno Boethy had come with an excessive supply of hidden baggage. How many other enemies did Blue Frostel have in addition to the Vir Telihold bullies?
Stalling while letting Zaval rest a bit longer, Sandun asked the man about his name.
“As you have correctly guessed, Blue is just a nickname. My birth name is Arna. Arna Frostel.”
“Arna Frostel?” Filpa said with incredulity. “Who would dare give their child such name?”
“My parents did. I was born on the two hundredth year of his death. They thought it…appropriate to honor him in this way.”
Arna Frostel was a name Sandun had heard before, but he couldn’t quite remember the why or where. The name clearly meant something to Filpa.
“And what is Vir Telihold?” Sandun asked.
“A monastery of Eston that dabbles at teaching a few fighting skills,” Frostel replied dismissively. “Telihold Tanul is far to the north here, near Lake Histel. Vir Telihold is their southern outpost, twenty tik upriver from Anessa. Your friend here defended the reputation of Rulon Mors with spirit, but I do not know him.”
“I am from Omot,” Filpa said, striking his chest with his fist. “We are proud of connection to Rulon Mors.”
Sandun, after gently moving Zaval’s arms and listening to him take deep breaths, was concerned about the severity of his injury. He suspected that one of the staff blows had broken a rib and said so.
“I ride,” Zaval said with a grimace. “Worse injuries have I suffered, and still I ride. On to Omot. Tomorrow better, after night’s rest.”
“You can ride with us as far as Omot,” Sandun said, looking at Blue Frostel. “Tomorrow we should learn more about Zaval’s condition.”
They rode rapidly to Omot as most of the journey was flat river valley. But an hour after the last light left the sky, they ran into a series of ridges, rather like waves turned into earth. Sandun had seen land like this before on the east side of the great plains of Kelten. After a very long day of riding, he was cursing every slope.
True to his word, Zaval clung to his horse and kept up with the rest. The messenger riders were not only good horsemen but as tough as iron horseshoes. Filpa told them there were five ridges between Anessa and Omot, and he counted them out as they crested each one in turn.
Finally, they were coming down the back side of the fifth ridge when the fires of Omot could be seen clustered in the valley below. When they reached the town, the gate was shut, but Filpa yelled up at the wall in his native speech, and he was soon recognized. Sandun sat on the road beside his horse and let his mind go blank.
A small door beside the wooden gate opened, and one by one they were allowed through along with their horses.
Blue Frostel said he had friends in Omot and disappeared down the street. Sandun, Basil, and Zaval followed Filpa to his family’s house, which was close to the gate. Filpa was greeted warmly by his family. The smell of tannin, foot molds, and piles of leather stacked on shelves told Sandun instantly that Filpa’s family made shoes. They had been working late after supper and were only now cleaning up before going to bed.
Sandun lay down on a pillow of leather scraps covered by a silk cloth. He didn’t care about the strong smell of cured leather or the solid wood floor; he just tur
ned his face to the wall and rapidly fell into punishing dreams of endless pounding horse’s hooves.
The morning arrived far too soon. Sandun woke groggy and disoriented, with the light streaming in through an opening near the top of the east wall. Filpa’s younger brother went around the room, opening all the windows, letting in light and fresh air. One of Filpa’s two younger sisters came over to Sandun and offered him a cup of tea, gesturing at him to sit up.
Sandun resisted the shooting pains from his sore muscles and slowly but silently sat up with his back to the wall. He accepted the tea and carefully sipped it as he looked around. He noticed the teacup was a fine Serica glass, similar to what they had at the embassy. A single Serica glass cup like the one he was holding would be worth at least five hundred crowns in Seopolis. It amazed him to see such an item in the possession of a shoemaker in a small town of Torsihad.
Filpa was up and about, a big smile on his face as he teased his younger sisters. Sandun could barely make out one word in ten, but he heard “opmi,” and Filpa’s father and mother both looked at Sandun with curious eyes.
The scent of leather was soon mixed with the smell of vegetables fried in hot oil. Breakfast was being made, and Sandun’s stomach told him he was very hungry. He gingerly made his way over to Zaval and examined him. Zaval was pale and seemed feverish. The young man tried to make light of his injuries, but he looked terrible; his face had swelled up in the night, and he had two angry black eyes.
Basil came in from the back of the house carrying a plain earthenware dish heaped with food. “Eat fast, my friend. We have thirty more miles to go over a difficult road.”
Sandun and Filpa were soon wolfing down fried spiced vegetables on a bed of brown rice. Zaval begged off eating, saying that it hurt to move his jaw.
While they were eating, another young man about Filpa’s age came in and told Filpa something about a boat. Filpa smiled happily and explained that a fast-oared boat was in town this morning and available for hire.
“Longer to go by boat, an hour or more. But much easier for us. If we must climb, rested and ready we will be.”
Sandun liked the sound of taking a boat upstream instead of another day of hard riding. “How much?” he asked.
“Not cheap,” replied Filpa. “One and a half silver cats.”
Sandun was relieved; they could afford it. “How much do we owe your family for letting us stay and for the food?”
Filpa looked offended. “Pay? Is my family! Honored to have opmi of Kelten stay as guests. Many people in Omot eager for day lord of Kunhalvar takes up rule over entire valley. Put fish bastards in Anessa in their place.”
Filpa’s father grunted in approval and then said something else. Filpa continued, “Father asks that he size your feet.”
Sandun looked at him and then down at his feet. He had, he thought, stocky feet, and while he was taller than everyone in Filpa’s family, were his feet somehow unusual?
“When you return,” Filpa explained, “Father have new boots ready for both opmi. Best leather, very comfortable. You will see.”
Sandun felt this was an offer he could not refuse, and so he and Basil both had their feet expertly sketched on pieces of soft leather.
“Time is pressing,” said Basil. They packed and went to the back, where they found all the horses saddled and Blue Frostel sitting calmly on a pile of split wood.
“Good morning,” he said. “I am ready to depart if you will have me.”
“Yes,” Sandun replied. “Though we will ride to the docks and from there we take a fast boat to the base of the Great Sage Temple.”
“Wise choice.” Blue Frostel sprang onto the saddle. “The climb is difficult and few, if any, attempt it after a long day on horseback. Is Zaval coming?”
“No,” said Filpa told him, “but my brother goes to docks, and he takes our horses back.”
Omot was not quite on the river, unlike Anessa, which was built on poles. Sandun thought it likely that the people of Omot feared floods. A quarter mile past the south gate brought them to the docks, where eight sturdy men stood. They were swinging oars over their heads and chanting numbers in a group exercise. Sandun gave Filpa two silver cats; he in turn passed them to the boat master, the oldest man of the crew. The boat master hefted them in his calloused hand and then gave back a small half cat, also of silver.
The fast boat was smaller than the racer they’d taken from Tokolas to Teketavaska, and the wood was unpainted except for the two wise eyes near the bow. “Four is the most we carry on the fast boat,” said the boat master in understandable Serice. “Anything you can do to lighten the load will help speed our way.”
Sandun considered what he was carrying in his pack: food, waterskins, rope, weapons, and armor. What could he possibly leave behind? “What dangers can we expect on the river?” Sandun asked the boat master.
“While there are a few river bandits who prey on the pilgrims, only Lame-Leg Virt and his gang would dare attack us with you four warriors on board.”
The boat master’s words did not reassure Sandun, so he left nothing behind, and neither did Basil. The four men boarded the fast boat, Filpa in front. Next came Basil, while Blue Frostel and Sandun sat in the rear. The crew deftly took their places with their oars. The boat master pushed them away from the dock; they headed upriver, past the small fishing boats who were out early.
The river curled about but generally flowed down from the northeast hills. In the distance, Sandun could see very tall peaks rising above the river banks. As they came closer, Sandun saw the hills were odd, disturbing in their strangeness. Unlike the mountains he had known in Kelten, which formed chains of pointed promontories connected by steep ridges, these hills stood apart from each other, erupting from the sides of the river in impossibly vertical sheer cliffs of naked stone. They were like castles sculpted by titans wielding stone-cutter blades the size of the giant redwood trees. For no reason Sandun could imagine, these bizarre stone towers had rounded tops, as though smoothed by a grinding wheel as vast as the sky itself.
At the top of one of these vast stone pillars, he saw what looked like a building. He pointed at it and said to Basil, who was sitting in front, “By the Spear of Sho’Ash! How could any man reach such a place?”
Blue Frostel turned and faced Sandun. “You have not been told enough about your destination. The Temple of the Great Sage is at the top of a hill fully twice as tall as these small karsts you see around us.”
Sandun’s heart sank. He could not climb even the small karsts he saw; they were far too steep. Seeing his dismay, Blue Frostel explained, “There is a narrow trail, carved out of the rock, and in many places steps have been cut. It is a hard trail but not beyond your strength.” He turned and looked east. “That said, rain makes the trail much more dangerous, and I see clouds building.”
This was no more than the truth. The day, which had started fair, was becoming overcast. Great thunderheads were forming before their eyes, billowing up and out into the sky ahead of them.
“Our Temple of Rulon Mors is built on a karst a few hundred feet lower than the Great Sage Temple. I have climbed its path once during an afternoon thunderstorm, but that was because I carried a burning message. Tell me, how urgent is your need to reach the Great Sage Temple this day?”
“It is worth my life,” Basil said in a tone of voice that admitted no debate.
“So this will be a true test for all of us. The gods Mairen and Temo Tio place obstacles in our path so that, in succeeding, we become stronger.” Blue Frostel fell silent and did not say anything for quite some time.
Sandun was increasingly filled with dread as the karsts grew taller and the clouds became thicker as the oarsmen drove them upriver. He could see no sign of any paths up any of the karsts. Looking back on the karsts they passed, he saw that most appeared to be sheer stone from all directions; only a few had trees growing up
climbable slopes.
Their boat passed several groups of travelers—pilgrims walking or riding slowly along the north side of the river—and twice they passed small fishing villages nestled along the shore. The south side of the river seemed unpopulated.
As Sandun chewed some dried salted meat around noon, he asked Blue Frostel, “How many of these pilgrims will be going to the Great Sage Temple?”
“None,” the warrior replied. “The Great Sage Temple is closed to most visitors and has been ever since the fall of the Water Kingdom.”
“But you said you have been there, and one of the doctors in Tokolas said he had gone there.”
“I was allowed, yes. And some doctors and scholars of note are granted entry.”
“Who would climb such a massive karst at the risk of being denied entry?” Sandun felt baffled and perplexed. Nothing made sense; he felt like the last few days were all some terrible nightmare.
“I did. I climbed the path and requested entry. I told them who I was, and they gave me leave to study their books for two weeks.”
“Who are you?” said Sandun, now wondering if he could believe anything Blue Frostel was saying.
“As I said, my name is Arna Frostel, and I am the eighth-generation descendent of General Arna Frostel.”
At this, all the rowers stopped and turned their heads, looking at him.
After a short pause, the boat master said, “Keep rowing. Everyone knows the family of Frostel has been living in Rulon Mors since the general was executed.” Then he said, “It’s an honor to have you aboard, sir.”
The Fire Sword Page 6
