His body jerked, then settled into a tense lean. Little temblors stirred his extremities.
"West," he murmured. "Far, far to the west." The part of him that listened extended itself, analyzed, fixed a location.
An hour passed.
Finally, Kai Ling rose. He donned a black cape which hung beside the nearly invisible door. He smiled thinly behind his mask. Poor Chong. Chong wouldn't know which of them had won till he arrived for his turn on watch.
Tain rested, observing.
It seemed a calm and peaceful hamlet in a calm and peaceful land. A dozen rude houses crowded an earthen track which meandered on across green swales toward a distant watchtower. The squat stronghold could be discerned only from the highest hilltops. Solitary shepherds' steads lay sprinkled across the countryside, their numbers proclaiming the base for the regional economy.
The mountains Tain had crossed sheltered the land from the east. The ivory teeth of another gigantic range glimmered above the haze to the north. Tain grazed his animals and wondered if this might be the land he sought.
He sat on a hillside studying it. He was in no hurry to penetrate it. Masterless now, with no fixed destination, he felt no need to rush. Too, he was reluctant. Human contact meant finalization of the decision he had reached months ago, in Shinsan.
Intellectually he knew it was too late, but his heart kept saying that he could still change his mind. It would take the imminent encounter to sever his heartlines home.
It was . . .
scary
. . . this being on his own.
As a soldier he had often operated alone. But then he had been ordered to go, to do, and always he had had his legion or the Guard waiting. His legion had been home and family. Though the centurion was the keystone of the army, his father-Tervola chose his companions, and made most of his decisions and did most of his thinking for him.
Tain had wrestled with himself for a year before abandoning the Demon Guard.
A tiny smile tugged his lips. All those thousands who wept on hearing the distant mutter of drums—what would they think, learning that a soldier of the Dread Empire suffered fears and uncertainties too?
"You may as well come out," he called gently. A boy was watching him from the brushy brookside down to his right. "I'm not going anywhere for hours."
Tain hoped he had chosen the right language. He wasn't sure where he had exited the Dragon's Teeth. The peaks to the north, he reasoned, should be the Kratchnodians. That meant he would be in the part of Shara butting against East Heatherland. The nomadic Sharans didn't build homes and herd sheep, so these people would be immigrants from the west. They would speak Iwa Skolovdan.
It was one of four western tongues he had mastered when the Demon Prince had looked westward, anticipating Shinsan's expansion thither.
"I haven't eaten a shepherd in years." An unattended flock had betrayed the boy.
The lad left cover fearfully, warily, but with a show of bravado. He carried a ready sling in his right hand. He had well-kempt blond hair, pageboy trimmed, and huge blue eyes. He looked about eight.
Tain cautioned himself: the child was no legion entry embarking upon the years of education, training, and discipline which gradually molded a soldier of Shinsan. He was a westerner, a genuine child, as free as a wild dog and probably as unpredictable.
"Hello, shepherd. My name is Tain. What town would that be?"
"Hello." The boy moved several steps closer. He eyed the gelding uncertainly.
"Watch the mule. She's the mean one."
"You talk funny. Where did you come from? Your skin is funny, too."
Tain grinned. He saw things in reverse. But this was a land of round-eyes. He would be the stranger, the guest. He would have to remember, or suffer a cruel passage.
Arrogant basic assumptions were drilled into the soldiers of Shinsan. Remaining humble under stress might be difficult.
"I came from the east."
"But the hill people . . . . They rob and kill everybody. Papa said." He edged closer, fascinated by Tain's swords.
"Sometimes their luck isn't good. Don't you have a name?"
The boy relented reluctantly. "Steban Kleckla. Are those swords? Real swords?"
"Longsword and shortsword. I used to be a soldier." He winced. It hurt to let go of his past.
"My Uncle Mikla has a sword. He was a soldier. He went all the way to Hellin Daimiel. That was in the El Murid Wars. He was a hero."
"Really? I'll have to meet your uncle."
"Were you a hero when you were a soldier? Did you see any wars?"
"A few. They weren't much fun, Steban." How could he explain to a boy from this remote land, when all his knowledge was second-hand, through an uncle whose tales had grown with the years?
"But you get to go places and see things."
"Places you don't want to go, to see things you don't want to see."
The boy backed a step away. "I'm going to be a soldier," he declared. His lower lip protruded in a stubborn pout.
Wrong tack, Tain thought. Too intense. Too bitter. "Where's your dog? I thought shepherds always had dogs."
"She died."
"I see. I'm sorry. Can you tell me the name of the village? I don't know where I am."
"Wtoctalisz."
"Wtoctalisz." Tain's tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables. He grinned. Steban grinned back. He edged closer, eying Tain's swords.
"Can I see?"
"I'm sorry. No. It's an oath. I can't draw them unless I mean to kill." Would the boy understand if he tried to explain consecrated blades?
"Oh."
"Are there fish in the creek?"
"What? Sure. Trout."
Tain rose. "Let's see if we can catch lunch."
Steban's eyes grew larger. "Gosh! You're as big as Grimnir."
Tain chuckled. He had been the runt of the Demon Guard. "Who's Grimnir?"
The boy's face darkened. "A man. From the Tower. What about your horse?"
"He'll stay."
The roan would do what was expected of him amidst sorcerers' conflicts that made spring storms seem as inconsequential as a child's temper tantrum. And the mule wouldn't stray from the gelding.
Steban was speechless after Tain took the three-pounder with a casual hand-flick, bear fashion. The old soldier was
fast
.
"You make a fire. I'll clean him." Tain glowed at Steban's response. It took mighty deeds to win notice in the Dread Empire. He fought a temptation to show off.
In that there were perils. He might build a falsely founded, over-optimistic self-appraisal. And a potential enemy might get the measure of his abilities.
So he cooked trout, seasoning it with a pinch of spice from the trade goods in his mule packs.
"Gosh, this's good." As Steban relaxed he became ever more the chatterbox. He had asked a hundred questions already and seldom had he given Tain a chance to answer. "Better than Ma or Shirl ever made."
Tain glowed again. His field cooking was a point of pride. "Who's Shirl?"
"She was my sister."
"Was?"
"She's gone now." There was a hard finality to Steban's response. It implied death, not absence.
Steban herded the sheep homeward. Tain followed, stepping carefully. The roan paced him, occasionally cropping grass, keeping an eye on the mule. For the first time Tain felt at ease with his decision to leave home.
It was unlikely that this country would become his new home, but he liked its people already, as he saw them reflected in Steban Kleckla. He and the boy were friends already.
Steban jerked to a stop. His staff fell as he flung a hand to his mouth. The color drained from his face.
That Aspirant's sense-feel for danger tingled Tain's scalp. In thirty years it had never been wrong. With the care of a man avoiding a cobra, he turned to follow Steban's gaze.
A horse and rider stood silhouetted atop a nearby hill, looking like a black paper cutout. Tain could discern little in the dying light. The rider seemed to have horns.
Tain hissed. The roan trotted to his side. He leaned against his saddle, where his weapons hung.
The rider moved out, descending the hill's far side. Steban started the sheep moving at a faster pace. He remained silent till the Kleckla stead came into view.
"Who was that?" Tain hazarded, when he reckoned the proximity of lights and parents would rejuvenate the boy's nerve.
"Who?"
"That rider. On the hill. You seemed frightened."
"Ain't scared of nothing. I killed a wolf last week."
He was evading. This was a tale twice told already, and growing fast. First time Steban had bragged about having driven the predator away. Then he had claimed to have broken the beast's shoulder with a stone from his sling.
"I misunderstood. I'm sorry. Still, there was a rider. And you seemed to know him."
The lights of Steban's home drew nearer. Boy and sheep increased their pace again. They were late. Steban had been too busy wheedling stories from his new friend to watch the time closely.
"Steban? That you, boy?" A lantern bobbed toward them. The man carrying it obviously was Steban's father. Same eyes. Same hair. But worry had etched his forehead with deep lines. In his left hand he bore a wicked oaken quarterstaff.
An equally concerned woman walked beside him.
Once, Tain suspected, she had been beautiful. In a round-eye sort of way. Doubtlessly, life here quickly made crones of girls.
"Ma. Papa. This's my new friend. His name is Tain. He used to be a soldier. Like Uncle Mikla. He came across the mountains. He caught a fish with his hands and his horse can do tricks, but his mule will bite you if you get too close to her. I told him he should come for supper."
Tain inclined his head. "Freeman Kleckla. Freelady. The grace of heaven descend." He didn't know an appropriately formal Iwa Skolovdan greeting. His effort sounded decidedly odd in translation.
Man and wife considered him without warmth.
"A Caydarman watched us," Steban added. He started coaxing the sheep into pens.
The elder Kleckla scanned the surrounding darkness. "An evil day when we catch their eye. Welcome, then, Stranger. We can't offer much but refuge from the night."
"Thank you, Freeman. I'll pay, that your resources be not depleted without chance of replacement." There was a stiffness about Kleckla which made Tain feel the need to distance with formality.
"This is the Zemstvi, Stranger. Titles, even Freeman and Freelady, are meaningless here. They belong to tamed and ordered lands, to Iwa Skolovda and the Home Counties. Call me Toma. My wife is Rula. Come. I'll show you where to bed your animals."
"As you will . . . Toma." He bowed slightly to the woman. "Rula." She frowned slightly, as if unsure how to respond.
This would be harder than he had anticipated. At home everyone had positions and titles and there were complicated, almost ritualized protocols and honorifics to be exchanged on every occasion of personal contact. "They'll need no fodder. They grazed all afternoon."
One bony milk cow occupied Kleckla's rude barn. She wasn't pleased by Tain's mule. The mule didn't deign to acknowledge her existence.
Toma had no other stock save his sheep. But he wasn't poor. Possessing cow and flock, he was richer than most men. Richer, in some ways, than Tain, whose fortune was in metal of changeable value and a few pounds of rare spice. Which would bring more in the marketplace of the heart?
"You'll have to sleep out here," Toma informed him. "There's no room . . . ."
Tain recognized the fear-lie. "I understand." He had been puzzling the word
zemstvi,
which seemed to share roots with
frontier
and
wilderness
. Now he thought he understood.
"Are you a new Caydarman?" Toma blurted. He became contrite immediately. "Forget that. Tell me about the man you saw."
Because Toma was so intent, Tain cut off all exterior distractions and carefully reconstructed the moment in the manner he had been taught. A good scout remembered every detail. "Big man. On a big horse, painted, shaggy. Man bearded. With horns."
"Damned Torfin." Toma sublimated anger by scattering hay. "He didn't have horns. That was his helmet."
There was a lot to learn, Tain thought. This was an odd land, not like the quiet, mercantile Iwa Skolovda he had studied at home.
He considered the little barn. Its builders had possessed no great skill. He doubted that it was two years old, yet it was coming apart.
"Might as well go eat. It isn't much. Boiled mutton with cabbage and leeks."
"Ah. Mutton. I was hoping." Responding to Toma's surprise, "Mutton is rare at home. Only the rich eat it. Us common soldiers made do with grain and pork. Mostly with grain."
"Home? Where would that be?"
"East. Beyond the Dragon's Teeth."
Toma considered the evasion. "We'd better get inside. Rula gets impatient."
"Go ahead. I have a couple of things to do. Don't wait on me. I'll make do with scraps or leftovers."
Toma eyed him, started to speak, changed his mind. "As you will."
Once Toma departed, Tain pursued the Soldier's Evening Ritual, clearing his heart of the day's burdens. He observed the abbreviated Battlefield Ritual rather than the hour of meditation and exercise he pursued under peaceful circumstances. Later he would do it right.
He started for the door.
His neck tingled. He stopped, turned slowly, reached out with an Aspirant's senses.
A man wearing a horned helmet was watching the stead from the grove surrounding the Klecklas' spring. He didn't see Tain.
Tain considered, shrugged. It wasn't his problem. He would tell Toma when they were alone. Let the Freeman decide what ought to be done.
The sun was a diameter above the horizon.
Tain released the mule and roan to pasture. He glanced round at the verdant hills. "Beautiful country," he murmured, and wondered what the rest of his journey would bring. He ambled a ways toward the house. Rula was starting breakfast.
These people rose late and started slowly. Already he had performed his Morning Ritual, seen to his travel gear and personal ablutions, and had examined the tracks round the spring. Then he had joined Toma when his host had come to check the sheep.