Duty (Book 2) (23 page)

“No,” Gen stated firmly. Chertanne threw Gen his hundredth exasperated look of the week while the Shadan settled for rolling his eyes up in his head.

“Really, Gen,” Chertanne went on, “I would like a little of my bride left to enjoy once we get there. If you jail her much longer, she won’t even be able to stand!”

Gen stood as still as a statue until they capitulated and rode back to their normal position well in front of the Chalaine’s carriage.

“Hello, Gen,” the Chalaine said weakly once they’d gone.

“Good evening, Chalaine.” Gen replied, removing the strain from his voice.

“Alumira, remember?” she said. Gen admired her strength. There was no bitterness in her voice, though he could tell that she wanted out of the carriage almost as much as she wanted to run away from Chertanne and hide forever.

“You don’t get to be Alumira until well after dark when everyone is asleep. One moment.” Gen turned and caught Volney’s eye, signaling him forward. Volney had just been released from duty for the evening and came forward, eyes expectant.

“My Lord!” he said, slapping his forearm across his chest and bowing at the waist. “I am ready to serve your will. How may I serve you and the Lady?”

Gen hated how Volney always lapsed into formalities when he got within twenty feet of the Chalaine. The Chalaine hated it, too.

“Could you fetch a Pureman for me?”

“Forthwith, Milord!” Without Volney, Gen thought he might be able to forget he was nobility now.

“What are you doing, Gen?” the Chalaine asked.

“Taking care of that headache.”

“You really shouldn’t bother. A little headache isn’t important enough for a Pureman to deal with.”

“I sense the pain you feel, and that is no ‘little’ headache. Besides, it is hypocritical of you to turn away healing when you insist on healing me if I so much as stub my toe.”

“I do not," the Chalaine objected. "I’m sure everyone else in this caravan has a headache, too. It’s been a sweltering day. A sweltering month, actually. If the Puremen went around curing every headache in this camp, they would. . .”

“Will you shut up and take the healing?” Gen realized what he had said and was about to apologize, but the Chalaine was laughing.

“Did you just tell me to shut up, Gen?”

“Chalaine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. . .”

“Only my mother dares do that! Everyone else thinks the Chalaine shouldn’t be talked to in that manner!”

“And you shouldn’t be. My tongue slipped. It has been a long, frustrating day,” Gen ended lamely.

The banging of the wagon across a patch of rough rock drowned out any further conversation. Gen had to steady himself as the carriage swayed back and forth. The first star winked into the crystal clear sky as the Pureman arrived, and a cool breeze from the north cut through the stale air, bringing welcome relief. Full dark had come by the time the Pureman finished the healing ritual for the Chalaine while sitting on the back of the bouncing carriage. The caravan pressed on for two more hours, leaving the edges of the Kord Forest well behind them in the dark.

Finally, Regent Ogbith called for a halt, eliciting a chorus of grateful mumbling. The horses were cared for and a fire built in the center of the ring, casting a cheery light in the darkness. The cookmaster distributed a meal little better than what Gen had scrounged for himself to those inside the circle.

Geoff’s rich voice could be heard everywhere, and Gen gritted his teeth every time he heard it. Lighting a fire was bad enough, but each night Geoff ensured a general ruckus that Gen was sure would announce their presence to even the deafest Uyumaak within fifty miles. Gen expected the carelessness would continue until an Uyumaak arrow taught them better; Geoff lifted weary spirits, and that service meant more, apparently, than security or stealth. Gen climbed down from the roof of the carriage and sat on the small ledge by the door.

“Fools.” It was Maewen, speaking in Elvish. “They will kill us all. Wild places are not for loud voices and bright fires.” She approached from outside the circle, face turned down in a frown and with a bow in hand.

“You read my thoughts,” Gen replied in the same language. “They still pressure me to let the Chalaine come into the firelight.” Maewen sniffed indignantly.

“The Chalaine would be safer, Gen, if you and I were to take her to Elde Luri Mora alone. Mark my words. I have some bad news.”

“What is it?”

“The deep scouts are two days late. They were to scout all the way to the Dunnach River Bridge and make contact with the advance party there. Regent Ogbith insists it is nothing to worry about. I worry. Be wary, Gen. I am increasingly uneasy, and that feeling should not be dismissed when it comes from one as old as I am.”

“My ears are turned to you and the wind, Quaena,” Gen replied. “I wish you led this caravan not only in direction but in comportment.”

Maewen’s sharp look startled him. “Did you call me
Quaena
?” she asked, face tense.

“Yes, I suppose I did. It seems to fit you,” Gen improvised. Quaena was Samian’s nickname for his daughter, the word meaning ‘leaf daughter.’  Maewen regarded him narrowly.

“Try not to use it again,” she said, marching stiffly toward the fire. Gen shook his head and chastised himself for letting his tongue slip for the second time that evening. He took special care to not say much when Mirelle came over, Cadaen in tow, to chat a little with her daughter.

While Mirelle never questioned Gen’s decision to keep the Chalaine confined, he couldn’t miss the pain on her face over her daughter’s plight. After she left, Gen heard the Chalaine settling near the door slot, opening it as she often did in the evening so they could talk. Since Fenna’s night visits were increasingly infrequent, the Chalaine and Gen talked more than they ever had.

“What did Maewen say?” the Chalaine asked. “I couldn’t understand it, but it wasn’t happy.”

“She worries, as I do, that we are being too careless. Fires and singing in lands so unknown is foolish. She also says the scouts sent ahead to the Dunnach River Bridge have not returned and are two days late.”

“Do you think something has happened to them?” the Chalaine asked, and Gen could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“I think so,” Gen replied. “The terrain is easy and the weather cooperative. Unless they greatly misjudged the distance to the river, which I doubt, then I see little excuse for them to be as late as they are.”

“Maybe they got lost.”

“If the best scouts in Rhugoth got lost following a river, then we really are doomed.”

The Chalaine remained silent for some time. Geoff played music and told stories to the delight of everyone. Even Shadan Khairn seemed to enjoy himself, though Gen found his former master’s eyes on him more than once. Fenna sat to the right of Geoff, clapping and dancing as the bard played his lute to perfection. Gen suppressed a wave of professional jealousy; if Torbrand had left Tolnor alone, Gen thought he would probably have been a lot like Geoff, minus the annoying qualities. Of course, he also would have never come to know Fenna or the Chalaine.

“So, how are things with Fenna?” the Chalaine asked when Geoff took a break.

Gen shrugged. “How would I know? I could tell you, however, every one of Geoff’s thoughts. I swear the man never shuts up, and he never leaves her alone. She doesn’t seem to mind him, though. Quite the opposite, in fact. I can’t blame her. Geoff’s a handsome man, even if he is a little old for her. And he is the best at what he does. He plays the lute much better than I ever. . .”

“Gen!” the Chalaine interrupted. “You’re rambling.”

“Sorry. All I’m saying is that compared to Geoff, I must seem drab and boring.”

The Chalaine chuckled. “Oh, yes. Gen, one of the best sword fighters in the world, Protector of the Chalaine, gone from serf to noble for facing down demons and dastards. You’re a bore a minute. Look, Gen,” the Chalaine continued, “you hardly have the chance to see her anymore, so it’s natural that you feel that she is getting away from you. But every morning when she comes to spend time with me, the first question she asks is, ‘How is Gen?’”

“And then she spends the rest of the hour gushing about Geoff, right?”

“No! My goodness, Gen. You really are out of sorts this evening. I won’t say that she doesn’t talk about him, but she still cares for you Gen. Make no mistake.”

“I thank you for the reassurance. I’m sorry for my mood. I’ll try to be more controlled.”

Gen realized the admission of his insecurities might lessen the Chalaine’s confidence in him during a difficult time for her, and he didn’t need the Shadan staring at him to make him remember that the slightest weakness could be used as a wedge for others to move him out of his place.

“Please don’t,” the Chalaine commented unexpectedly. “You telling me to shut up earlier was probably the high point of my trip thus far.”

Gen shook his head. He couldn’t remember a single story or poem where a woman was cheered by being told to shut up. Whatever the Chalaine said, Gen wasn’t going to lose his control, not over anything. He couldn’t afford to do it. He slid off the back of the carriage and stood at a rigid attention, turning his concentration outward.

“Oh,” the Chalaine continued, remembering something. “This may not be the right time to tell you this, but Fenna mentioned this morning that Kimdan had renewed his attentions to her, too.”

Gen beat down the feelings and let them slide away, leaving himself calm and self-possessed. The Chalaine offered no further comment.

Away at the fire, a new song started, and Fenna’s voice—clear, if unpolished—rose into the night. Gen recognized the song Geoff had chosen for the duet: Emereth’s Journey, the tale of a young woman who went to find a warrior husband who had not returned from a bloody battle, and, after finding his body, fell in love with the Pureman who was preparing it for burial. Geoff and Fenna sang short stanzas in counterpoint to each other as their grief over the slaughter of war gradually changed to love. Gen doubted Geoff’s song selection was an accident.

They finished to much applause, and both Mirelle and Geoff gave Fenna enthusiastic hugs. Maewen stood at the edge of the firelight, scowling at the proceedings.

“I had no idea she could sing so well!” the Chalaine exclaimed.

“With training, she could be a great bard,” Gen replied, “though I think her station precludes it from being a possibility. She remembers the words and doesn’t forget a tune if she’s sung it once.”

Fenna gradually broke away from the crowd. Gen pretended not to notice her approach.

“Well?” she asked, face beaming. “What did you think?”

“Miss Fairedale has a most luxurious voice,” Gen complimented her, bowing.

“It was wonderful!” the Chalaine followed enthusiastically. Fenna smiled at the praise and had Gen help her stand on the back of the wagon so she could whisper through the bars to the Chalaine. While Gen couldn’t hear everything they said, the name Geoff came up more than once with a couple of Kimdans thrown in for good measure. Gen tried to ignore their talk, and soon it was over. Fenna gave him a peck on the cheek and with a hasty goodbye practically sprinted back to the fireside where things were starting to pick back up.

“So, Chalaine,” Gen asked, “how is Fenna doing?”

By the time the sky lightened the next morning, Gen felt very cross and not the least bit tired. While he preferred to sleep, his training allowed him to go for days without doing so, and today was going to be one of those days. When Jaron relieved him at sunrise, he went to find something to eat before everyone awoke. A few soldiers milled around the supply wagon, but it was Maewen packing her backpack that caught Ge
n’
s attention.

“Where are you going?” Gen asked her in Elvish.

“To scout ahead. I will return by nightfall. I cannot put my mind at ease and need to go have a look for myself.”

An idea leapt into Gen’s head. Getting away from the caravan was exactly what he needed. “Let me come with you.”

He knew it was a long shot. Maewen wasn’t fond of company in general, on her excursions doubly so. Her face registered surprise, then contemplation, and then, to his delight, she agreed.

“Do you have to get permission?” she asked.

“Yes. From Regent Ogbith.”

“Well, let’s go get it. I’ll bring enough provisions for both of us and we’ll take turns with the pack.”

Regent Ogbith tented with his soldiers, and they found him there shaving his square face with a sharp knife. He eyed them questioningly as they approached.

“Good morning. Looks like another hot day ahead. What do you two need?”

Just as Gen opened his mouth to ask the question, Maewen spoke. “I still feel ill at ease and want to scout forward today. I would like to have Gen’s sword at my back. We will return in time for his nightly watch.”

Regent Ogbith wiped his knife on his pants. “Really? Do you think there’s a need? I know the long range scouts haven’t come back, but we just had our short range scouts return without report of anything for miles in front of us.”

“Men on horses miss much, Regent,” Maewen said. “I would like to settle my mind about the road ahead.”

Regent Ogbith clearly felt that the whole thing was unnecessary, but he relented. “As long as you get him back in time and in shape to do his duty, he may go. Anything else?”

“No, Regent,” Maewen replied.

Gen felt elated as Maewen led him back toward the caravan proper.

“Can you shoot a bow, Gen?” she asked.

“Yes.” Samian had been an absolute master, and Gen felt he could hit a sparrow at a hundred yards in the dark.

“Talk to the weapons master and procure one while I pack more food. Then let’s get going. The sun is already higher than I like.”

In short order Gen had the bow strung and around his shoulders. Maewen took the pack first, and with a wry grin turned to him. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Turning her face to the rising sun, she sprinted along the edge of the caravan and Gen kept pace. Heads turned as they whipped by like the wind, and Gen couldn’t help but grin with satisfaction as Geoff, having already found Fenna before she began her duties with the Chalaine, looked at him with a hundred questions plainly written on his features.

Gen knew he’d have to steel himself to answer every one of those questions when he returned, but after a quick smile and wave to an equally puzzled Fenna, Gen put the caravan behind him and reveled in the rush of the warming wind around his face. They ran for nearly an hour before Maewen stopped for the first time.

“That is better,” she said, taking in the emptiness around them.

“Much better,” Gen agreed, stretching his legs to keep them loose. “I tire of the caravan with each passing mile.”

Maewen smiled at him, dark hair streaming around her face in a stiff morning breeze. “You run well, Gen. I fear, however, that with our departure the caravan is bereft of anyone with sense.”

Gen laughed. Maewen didn’t.

“Ethris is a smart one,” Gen said. “He’ll keep them from doing anything incredibly stupid.”

“Ethris is indeed a smart man, but he is not an outdoorsman. The greater part of his life has been spent in damp towers with his nose in books.”

“True,” Gen agreed, Maewen offering him swig from the waterskin. “Are we looking for anything in particular out here?”

“You tell me, Gen. You seem to know more than anyone your age should. What do you think we would be searching for?”

Gen thought for a moment. “If I were planning to ambush the caravan along this route, I would, obviously, want to make sure the scouts returned thinking the way was clear for as long as possible. I wouldn’t try to mount an assault in this open plain, but secrete a large force, on foot, where there was a narrow passage thick with trees or scattered rocks so that the effectiveness of the horses and the mobility of the caravan would be limited. If the enemy has scouts along this route watching our progress, they are no doubt pleased that everyone seems so carefree.”

“Exactly,” Maewen concurred. “And if one of the caravan’s scouts saw something, you would prevent them from returning.”

“So we look for signs of their scouts more than our own.”

“Yes. It is hard to hide anything out here, but the Uyumaak skin camouflage transforms even this barren terrain into a field ripe for a harvest of trouble. I have little hope of finding anything, but even if I can turn up a ten-year-rotted Uyumaak skeleton, I will drag it back just to see if it can scare some thinking into Regent Ogbith.”

Gen grinned.

“Whether our little trip does the Regent any good,” he said, “it has already done wonders for me. I thank you for allowing me to come.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed if it had been anyone else but you. You are a rare one. It has been a pleasure having someone in camp that speaks Elvish. The human tongue grates on me. You speak Elvish so well, in fact, you could probably pass for one in the night. How did you learn it? Not as a bard in a backwoods town, I think.”

Gen’s mind raced. He still hadn’t decided how to tell her about Samian. “It is a long story that deserves more time than we can comfortably devote to it now. I will tell you later.”

“Very well,” she said, and Gen was grateful she did not press the matter. From Samian, he knew such patience was a common quality in elves, born of their long lives.

“Let’s see how well you can run with the pack on your back.”

They ran at a brisk pace for over an hour. The terrain changed slightly the farther they went, showing more character than the less varied miles behind.  Hills, depressions, and clumps of trees more frequently lay about their path, and Maewen would sporadically dart off their eastward track and scout around before turning back to the main path. Shard shadows moved over the landscape as they passed overhead, providing temporary relief from the sun beating down on their necks.

It was nearly midday when the half-elf pulled up abruptly, signaling for silence. Catching Gen’s eyes, she directed his vision northeast. At first Gen couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but as Maewen led him forward another hundred yards, he spotted a thin wisp of smoke coming over a low hill, barely visible even in broad daylight.

Maewen crouched low and helped Gen remove the pack. Leaning close, she whispered, “Someone with some lore lit that fire. It is well masked. We’ll approach quickly. I can see no lookout on the hilltop. Let’s go see what we can see. Remember where the pack is.”

Gen nodded and they sprinted quietly toward the tendril of smoke. They covered the last yards on their bellies, scooting forward to peer over the summit of a low hill. What they saw brought little comfort.

Ahead of them a depression formed a shallow bowl, the hill on which they lay forming the highest lip. In the bowl a company of Uyumaak milled around in the brutal sun. Some slept, others walked about aimlessly, and some huddled in tight circles. A small cook fire boiled a viscous brown liquid in a dark cauldron while two Uyumaak took turns stirring it. Gen marveled at them. Their color-changing skin challenged his vision, complicating a quick understanding of the scene.

Gen noted the elements of a typical Uyumaak company. There were eleven Hunters, long wiry Uyumaak that could run like the wind. Seven Archers—like Hunters, but with thicker torsos and greater strength—sat together fletching arrows for longbows polished a dull black. Eleven Bashers, armed with crossbows, shields, and axes, were mostly asleep. They were short, bulky, and strong, bred to break shield walls and cut down horses. Then there were the eleven Uyumaak Warriors, a blend of speed and strength, possessing more intelligence than the others.

An Uyumaak Shaman stood outside a tent fashioned from dark hides. He watched his charges, slapping his chest in their mysterious, percussive language. Noticeably missing was the Chukka, a dark elf ranger that most often led Uyumaak companies.

Maewen signaled to Gen and they scooted backward. Again she leaned close. “Normally I would leave now, but with you at my side I am a bit more bold. The Chukka is missing, but if we could kill the Shaman, it would be a heavy blow. If we fail, however, the Shaman will make things miserable for us. Even if we succeed, we will have to fight off the Hunters. We should be able to outrun the others. It would be good to get some token of this place to show the caravan.”

While the wisdom of Samian and Elberen told him this course of action was foolhardy, Telmerran wouldn’t have hesitated to wade into the thick of trouble. Dealing a blow to the Uyumaak might aid the safety of the caravan, and Maewen was right; while their word of an Uyumaak company might be enough, if they had some tangible evidence to show, it would put a definite end to the reckless, carefree behavior that had grated on him for so long.

“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll split off to the left and shoot first to draw their attention. That way, the Hunters will come for me. If I hit, retreat and cover me when the Hunters come for me. If I miss, it will be up to you to kill the Shaman. One shot each, and we run.”

Maewen smiled, but not the kind of smile that invited one in return. Gen scooted away, taking his time and going slowly. The sun beat down on him like a forge hammer, Gen’s lips sticky with thirst and sweat dripping off his nose. Finding a thick clump of blond grass, he unlimbered his bow and pulled out an arrow. He wiped his hands to dry them, and, after setting arrow to string, turned his head to see if Maewen was ready. She was on her knees a little farther back down the hill, watching him intently.

Gen nearly lost his grip on his bow. Coming up behind her, ghost-like, was the Chukka. He floated silently over the grass, his dark green cloak semi-transparent. Gen had been shown this ranger’s trick when he had worn the Training Stones. It was windwalking, a completely soundless way to move from one point to another. He was almost upon her, a dark blade coming to his hand. Gen knew the Chukka would have to solidify completely before attacking. He had no way to warn Maewen short of yelling, which would bring the whole camp on them. The Chukka edged closer, and stopped.

Gen leapt to his feet, pulled the arrow to his cheek, and let the arrow fly. Maewen’s eyes widened with shock as Gen’s arrow sprung toward her, but comprehension dawned quickly and she threw herself to the ground just as the Chukka solidified, dropped to the ground, and swung his knife. Maewen’s sudden movement proved enough to send the knife wide. The arrow slammed into the Chukka’s upper chest, throwing him sideways and onto the ground with a thud. He screamed, and Maewen was on him slashing with her knife.

Gen turned back to the camp as he pulled and strung another arrow. The Uyumaak were standing dead still and looking up the hill, and just as they caught sight of him, Gen loosed an arrow at the Shaman. Sounds of Uyumaak thumping and tapping split the air. The Shaman noticed his assailant at the last moment, tossing aside its staff as he dove away. The move saved its life, the arrow sinking into its meaty shoulder instead of his head and driving him to the ground. The Hunters rose up and sprinted up the hill at Gen.

Memories of Hunters charging were plentiful in Gen’s mind, but to see one directed at him in broad daylight awakened within him a real sense of danger. The Hunters moved fluidly and with heart-stopping speed. He fled, finding Maewen already at the bottom of the hill, turned toward him. Her cloak was spattered with black blood, and Gen hoped none of hers mixed with it. He chanced a look back to see all eleven Hunters cresting the hill, closing on him at an alarming rate.

Maewen’s bow sang, and an arrow whistled by Gen’s head, catching the lead chaser in the throat. It fell hard to the ground, tripping up two of the Hunters behind it. Maewen shot twice more before Gen reached her side, both her arrows dropping their pursuers. They ran as fast as their legs would take them, but Gen saw that they would not be able to escape without a fight.