Fire and Sword (25 page)

After the regiments had passed, he stomped into town in a red rage, looking for something or someone to take it out on. He passed the Lost Sailor Tavern, stopped, and went back. Business was slow, most citizens on the streets heading to the north gate so they could watch the army leave for the war. But, he noticed with satisfaction, his pretty informant was on duty. What was her name again? That’s right, Dcanus. He found a corner table and signaled to her. She came over, nervous and diffident.

“My lord?”

“What news?” he snarled.

“Nothing much—”

“What news!” he repeated, and slapped the table. Ikanus jumped. The few customers in the inn looked across warily and, on seeing Dejanus, quickly looked away again.

“Y-you know of the hospice?” Dejanus shook his head. “There is a hospice in this quarter run by the church.”

“And why should that interest me?”

“I have heard that it is visited frequently by the magicker prelate and one other.”

“The prelate? Edaytor Fanhow?” Ikanus nodded. “And which other?”

“N-no one knows, my lord. He wears a cape and hood, but is always in the company of the prelate. They stay for a while and then leave together. People say the prelate’s companion is a great magicker, for many who go there are dying, and the next day return home completely healed.”

“How many?” Dejanus asked, curious despite himself. He had been looking for an excuse to beat Ikanus.

“I d-do not know. They are mostly children.”

Dejanus sat back, deep in thought. This was news indeed. A magicker who cured the dying? He had never heard of any so powerful. And why was the prelate trying to keep it so secret?

Unless...

No, it was too incredible. He scratched his beard. Or maybe not. It would go a long way to explaining the recent unusual behavior of a certain member of the court. He had heard only rumors, but now they were starting to make sense.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” Ikanus asked.

Dejanus shook his head, and she turned to leave. “Wait!” he ordered, and gave her a silver coin. “A flagon of Storian red.”

“I cannot change this ...”

“Keep the change. You have done well.”

She did a sort of curtsy and hurried off. Dejanus watched her go, admiring the way her backside moved. Maybe he would linger a while, at least until she was off duty. She might even earn another silver coin before the night was out.

The four riders stopped on the windward side of the hill and for a moment enjoyed the soft westerly breeze that cooled their sweat.

“It has been many years since Gudon rode the White Wolf territory,” Lynan said to Korigan. “Are you sure he knows the field you’ve told me about?”

“I am certain. We call it the Ox Tongue; in area it is almost as large as the High Sooq, and is almost always sprouting new grass this time of year.”

Lynan turned to Jenrosa. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Jenrosa took a deep breath. “No. But we can’t wait.” She glanced at Lasthear, who pulled another feather and boar heart from her saddle pouch, held one of Jenrosa’s hands, and started the incantation. Within moments, a ball of blue fire appeared.

“Can you see it?” Lasthear asked Lynan excitedly.

Lynan could not speak. Inside the fire he could see the Strangers’ Sooq, and even as he watched, the focus changed and there was Gudon, his face looking up into the sky.

“Incredible,” he said. Korigan echoed the sentiment.

Jenrosa laughed in surprised delight. “He knew I’d be in touch again,” she told Lynan. “He’s asking if you are here.”

She frowned in concentration. “He is glad you are both well. What do you wish him to do?”

Lynan told her. She relayed his instructions, then suddenly swayed in the saddle. The flames disappeared. Both Lynan and Lasthear reached out to steady her, but this time Lasthear seemed more tired than Jenrosa. “I gave her as much help as I could. It was exhausting.”

“Thank you,” Jenrosa told her. “You did help. There is almost no pain at all in my head. But I grew tired more quickly.”

“We do it too soon after the first time,” Lasthear explained. “Even for one with your raw talent, there is a cost.”

Lynan looked closely at Jenrosa. She smiled weakly and said: “It is done. Gudon will do as you ask.”

“If Terin does his part, all is ready,” Lynan said.

“Terin will do as you have asked,” Korigan assured him. “Now it is up to us.”

Igelko had led Terin and his troop of four riders straight as an arrow. From their vantage point atop a crest they could see a scouting party for Rendle’s mercenary force, although in this case they were Haxus regulars.

“I count seven,” Igelko said. “There are another three somewhere.”

“One on each flank, one bringing up the rear. Good.”

They scrabbled down the crest to where their horses waited. They mounted quickly and rode back to the mouth of the shallow valley Rendle’s scouting party was exploring. They reined in a short while later, letting their horses lazily crop at the spring grass.

“How long?” one rider asked.

“Any time now,” Terin answered. He was younger than most of his warriors, but they were proud to have him as their chief. He was a great hunter and horseman, and his decisions concerning the clan, including tying its fortunes to Queen Korigan’s ambitions, had brought the clan increasing honor. And in the last few days he had shown his skill as a warrior by leading his warriors against the rearguard Rendle left behind to protect the passes his force had come through.

“Don’t look, but the first is now in sight,” Igelko hissed. Terin risked glancing from the corner of his eye. His troop was in plain sight, and yet the Haxus rider still did not see them. Carrying out Lynan’s latest instructions—brought to him by rider only the day before—would be harder than he thought.

“These enemies are as blind as karak in the dark,” another rider said. “They would be easy prey,”

“We will have our turn,” Terin said under his breath. “But not here, and not now. You know what we have to do.”

More of the regulars appeared, and then at last one of them gave the alarm.

Terin and his riders pretended to be startled. They spurred their horses to a gallop and rode away from the regulars.

This is a fine game
, Terin thought, and laughed in the wind.

The sergeant leading the scouting party was the first to see the Chetts. He shouted a command and his party gathered around him.

“What do we do?” one of his men asked.

“Go back and warn the general...” he started to say, but then noticed the Chetts were galloping away from him. “No! There are only five of them! We must catch them! Rendle will reward us for taking a prisoner!”

With that, he dug his heels into his horse and started off in pursuit of the fleeing enemy, his men close behind. It did not take him long to realize they were catching up with the Chetts, and could only think it was because they must already have ridden hard and their horses were nearly blown.

“Not long now!” he shouted, and his men cheered in anticipation of a fight heavily in their favor, and the prizes Rendle would shower on them for being the first to bring back a Chett captive.

They rode along the whole length of the valley, then over a shallow rise, then down into another valley. Although they drew closer and closer to the Chetts, it was taking longer than the sergeant thought it would to reach them. Up ahead was another rise, and he was sure it would be the last effort for the Chett mares. Then he saw the cloud of dust over the rise. For a moment its significance did not register. When it did, he reined in hard, the bit digging hard into his horse’s mouth.

“What’s wrong?” one of his men cried. “We almost have them!”

The sergeant pointed to the dust cloud. “Use your eyes, you dolt! The whole clan and its herd must be over that rise. We’d be massacred.”

“God’s death! They’ll alert their outriders!”

They turned their horses around and quickly spurred into another gallop. The sergeant was now frantically worried that if they were pursued their own mounts would tire.

After they reached the point where he had first seen the Chetts, he risked looking over his shoulder, and when he saw there was no one after them, he slowed down to a quick walk. They were only a league or two from the main force now, and so were almost certainly safe. Still, he had to resist the urge to gallop the rest of the way, and he never stopped looking over his shoulder to check that a horde of murderous Chetts were not rushing down on them.

“They’ve gone back,” Igelko told Terin, then leaned over his saddle to catch his breath.

“How far to their main force?”

“Four leagues, maybe less. Rendle will have a thousand soldiers here by midday.”

Term grinned. “Right. Get a fresh horse. You’ll have no time for rest, I’m afraid.”

Igelko nodded wearily. Terin then gave orders for the riders who had been pulling the long rakes made up of sinew and karak bones to dismantle them. They had put enough dust in the air for it to last at least until the afternoon. “The enemy has taken the bait. We ride south for another ten leagues and repeat the performance.”

“How long do you think they will follow us?” Igelko asked. “Even Rendle must get tired of chasing dust all day.”

“They’ll keep it up for a few days, and that’s all we need.”

Igelko found the energy to grin back at his chief. “Then we don’t run anymore.”

Terin slapped him on the chest. “Then we fight, my friend. Then we fight.”

Gudon scoured the markets in the Strangers’ Sooq for the clothes he wanted. He found a pair of barge pants and an old wagon driver’s shirt that would make do. He traded his own clothes to purchase them, and the merchant was so surprised he threw in a handful of coins as well.

“You are very generous,” Gudon told him.

“I am cheating you, stranger,” the merchant said, shaking his head, then held out another few coins. “Here, have these as well. My conscience needs the salve.”

Gudon accepted them gratefully, although he did not need them; but there was no need to make the merchant feel bad.

The two shook hands, and Gudon quickly changed into the barge pants and old shirt. He inspected himself in the reflection of an old mirror the merchant held up for him.

“You don’t look much like a Chett anymore,” the merchant told him.

“Ah, but I do look like a barge pilot who has run out of luck,” Gudon replied.

“You are crazy, my friend.”

A short while later he was having a drink in the sooq’s best inn. A tall, ascetic-looking man joined him.

“I see you found what you are looking for,” the man said.

“The merchant thought I was crazy.”

“You are.”

Gudon shrugged. “Perhaps, Kayakun. Crazy or not, only I can do this.”

Kayakun did not argue, but ordered a drink for himself and a refill for Gudon.

“You think Lynan can pull off this plan of his?”

“You met him. What do you think?”

“He is a boy.”

“He is a great deal more than a boy. I have seen him change beyond recognition. He has won over most of the clans. He is the White Wolf returned to us, Kayakun.”

Kayakun regarded his friend carefully. “If true, it is a marvel indeed.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I have spent over ten years in this town, spying for Korigan and her father before her. I have seen many marvelous things, heard many amazing stories. But the White Wolf returned?” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but now legends only sound like tales from the wine pot.”

“You will see for yourself before long.”

“As long as this boy’s plan works. You are taking a terrible risk.”

“Have you any word?” Gudon asked him, changing the subject.

“There are birds flying high over the pass. Prado’s men will be here by tomorrow morning.”

“Then his scouts will be here by tonight.”

“They will not enter the town alone. You have one more night’s good sleep. You will need it. Only the gods know when you’ll sleep safely again.”

Prado woke with the sun. Freyma and Sal were already up, stirring the troops. He looked behind him at the pass, remembering with bitterness that the last time he passed across it was as Rendle’s prisoner. Next time he crossed it would be with a basket carrying Lynan’s head. In front of him lay the Oceans of Grass, a great yellow expanse still recovering from the winter. In less than a month the First Light caravan—the first caravan to make the crossing after winter—would be making the journey here from the east.

No, not this spring, he corrected himself. Not with the war. God only know how long it would be before the next caravan made the crossing.

Freyma appeared by his side. “Do we move with the archers?”

Prado shook his head. “No, they can catch up. By now those in the Strangers’ Sooq will have seen our scouts and know we’re coming. I’d like to get there before they can organize any proper defense.” He looked around at his mercenaries. “See how eager they are?”

“After marching all winter, they can hardly wait to get their hands on something to make it all worthwhile.”

“They’ll fill their saddlebags at the sooq. And that’s only the beginning. Tell them to mount up. We ride now.”

“They’re hungry. Surely they can eat a little before—”

“Tell them in three hours they can eat breakfast in the comfort of an inn.”

“Yes, General,” Freyma said, and left.

There was panic in the Strangers’ Sooq. Many merchants loaded their horses and wagons with all the goods they could lay hands on and tried to get as far away as possible from the town. Most realized there was no time to flee, and instead boarded up their homes and readied buckets of water and damp blankets to put out any fires. A few tried to set up an ambush, but there were not enough warriors for them to offer anything but the opportunity for a massacre. The oldest among them remembered the Slaver War and how the sooq had been captured and then recaptured several times, but neither side had ever destroyed the town—it was too valuable a prize to raze to the ground—and so placed their trust in the gods and hoped that whatever blood was spilled did not come from their own families.

When Prado’s main column did arrive, it raced through the town at full gallop. The riders whirled swords above their heads looking for an opportunity to use them. When they got to the end of town, they slowed to a canter and split into two lines, each one reversing their course and taking time to inspect each dwelling. By the time Prado himself arrived a few minutes later, the Strangers’ Sooq was mostly under his control. A group of young men tried to ambush him and his bodyguard, but they were cut down before they were close enough to land a blow. Prado ordered that their heads be cut off and put on pikes planted in the sooq’s trading ground, then claimed the best inn for his own headquarters.

Prado next ordered the town’s elders to be brought before him. He interviewed them carefully about the whereabouts of Lynan, but all they could tell him was what he already knew: he had come in the company of a merchant and left in the company of a Chett, a giant, a crookback from the east, and a young woman. No one had seen or heard of him since.

Prado was disappointed but not surprised. He had one of the elders tortured to make sure his story was true, but the facts did not change. Prado let them all go.

“What now?” Freyma asked, rubbing his pock-marked cheeks. He had forgotten how the dry air on this side of the pass made his skin itch.

“We wait. Let those who live here know that I will pay good money for information about Lynan’s whereabouts. Word will come.”

“How long can we wait?”

“Twenty days at the most. After that, we can expect a visit from a couple of clans at least. But someone will come in with information. In the meantime, organize a collection. Every house must deliver one half of its goods. When the collection is complete, distribute the booty among our riders and archers.”

“That will make the reward for information about Lynan more valuable,” Freyma observed.

“Exactly.”

It was at the end of the collection that Prado’s break came. He himself was riding to inspect the loot when a short, ragged-looking Chett darted from a nearby house. Prado drew his saber, thinking for a moment that he was about to be attacked by a single madman, but then another Chett, well-dressed, carrying a stick and as angry as a wounded karak, came after the first Chett, caught him, and started beating him to the ground. Prado and his men laughed at the scene, some betting each other whether or not the smaller Chett would die before his attacker’s fury evaporated. The runaway managed to get to his feet despite the blows, looked around desperately for help, and on spying Prado darted toward him crying, “My lord! My lord! Protect me, please!”