A warrior's joyrney d-1 Page 4

  “Life to the strong!” he shouted, the Pakin war cry. Extending his sword, he ran at the vulnerable warden.

  Without thinking, Tol found himself on his feet and running toward the Pakin noble’s back. He had nothing, not even a stick, so he threw himself at the man’s knees.

  The Pakin staggered. Cursing colorfully, he backhanded Tol. His scale-covered gauntlet split the boy’s cheek open and snapped his head back. Still Tol held on. Unable to pry the boy off, the Pakin twisted around and raised his sword. Tol clenched his eyes shut.

  He heard a meaty thud, and a heavy weight pinned him to the ground. The slender Pakin nobleman had collapsed on him. Tol couldn’t get free until Egrin dragged the unconscious Pakin off him.

  “Are you all right?” the Ackal warrior asked.

  Tol scrambled to his feet. He had a bleeding gash on his cheek where the Pakin had hit him-his head still rang from the blow-but otherwise he felt fine. He nodded in reply.

  Horns resounded, and horsemen deluged the melee. The Juramona garrison, seeing their lord in peril, had sortied to rescue him. They quickly put the Pakins to rout, surrounding the exhausted men of Egrin’s troop.

  Lord Odovar rode up, looking remarkably fit after his ordeal. Battle agreed with him.

  “So, Egrin Raemel’s son! Alive but unhorsed, I see,” he boomed jovially.

  “Unhorsed, but not empty-handed, my lord.” The warrior pointed to the fallen Pakin.

  “Turn the blackguard over, so I may see his face,” Odovar said. Egrin did so, and Odovar cried, “Vakka Zan! By Draco, you have true Pakin blood there!”

  “A kinsman of the Pretender?” Egrin asked, scrutinizing his captive’s slack features.

  “His nephew, I believe. Bind him up, men. He’ll make a pretty present for the emperor!”

  Odovar’s men tied Vakka Zan hand and foot, and threw him over a horse. Those of Egrin’s troop who had survived formed up behind the marshal. The gate now stood wide open.

  Manzo rode past. “Warden,” he said respectfully, “you shouldn’t walk. I’ll fetch a horse.”

  Egrin held up a torn and bloody gauntlet. “No need. My legs work well enough for now. Old Acorn would take it amiss if I rode another animal.” Manzo drew his dagger and saluted his commander.

  Garrison and guardsmen rode on, leaving Egrin and Tol to walk the last hundred paces to Juramona. Tol moved ahead of the warden when the latter paused to pick up something.

  “Boy,” Egrin called. “Master Tol!”

  He stopped. No one had ever called him “master” before.

  “This is yours.”

  Egrin held out Vakka Zari’s gilded sword, hilt-first Tol gaped.

  “Go on, take it. You earned it. To save my life you attacked an armed man bare-handed. I may have subdued Lord Vakka, but you made it possible. His sword is yours.”

  “Sir! It’s too good for the likes of me-”

  “Nonsense! My life is worth more to me than any blade in Ergoth. You saved me, and you’ll have this reward and my thanks.”

  Tol took the heavy weapon from the smiling Egrin. With its point in the dirt, the pommel came up to Tol’s chin. Bloodstained and mud-spattered though it was, the weapon was far and away the finest thing Tol had ever seen, much less owned.

  He grasped the sword hilt in both hands and swung the blade up. It was weighted near the tip, the better to cleave through armored foes, and Tol had to step lively to keep his balance. He recovered, laid the flat of the sword on his shoulder, then looked up at the warden.

  “Forward, my man,” said Egrin. “Lord Odovar awaits.”

  Chapter 3

  The High Marshal’s Will

  When Tol entered the gate at Juramona, he felt he was leaving one world behind and entering an entirely new one. Never afterward would he experience such a head-turning, heart-pounding initiation. He forgot the bloodshed he’d just witnessed and the throbbing cut on his cheek, and all but forgot the gilt-edged weapon lying hard and heavy on his shoulder.

  Juramona had begun life as a log fort, growing into a sizable town only after the lords holding it were named high marshals of the province. Some three thousand inhabitants, men and women of every size, shape, and color, dwelled within its wooden wall. Some were Riders of the Great Horde, born to the warrior class like Egrin, and these were striding about with long spears, helmets, and scaly breastplates, but most of the people thronging the streets were artisans or laborers, folks with greasy hands and dirty faces who crowded around to witness Lord Odovar’s return. Some were not human at all. The boy spied a pair of bearded fellows no taller than himself, yet easily twice as broad.

  Egrin saw him staring and said, “Traders from Thorin.” In response to Tol’s blank look, he added, “Dwarves.”

  Tol drew a breath and gazed anew at the pair. He’d heard tales of dwarves, but had never seen them in the flesh. These two were both black haired and well muscled. They held stout walking sticks, and their fingers glittered with jeweled rings.

  The mounted warriors came to the foot of the high earthen mound in the center of Juramona and halted. Three men on horseback drew up to greet Lord Odovar. The one in the center wore a heavy brass chain around his neck, and it was to him the marshal spoke.

  “Greetings, Morthur Dermount,” said Odovar. He was leaning heavily on the pommel of his saddle, but though he was bruised and haggard, his voice was strong.

  “Greetings to you, Lord Marshal. All Juramona rejoices at your safe return,” Morthur replied.

  Morthur Dermount had a thin nose, spade beard, and straight black hair cut severely away from his neck and ears. His dark eyes were hooded by black brows. Though not opulently dressed, he had the casual arrogance of one born to privilege.

  “Your rescue was well timed,” Odovar said sarcastically. “Another half hour and the Pakins would have finished us.”

  Morthur bowed his head. “I live to serve you, Lord Marshal.”

  Odovar’s countenance flashed from annoyed to furious. “Impudent wretch! I know your game! If I had died out there, Juramona would have fallen to you, and only the Pakins would have my blood on their hands!”

  “My lord, you do me an injustice,” Morthur answered mildly.

  “Justice is what I say it is,” Odovar snapped. “Now make way! I want food and wine, and the attentions of a healer. Is wise Felryn about?”

  “He will be sent for, my lord.” Morthur and his escort moved aside, and Lord Odovar dismounted. He stomped up the wooden ramp into the great house on the mound.

  The crowd slowly went about its business. Egrin called to him. Tol saw the warden standing a few paces away. The remnants of his troop sat on horseback around him.

  Tol hurried to join them. They tramped down the winding lane, between a solid line of two- and three-story buildings, massively made of thick timbers and painted mud plaster.

  Heavy shutters closed the windows to the weather, and atop the peak of each house was a colorful emblem, a talisman to protect the structure from ill fortune. Bird figures were common-brightly painted wooden roosters or wildfowl. A few wrought in copper were green with corrosion.

  The street was muddy, though it hadn’t rained recently, and Tol quickly learned why: Everyone in town threw his or her slops in the street. From the barber’s soapy shaving water to the housewives’ washwater and every townsman’s chamber pot, it all ended up in the street, and Juramona, for all its wonders, smelled much the same as a compost heap.

  The Household Guard lived in a large log house on the north side of the hill. On the roof peak was a great bronze eagle, the talisman of the guards. The house had two floors; the lower one was the stable for their horses. When Egrin and Tol walked in, they were greeted by a loud whinny.

  “Old Acorn!” Egrin grinned broadly, patting his loyal steed’s neck. “Trust you to make it home before any of us!”

  The rest of the troops led their animals in and turned them over to stableboys. Saddles and tack were speedily removed. Each horse was led away to
its own stall, and the boys fell to watering and feeding them. More than one animal had wounds from the skirmishes of the past two days, and an elderly man in a patched robe appeared to tend their injuries.

  At Egrin’s request, the old man first took a look at Tol’s injured cheek. The cut had stopped bleeding, so after telling the boy to wash it well, the elderly fellow moved off to minister to the valuable war-horses. Tol followed the loud-talking warriors up the wide wooden stairs to the next floor.

  The whole of this level was taken up by a single room. A spiderweb of beams overhead supported a steep thatched roof. From the beams hung brightly colored banners. One wall of the room held two wide fireplaces. Down the center of the room was an enormous trestle table, laden with victuals. Baskets of boiled nuts steamed next to heavy trenchers of roast venison. Capons, seared by fire, lay in piles between crocks of foamy beer. More boys toiled along the table, dispensing beer and food to the ravenous fighting men.

  As warden, Egrin’s place was at the table’s head. He sat down, and a platter of venison was speedily put before him. A leather jack of beer appeared, and two sizzling capons. Egrin drew his knife to attack his dinner, then paused. He called Tol to him and proceeded to carve off half his portion of venison and push it to one side of the large trencher. Hacking a crisp bird in two, he added that to the serving and called for a cup. The small clay beaker he filled with beer from his own jack.

  “Eat your fill,” he said.

  Although his head was swimming with hunger, Tol hesitated. The table’s twenty-pace length was crowded with the Riders of the Great Horde, all talking, eating, and drinking. The serving lads ringed the room, staying back out of the way until called. None of them was eating.

  “Go on. Eat.” Egrin took the heavy gilded sword from Tol’s hands, and leaned it against the table.

  When his fingers touched the hot capon, Tol’s reservations vanished. He tore into the bird greedily. Egrin couldn’t know how rare a treat this was for the farmer’s son. Perhaps four times a year he would taste red meat-and chicken or game birds only a little more often. Meat was for men, Tol’s father always said. Women and children had to make do with broth and vegetables.

  The capon was sweet and smoky, much finer than the stringy partridges or tough chicken he was used to. Tol put the stripped bones down and reached for the beaker.

  He’d drunk watered cider once. Old Kinzen, herbmaster and healer to the hill farmers, had treated him for a cough with a decoction of sumac and willow in mulled cider, diluted by half with water. That drink had been bitter, but the warriors’ beer was not. The first sip made Tol’s tongue tingle, and the first swallow spread the sensation all the way down his gullet.

  Tol’s surprise showed plainly on his face. Egrin grinned at him.

  “The second thing a Rider of the Horde learns,” the warden said, loud enough for his comrades nearby to hear, “is to drink beer.”

  Red-faced from the liquid’s spreading warmth, Tol asked, “What’s the first?”

  “How to fight.” The men cheered.

  Tol finished the capon and venison, then washed it all down with the last golden drops of beer. The world seemed to waver a bit, and he found himself sitting down without meaning to. Warriors looked at him and laughed.

  “Our fare’s too much for him,” said Manzo, sitting across the table from Tol. Helmetless, Manzo’s long brown hair was revealed to be as prematurely silvered as his beard.

  “Is this the lad who saved Lord Odovar?” asked another man.

  “The same. He saved me as well,” Egrin said. They demanded to hear the tale. Pushing himself back from the table, Egrin related his fight with Vakka Zan, and how Tol interfered with the noble’s fatal thrust. The raucous noise died as the Riders all listened, enthralled.

  When Egrin finished, a blond-haired man farther down the table shouted, “A peasant boy did all that? Unbelievable!”

  “By Draco Paladin, it’s true,” said the warden.

  “Ah, he’s got a rider’s blood in his veins!” said Manzo.

  “I’ll wager his mother’s mate doesn’t know that!” the blond man quipped. That set the assembly to roaring.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur of loud voices and raucous laughter. Tol curled up on the oaken floor by Egrin’s chair and slept deeply, weighed down by the toil of his journey, his rich meal, and the potent brew.

  When he woke some time later, a tempest of snores filled the hall. Egrin and the other riders had fallen asleep in their chairs, slumped over the table or with heads hanging back, mouths agape. The shuttered windows admitted a dim gray light. Tol crept to the nearest one, carefully stepping over sleeping warriors. It was early morning, and the sky was thick with low clouds. He could smell rain coming.

  Vakka Zan’s golden saber lay across the sleeping Egrin’s knees. Tol tried to take it without rousing the warden, but Egrin’s senses were too keen. As soon as the heavy blade began to slide across his lap, he jerked awake and grabbed for the hilt.

  Egrin scrubbed his face with one hand. “It’s early. Why are you stirring?”

  “Dawn is breaking. Isn’t it time to wake?”

  “For farmers maybe. Warriors sleep longer.”

  Egrin shifted the hilt to his shoulder and folded his arms over the blade. “G’night,” he murmured, resting his head on his crossed arms.

  Defeated, Tol tip-toed away. He decided to have a look around. Perhaps he could find some water-he was terribly thirsty and his injured cheek was stiff and aching.

  He went down the wide steps, picking his way around guardsmen sleeping in awkward positions on the stairs. The stable below was quietly astir as boys went to and fro, filling mangers with hay and troughs with water. They ignored Tol, concentrating on their chores.

  In back of the guardsmen’s hall was a well. Two boys about Tol’s age were hoisting a chain of buckets out, each brimming with fresh water. As soon as they set a pail down, another boy whisked it away.

  “Spare some water?” Tol asked. “I’m dry as dirt!”

  The tow-headed boy at the bucket chain shrugged. “Help self.”

  Tol raised the brimming bucket to his lips and drank deeply. The water was cold and tasted of minerals, much better than the creek water they drank back home, which too often tasted of mud or dead leaves. Twice every summer the creek dried up when the family needed it most.

  After rinsing his injured cheek, Tol put the bucket down and thanked his benefactor. The second boy hooked the pail on the chain again and hauled away on the metal links, dragging the empty buckets over the flagstones and back down the well. Tol asked their names.

  “I’m Narren,” said the tow-headed boy. “He’s Crake.” Narren indicated his companion, who was dark-skinned, like the northern seafarers Tol had heard tales of. Crake absently waved a hand.

  “Horses not fed, watered, and combed by the time the masters wake up, we all get beaten,” he explained.

  Narren nodded, confirming this.

  “You joining us?” Crake asked, pushing the empty buckets over the lip of the well wall with his bare foot.

  Tol had no idea what Lord Odovar or Egrin had in store for him. But before he could ponder it long, a clatter of horses’ hooves out front was punctuated by the blare of brass trumpets.

  Narren and Crake immediately abandoned the bucket chain and rushed into the stable. The other boys likewise ran about, clearing away stray buckets and brooms.

  The front doors of the stable flew open, revealing eight riders led by Morthur Dermount. He wasn’t smiling today. Black brows collided over his thin nose, and a purple vein throbbed visibly in his neck.

  “Where is the warden? Roust him out, before I put a torch to this place and wake him myself!” he roared.

  An older boy ran upstairs to fetch Egrin. On the steps, guardsmen steeped in beer stirred sluggishly, peering at the new day with bloodshot eyes.

  “Why am I standing here in horse dung, waiting?” Morthur bellowed after several minutes. “Brin
g me the warden of the Household Guard!”

  Egrin came down looking rumpled and cross. He drew himself up in front of Morthur and unsheathed his dagger blade in salute.

  “My lord,” he said hoarsely. “My apologies for the delay.”

  Morthur looked down scornfully from the height of his horse’s back. “You sleep off yet another drunken carouse while I, a cousin of the emperor, am left waiting in the stables! It’s intolerable, warden!”

  “Yes, my lord. What is it you require?”

  “The Lord Marshal tells me you captured a Pakin noble yesterday, one Vakka Zan to be exact.” Egrin confirmed it, and Morthur added, “He is to be judged this morning. Lord Odovar would see him shortened by a head.”

  Egrin started visibly. “I thought the Lord Marshal intended to hold the Pakin as a hostage, or for ransom?”

  Morthur sneered. “So thought I, warden. Vakka Zan is more nobly born than anyone hereabouts, save myself. Such blood should not be shed lightly, but the Lord Marshal has made his will plain.” He moved to go, then turned back to add, “Oh, and Lord Vakka’s sword. Fetch it to Lord Odovar at once.”

  Egrin glanced at Tol as he said, “Sword, my lord? It’s mine as a trophy of single combat.”

  “I merely convey the High Marshal’s commands,” Morthur said irritably. “I, with the blood of emperors in my veins, reduced to carrying messages…” His hands tightened on the reins and his horse pranced under him. Egrin was forced to step back smartly to avoid its heavy hooves.

  Morthur smiled thinly at the warden’s quick movements. With a shout, he rode off, trailed by his retinue. Egrin watched them go, scratching his chin through his gray-speckled beard.

  “Bad business,” he said. “Bad business.”

  Tol remained behind when the other boys dispersed to their tasks. He came to Egrin’s elbow. “I must give up the sword?” he said.

  “Seems so, lad.” Egrin scratched some more. “Or maybe not. You will accompany me to the High House to see the marshal. You shall carry the sword.”