A Cast of Stones (10 page)

The priest shook his head. “No. We've only just started. At this point I'd rather have distance over clear knowledge. Let's move on.”

They cantered for close to an hour, then trotted for two more before slowing to a walk. Luis pulled the reins to slow his chestnut mare until their knees almost touched. “It would be best if you didn't mention Adele, Errol. There are all kinds of ignorance in the world. There are educated men in Erinon who wouldn't see the herbwomen in a favorable light, even if one did happen to save our lives.” The reader waved one hand in dismissal of the topic. “Since we're going to have a lot of time on the road, I think it best if we begin your education now. I'm going to teach you how to read.”

Unbidden, Errol's conversation with Radere from the night before rose in his mind. The church owned him now. Did the compulsion driving him to Erinon include forcing him to learn how to read? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. If he tried to resist and found that he couldn't, what would Luis think? What would Luis do? He'd known Martin and Luis for five years, ever since they'd come to the village just after . . . He shut the thought away.

He wanted ale. He needed ale. “Have you got anything to drink?”

“Water?”

Errol wrinkled his face in disgust. “I want a drink, not a bath.”

Luis gave him a look of compassion mixed with disappointment. Errol shrugged. He was used to that look. He'd seen it on any number of faces since he was fourteen. It bounced off the
shell he'd built to keep people at arm's length. He'd long since passed the point where pity could rouse any guilt or anger in him. He just wanted a drink to wash away the memory.

“We brought ale.” Luis gave the admission with a sigh. “I was hoping you might make it to noon before you soaked your mind. It's hard to teach a man with soggy wits.”

Errol saw a bargaining point and reached for it. He really wanted a drink. “If you let me have a drink now, I promise to be an apt pupil for the rest of the day.”

With a grimace and a shake of his head, Luis handed him a skin. Errol lifted it to his mouth and drank.

Cruk's voice intruded on his bliss. “By heaven, is the boy into the ale already?”

Errol lowered the skin, saw the big man red-faced and glaring at Luis.

Luis gave a shrug. “I have to teach him how to read. We struck a bargain. Ale now, reading for the rest of the day.”

Cruk growled his disgust. “If we're attacked, it's going to be hard enough to fight without worrying whether the little sot there is sober enough to stay on his horse and ride to safety.”

“I'm not giving him that much,” Luis said.

Quickly, Errol raised the skin and took another deep pull.

Luis pulled the skin away from him in mid-drink. Errol surrendered it, but the cool amber liquid had done the trick. Memory still lurked, but the ale tamped it down enough for him to function.

“Now,” Luis said, “the first thing you need to know is the alphabet.”

True to his word Errol applied himself to Luis's tutelage as they rode. From time to time Martin, Cruk, or even Liam would drift back to the two of them and check on his progress. Martin gave a nod of approval each time, and Liam would praise his efforts, but Cruk usually just grunted.

For some reason Errol couldn't identify, Liam's encouragement annoyed him. He searched the young man's words to find some
hidden insult but could find none. Liam's presence broke Errol's concentration, and he made a series of foolish mistakes. Seeing the other man smile irked him.

“This isn't as easy as it looks, you know.”

Liam nodded in agreement, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze. “As well I know. There were times when I thought learning to read and write were the most difficult things I ever attempted.”

Luis snorted. “Liam is being modest. Antil says he's never seen as quick a pupil.”

Errol sighed. It had always been this way. He glanced over at the blond-haired god next to Luis, riding as though he were part of the horse. Liam excelled at everything he put his hand to. Roughly the same age as Errol, his shoulders bulked large under his shirt, while Errol's garment hung on him like a sack. Where Errol was dark, Liam was light. He could outride any horseman in Sorland province, could read and speak in three languages, and was skilled enough with a sword to make Cruk sweat. And on top of all that, every village girl or woman looked on him as though something higher than man had deigned to walk among them.

If Liam had been cocksure or arrogant, it might have been bearable. Then Errol would have been able to take comfort in the other man's overweening pride. But no. Even in temperament, Liam proved to be more than human. In spite of his perfection, he remained genuinely modest and kind. His support to Errol during his reading lessons carried the same heartfelt well-wishes that he gave to everyone.

Errol wanted to be like him so much it hurt.

Late in the day's ride, Luis decided Errol's education would progress more rapidly with more teachers. Martin and Liam agreed to work with him. Cruk refused.

“What's it like?” Errol asked Liam during his lesson.

Liam's brows lifted a fraction and he smiled. “What is that, Errol?”

“Being perfect at everything.”

He shook his head. “I'm not perfect. No one is.”

Errol exhaled. “You know what I mean.”

“We're all the same,” Liam said. “I just concentrate and try really hard at everything. Anyone can do it if they just try hard enough.”

Errol stared. Did Liam really believe that?

“Now,” Liam said, “recite the vowels and consonants.”

He really did.

They rode west, the miles lost as Errol worked his lessons. When he stopped to take notice of his surroundings, rolling hills thick with new grass formed a rim around them on three sides. Cruk guided them to a river, the Stones he called it, and led them through the shallow water for a mile or better before he led them up onto a rocky bank next to a thick copse of fir trees.

“I think we'll stop here,” he said as he slid to the ground. “If Merodach is tracking us, he'll have a hard time of it.”

Luis took charge of the cooking. “Here.” He handed a pot to Errol. “Fill this with water from the stream. It's going to be beans and cheese tonight.”

Errol wrinkled his nose. He hated beans and doubted whether even Luis's skills would be able to make them palatable. But he fetched the water.

Cruk and Liam took charge of the horses, unsaddled them before wiping them down with a square of wool cloth. Unbidden, Liam took out a heavy brush and curried each of the mounts in turn. Horace nickered and shook his head as the brush smoothed his coat.

After dinner, Errol took the dishes to the stream, scrubbed them with sand, and rinsed them. When he returned to camp, he found Cruk waiting for him. The big man held two wooden swords. Errol found his grin unsettling.

“We still have an hour or so of light left, boy.” Cruk beckoned toward a stretch of mostly flat ground next to their camp. “It's time to teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Why?”

The grin faded from Cruk's face, replaced by the same look of deadly seriousness he'd worn when he fought Dirk. “Because if Merodach comes at us, I'm going to be too busy to keep you from getting skewered by the men he'll have with him.” Errol caught the sword, held it with both hands toward the middle.

“It's not like you have any choice in the matter. Hold it by the pommel, boy. It's not a stick.”

Errol knew Cruk well enough to know he spoke the simple truth. If he refused to fight, Cruk would just beat him until he complied. With a sigh, he gripped the sword in his right hand. It was really just a handle attached to four thin wooden laths, bound at intervals by leather strips. He held it out in front of him, as he'd seen others do, but the sensation of imbalance caused him to stumble.

Cruk's shoulders slumped. “You can't be serious. You really don't know how to hold a sword?”

“When have I ever needed to fight?” Errol shot back. “What honor or glory is anyone going to get from beating the village drunk?”

Cruk's shrug conceded the point. “Glory or not, they'll kill you if given the chance. We'll start at the beginning, then, the very beginning.” He turned so that he presented his right side, sword arm forward. “Stand like this.”

“Why?”

That earned him a growl in response. “If you're going to ask that every time I tell you to do something, this is going to take a lot longer. Liam didn't ask so many questions.”

Errol's face heated. “I'm not Liam.”

“You should probably tell him why, Cruk,” Martin called.

Errol turned to see the priest seated on a fallen oak, flanked by Luis and Liam. He turned back to Cruk. “Do they have to watch? Isn't it bad enough I have to do this? Do I have to have an audience?”

Cruk smiled. “Do you think you'll get to choose how and when you're attacked?”

And then he struck. The blow came so quickly that Errol wasn't even sure he saw it coming. He had a faint impression of a blur coming toward his ribs, then a loud
clack!
sounded as Cruk's sword landed. His breath exploded from his mouth, and he dropped his sword to hold his side.

A blow landed on his head, making him see stars.

“What did you do that for?” he yelled. “I wasn't even holding my sword.”

“Lesson one,” Cruk said, lifting him to his feet. “Don't ever drop your sword. You'll die.”

The laughter from the edge of the clearing didn't help. He didn't want to learn how to fight. He just wanted a drink. Why couldn't everyone leave him alone?

Cruk waved his weapon. “Pick up your sword.”

Errol did so.

“Now, try again. Stand like this.” He nodded. “That's better. Now what do you do if someone attacks you?”

“Run.”

Cruk shook his head. “Yes, if you want to get cut down from behind. You parry, boy.”

He must have noted Errol's confused look. “A parry is when you block your opponent's strike with your sword. Here—aim a blow at me.”

Errol struck toward Cruk's midsection. He would have aimed for the neck, but the idea of deliberately trying to cut someone's head off repulsed him. Cruk waited until the last instant before he parried. The shock of contact vibrated up Errol's arm, and he dropped his sword. That earned him a quick rap on each shoulder.

“I told you, never drop your weapon, boy. Every time you let that sword out of your hand, I'm going to beat you until you pick it up.” He gave Errol a grimace of a smile, smacking him in the ribs.

“Now, there are three basic parry positions. They look like this.”

Errol watched as Cruk's sword moved smoothly from one
position to another designed to protect against attacks to the head and body.

“Now,” the big man said, “you do it.”

He mimicked the moves, then looked up to see Cruk rubbing his temples and shaking his head, disgust written on his face. “When you get attacked, try not to make too much noise as you get killed. You might distract me.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Martin said from his seat on the log. “Remember, Cruk, he's never held a sword before. Be patient.”

Cruk turned toward the priest. “We don't have time to be patient. Merodach is out there. He'll kill us all without pausing for breath.”

Errol remembered the cold blue eyes that stared at him as he fled across the Cripples. “Does he like killing so much, then?”

That brought Cruk up short. He straightened, lowered the point of his practice sword until it almost touched the ground. “Like? Merodach doesn't like, dislike, love, or hate anything. He does what he's ordered to do. The man is as close to stone as you can get and still breathe. He's the perfect captain of the watch.” His sword rose back to the ready position. “Again, boy.”

Errol raised his sword to block the blow that came slowly toward his head.

Cruk grunted. “Now the outside.”

The attack came toward his sword arm. Errol parried.

“Now the inside.”

He moved his sword across his body, deflecting the strike.

“That was better,” Luis said.

Cruk rounded on him. “Better? If I were moving any slower I'd be stopped.” He gestured at Liam with his weapon. “Come here.”

Liam rose from his seat. As he approached, Cruk tossed the sword. Liam caught it deftly in one hand. “Work him through the parries until he can't lift his arm.” He glanced toward Errol. “And remember, if you take it easy on him, you might as well cut his throat yourself.” He turned toward Martin and Luis. “I'm going to scout around before it gets dark.”

Liam stepped into Cruk's place, gave Errol an encouraging smile. “Actually, you're not doing so badly. That's just the way Cruk teaches. I hated him when he started training me. Just concentrate.”

Errol waited until Cruk left the clearing, then lowered his sword with relief. “Why don't we stop for a drink?”

Pain bloomed in his right side.

“I'm sorry, Errol. Don't ever lower your weapon until your opponent is either dead or unconscious,” Liam said, his dark blue eyes earnest. “Now, parry.”

Errol forced his arm up to block.

Liam grinned. “Good. Now try to go faster.”

An hour went by, and the sky darkened. Errol stood drenched in sweat. Liam looked like he might have gone for a walk. “How can you keep at this for so long?”

Liam shrugged his massive shoulders. “I've worked for Knorl in the smithy since I was fourteen. Lifting a sword gets easy after you've stroked a hammer for a few years. When we get back I could ask Knorl to let you help out.” The smile ran from his face, and it became pensive. “You'd have to give up drinking. A smithy's dangerous enough without ale in the mix.”