A Cast of Stones (7 page)

“Stupid churchman,” he said. The horse ignored him. “I should have let him take his own message across the Sprata and stuck to gathering herbs for Adele.”

“Quite,” a voice behind him agreed.

Errol whirled. Astride a dappled stallion, a man regarded him, his face wreathed with a cruel smile. His hands rested on the front of his saddle with apparent unconcern. He was dressed in black.

Errol's first thought was that the assassin who'd tracked him across the Cripples had found him again, but one look at the man's face dispelled the notion. That man had had white hair and light blue eyes, while the man before him possessed hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. The eyes crinkled in a friendly smile as he drew his bow and nocked an arrow.

Maybe it was the fact the man had spoken to him. Perhaps, he was just tired of not understanding anything that happened. Possibly, it was because he was horse-sore and didn't want to run yet, but he spoke to the killer in front of him.

“Why?”

Another smile graced the face that held those dark, dark eyes. The bow and its arrow, fitted and ready, rested against the neck of the horse. “Because I'm being paid.”

Errol's mouth went dry, and he worked his tongue to find the moisture to speak. “What happened to the other one?” He bent down to grab a rock that lay at his feet, the ghost of a plan forming in his mind.

A cloud passed over the man's features, and the smile slipped, replaced by something cold. Then the smile came back. “You saw him?” He nodded. “An irritation. I'm not surprised Merodach let you escape. But no matter.” The bow came up, and two fingers and a thumb pulled the string with practiced ease. “The day wears on. I have a lot to do.”

The arrow slid back, ready to fire. Errol jumped behind Horace, using the gelding as a shield.

“I don't kill horses unless I have to.” A note of compassion came into the assassin's voice as he said this. His mount stepped forward, closing the distance in response to some unseen command from its rider.

Errol darted a glance back up the trail in the hope Cruk would come thundering around the far bend in the road, like a hero from the stories. But no one appeared. Why would they? Heroes appeared for important people, not drunks. “Easy, Horace.” He needed to be quick. Errol gathered his courage, feinted left as if to run into the forest, then darted a step from Horace's protection before jumping back.

The arrow whistled just past his ear, and his hair lifted at its passage. Errol sprang toward the protection of the trees on the right and flung his rock at the assassin's horse. From the corner of his eye he saw the stone strike the stallion on the chest. The horse barely moved. A brief whistle, and then a line of fire and agony traced a path across his back.

All pain from his ride forgotten, Errol threw himself into the trees, darted in and among the boles trying to put as many
barriers between him and the assassin's arrows as possible. The man wouldn't be able to catch him if he brought his mount in—the undergrowth would slow him. How good would he be on foot?

The forests around Berea and Callowford were Errol's home, every gully and path known to him. Before the coming of the nuntius, before he'd met the first man in black, he would have wagered every tankard of ale he would ever drink that none could catch him on foot. Now he felt sure the man would overtake him, and then smile pleasantly as he put an arrow through Errol's eye.

Not a sound came to his ears over the noise of his flight, and he fought the urge to look back. He didn't want death to take him unaware and for some odd reason he couldn't identify, he didn't want to die with an arrow through his head. Better the heart. He held no illusion that he possessed features anyone would call comely, but the thought of his face marred by an arrow bothered him. Would he have time to shield his head with his arms, force the assassin to take him through the chest?

With a mental thrust, he pushed the thought away and concentrated on escape. His legs began to tire. He slowed, ducked behind the bole of a giant oak as big across as he was tall. He edged forward to peek out from behind the tree, unsure whether he wanted to see his pursuer or not. If he didn't see him, it might mean the man lay in wait for him, arrow ready to fire. Of course, it might also mean the assassin had given up. If he did see him, given the thick growth of the forest, it would mean he could die any second.

There!
Fifty paces away a shadow moved, and sunlight gleamed where it hadn't before. Errol turned and ran, keeping the tree between him and his pursuer. He felt the sticky wetness of sweat and blood running down his back. Spots swam in his vision, pinpoints of darkness that painted the forest. Worry gnawed at him. What if he passed out from blood loss? Worse, what if the assassin's arrow carried poison? The road. He needed to get back to the road. Soon or late Martin or Luis would notice his absence and send Cruk back to check on him.

He hoped.

He circled back in an arc, fought the clumsiness and fatigue of his legs. Deadfalls he could have leapt minutes ago, he now clambered over. Behind him, he saw a shadow in pursuit, a shadow that glided through the trees without effort and flowed over every obstacle, bow clenched in one hand.

Errol cut more sharply to his right. It was the road or death—though even with the road it would probably still be death. He made for the dusty track in a straight line, ignoring the branches that whipped across his face in the hope Cruk would be there.

He burst from the forest, felt the ruts of wagon tracks through his thin soles. The lane was empty. With a growl, he forced his protesting legs to move again, mustered a trot down the road toward Callowford. He'd never make it. His village was still a league and a half distant.

He would be dead in minutes.

A bone-deep weariness settled into him, and his legs refused to rise any more. His feet scuffed the dirt track of the road for a few more steps before they stopped altogether. He shuffled around to face his killer, feeling as though he'd spent the entire morning in the ale barrel. The man in black stepped lightly from the forest, no more than a score of paces away.

Too tired to move, Errol sat down on the road and waited.

Again the assassin fit an arrow to his bow, wore his victor's smile. “Not a bad chase, boy. It will be interesting to see if I can take the rest before they reach the village.” In one smooth motion, he drew the bowstring to his cheek.

Errol tensed.

Hooves.

He heard hooves. A horse rounded the bend behind the assassin.

Cruk.

 6 
Divisions in the Watch

T
HE ASSASSIN
took one quick glance behind at the horse bearing down on him, cursed, and fired. Errol threw himself flat. He felt, rather than heard, the arrow pass just over him. He rolled, flung himself toward the ditch, toward the trees, anywhere that would buy him time. He came to his feet next to a sapling too thin to offer any protection and stared.

He'd expected any number of things: that Cruk might have left thinking Errol not worth the risk, that the assassin would fire at him again, or that Cruk and the man in black would be locked in a struggle to the death. What he had not expected was that the assassin would be walking toward Cruk, now dismounted, smiling as if he'd found his long-lost brother.

Cruk didn't bother to return the smile. If anything he looked put out, as if he were going to have to clear Cilla's inn of every drunkard for fifty leagues around.

The assassin pulled his sword, the weapon sliding from the scabbard with a long, metallic hiss. “So, Captain, this is where you've been hiding the past five years?” He looked around at the road, the trees, as though he smelled something foul. “Here?”

Cruk's sword appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he shrugged. “It suits me.” He pointed the tip at the assassin. It looked more like a gesture than a threat and he stood rooted to his spot next to his horse. “Is this what the watch has come to, Dirk? Are we nothing more than assassins now?”

The smile slipped a fraction. Dirk stopped. “You don't know, do you.” He shrugged. “Well, it is a remote place you've chosen to hide in.” He waved his sword in invitation. “Come, I must finish you and the boy before I take care of the priest and the reader.”

Cruk advanced, weapon drawn. When he stood a dozen paces away, the man in black dropped his sword, picked up the discarded bow and fired so fast, Errol thought he'd imagined it.

The arrow hissed through the narrow space between the two men. Cruk dodged right.

His reflexes saved him. Instead of taking him in the throat, the arrow lodged in his shoulder with a wet crunch of mail and meat. Cruk cursed and closed the distance, but the assassin held his sword at the ready.

Cruk growled. “You never could win a fight without tricks.”

The assassin smiled, showing his teeth. “Fighting nice is for people who want to die.”

They circled each other, the arrow still sticking from Cruk's shoulder. Dirk feinted, laughed as Cruk moved to parry, and tapped the arrow that still stuck from Cruk's shoulder.

“Hurts?”

Cruk grimaced. With a look of hatred he took two steps back and yanked the arrow free. A steady stream of blood followed, tracking down his left shoulder.

Dirk smirked and retreated as Cruk tried to close again. “I think I'll just wait for blood loss to weaken you and then kill you at my leisure. Although, it doesn't look as if the last five years have made you any quicker.”

“Come and see, Lieutenant Puppy.”

The man in black snarled.

Now Cruk wore a grimace that Errol recognized as the closest
thing to a smile he possessed. “I see you remember your training name. You were so happy to join the watch . . . just . . . like . . . a . . . little . . . puppy.”

With a scream, Dirk closed, aimed a slash at Cruk's head that whined in the air. Cruk parried and circled to his right. After that, the blows came too fast for Errol to follow. He kept track of the fight by the slashes and cuts that blossomed on the two men. Cruk had a gash across his right forearm. The assassin had shallow cuts along his cheeks.

Dirk lunged, thrusting for the chest. Cruk circled the blade with his own, then whipped his wrist so quickly that the steel of his sword flexed and put another, deeper, slash across the assassin's face.

“I'm afraid you won't be so pretty anymore, puppy.”

The assassin cursed and pressed, putting everything into his attack. Whether that was the moment Cruk had been waiting for or not, Errol didn't know. But in the next instant, Cruk pulled his opponent close with his free hand and head-butted him on the nose. When Dirk stumbled backward, Cruk took him through the throat with his sword.

Blood fountained from the wound as the assassin slid backward and collapsed to the ground.

“You never could keep your pride out of a fight, Dirk.” Cruk returned to his horse and beckoned toward Errol. “Come here, boy.”

Errol walked toward Cruk as if the man had become a stranger, approached with his head down. The drawn sword made him nervous. He'd never seen Cruk use one before, but it was obvious that he held a more-than-passing acquaintance with the weapon.

As Errol came within arm's reach, Cruk tossed the assassin's bow and quiver to him. “Can you shoot?”

He nodded. “I know how it's done, but I'm not a very good shot,” he confessed.

Cruk sighed, squeezed his eyes closed. “Don't you do anything well besides drink?”

Almost, he smiled at Cruk's words. They sounded familiar—like the man who threw him out of the inn, rather than the one who killed trained assassins. “I never really needed to learn. Nobody's ever tried to kill me before. Now it's happened twice in two days.”

Cruk nodded. “I suppose that's true enough. Well, it's done now. Your would-be assassin is dead.”

“What about Merodach?”

Cruk's head snapped up. “Where did you hear that name?”

Errol crept back, away from the look of violence in the other man's eyes. He pointed to the dead assassin lying in the road. “It's what he called the man who came after me in the gorge.”

Wiping his face with one hand, Cruk sighed. “Two of them. They sent two of them, and both from the watch. What in blazes has happened at Erinon?”

He turned to Errol. “Why did you fall behind?”

Errol found something on the ground to look at as he answered. “I couldn't get Horace into a run, and that trot of his hurt my backside so much I got off and decided to walk for a while.”

Cruk rolled his eyes. “Boy, you could've gotten both of us killed. Did you try digging your heels into his flanks?”

“No.” At the look of disgust from Cruk, he flushed. “I told you I'd never ridden before. I don't know how to make a horse run.”

“It's called a canter or a gallop. No matter. We've got to get out of here. It's not safe. Nowhere is safe, but some places are better than others.” He nodded back toward Berea. “Horace is back there, just around the bend. Get him and bring him back here.” He grimaced. “And don't walk him, ride him.” He pressed his right hand against the wound in his shoulder. “By Deas, Eleison, and Aurae, all three, I hate it when people put holes in me.”

Errol found Horace as Cruk said, his reins thrown around a sapling just off the road. The horse regarded him without interest as he approached and then turned to rip another mouthful of grass from the base of the tree. The horse followed without protest or interest when he tugged the reins. Thankfully, the
gelding didn't move when Errol swung himself into the saddle, but Errol's backside gave a twinge, and he clenched against the ache. Turning Horace's head toward Cruk, Errol dug his heels into the horse's flanks.

Horace responded with a canter that lasted all of five strides before slipping back into that same painful trot.

“You just don't have a whole lot of ambition, do you?”

The horse twitched one ear and slowed to a walk.

Errol dug his heels into the horse's flanks again. “C'mon, Horace.”

The horse rewarded his effort with a lazy canter that lasted four more strides before he subsided back into a trot and then to a walk. By then, they'd rejoined Cruk.

Cruk sat on a log next to the road, his shirt off to reveal a vest of lightweight mail underneath. Errol watched as he struggled to remove it without moving his right arm. After a moment, he gave up.

“Come here, boy.”

Errol approached, stood in silent expectation while Cruk stared at him as if wondering whether he could be of use or not.

“I need you to look at my shoulder.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't know if Dirk put anything on his arrows.”

The stinging sensation in his back reminded him of his own encounter with the assassin's bow. He reached behind with one hand, brushed his fingers across the slash Dirk had given him. The wound felt clean and the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The flesh around it felt warm, as he would expect, but not hot.

He looked at Cruk. “He didn't.”

“How do you know that?”

Errol shrugged. “One of his arrows grazed me across the lower back.”

Cruk's eyes widened a fraction. “Show me.”

Errol lifted his shirt, felt Cruk probe the wound with his thick fingers, and winced.

He heard a low whistle. “That's quite a collection of scars back there. You don't fight, boy. How did you come by them all?”

Cruk's scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and he stepped away, letting his shirt fall back into place. He didn't answer. Everyone in the village knew what Antil did to him. How many times had he passed out from drink to wake in the stocks with Antil behind him, holding his whipping rod? Cruk's brows drew together, and his face clouded.

The big man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away, toward his horse, and remounted. “At any rate, you're right. The arrows don't appear to have been poisoned.” He spat in the direction of the assassin's body. “Not that I would've put it past Dirk to have forgotten that restriction as well.”

He eyed Errol, his face grim. “Something's going on in Erinon, boy. Members of the watch are not assassins. At least, they didn't used to be.”

Errol pointed to the middle of the road at the assassin's body, the blood from his throat pooling in a thickening puddle on the hard-packed earth. “Shouldn't we hide him?”

Cruk shook his head. “Leave it. If Merodach is following us, it will give him something to think about, maybe slow him down. Besides, the puppy already cost me more effort than I wanted to use on him.” He turned his horse with the barest twitch of the reins. “Come, I told Martin and Luis to make for Callowford. They'll need to know what happened here. Keep your eyes open and yell if you see anything—I mean
anything
—that doesn't look right.”

They met Martin and Luis at Cilla's, nestled in a table in the back corner, past the large fireplace that formed the center of the common room. Cruk waited until they motioned the pair of them over. The big man paused, scanned the empty room. Apparently satisfied, he led the way over to the table, then took a chair and placed it so that he could watch the front entrance
as well as the door to the kitchen. A loaded crossbow rested on the floor at his feet.

Errol sat, squirmed around in his seat, and tried to catch Cilla's attention, waving two fingers for a pair of tankards.

Martin's eyes lingered on Cruk's bloodstained shirt. “You need a healer.” He turned to Errol. “Boy, go find Radere.”