Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (18 page)

 
          
Then
they were behind him, lost as the wagon passed beneath the walls, shadowed,
then rolling into sunlight again. The gate swung shut and the driver spoke for
the first time.

 
          
"Be
good to get home, eh? Secca's not a bad place, but you can't beat
Aldarin."

 
          
"No."
Calandryll smiled vaguely, turning on the seat to look back.

 
          
The
walls of his home city stretched wide across the plain, high and white as the
hopes of his boyhood: he was leaving, he felt, more than a place behind him and
for a moment he experienced a pang of regret. Then his smile broadened as he
thought of the consternation that must arise when Bylath discovered him gone.
What would the Domm assume? That he had somehow managed to slip past the palace
guards to lose himself in the city? Would there be a hue and cry? Would the
watchmen scour Secca for him again? Surely no one would believe he had ridden
out under their very noses with Varent: he began to chuckle.

 
          
"You're
pleased about it," said the driver, assuming his laughter was at the
thought of returning to Aldarin.

 
          
"Aye,"
he answered, "I am. Very pleased."

 
          
The
driver grinned at him. "I don't remember your face. You been with Lord
Varent long?"

 
          
"No,
not long," Calandryll said.

 
          
"Thought
you must be new. What's your name? I'm Shadim."

 
          
"Calandryll,"
he replied.

 
          
"Calandryll."
Shadim savored the name. "Doesn't Domm Bylath have a son of that
name?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Calandryll said.

 
          
“You
related?" Shadim chuckled, enjoying the notion. "Bylath sow some wild
oats for your mother to reap?"

 
          
"No,"
Calandryll said quickly.

 
          
"No
offense meant," Shadim offered, mistaking Calandryll's tone.

 
          
Calandryll
smiled, shaking his head.

 
          
"I
take none."

 
          
"Good.
Be a miserable journey if you had."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, his attention caught by the figure of Varent. The ambassador had reined
in and now stood watching the column go by. As the wagon drew level, he turned
his horse close and waved to Calandryll.

 
          
"Come
down: we've business to attend."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, ignoring Shadim's curious glance as he rose from the seat, springing
eagerly to the ground as the driver hauled on the reins to slow the team.
Varent waved the wagon on and called to one of the rearward horsemen.

 
          
"Darth,
ride the cart a while."

 
          
The
man nodded obediently and halted, dismounting. He walked his animal to where
Calandryll waited and passed the reins over, running to catch up with the
wagon. Calandryll climbed astride the borrowed horse, curious.

 
          
"We
go to meet your mercenary friend," Varent announced. "And return you
to your own form."

 
          
"Your
men ..." Calandryll began, silenced by Varent's hand.

 
          
"Will
assume my warty retainer has been sent on ahead," the ambassador
explained, "while two hired men have joined us. They're accustomed to my
little intrigues."

 
          
Without
further ado he heeled his horse to a canter; Calandryll followed.

 
          
They
had soon left the slow-moving column behind, riding at a swift pace along the
well-tended road that narrowed through the farmlands surrounding Secca. By late
afternoon they came in sight of a caravanserai in a sheltered hollow and Varent
reined in.

 
          
"I
suggest," he said, smiling, "that I restore your own face. As you
know the Kem, he might be confused by the disguise."

 
          
Calandryll
ducked his head in agreement and swung to the ground. Varent climbed down and
raised his hands.

 
          
He
began to murmur and Calandryll smelled almonds on the warm air. Then Varent
touched him again and he felt his skin tingle, his hair seeming momentarily to
stand on end.

 
          
"A
distinct improvement," smiled the ambassador. "The wart was a nice
touch, but most unsightly. An effective disguise, though; do you not
agree?"

 
          
"My
father saw me," Calandryll said, shaking his head, "and ... and yet
did not."

 
          
"He
saw what we wanted him to see," Varent remarked casually. "Magic is a
useful art, Calandryll."

 
          
"Yes,"
he agreed, chuckling at the deception.

 
          
"Now,"
Varent set a foot in the stirrup, "let us find out if the Kem is to be
trusted. Or if he has taken my hundred varre and run away."

 
          
Calandryll
swung into the saddle and cantered after the ambassador.

 
          
The
caravanserai built around a well, three of its defensive walls given over to
stables and storehouses, the third containing living quarters. A groom took
their animals and Calandryll followed Varent into the cool, airy interior of
the common room. A handful of travelers looked up as they entered and the
landlord eyed Varent's somewhat opulent clothes speculatively.

 
          
"There's
a party of twelve will be here later," the ambassador called. "We'll
require stabling and beds."

 
          
"I'll
see to it, my lord," the man promised.

 
          
"Now,"
Varent looked around, "is the Kem here?"

 
          
"There."

 
          
Calandryll
pointed to the farther wall, where a black- clad figure lounged, boots resting
on a stool. The Kem had a pot of ale before him and his falchion at his side,
and he was studying them with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

 
          
"You
did as I asked," beamed Varent.

 
          
"You
paid me," said Bracht.

 
          
"A
man of honor." Varent drew up a chair.

 
          
"You
expected less?"

 
          
"No!"
Varent shook his head. "A Kem's word is his bond, don't you say?"

 
          
Bracht
studied the ambassador with cold blue eyes. Calandryll sat, sensing anger in
the freesword. Unbidden, the landlord brought two pots of ale.

 
          
Varent
raised his to his lips and drank. Calandryll said, "Greetings,
Bracht."

 
          
The
Kem ignored him. Varent murmured, "Excellent. A fine ale."

 
          
"You
said nothing of him." Bracht indicated Calandryll with a jut of his chin.

 
          
"I
told you you were hired to guard a traveler," Varent said.
"Calandryll is the one."

 
          
"The
son of the Domm of Secca?" Bracht shook his head. "How long before
his father comes looking? And if he finds me with Calandryll I'm gallows
meat."

 
          
"The
Domm has no idea where he is," said Varent placidly. "Nor any reason
to suspect that I secreted him from the city."

 
          
"Even
so," said Bracht.

 
          
"Even
so, you have taken my money," said Varent. "And can earn a great deal
more."

 
          
"There
is that," Bracht allowed.

 
          
"A
thousand varre," said Varent. "A great deal of coin."

 
          
Bracht
stared at his mug as though weighing choices, then shrugged.

 
          
"So
be it."

 
          
"Good,"
Varent smiled. "Now, shall we eat?"

 
          
“Why
do you object to me?" Calandryll demanded.

           
He had seized the chance to speak to
Bracht alone when the Kem went to the stables to check his horse. Throughout
the wait for Varent's men, and the subsequent meal, the mercenary had exhibited
a cool antipathy toward him, despite agreeing to Varent's terms, and Bracht's
hostility disturbed him: he had anticipated a warmer welcome.

 
          
Bracht
shrugged without speaking, sweeping a currycomb over the glossy black hide of
his stallion; Calandryll refused to go unanswered.

 
          
"We'll
be spending enough time together—if you're unwilling, perhaps you should speak
up."

 
          
Bracht
swept the comb over the horse's crupper and surveyed his handiwork.

 
          
"I
took Varent's money; I agreed to accept the commission. Is that not
enough?"

 
          
"No!"
Calandryll was vaguely surprised by his own self-assurance: it seemed to grow
momentarily. "It is not enough. I'd not have ill-feeling between us."

 
          
Bracht
smoothed the mane and shouldered the stallion aside, doling oats into the
manger. He dropped the currycomb into a pouch and tossed that to the straw
outside the stall, then, leaning against the rails, he studied Calandryll
critically.

           
"I have no ill-feeling toward
you, Calandryll; not in the way you think."

 
          
"Then
in what way?"

 
          
Bracht
grinned tightly. "Varent came to me with an offer," he said. "He
offered me one thousand varre to act as bodyguard to a traveler bound for
Gessyth. That's more
than
I
could
hope to make in three, four years as a free-sword. I accepted, and so I am
bound—as Varent said, by my word. I know little of Gessyth, but what little I
do know suggests it is a dangerous land—I assumed I was to guard some merchant
enterprise, but I find I am to escort you."

 
          
"And
you would sooner hire out to some fat-bellied trader!”

 
          
Bracht
shook his head, chuckling softly. "A trader bound for Gessyth is unlikely
to be fat-bellied; more likely a merchant-adventurer. A man who knows how to
use a blade. I find my charge is the son of Secca's Domm—who will likely be
sought by his father, but more important, a ..." He caught himself,
looking directly into Calandryll's angry eyes, "... a young man who knows
little of swordwork; by preference a scholar."

 
          
"That's
why Varent needs me," Calandryll snapped. "Because
l am a
scholar. Because I can read the Old Tongue, I can recognize the ..."

 
          
He
broke off, aware that he gave away perhaps more than Varent wanted the
mercenary to know.

 
          
"Recognize
what?" asked Bracht, and he realized he had gone too far: the Kern's blue
stare demanded explanation.

           
"A book," he
muttered, as angry with himself now as with the Kem. "A rare, antique
document that Lord Varent would acquire for his collection. And I can use a

sword."

   
        
Bracht ignored that, his eyes narrowmg.
"Varent pays me one thousand varre to acquire a book?”

           
Calandryll nodded:
"A very rare book. A unique book Lord Varent is," he extemporized,
"a collector."

           
"How much does he
pay you?" Bracht asked.

           
Calandryll shook his
head. "Nothing. I undertake the mission because I am a scholar. And he
helped me escape Secca. Dera, Bracht! My father would make me a priest.
 
         
"I
can understand your reluctance to accept that office," the Kem allowed,
"But to venture to Gessyth without pay?"

 
          
He
shook his head, grinning his disbelief. It seemed he considered Calandryll a
fool to undertake such a mission without reward and the younger man felt his
cheeks grow warm, embarrassment and anger mingling. "There are more
important things than money," he said irritably.

 
          
"Of
course," Bracht agreed. "But not many."

 
          
"I
am not a mercenary!"

 
          
"No."
The Kem went on grinning. "That's for sure."

 
          
"What
do you imply?" Calandryll demanded.

 
          
"I
watched you beaten in the tavern," came the answer, "and saw that you
cannot defend yourself. From what I hear, Gessyth is a land of monsters,
fraught with danger—I'd prefer my charge was able to use a sword at least a
little."

 
          
"I
can use a sword," Calandryll repeated.

 
          
Bracht's
thick eyebrows rose in unspoken doubt.

 
          
"I
can!"
said Calandryll, red-faced with anger now: the Kern's calm
stare was as infuriating as Tobias's mockery. "I'll show you! Wait
here."

 
          
He
spun round, intent on borrowing a blade, Bracht's even voice halted him at the
stable door.

 
          
"This
is no place to demonstrate your swordsmanship: I'll wait for you in the barn."

 
          
He
jutted a thumb in the direction of the adjacent building: Calandryll nodded
curtly and stalked across the moonlit courtyard toward the common room. Varent
and his men sat drinking there, the ambassador's dark eyes curious as
Calandryll approached.

 
          
"I
need a sword," he said.

 
          
"Why?"
Varent asked, curious.

 
          
"Bracht
doubts my ability to survive our journey—I'd show him I can protect
myself."

 
          
"He's
a freesword," Varent murmured, "You've no hope of defeating
him."

 
          
"I'd
convince him," Calandryll snapped, impatient in his anger. "He awaits
me in the barn. Will someone lend me their blade?"

 
          
The
ambassador's men looked to their master for instruction, Varent pursed his lips
in thought, dark eyes enigmatic, then slowly nodded.

 
          
"Very
well—take mine."

 
          
He
slid a saber from a sheath inlaid with silver chasing, the slanted quillons
carved with ornate scrollwork, the pommel a globe of gold. Calandryll nodded
his thanks, hefting the weapon; it sat easily in his hand. Varent's men moved
to follow him as he turned for the door, but Varent waved them back. "This
needs no audience," he murmured, too soft for Calandryll to hear,
"leave them be."

 
          
"The
Kern'll cut him to pieces," the man called Darth protested.

 
          
"No."
Varent shook his head. "The Kern may teach him a lesson, but he'll not
harm the boy. Leave them to it, and let us find our beds—the hour grows late
and I'd leave this place early."

 
          
Calandryll
breathed deep as he recrossed the courtyard, seeking a measure of calm.
Realistically, he knew that he was no match for Bracht: he was no soldier, let
alone a swordsman of the mercenary's standard, but he had been required to
practice often enough on his father's orders, and he hoped at the least to show
the Kem he was not entirely helpless.

 
          
He
entered the bam. Bracht had lit several lanterns and moonlight penetrated
through the high windows at front and rear, providing sufficient illumination
that they might fight without excessive difficulty. Heavy pillars supported a
hay-filled loft, the aisle between them wide, stretching unhindered down the
length of the building. The Kem waited by the door, kicking it shut behind
Calandryll. He held his falchion loosely in his right hand.

 
          
"Put
this on." He tossed a heavy gambeson of the kind worn in practice to
Calandryll.

 
          
The
younger man caught the jacket, scowling, setting Varent's saber aside as he
slid his arms into the padded sleeves, lacing the chestrings tight. Bracht wore
a similar garment over his black leather shirt, and an infuriating smile.

 
          
"Remember,
we do not fight for blood," he warned, "Let there be no cuts to the
head."

 
          
"I
have fought in practice before." Calandryll assumed the stance of a
duelist. "On guard!"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head, though his eyes did not leave Calandryll's face.

 
          
"Your
first lesson—if you intend to kill a man, don't warn him."

 
          
"I
do not intend to kill you."

 
          
"No."
Bracht smiled. "But still."

 
          
"It
seems hardly honorable to attack without warning," Calandryll said.

 
          
"Sometimes
honor takes second place to staying alive," murmured Bracht; and sent the
falchion darting at Calandryll's chest.

 
          
He
jumped back, bringing the saber across in a defensive sweep. Bracht's blade
floated over the sword, forcing it to the side, exposing Calandryll's ribs. The
falchion landed flat: the blow stung and Calandryll grunted. He sidestepped,
anticipating a second blow, and feinted an attack. Bracht riposted, this time lifting
Calandryll's weapon high, the falchion slapping across his belly.

 
          
"I
think," the Kern said mildly, "that you'd be tripping on your
entrails now."

 
          
Calandryll
forgot his discipline as he saw the free- sword's smile. Teeth clenched, he
brought Varent's saber down, turning the cut as Bracht's sword moved to block
it, seeking to drive in over the mercenary's guard. Bracht was too fast: his
blade shone in the lamplight, twisting, rolling over Calandryll's to touch the
younger man's chest.

 
          
"Another
lesson—control your anger. Anger makes a swordsman reckless."

 
          
He
backed away, letting Calandryll come to him, thwarting each attack with an
effortlessness that infuriated Calandryll. It seemed there was no way past his
defense, each attack met with a counter, parry and riposte, the falchion a
living thing in his hand, darting with a serpentine ease that left Calandryll
panting.

 
          
"Also,"
he declared amiably, "you should seek to learn your opponent's limits. Not
simply charge him."

 
          
Calandryll
dragged a hand across his sweating brow and raised the saber in a defensive
stance. Bracht advanced and the blade met again. Calandryll was unsure this
time how the falchion found his ribs.