Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (41 page)

 
          
Around
midmorning they forded a small stream, where they watered the horses and filled
their canteens, taking time to strip and wash the dust away before continuing
westward.

 
          
The
character of their surroundings began to change after a while, imperceptibly at
first, no more than a thickening of the grass, its color changing subtly to a
healthier green. The road began to climb at a gradual angle and then to dip,
and the flat plain gave way to an undulating landscape mounded with small
hillocks. The stands of timber grew more numerous, the trees less stunted by
arid soil and wind, and wildflowers appeared in bright clusters. In the
afternoon they saw cattle browsing in the distance, great heavy-muscled beasts
with wide-spread horns and dark hides. A bull watched from a hummock, raising
his head to bellow a challenge and they quickened their pace. As the sun neared
its setting they saw a solitary building, its white walls painted rose by the
waning light. It had the look of farm and fortress both: a low, square
structure, surrounded by a chest-high fence of sturdy palings, the windows cut
deep, with heavy shutters.

 
          
"We'll
ask their hospitality," Bracht decided.

 
          
Calandryll,
thinking of cool water and hot food, nodded enthusiastic agreement.

 
          
They
rode toward the building, slowly for fear of alarming the occupants, halting at
the gate. Through its arch they could see a well and a stone-built bam beyond
the house. Pigs and chickens rooted in the yard and a huge red dog barked
furiously from the porch. A man appeared, murmuring something that silenced the
hound, and two youths, so similar in looks they could only be his sons, stepped
out to flank him. They both held short, deeply curved bows, red-fletched arrows
nocked to the strings. The man studied the newcomers for a moment, then
beckoned them on, coming to meet them by the well, the dog at his heels. The
archers remained on the porch.

 
          
The
man was tall and thin, his face weather-beaten to the color and texture of
ancient leather, his eyes set deep and dark beneath craggy brows, eyeing them
with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A broad-bladed knife was sheathed on
his waist, the belt cinching a robe of faded green, his left hand resting idly
on the hilt.

 
          
"Greetings,
strangers."

 
          
His
voice sounded like his face looked: harsh and hard.

 
          
"Greetings,"
Calandryll returned in the. language of Kandahar, "We've ridden far and
should welcome a decent meal and a bed. We can pay."

 
          
"From
Mherut'yi?"

 
          
The
farmer's face remained expressionless. Calandryll nodded.

 
          
"Not
many travel overland from Mherut'yi."

 
          
Calandryll
shrugged.

 
          
"We
have business inland."

 
          
"Better
to take ship to Mhazomul or Ghombalar, and a riverboat inland."

 
          
"Our
business is ... delicate. We prefer to avoid the obvious trade routes."

 
          
The
man's eyes narrowed.

 
          
"You
don't look like merchants."

 
          
"We
come to negotiate trade contracts. I am called Calandryll. This," he
indicated his companion with a wave, "is Bracht."

 
          
"You're
Lyssian?"

 
          
"I
am. My comrade is from Cuan na'For."

 
          
"He
speaks our language?"

 
          
"No,"
Calandryll shook his head, "but he understands the Envah."

 
          
The
man nodded and turned his head slightly.

 
          
"Denphat,
check the roof."

 
          
The
younger bowman grunted an affirmative and disappeared back inside the house.
Moments later he appeared on the roof, moving slowly along its perimeter with
his eyes fixed on the surrounding terrain.

 
          
"Nothing
I can see," he called.

 
          
"Then
come down." The man gestured at the well. "Those horses need
watering—help yourselves. I am called Octofan."

 
          
"Our
thanks, Octofan," smiled Calandryll, dismounting.

 
          
The
farmer nodded and walked around them to the gate. He swung it shut and dropped
a bar in place, sealing the opening. Denphat and the other youth continued to
study them in silence down the length of their shafts. The red dog watched them
with parted lips, as if ready to attack on a word or any sudden movement.

 
          
"You're
cautious," Bracht said, emptying a bucket into the trough beside the well.

 
          
Octofan
shrugged without speaking, waiting until the horses had drunk their fill, then
leading them to the long, low structure of the bam. The red dog followed at his
heels. His two sons came after, standing in the doorway as their father
indicated stalls.

 
          
"Put
them up here. Help yourselves to hay."

 
          
He
stood back as they stripped off the saddles and led the horses into the pens,
patient as they rubbed the animals down and forked hay into the mangers. When
they were done he said, "There's a washhouse at the back. Food'll be ready
soon."

 
          
They
washed under the wary eyes of his sons, then Octofan beckoned them onto the
porch and escorted them into the building. It was cool and airy inside, the
floor the same thick stone as the walls, the odors of meat and vegetables
rising from pots on a cooking range tended by a grey-haired woman in a worn
blue gown. She turned to examine them, her face expressionless as Octofan's.
Calandryll bowed; Bracht ducked his head.

 
          
"I'll
not have swords at my table," she said.

 
          
"My
wife, Pilar." Octofan indicated a row of hooks by the door. "Hang
them there. These are my sons, Denphat and Jedomus."

 
          
The
youths had lowered their bows on entering the house and now they loosened the
strings, setting the bows down on a table by the wall, nodding silently to the
unexpected guests. Bracht and Calandryll unbuckled their swordbelts and hung
them on the pegs.

 
          
"Sit
down. Jedomus, bring that pot of ale."

 
          
They
settled at the long table that occupied the center of the room. Octofan took
the head, his sons to either side, and filled clay pots with dark beer.
Calandryll and Bracht drank gratefully.

 
          
"They've
come from Mherut'yi," Octofan informed his wife as she set a loaf of
steaming bread before him. "On some Lyssian business."

 
          
"They're
not... ?" Pilar's raised brows framed a question.

 
          
"They
offered to pay."

 
          
The
woman nodded as though this confirmed something. Calandryll fetched a coin from
his satchel.

 
          
"Is
one var sufficient? We'd purchase provisions for the journey, too."

 
          
Octofan
began to slice the bread, using the knife he wore. He said, "Three varre
is ample."

 
          
Calandryll
pushed the coins across the table. Octofan picked them up, examined them, and
dropped them into a pocket of his robe. Pilar brought a pot of stew from the
range and began to dole it into bowls. Calandryll felt his mouth water as the
rich odor struck his nostrils. His stomach rumbled and he smiled
apologetically.

 
          
"You
came without provisions?"

 
          
Octofan
spooned stew as he spoke. Calandryll followed suit, too hungry to concern
himself with good manners and not sure how to explain their lack of supplies.
Bracht saved him.

 
          
"We
were attacked," he said, adjusting the tmth, "and lost our
supplies."

 
          
The
farmer and his wife exchanged glances. Octofan said, "The road from
Mherut'yi to Kesham-vaj is plagued by brigands."

 
          
Bracht
nodded. Pilar said, "Sathoman," in a low, angry voice.

 
          
"Sathoman
is their leader?" asked Bracht.

 
          
"Aye,"
Octofan grunted. "Sathoman ek'Hennem, may Burash rot his soul."

 
          
"He's
the reason for your caution?"

 
          
Bracht
indicated the bows Denphat and Jedomus had discarded: Octofan nodded.

 
          
"Sathoman
ek'Hennem is a noble gone bad. The lictor of Mherut'yi didn't warn you?"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head. "We found the lictor ...
unfriendly."       .

 
          
"Philomen,"
said Pilar, her tone dismissive. "He s no better than Cenophus. They're
supposed to patrol the roads—protect folk like us—but what do they do? They sit
safe in their keeps and barely venture out save to gather the Tyrant's taxes.
And when they do that, they eat us out of house and home. Nor ever pay for what
they take."

 
          
She
smiled briefly at Calandryll.

 
          
"Cenophus
is a lictor?" Bracht asked casually.

 
          
"Lictor
of Kesham-vaj," said Octofan. "He claims our land falls under
Philomen's jurisdiction, save when it's time for tax-gathering."

 
          
"And
this Sathoman is a local brigand?" murmured the Kem.

 
          
"The
son of Mandradus ek'Hennem," said Octofan. "Mandradus was Lord of the
Fayne until he took the wrong side in the Sorcerer's War. He fell at the Battle
of the Stone Field and the Tyrant declared his lands and all possessions
forfeit. Sathoman swore he'd revenge his father's death and declared himself
rightful master of the Fayne. He claims it's his right to extract a toll from
travelers. And herdsfolk, too, Burash damn him!"

 
          
"Lictor
and Sathoman both claim their tax," Pilar added bitterly.

 
          
"Does
the Tyrant not act against outlaws?" Calandryll asked.

 
          
Octofan
glanced at his wife and laughed sourly.

 
          
"The
Tyrant sits safe in his palace, and Nhur-jabal is a long way from the Fayne. So
long as his taxes come, he's content to leave such matters to his
lictors."

 
          
"And
neither Cenophus or Philomen have the taste for battle?" Bracht said
softly.

 
          
Octofan
fixed suddenly suspicious eyes on the Kern. "You've not heard of the
Sorceror's War?"

 
          
"I
come from Cuan na'For," Bracht returned, "and I've traveled in Lysse.
I know little of Kandahar."

 
          
"The
Tyrant Iodrydus declared sorcery outlawed," Calandryll supplied.
"Save for those wizards licensed by himself, he placed severe limitations
on their employment—the lords of Kandahar were required to give up their court
magicians, and they rebelled. It was called the Sorcerer's War."

 
          
Bracht
nodded thoughtfully. "Does this Sathoman still employ a wizard?" he
asked.