The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (39 page)

Drath nodded. “Aye. I know what you mean. He’s so good he scares me, too. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”

Merdel chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t. Even before he Bonded, he had a strength behind his eyes. I could see it in the way he looked at me after he discovered I enspelled him. I got chill bumps just from his look. And at the time he was only a scrawny kid who could swing a wooden sword with some accuracy. After he Bonded…” A skeptical frown creased his bearded face. “Well, let’s just say I’m glad he found out before that happened.”

“I think he’s just a Swordsman.” Thorne’s deep voice resonated from where he busily packed his medical gear. “And we should leave it at that. We have to expect him to do things none else can do. Even though ’tis a little frightenin’ we need to remember one thing. He’s still Vaun Tarsus, and he’s still our friend.” The dwarf then looked up and met the eyes of each of his companions.

They all shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Thorne had a keen ability to state the heart of any situation, and his words made the others think about what they had said. Vaun wasn’t merely some acquaintance of theirs who happened to be traveling with them at this point; he was a friend who’d proven his loyalty many times. And to be completely truthful, they had brought him here.

Despite how much he’d wanted to come himself, they were responsible for his presence in their world and for what bringing him here had done to him. None of them regretted their decision to do so, and they were ashamed of their fear and skepticism of him moments ago. Each exhaled heavily, knowing Thorne was right, and disliking the frequency of that occurrence. Still, Vaun’s amazing abilities did scare them, but the dwarf’s statement reminded them that Vaun was a companion who could be trusted to save their lives, which he’d done mere hours ago.

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Vaun was restless all night, tossing and turning as the words of the old wizard, or whomever, rang in his ears over and over. Several times he considered waking Drath so he could talk about his fears, but each time he decided that, since he and Drath hadn’t had a conference in many nights, he was now man enough to solve his problems on his own. But still he was frightened.

He couldn’t shake the image of those red eyes boring into his own. Those eyes stripped away his defenses, so carefully constructed over the weeks with Drath’s comforting aid, and exposed him to fear. Those eyes eagerly demanded his life. He couldn’t fight off the dread that crept over him, much like the cold that had come as the voice spoke.

To be called useless, nothing, insignificant…that bothered him the most. He had believed he was doing something worthwhile on this quest. He believed that his actions would help save thousands upon thousands of lives. Not only that, the Purpose he had accepted during his Bonding demanded he succeed. It helped strengthen his belief in the goodness of his actions, helped fuel his resolve. His talks with Drath and the others had served to help him fight off his self-doubt, starting him on the path to believing in his own worth. Now to be told all of that was pointless left him empty, hollow.

He tried to tell himself not to believe it, that the voice had only been trying to scare him into giving up. But he couldn’t help it. Those words had rung so true, so close to what he had been asking about himself ever since Drath first knocked on his front door. The words of Lymon’s killer served only to intensify the questions and doubts he still harbored about himself, the questions and doubts he thought he’d finally overcome.

Even when he tried to tell himself he was a man now, and that men, especially a man who was a Swordsman, did not fear only words, those words still tore down the walls of his resistance and left him bare to attacks of hopelessness. Nevertheless, he fought back. From somewhere deep within himself, deep within his Swordsman’s nature, he found the courage and the strength to fight back. He had always believed in resistance, in fighting anything that tried to oppress him. Violence, insults, assaults, cruelty—they were all things he believed he should oppose. He hated the idea of being subject to another’s will, to having someone else dictate his actions and make him feel inadequate. He’d forgiven Merdel for doing that to him, but he never forgot it. What that voice had wanted from its taunting words, though, was far worse than what the wizard had. Vaun knew he must fight off this new attack just as he had fought off the others, or all would be lost. The quiet presence behind his will lent him considerable strength to fight his internal battle.

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His companions, too, suffered during the night. The words spoken to each of them through old Lymon’s mouth in that multi-hued voice haunted their sleep, turning pleasant thoughts of travel and success into nightmares of failure and death. None of them were assaulted quite as badly as Vaun Tarsus, but all felt hints that what they did was fruitless. And they all found themselves almost believing it.

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They left early the next morning. Unfortunately, the sun could be seen rising slowly out of the east, greeting them cheerfully as if it didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to appear for at least another month. Clouds still dotted the sky, hinting at the possibility of future rain. But no rain fell today, which served only to further dampen their spirits.

Vaun couldn’t bring himself to fully hate the change in the weather as did his companions. He wondered if his own world’s weather was being altered like this one’s, picturing torrential downpours in the deserts and droughts in the rainforests, not to mention rampant earthquakes. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as he imagined.

They struck out almost due west, taking as straight and short a course as they could to the western capital of Mahal. They used the changing weather, however ill-gotten, to good advantage, urging their mounts to speeds that would have been foolhardy in a downpour. But still they couldn’t find any enjoyment in it.

All along their journey, they passed villages and towns with their inhabitants staring wonderingly overhead and talking about the strangeness of the clear sky. The group was hailed by many, both in greeting and in inquiry if they possibly knew the cause of the weather’s change. It was a wide-held belief that travelers knew everything. They waved back, politely denying knowledge of the subject. The folk merely shrugged and bid them a pleasant journey. Ipeks were relatively polite people, for westerners, surpassed only by those of Maldon.

The party made good progress across the farmlands of Ipek. They stayed clear of the roads, wanting few to see their passing in case Elak had scouts in the area. The ground they traveled over was rough for the most part, but the rain had soaked it through. It was quite muddy in some places, but they refused to seek the firmer ground of the roads. Elak’s men were not the only patrols they feared to meet. Ipekian soldiers, unlike the citizenry, were suspicious of everyone, and would likely capture or kill them if given the slightest reason.

When he wasn’t distracted by rough areas of their path, Vaun scanned the horizon. He saw mostly country folks, a few still farming or herding goats, sheep, or cattle. They, like the other people Vaun had encountered on this trip, gave the place more realism, demonstrating to him that life existed in this world outside of where he was and what he was doing. He spoke little to Drath riding next to him, not knowing quite how to voice his concerns nor wanting to hear Drath sigh over the loss of progress they had made with Vaun’s ego problem.

Drath didn’t look like he was in the mood for conversation anyway.
Haggard
was the best word Vaun could think of to describe the tall man’s demeanor. Drath hadn’t even shaved the last few days, and he looked like he hadn’t slept well. Glancing around at his other companions, Vaun noticed they, too, showed much the same distress. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one having nightmares.

Vaun hoped they wouldn’t meet any of the trouble Ipek was so famous for, and he kept a sharp eye out for potential dangers. His hands remained covered by his thick gloves, though they drifted every now and then to the ivory and bone hilt beside his knee. The Song hummed at the edge of his thoughts and the Rhythm pulsed faintly with his heart beat, but the warning itch in his side never arose.

Bushes in a wide variety of shapes and sizes made up for the almost total lack of trees in Ipek. Well-trimmed hedges marked the boundaries of each plot of land, which produced some of the world’s finest vegetables. Other shrubs defined the livestock fields, with sheep and goats dominating the trade. Ipekian wool could melt an iceberg, Thorne told Vaun, and the gods feasted on the milk and cheese made by the goat farmers. The cattle were not the thick, beefy animals of the north, but the milk was exquisite, surpassed only by the prized Ipekian goat’s milk.

The fields had lost their color because of the lateness of the season and the dullness of the sunshine, but the care of each piece of land was easily visible. Ipeks were serious about their agriculture, and defended it with a fierceness bordering on fanaticism. Wars had been started over certain plots of land in the past, and even the most brash of conquerors rode wide of Ipek at harvest time.

Their spirits remained low for the next three days of their journey, the main extent of their talk being when Thorne took the time to answer Vaun’s questions about the land they traveled over. After he’d finished, the dwarf had returned to his place ahead of his young companion and said little else to anyone. None of them could shake the oppressiveness of the old wizard’s words, nor the dread that crept over them at the memory of the vileness of his death.

Those many voices haunted each rider’s sleep and waking thoughts, keeping them restless and on edge. Rush and Dart had nearly come to blows the night before over the simple matter of which of them was taking the first watch. Thorne had only half-heartedly pulled them apart, not relishing as he usually did the opportunity to pound some sense into them.

Merdel read the parchment Lymon had given him at least four times every day, and each time he looked more unhappy at what it told him than the last. When questioned about it, the bearded mage simply growled and refused to answer. They gave up quickly, not wanting to further agitate the wizard nor revive memories of his dead friend.

Drath had grown virtually mute, not talking to anyone unless spoken to first. Vaun gave up trying to tease him into a spar, which he himself began to see as a chore. The Song didn’t come as readily as usual when he practiced, and the Rhythm frequently skipped a beat. That distressed him even more than what had happened a few days ago, though he still found his thoughts drifting over what had been said to him.

“Ye will come face to face with evil and yer brethren,
” the old seer had warned. What did it mean?

“You face great danger,
” Lymon had told them. Was this danger the same as that which the seer had mentioned?

“You are useless,
” the evil voices had taunted him. Vaun refused to believe it, heeding the old seer’s words that he shouldn’t fall prey to self-doubt, but it didn’t make it go away. He wondered if that voice was the evil mentioned by Lymon and the seer, and if so, was it just trying to scare him off?

The voice had also referred to the prophecy, telling him it meant nothing. That’s what Merdel had told him. Was it, therefore, not to be believed? Should he reject the prophecy the Galesian seer had revealed? Was it the same one Merdel had mentioned? In spite of what he’d been told about prophecies in general, should he trust this one simply because he had three different sources tell him virtually the same thing? Did Lymon refer to this same prophecy in his statement about it? Were prophecies just the ramblings of doddering old fools, as Merdel claimed, or were they true foretellings of things to come? And what about him being a Swordsman?

Merdel had said the prophecy he’d read had mentioned nothing about its hero being a Swordsman, but both the Galesian seer and that voice had named him for what he was. Lymon had seemed to think that Vaun’s being a Swordsman meant the prophecy just might come true. Did Merdel lie, or was there another prophecy the bearded wizard hadn’t read?

Vaun had never encountered a prophecy before, at least not one connected to him, and he didn’t know what to think about it. Could he really be a hero like this prophecy foretold, or was he just deceiving himself? He knew his friends had no advice to give him, so absorbed were they with their own troubles. Even if they could talk to him, they probably wouldn’t know what to tell him anyway. These thoughts and more plagued the Swordsman’s mind, distracting him and causing his mood to darken further. Frustrated, angry, upset, frightened and confused, the dark-haired youth rode dejectedly at the back of the party and tried to convince himself that his actions on this quest meant something.

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At the close of their fifth day after the horrible death of old Lymon, it began raining again. A brief tremor in the earth heralded the rain’s beginning, and it wasn’t the downpour that was normal. At least it looked as if the balance of nature was returning. Ironically enough, the rain helped boost the party’s morale, making them believe that perhaps Elak’s meddling hadn’t permanently damaged their world and that he might be overcome. Even Vaun had a lightening of spirits, and discovered that he did have the courage and the strength of will to continue.

That night, far from any village or town, they found refuge within a dense copse of trees, rare for Ipek, standing alone on a flat plain. The rain was a little heavier, with thunder growling sporadically overhead, but despite that a half moon peeked out once or twice to assure them it still existed. Oddly, it wasn’t until just now that Vaun found this moon to be slightly larger than the one of his own world.

While Thorne erected their shelter, stretching a large piece of canvas among several trees, Vaun and Drath set about clearing a dry area under it. The elves, under terse directions from the dwarf, were permitted to build a fire, and Merdel occupied himself with their provisions. He wasn’t allowed to cook, though, because Thorne refused to eat anything cooked by any of the party members but himself. After they were done with their respective tasks and had eaten, they sat close together around the fire. Merdel again read over the parchment his friend had given him.