A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 4

Tol was lodged with the stableboys that night, given a berth in a bank of wooden bunks, a rough homespun blanket, and a clay cup from which to drink. The room was warm and smoky from the two banked fires, and alive with snores and snorts, coughs and groans. Crake and Narren were nearby, but sound asleep. Tol kicked off his unnecessary cover and tried to follow their example. Sleep eluded him. His mind wouldn’t settle down.

Five days had passed since he’d left the onion field with Lord Odovar. On their journey here, the marshal had promised to send word to his mother and father. Things got so lively later on, Tol didn’t know whether anyone had been dispatched to the farm after all. He didn’t dare pester Lord Odovar about it. The marshal seemed all too easily angered.

Tol jerked awake, surprised to realize he’d fallen asleep. The boys’ hall was quieter now. Glowing embers on the twin hearths had died, leaving the room fully dark and chillier than it had been.

Accustomed to living by the rhythms of night and day, Tol sensed dawn wasn’t far off. With the sunrise, he remembered, would come the execution of Vakka Zan. He climbed down from the high bunk, threw his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and slipped outside.

The flagstone courtyard between the boys’ hall and the stable was slick with dew. It wasn’t actually raining, but a heavy mist silvered the morning in a fine, damp veil. After a drink at the well, Tol passed through the silent stable into the street beyond.

No one was stirring in Juramona at that hour. Following the directions Crake had given him the night before, Tol tramped down the noisome track to the town square, where the execution was to take place. It wasn’t a very big place, nor was it a square-more a rough rectangle. On market days it would be thronged with hundreds of folk, eagerly trading. On this misty morning, there was nothing to see but a tall wooden platform and a few men sleeping on the ground next to it.

Tol approached. As he drew within a few paces, the man nearest him bolted to his feet in a clatter of arms.

“Stand off!” the man shouted, leveling a wicked-looking billhook at the boy.

Tol held up his hands. “Friend! Friend! I am lately come to Juramona with the warden of the Household Guard!”

“And his name is?” the soldier demanded.

“Egrin, Raemel’s son.”

The soldier raised the billhook and rested it on his shoulder. “Aye, that’s him. A right good commander he is, too.”

“Why are you men here?” Tol asked.

The fellow hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guarding a prisoner. He’s losing his head this day.”

Tol was surprised. Lord Vakka was already at the place of his execution? He voiced his curiosity, and the guard replied, “We marched him out here just after midnight. Lord Marshal’s orders. ‘No warm beds for traitors. Let ’im soak in the chill of night,’ he says. So here were are, soakin’ it up with him.”

Beneath the tall platform Tol could make out a solitary figure huddled next to one of the center posts. The man’s wrists were chained to the post and his head rested against them, hiding his face, but his fine head of colorless hair marked him as Vakka Zan.

The guard coughed nervously. “Uh, no harm’s done of course-the Pakin is chained and no one could get to him but through us. Still…” He studied Tol from under shaggy brows, then continued in a lower voice, “You won’t say nothing to the warden about us all sleepin’, will you?”

Tol shook his head solemnly, then asked, “Can I talk to the prisoner? Only for a moment?”

The guard hacked and spat, pondering the request. At last he said, “Say your piece. But no touching, nor giving, or taking away anything. Understand?”

Tol swore to abide by the rules, and the guard moved off to roust his comrades from their slumber with the butt of his bill. Coughing and grumbling, the soldiers rose and shook off the clinging mist. Two set to work lighting fires in iron baskets beside the platform.

The Pakin prisoner stirred, raising his head. Tol approached him cautiously. Stripped of his fancy armor, Vakka Zan was revealed to be a slender, youthful man, somewhere between Tol and Egrin in years. Though disheveled and damp from his night in the square, he had remarkably refined, almost girlish, features. His hands and face were streaked with dirt and dried blood. A mighty greenish-blue bruise covered the left side of his jaw. Despite all that, he was a striking fellow. His hair was shoulder length and white, his skin very pale. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so white as to be nearly invisible. But his eyes were strangest of all: The irises were pink and the pupils, a deeper red. In the heat of battle, Tol had not noticed the man’s oddly colored eyes.

“What do you want?” Vakka Zan said sullenly, interrupting the boy’s silent scrutiny.

“Are you an elf?”

The Pakin noble laughed bitterly. “You’re not the first to ask me that!” He shifted position, chains rattling loudly. “I’m no Silvanesti. There’s a strain in the Pakin clan that’s born without color in hair or skin. We’re known as the ‘White Pakins.’ ” Vakka Zan fixed the boy with his strange, pinkish eyes. “Have I satisfied your wondering?”

Tol nodded, missing the sarcastic tone. What he really wanted to say was hard to get out. Finally, he blurted, “I’m sorry you are being killed today!”

“You and me both.” Vakka Zan leaned back against the post and cradled his chains in his lap, adding, “Why do you care? Aren’t you loyal to the Ackals?”

Tol looked at the mist-slicked stones at his feet. “I helped capture you. I was the one who stopped you from killing Lord Odovar’s warden.”

The Pakin’s eyes widened. His face remained blank for a few heartbeats, then contorted into a ferocious snarl. Screaming, he hurled himself at Tol.

The boy was so shocked he didn’t respond until the white fingers were almost around his throat. With a sudden burst of self-preservation, Tol threw himself backward. The chains pulled Vakka Zan up short, but he hurled himself against them again and again, trying to reach the boy. Flat on his back, Tol scrambled away on elbows and heels.

Guards came running, shouting for quiet. When the Pakin refused to calm down, they pummeled him with the butts of their billhooks. He went down under their blows, but continued to scream threats at them all.

The corporal of the guards hauled Tol to his feet. “Sweet Mishas, what did you say to him?”

Tol stammered a reply, and the guard said, “So it’s true, eh? You helped capture him.” To his men he shouted, “Easy, boys. Don’t kill him! Lord Odovar will have all our heads if the Pakin dies before his time!”

The heavy mantle of clouds had lightened, heralding the dawn beyond the rain. Massed, slow hoofbeats sounded on the stony street, and a contingent of the Household Guard, led by Egrin, appeared at the south end of the square. They were most imposing in their scale shirts and angular helmets. Egrin deployed them around the platform. While the riders moved into place, Egrin rode through the guards, who drew back out of Old Acorn’s path. He halted beneath the edge of the platform.

“Stand up, my lord,” he said to Vakka Zan. The Pakin noble tried, then slumped back to the ground.

“Get him up,” Egrin said quietly. Two footmen dragged Vakka Zan to his feet. At Egrin’s order, a bucket of clean water was brought, and the Pakin noble was allowed to wash his face and hands.

“You’re to die soon. I can’t change that,” Egrin said. “But there’s no reason you have to perish like a pig, in mud and filth.”

“Your time will come, all of you,” Vakka Zan replied fiercely. “When word of this outrage reaches the true emperor, this entire settlement will be razed, and everyone inside will die a slow death!”

“The true emperor is our liege, Pakin III, who reigns in Daltigoth, not the charlatan you bow to,” Egrin said.

“The throne in Daltigoth is held by a usurper, with no right to the Pakin name! His head will soon rot on the highest spike in the empire!”

A crowd of townsfolk was gathering, drawn by the promise of a rare spectacle. The mob parted as Lord Odovar arrived on horseback in full armor, with Morthur Dermount beside him. Trailing them, the marshal’s retinue rode under a wide canvas awning supported by poles carried by mounted servants. Tol recognized bald Lanza and the marshal’s plump, blonde lady.

“Your voice carries far,” Odovar boomed at Vakka Zan. “But I doubt it will reach the Pretender in his squalid exile’s camp.”

The Pakin recovered his composure at the sight of his enemy. “It may reach Lord Grane,” he said coldly.

Odovar’s retinue shifted nervously, and the marshal flexed a gauntleted fist around his reins. The threat had touched a vulnerable spot. Grane had nearly gotten Odovar once, and was still at large with forces of unknown strength.

“Proceed with the course of justice,” Odovar commanded. “Warden, are you ready?”

“At your command, my lord,” said Egrin.

The chains were unwound from Vakka Zan, and the rivets of his shackles driven out. Burly footmen yanked his hands behind his back and lashed them with cord. Eight soldiers mounted the platform, taking positions at each corner and midway between. Facing outward, they presented their spears. Vakka Zan, followed by two guards, climbed the wooden steps to the platform’s summit.

“Lanza, do your part,” Odovar said.

The rotund man got down carefully from his horse and walked to the front edge of the canopy. The mist had become a slow rain, and he took care not to get his shiny pate wet.

“Great Manthus!” he intoned, lifting his hands high. His sleeves slid back, exposing hairy forearms. “See now our fair justice! Protect our Lord Marshal from all enemies, both of flesh and spirit! Disperse any curses laid upon him by the condemned or his blood kin, for he dies adjudged of the crimes of treason, rebellion, and the taking up of arms against his lawful sovereign! Hear us, O Manthus!”

So saying, he clapped his hands together thrice, then dipped first his right hand, then his left, into the voluminous pockets in his robe, bringing out dark red rose petals. These he slung in high, wide arcs. They fell on Lord Odovar, his horse, and the pavement around him.

Lanza nodded to his lord, and the marshal said, “Let it be done!”

In the center of the platform was a simple bench made of heavy planks. Without prodding, Vakka Zan walked to the bench and knelt behind it, facing Odovar and his retinue. He flung his long white hair aside and laid his head, right ear down, on the block.

Egrin mounted the steps. Tol’s heart pounded. He saw why Lord Vakka had turned his head the way he did: so he didn’t have to watch Egrin approach with blade bared.

Disdaining pomp or ceremony, Egrin shucked the scabbard from the gilded sword. Even in the dull light and drizzle the Silvanesti-forged blade sparkled like a fine jewel. The crowd of common folk strained forward against the ring of mounted warriors, eager to miss nothing.

Egrin did not wait. Taking the grip in both hands, he turned sharply on one heel and drew back the sword until the curved tip just touched the small of his back, then swung it down.

Tol did not close his eyes. Many around him did, soldiers included. He saw the gold-streaked blade flash through the air. Egrin let his knees bend deeply, putting his full weight behind the stroke. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation or delay when blade met flesh. Silvanesti iron passed smoothly through the Pakin’s neck and through the wooden bench beneath.

Egrin immediately recovered his stance and brought the blade up again. Simultaneously, the bench collapsed into two halves and Vakka Zan’s head landed with a thump on the platform.

The crowd let out a spontaneous roar of approval. The cost of the Ackal-Pakin war had been high, in lives lost, in misery, and in grievous trade disruptions. One less Pakin seemed a fine idea to those watching.

Egrin descended the steps, the unsheathed sword held at his side. His hands were spattered with blood. More blood coated the blade. Without a word, he presented the weapon hilt-first to Lord Odovar. The two men’s eyes did not meet, but Odovar took the sword by the handguard and tossed it to Morthur, beside him. Lips curled in distaste, Morthur held the Silvanesti sword for his liege lord. Crimson droplets fell from its tip.

Odovar turned his horse around and rode away. His entourage was slow to follow, as the long line of women and household retainers sheltering under the awning shuffled awkwardly around, trying to keep out of the weather.

Egrin’s second-in-command, Manzo, brought Old Acorn forward. Tol stepped up and took the reins. He led the horse to the warden, still standing where he’d handed Lord Odovar the gilded sword. Egrin accepted the reins and laid a strong hand on Tol’s shoulder. It remained there only a moment, then was withdrawn.

At Manzo’s command, the Householders formed up and rode out. Next, the corporal of the footmen ranked his men and pushed the curious onlookers out of the square. Soon the only people left were Egrin, Tol, and the two men from the town charnel house, come to take the body away. Vakka’s head Odovar had reserved for display in his hall.

After the body had been removed, Egrin mounted Old Acorn and departed. Tol ran after him, feet splashing in puddles.

The square was empty at last. Despite the rain, bloodstains remained on the platform for a long time.

In spite of all the wonders he had seen, and the kindness and good fellowship of Egrin and the stableboys, Tol decided to leave Juramona. Lord Odovar’s cruelty, matched by the viciousness of the condemned Pakin noble, left him feeling sick and disgusted. Life with his family, even amid the farm’s ceaseless toil, was better than the wonders-and incomprehensible ways-of this town.

He had made the decision to leave by the time he’d returned to the boys’ hall after the execution. The place was empty, as everyone was out working, but Tol huddled by one of the fires and dried his sodden clothing. The only food was the leavings of the boys’ communal breakfast-dried-out oat porridge and some crusts of black bread. Tol ate all the porridge left in the pot and put what crusts he could find in a scrap of old cloth. He would need food for the journey.

The master of the boys, Zolamon, found Tol in the hall, and drove him out with shouts and buffets. He was given a wide wooden fork and set to mucking out the horse stalls with four other boys his size. The work was no worse than what he did every day at the farm, and he quickly outstripped his fellows, clearing two stalls to every one they managed. He welcomed the labor; it kept his mind from dwelling on Vakka Zan or, worse still, his severed head. He could’ve sworn that, as the head rolled free on the platform, the dead man’s strange, pinkish eyes had shifted as though he were still alive and searching for someone…

Zolamon returned. He was called “Big Stick” by the stable-boys, and the origin of the nickname was obvious. He tapped a thick hardwood cudgel against his thigh as he strolled down the line of stalls, inspecting the boys’ progress. Tol thought Zolamon would be pleased with what he’d done, but the taskmaster yelled at him just as he did the others. Still, he didn’t hit Tol as he did two other boys, so Tol decided his work must have been satisfactory after all.

Supper in the boys’ hall was a noisy, confusing affair, but what surprised Tol was the quantity of food available. Certainly not as rich as the capons, venison, and beer consumed by the Riders of the Horde, but the boys’ stew and black bread were plentiful and filling. He’d never starved on the farm, but he never seemed to get quite enough to eat, either. And he seldom got real bread, only flat, hard disks of firecake, so even these coarse loaves were a treat. As he ate his fill among the raucous boys, Tol had no trouble secreting away several hunks of bread.

When supper was done, the healer arrived. Felryn served the marshal’s entire household, from Lord Odovar down to the least stableboy. He was middle-aged, with curly black hair and dark bronze skin. Over a brown linen robe he wore a pantherskin tabard, tied with a heavy sash. His most striking feature was his hands. They were unusually large and powerful, with very long fingers. As he worked his way down the row of boys, those strong hands proved surprisingly gentle.

Reaching Tol, Felryn said, “You’re new. What are you called?”

“Tol, my lord.”

“I’m not your lord.” He grasped Tol’s chin and pushed his head back, peering into the boy’s eyes. “I’m a physician. I work for my living, so don’t call me ‘lord.’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

Felryn did not mention the cut on Tol’s cheek. Instead, the healer said, “Show me your hands.”

Tol did so, and Felryn grunted. “They tell me you cleared more stalls than three boys of long residence here. How is it you have no blisters?”

“I’m used to work,” Tol replied. He glanced away at the high slit windows. It was already dark and he was impatient to get away.

“Farm lad?” said the healer. Tol nodded.

Felryn lifted Tol’s arms from his sides, prodded the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and asked his age. When Tol could only shrug, the healer said, “No matter. You’re a well made lad. Where did you dwell before coming to Juramona?”

Tol’s gaze strayed to the west window. “My family’s farm is in the hills between the forest and plain,” he answered.

Felryn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He took a ribbon of cloth from his sash, and bade Tol stand up straight. With another boy to help him, Felryn stretched the ribbon from Tol’s feet to the crown of his head. From under the panther-skin tabard he drew a small board covered with wax. He made a few marks in the wax with a metal stylus then tucked the board away.

“Very good,” he said, one large hand toying with the stylus. “I will see you again, Master Tol.”

Felryn moved on to the next boy, whose hands were covered by blisters. The healer buttered them with a pungent salve that made the lad wince, then wrapped his palms with strips of rag.

When Felryn departed, the boys at last settled down. Weary older youths crawled into their low berths while the youngest boys banked the fires. Before long the first snores began, but Tol waited, making sure everyone was fast asleep.

Judging the time was right at last, he dropped soundlessly to the floor, his food bundle tucked under his arm. No one stirred as he padded outside.

Cold wind had scoured the rain away, leaving the heavens bright with stars. Tol pulled on the hide moccasins he’d been given in place of his farmer’s clogs, then hastily wrapped his woolen leggings up to his knees. Ready at last, he straightened-and found himself facing a looming dark shape.

Even as he gasped in shock, the figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. It was the healer, Felryn.

“Can’t sleep?” Felryn asked, brown eyes crinkling in amusement.

Tol began to stammer excuses, but the healer waved them away, his expression becoming serious. “You want to go home, boy?” he said.

Tol admitted it, adding, “My family needs me on the farm.”

“Mmm.” Without warning, Felryn took him by the wrist and announced, “We must see the warden.”

Worried, Tol tried to pull away, but Felryn held him fast and began to walk purposefully toward the Riders’ Hall. Tol continued to stammer excuses and to try to free himself, but in no time they were climbing the wooden stairs to the upper story. Not wishing to embarrass himself in front of the Riders, Tol stopped his struggles as he and Felryn entered the hall.

The great room was dark but for a single candle burning at the head of the long table. Egrin sat alone there, the candlelight flickering over his face and the pewter mug on the table in front of him. He stared blankly at the mug, absently rubbing one ear, obviously lost in thought. Felryn’s approach caused the warden to look up, but slowly, as though pulling his attention back from a great distance.

“Something amiss?” Egrin asked, frowning and getting to his feet.

Felryn halted by the table. “Master Tol is taking his leave of Juramona. I persuaded him to delay long enough to speak with you first.”

The elder warrior looked down at Tol, and the boy colored in embarrassment.

“Why were you sneaking out in the middle of the night?” Egrin asked. Tol did not speak, so the warden added, “The Pakin’s death shocked you, didn’t it? Lord Odovar’s word is law. His judgment was harsh, Tol, but the law must be enforced, or there is no law. You must understand that.”

“Sir, my family will be worried,” Tol blurted. “They don’t know what happened to me. Lord Odovar has a lot of stable-boys, but my family’s got only me and my two sisters.”

Egrin and Felryn smiled at each other, the lines in the warden’s face easing. “I never intended you should remain in the stables,” Egrin said. “So, Felryn, how does he measure up?”

Felryn nodded gravely. “He is an excellent specimen, my lord. Fit for any duty suited to his age and size.”

“Fine! Tol, how would you like to be my shield-bearer, my shilder? I’ll train you in the way of the warrior. You’ll learn to ride, and fight with sword, spear, and bow. Six springs from now, if you desire to leave my service, you can do so. You’ll be free then to take any path you choose.”

It was an amazing offer, all the more so because of Tol’s humble origins. Most Riders of the Horde took on shilder from time to time, but they were always the sons of worthy retainers-not peasant boys.

“I can do anything I want six springs from now?” Tol asked.

“Aye, by then you’ll be old enough to choose your own calling.”

“Will I live in the hall with the stable hands?”

“No. Shilder have their own hall, within the walls of the High House.”

Tol nodded, then walked slowly away, head hung in thought. His injured cheek ached, reminding him of his earlier brush with the life of a soldier.

“I’m not sure I can be a warrior,” he said in a small voice, his hand coming up to touch his wound.

“Don’t judge the life by the blood you’ve seen shed,” Egrin said. “Anyone can be trained to kill. To be a warrior means much more than that. You’ll also learn when not to fight. That’s usually a far harder lesson to master.”

After another silent minute, Tol turned and faced Egrin. “I would like to be your shield-bearer,” he declared, “if my father agrees.”

The warden smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fair enough! Shall we go and ask him?”

The next morning, they left Juramona before the sun had risen. Tol’s farm lay four days’ ride south and west, in the hills beyond the plain he’d crossed with Lord Odovar. Egrin and Tol rode Old Acorn. Accompanying them, somewhat to Tol’s surprise, was Felryn, mounted on a sturdy brown horse.

The first three days passed uneventfully. Egrin explained the duties and responsibilities of a shilder, answering Tol’s many questions. For his part, Felryn regaled the boy with a colorful account of the assassination of the previous emperor, Pakin II, and the subsequent fight for the throne between his son, Pakin III, and the Pakin Successor. Tol still found himself confused by the fact that the Ackal emperor, enemy of Pakins, was himself named Pakin.

“He chose that name to honor his murdered brother,” Felryn said. “Pakin II had taken the name to reconcile the two factions.” He sighed. “He failed.”

Their third night out, they camped on the lee side of a hill, in the shade of a huge boulder. Tol, rolled up in a blanket provided by Egrin, fell asleep almost at once.

He dreamed, seeing himself and the others lying in a semicircle around their dead campfire. Something drew Tol’s gaze upward, toward the star-sprinkled sky. He sensed a presence. Although he couldn’t make out any shape, he felt that someone was staring down at them, an unfriendly someone. He sensed, too, that the formless, hostile watcher was coming closer, dropping directly down on his own sleeping body like a swooping bird-

Tol awoke, sitting up with a cry.

Egrin roused instantly, hand reaching for the sword lying next to him, and demanded to know what was wrong. Tol apologized and explained the dream he’d had.

“The evil was dropping down on me, like a hawk on a mouse.”

Felryn put his head up from the depths of his own bedroll, muttering, “I like it not. Someone else has his eye on you, Master Tol.”

“It was only a dream. Go back to sleep,” Egrin said, settling himself again on his blanket.

“There’s much stirring in the world, natural and unnatural, warden,” Felryn said sourly. “Everything is a portent these days.”

The healer’s words spoiled Tol’s rest for the remainder of the night.