Fool's Errand (15 page)

“Apparently with the money these merchants saved on their ragtag mercenaries they splurged on hiring at least one knight to come along for the journey. Captain Garan’s heraldry will also mark his presence heading west toward Cyria as reasonable. I hope that the bandits will assume the merchants persuaded him to travel with the caravan for their safety. A single knight, even one the size of Captain Garan, should not be enough to deter a determined group of bandits. Still and all, let’s have two more of Captain Tropham’s footmen hide in a wagon just to help offset the strength shown by our valiant knight.”

Xyer Garan was considerably irked at his inability to provoke the northerner. Thus far, he had failed to bait the Parynlander into a fight at the council meetings, and now he found himself unable to get a rise out of a Qarahni. The northern clansmen were notoriously hotheaded, so something definitely strange was afoot with this group.

Xyer prided himself on battling in self-defense, but that was because of his talent of goading men into drawing steel against him with only a few words. The fact that neither the Parynlander Gideon, nor any of his companions, seemed willing to be provoked was both interesting and frustrating. He had never seen men exhibit such self-control. It was impossible that these men were acting normally. He was certain they had colluded about this feigned passivity to provoke him even more. Well, he had not begun to plumb the depths of his powers of obnoxiousness. There would be ample time on the road to test their resolve to maintain calm demeanors and peaceful hearts.

As the morning sun crested the horizon over the Sea of Zimri, spreading golden rays of new day’s hope across the port city of Aton-Ri, the caravan of intrepid adventurers set their feet upon the westward road toward Dragon Pass and the Durgak metropolis of Stonehold at the heart of it. It was late spring and the warm morning sun on the back of Thatcher’s neck offset the slight spring chill in the air. Fields of flowing green grass glistened with the morning dew, punctuated only by sporadic patches of farmland tilled and planted in ordered shapes among the otherwise freeform meadow. A handful of farmers, busy in the early morning with their spring planting, stopped briefly to observe the faux caravan before returning to their labor.

Thatcher was truly an adventurer now. It was his plan that this force of experienced warriors were marching to carry out;
his
plan! The very idea of it consumed him. Suddenly, Thatcher glanced at his wagon-mate and caught Kohana staring at him as though he might have grown a second head. The young thief, taking quick stock to determine the reason for his companion’s strange stare, realized he was grinning madly with contentment. Kohana would just have to get used to it, for now anyway. Contentment was rare nowadays, and Thatcher was going to relish the feeling while it lasted.

The well-traveled road from Aton-Ri to Stonehold was smooth and impeccably maintained. Bolstered by good weather and mounted on an endurance fit Rajiki horse, one could cover the hundred-fifty miles or so in three long days of riding. Their journey, despite the clear and favorable climate that accompanied springtime in southern Rajik, would take considerably longer.

They had men marching and mule-drawn carts. Since the ambushes occurred west of Stonehold, with care they could rotate the troops between marchers and the riders in the wagons. This would reduce the need for rest to some degree, but if they were to sell the illusion of a lightly defended merchant caravan, once they passed Stonehold, there would be no further switching. The troops in the wagons would have to find ways to stretch and stay limber and battle-ready in the close quarters, and the caravan would need to proceed slowly enough to assure the marching troops were still fresh for battle whenever it came.

The journey would take seven to eight days at the distance the mule carts and marchers could cover per day. The swift, feline huntress Arreya seemed impatient proceeding at such a crawl. She often bounded considerably ahead of the group, sometimes well out of sight, scouting the terrain ahead. The relative peace within the borders of Rajik, however, yielded little of interest to report.

During one such report, Thatcher heard her informing Tropham, with much excitement in her voice, that she had spotted a small hunting party of Centaurs far off in the distance.

“That’s nothing to worry about, Arreya,” Tropham replied. “Centaurs have little interest in the road or the traffic on it. They are no danger to us.”

She looked disappointed.

“So you don’t think they will come to meet with us?” she asked.

“Doubtful,” answered Captain Tropham. “Centaurs are pretty standoffish. I suspect once they realize we are not a threat, they will move on.”

Thatcher agreed with Tropham’s assessment. Free roaming nomads of the plains, the reclusive followers of the Malakim known as Raphaela, the healer, lived in harmony with the Rajiki tribes. The young girl, Jeslyn, and her missing father, belonged to one of the southern Rajiki bands, the Blue Arrow tribe.

 The Rajiki, like the Centaurs, are nomadic, frequently visiting Aton-Ri to trade hides and rare herbs they gather as they move about. Well-made Rajiki arrows are highly prized by serious archers across all of northern Ya-Erets.

The most poignant fact Thatcher knew about Rajiki was to give them a wide berth when practicing his thieving trade in the city. Thatcher’s guild master, Magar, regularly advised the Aton-Ri Rogues Guild against picking Rajiki pockets. The nomads are keenly aware of their surroundings, and many ambitious young thieves died with one hand in the pocket of a Rajiki hunter.

Rajiki vigilance is exceeded only by their archery and equestrian skills. A loose collection of feudal bands, Rajiki nominally acknowledge fealty to the Sultan of Rajik—the greatest of their warlord chiefs who makes his home in the city of Klalih’. Thatcher had heard from Aton-Ri merchants that Rajiki have a few large settlements in fixed locations, but mobile villages following the herds of deer and wild cattle roaming the plains populate most of southern Rajik.

During a rest break, Thatcher approached Arreya. With a few well-turned phrases he might leverage his personal knowledge of Centaurs to raise his position in her eyes another notch or two.

“So, Arreya, you ever seen a Centaur up close?”

“No,” she answered eyeing the young thief with a guarded look as if preparing for another tall tale. “I have heard tales of the Centaurs from travelers visiting the Djarmangara, but none live there natively.”

“Really?” Thatcher said, with a rise in his voice. “I thought Centuars were common everywhere. They are common enough in the northwest.”

“The tight constriction of the jungle underbrush is far too restrictive for their large bodies. One must be small and sleek to move easily in the Djarmangara. I have always found them fascinating. Do you know much about them?”

“I know some,” Thatcher replied, not wanting to overstate his passing understanding and wreck her estimation of his abilities and knowledge. “Centaurs often travel with Rajiki to Aton-Ri and Stonehold where they trade handicrafts. Centaurs are amazingly skilled woodworkers. Adami with enough money to afford them highly value genuine Centaur carvings.”

“So they gather much gold from their handicrafts?”

“Not really. Gold is of little use in Centaur society, but they have learned well the value it carries when seeking steel weapons and armor from Durgak and Adami smiths. Metalworking is almost unknown among Centaurs and Rajiki blacksmithing is unrefined, thus quality steel is highly prized by both.”

“I have always dreamed of seeing one up close,” she said. “Do you think we might meet any on this journey?”

“I’m not sure,” Thatcher said, laughing slightly, “but your predatory appearance would doubtless prove unsettling if you tried to force the question.”

“I see,” Arreya nodded. “I might not get much beyond the range of a bowshot.”

“Perhaps,” Thatcher said, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “If you spend enough time in Aton-Ri you may have an opportunity to meet one of the traders under safer conditions than charging a herd of Centaur hunters in the open plain. When we are back in the city, I would be happy to take you to the open square in the metalworking district where they come to trade.”

She smiled, but Thatcher saw a lingering hint of doubt behind her eyes. She still didn’t trust him yet. Given time, he would see that change.

Goldain called for everyone to mount up again. The prince seemed determined to make the best time possible even with the slow pace of the mule train.

“Everybody prepare yourselves,” the Qarahni commanded. “Today we eat our noon meal on the road from your pack provisions. Barring any emergency, we won’t stop again today other than a brief moment or two to feed and water the animals and rest them as needed.”

 True to his word, Goldain did not call for a stop to make camp until the last rays of the setting sun dipped below the peaks of the Dragonspine Mountains. Rarib the bard had sung for a good part of the day, lifting everyone’s spirits and lulling them almost into a daze. The hours seemed to fly past with hardly a notice. All in all, the Qarahni prince felt things were going far smoother than he had expected. Though the day had been long, it passed uneventfully. The weary prince looked forward to a quiet evening and some well needed-rest for the animals and marching troops.

Unfortunately, that was not in the cards. One of Tropham’s marching troopers sprinted excitedly up to the weary Qarahni as they began to make camp.

“Uh, your highness, there is a problem.”

Goldain could never get used to the honorifics his brothers coveted so. He was the seventh and youngest son of the king of the Wolf Clan Qarahni.

“Trooper,” Goldain corrected, “when I hear
your highness
I begin looking over my shoulder for my father, so simply Goldain will do.”

The real claim to fame of his father, Aerik, a great warrior chieftain in his own rights, was his groundbreaking peacetime policies. Under Aerik’s rule, the Wolf Clan ceased being fearsome raiders and turned to seeking ways to make peace and promote profitable trade with other nations. The peaceful policies aimed not only toward foreign nations, but also at the other two Qarahni nations, the White Wyrm and Bear Clans.

Goldain’s charge was to extend these policies to the city-state of Aton-Ri as well as other nations even further afield. He took his mission seriously enough, but he valued personal enjoyment nearly as much as he did pleasing his father. Fortunately, conducting a serious mission and enjoying life to the fullest were not necessarily mutually exclusive objectives.

“Now,” the prince continued, “what is the problem?”

“There is no water,” the trooper answered.

Goldain paused for a moment before responding, cocking his head slightly sideways. He was quite certain he had heard incorrectly.

“What do you mean no water?” he asked with a rare scowl on his face pointed at the trooper he fully expected must be enacting some sort of bad joke.

“Sir,” the trooper fidgeted as he continued his report. “We went to the barrels in the cook’s wagon to refill our canteens and found Cookie there, swearing and ranting about no water. I asked what the problem was, and he asked which idiot had been in charge of filling the water barrels.” The trooper looked a bit sheepish, “Those were his words, sir, not mine.”