Fool's Errand (39 page)

“Well,” continued Duncan, “we captured a Hobgoblin prisoner we are bringing back to stand trial. Other than that, unless you scouts have started carrying ponies and wagons in your packs, there is not much else you can do. Once we get back to Stonehold, we can dispatch a proper team to retrieve the rest of the caravan goods we found. Unfortunately, we found no survivors of the ambushes and less than a tithe of what was actually taken.”

They continued the rest of the journey to Stonehold without incident. Duncan was glad to see his old friend, and they spent the rest of the journey catching up on the things that had happened since they had last seen each other. It seemed loquaciousness was one of the traits Ragar shared with Duncan.

Arriving at Stonehold, they met with Captain Tropham and his men in the guesthouses. Kylor had regained consciousness and was already back with the troops. He refused to remain in the healing houses and face the relentless chiding of his brother for “lying abed all day.” Apparently, the two brothers had taken Kohana with them and gone off to explore the pleasures of the Mountain Spring Tavern. Upon hearing this, the remaining
bezrek
gained permission from their captain and set out to join the trio. The Adami had a head start, but Duncan was certain that the Durgak berserkers would catch up in no time.

Duncan sent a messenger with the remaining manifest lists to the Ministry of Commerce along with a request to Field Marshal Bonecrusher that an escorted caravan be assembled to go and retrieve the unclaimed goods still in the bandit caves. Donovan thought it best that he hold onto the coins until a proper council could determine how they might be distributed to the merchants who lost caravans to the ambushers.

“You are right in your caution, brother,” Duncan told Donovan. “If these coins were turned over to Minister Longnose, handling fees and processing charges would be levied until only the empty chests remained to be given to the hapless merchants.”

“Aye,” Donovan laughed. “They have already been raided by bandits once, no need to let the renown greed of Longnose and his cronies victimize them a second time.”

Durgak were generally good and honest folk, but there was something about the heat of battle and the sparkling shine of gold and silver that tended to blind many of Duncan’s people to all other matters of conscience. It was often said that all one needed to turn a Durgak into a Hobgoblin was a pile of coins and a wall of enemies between it and them.

The following days were spent meeting with the council and burying the dead. There was a great deal of sorrow for the families of the departed
bezrek
. Duncan took the time to exercise his priestly duties by accompanying Donovan to visit each of the families of the fallen warriors.

Envoys were dispatched to Aton-Ri with news of the deaths of Captain Tropham’s fallen troopers as well. Tropham and his remaining seven troopers stayed in Stonehold. Until Captain Gideon returned from Cyria, Tropham told Duncan that his duty had not yet been fully discharged. The hospitality of the Durgak, however, helped to ease the hearts of the Adami soldiers wracked with the loss of their friends and comrades as well as longing for the comforts of home.

The one bright spot during the waiting days was Duncan making good on his promise to see Kylor through the ritual of The Washing. The Washing was only an outward sign of the inward change, which had taken place in the heart of a human who had turned their heart to faith in the One Lord. There was nothing magical or transformative about it, but it merely served as a witness to others of the intended direction of the believer and was an identification ritual for those who chose to follow.

“Well, lad, I promised you a river Washing, but with events being what they are, I would be honored if you would allow me to conduct your Washing in the temple to the One Lord right here in Stonehold.” Duncan continued, “Of course if you like, I am sure I could arrange for the high priest himself to perform your Washing.”

“No,” Kylor responded immediately. “Although I’d heard many of these truths growing up, no one ever helped me put the pieces together the way you did. You invested your time and your care into explaining to me the whole truth. I can think of no one else I would rather perform my Washing.” This sentiment pleased Duncan considerably.

Kylor’s brother, Bardrick, was less thrilled with this development in the life of his twin. He did not understand why his brother was suddenly becoming religious.

“Blazes, Kylor, isn’t it bad enough that you learned how to traipse around in tights, shooting things with little pointed twigs instead of sticking with your brother and really learning how to fight? This, though, really takes the cake. Now you are going to join a monastery?”

“Hardly, brother,” Kylor patiently responded. “The followers of the One Lord are found in all walks of life and all professions. Not only priests and monks serve Him. This changes nothing other than my understanding of where my eternity lies and my agreement to follow what He expects of me as I walk through this world. Perhaps, brother, if you have the time, I would be glad to explain things in more detail.”

“Flaming horse cookies, I hate this already. Here I go and make an obvious poke at you, and you don’t even bother to poke back. It’s like you are all serious all of a sudden. If that’s what this change means, I don’t want any part of it.”

“Brother,” Kylor continued with patience filling his voice. “I am still the same person you grew up with. I am the same brother you sat on while punching him in the chest. I am the same brother you force-fed mud pies. I am the same brother who was always smarter, faster, and better-looking than you all our lives. Don’t worry, none of that is going to change.”

With this last jest, Bardrick visibly relaxed as a smile crept across his face. The whole “better-looking” joke was something Kylor often used despite the fact that they were identical twins. With this, Bardrick knew his brother’s sense of humor had not completely abandoned him.

“Well then, I’m still not sure I understand it, but if you being all religious and stuff doesn’t mean we still can’t joke around, or that I can’t still feed you the occasional mud pie, then I guess I got no real grumble with it.”

The ceremony was wonderful, and all of the caravaneers were present. Even Arreya returned from Aton-Ri just in time for the ceremony. The look on Bardrick’s face showed that his gruff and objectionable manner had been a mask. He watched his brother’s Washing with his face beaming with pride at the love and adoration that poured out from the assembled friends and Durgak strangers who attended. The only ones missing were the heroes on their way to Varynia. Hopefully, they would soon return with whatever news they discovered. In the meantime, the members of the company waiting in Stonehold could only keep waiting. For Bardrick, spending a few extra days, enjoying the masterful brewing skills of the Mountain Spring brewmasters was not a delay he would regret.

Thatcher’s nearly two hours of tossing and turning provided little rest. He awoke as the slightest hint of the dawn’s warm glow crept over sliver of eastern horizon nestled between the northern and southern slopes of Dragon Pass. Captain Tropham and a few of his troopers were already busy about the camp. Thatcher doubted they had slept at all, but of course, their journey would only be half a day back to Stonehold. For those heading for Cyria, their travels would take at least a week there and back. Depending on their reception in the capital city of Varynia, it could be considerably longer.

Apart from giving of the coins to Tropham, which he had already decided to do, the thing that was disturbing his restless mind most was Jeslyn’s comment about his crossbow being useless on the back of a horse. He had been so proud of his invention. A repeating crossbow was an amazing revolution and had increased his ability to defend himself from a distance considerably. He had not shared the secrets of its mechanism with anyone, but he knew many of his guild-mates envied his cleverness.

Thatcher had a knack for new ideas as far back as he could remember. Building things better just seemed to come naturally to him, and when he got a puzzle or a new idea into his head, he was unable to let it go until he had a solution.

His camp was simple enough to break. He didn’t really own anything beyond his weapons, thief’s tools, and a raggedy bedroll, so while he waited for the others to rise and pack, he used the dim light of the predawn to scratch out his thoughts on his most precious of possessions—his notebook.

Paper was not common, and it was expensive. Quills and ink were relatively easy and cheap to find, but having something to apply it to was always the issue. He kept his notebook as secret as possible from his guild-mates, for they would have ceaselessly ridiculed him for wasting good coin on such a useless dalliance. This notebook, however, was the center of Thatcher’s hopes and dreams.

It contained marvelous imaginings, many of which he had brought to life already, such as his repeating crossbow. Others were beyond his ability either due to the expense of the materials it would take to manifest them or because there was still just one little glitch or two to work out that awaited further inspiration. Now the task was to answer the snarky comment of the Rajiki archer girl.

As he puzzled, he realized that solving the bulkiness issue with his crossbow would have applications and benefits far beyond firing from the back of a galloping beast. As a rogue, he often had to negotiate delicate situations like the corridor blade trap back in the raider lair. His crossbow and even his longsword had been far too bulky to take with him on that twisting and tumbling journey past those spinning blades. If he only had a smaller weapon, not much bigger than his dagger, then he could have traversed the trap and arrived at the end with firepower far beyond his trusty stiletto. That was it, a one-handed version of his crossbow!

He began to sketch out the possibilities, pausing only a time or two in order to calculate the tension requirements and the scaling for the bolts. Then he hit a wall. Wood small enough to be feasibly fashioned and pulled back by a counter lever in such a small device would require tensile strength enough to propel a much smaller bolt with enough power to penetrate light armor. Wooden arms capable of such tension, however, would be incredibly difficult to recock, and would lose resistance over time. Without a solution to this issue, he would have to regularly plan to replace the necessarily custom-made cross arms, creating an ongoing cash sink. Wood was not the answer. He would have to think of something else.

Thatcher was so consumed with working through the glitch in his idea, he did not even notice Melizar slipping silently up to him.

“Looks like you have been quite busy before the sun has even shown its face, my friend. Anything I can help with?”

“Oh,” Thatcher answered, startled a bit by the mage’s proximity. “Just some idle doodling. I’m not sure the idea is even worth the breath to explain it.”

Thatcher knew mages, by nature, were brilliant. When it came to practical, mechanical things, however, most of them were as out of place as a bull in a pottery shop. Their powerful minds were more accustomed to unlocking the mysteries of hidden power and the intricacies of
kashaph
than working through the physics of the natural world. They bent the laws of nature, they did not figure out how to work within them. He doubted his magical companion would be much help with the tension problem, but there were things he needed to discuss with Melizar before they left for Cyria.