[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (11 page)

I rubbed my face. “You are certain you want to stay with us? If you come, you're likely to find yourself in the middle of a full-scale war in Oranstone.”

“Better with you, my lord, than out selling myself in the streets.”

“Ah, then,” I said with casual cheerfulness, “you'll just have to hire on with a mercenary band.” I leaned closer to her and purred, “For you know, 'tis an ill-prepared mercenary who doesn't have his own mage to counter the magics sent against him.”

There was a little silence, then she said, “How do you do that? One minute a stupid lout, the next a lord, and an instant later a . . . a . . .”

“Taveln Kirrete at your service,” I bowed with more flourish than grace.

Oreg snickered suddenly. “I'd forgotten about him. He was a mercenary who came to train with the Blue Guard a few years ago,” he explained to Bastilla. “Thought an awful lot of himself, and he left the day after Stala, Ward's aunt, wiped the dirt with his face. Couldn't stomach being beaten by a woman. You play him better than he did himself.”

I bowed shallowly to acknowledge the compliment. Even Oreg didn't see the whole truth. Everyone I portrayed, including the lord, was an act as well. He was gleaned from stories of Seleg and from Seleg's journals hidden in the library. I hadn't been a real person since I was twelve.

“A younger son,” I said out loud. “Too many people have met Taveln.”

“What?” asked Bastilla.

“I can't be Ward of Hurog; he's too likely to get sent to Estian, eh? Everyone knows he's an idiot who belongs in the King's Asylum. I think I'll be a younger son in disgrace and trying to restore his good name. I took horses and money from my home when I escaped in the night with my faithful retainer. . . . Now, let's see, should that be Axiel or
Penrod? Penrod, I believe, he has that old-retainer air about him—and my squire, Ciarra, whom we shall call Ciar because it's safer for her to be a boy. Axiel will be a man we met upon the road, destitute, a fighter whose master died due to illness . . . the scourge. Oreg will be my cousin or bastard half brother or something.”

“Is he?” asked Bastilla, sounding faintly intrigued.

Drawn back from my tale-telling, I frowned. “Yes, but he doesn't like to talk about it.”

“I don't?” asked Oreg, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” I replied firmly.

“What about me?” asked Bastilla leaning forward.

“She's the cause of your disgrace?” offered Oreg.

“No,” I shook my head. “Too melodramatic. I think we hired you at Tyrfannig. An Avinhelle-born wizard stranded at a northern seaport.”

“Rescued from a shipwreck?” she offered enthusiastically. “Stranded too far from home to afford passage back, so I took employment with a likely-looking group of soldiers?”

“Sure,” I nodded. I liked her, and not just because she was beautiful.

“I thought you were against melodrama,” muttered Oreg.

“This is strange,” Bastilla said with abrupt seriousness. “I would never have thought to end up here, so far from home. Cholytes are forbidden to leave the Tower. Some of them walk around with a permanent glow from talking to the goddess. But I never felt her. The potions that we were given to help us reach her never worked on me. The Cholynn was very upset because I did neither the goddess nor the Tower any good.” Underneath the stiffness, I heard shame.

Oreg snorted. “Drugged the lot of you so they could siphon your powers. You don't need drugs for the gods to touch you. Ask the ascetics at Menogue. They have Aethervon's power, enough to crisp the Acolyte Tower,
and their people aren't drained husks after a year's apprenticeship.”

I cleared my throat, hoping Bastilla, Avinhelle-born, didn't know much Tallvenish history.

“Menogue? The ruin outside of Estian? I was told it was destroyed in the Reformation Wars.” Several hundred years ago. “And Aethervon's order with it.”

There was a long silence, then Oreg said, “I'm something of a historian. Sometimes I think I live more closely to the past than the present.”

Of course she accepted it. The truth was much less believable.

“How did you two meet?” asked Bastilla after a moment. “Axiel and Penrod don't know you. You're too young to be as good a wizard as you are; even the Cholynn couldn't teleport herself without a complicated ceremony, and you do it in the blink of an eye.”

I assumed she was talking to Oreg, as I hadn't teleported myself anywhere.

“Oreg's one of the family,” I said.

“Bastard,” confirmed Oreg truthfully enough. “I'm older than I look. There was this spell. . .” His voice trailed off, then started up again briskly. “I decided I wanted to see the family estates. It was easy to get in without anyone knowing, but Ward and his sister found me out.”

He lied as well as I did; use as much of the truth as you can to give the wrong impression. Perhaps it was something in the blood.

 

THE
NIGHT WAS STILL
dark when I awoke to a touch on my shoulder, and Penrod kneeling beside me. I rolled to my feet with as little noise as I could and gathered my sword. I followed him into the woods and back to the rise I'd occupied earlier, where Oreg was waiting.

I saw immediately what he'd brought me to see. Not a half mile away was the unmistakable orange glow of a campfire.

“Have you checked it out?” I asked.

Penrod shook his head.

“Stay here. I'll take a look, but you keep watch. If you see a scuffle, wake the others.”

Walking quietly in the woods is difficult. Doing it in the dead of night with nothing but the light of the moon proved impossible. I was fairly sure that unless the campers were deaf or asleep, they knew I was approaching before I got there.

There was only a single figure visible in the camp. He was wrapped in a thin cloak and perched on a large rock in front of the fire with his back to me. There was only one bedroll.

“I thought it would be safer if you found me than if I tried to ride all the way to your camp,” said my brother conversationally, though I was fairly sure he couldn't see me where I crouched under a nearby tree.

“Staring into the fire is bad for your night vision,” I commented without approaching closer. I couldn't imagine what Tosten was doing here.

“I don't want to study with the harpers in Estian,” he said. “I don't want to be a cooper. I don't want to work as the entertainment for an inn. Most especially, I don't want Hurog.” His voice was tight with strain. “I'm
sorry,
Ward. If not for you, I'd be buried in the hillside with the rest of our ancestors who took the easy way out of this life.”

I sighed and stepped out so the light of the fire made me as visible to his eyes as he was to mine.

“Don't fret,” I said. “You don't know me well, not really. Just enough to know I'm not as stupid as you thought me.” I fed a small stick to his fire.

Tosten had only known what I'd shown him. Our midnight ride to Tyrfannig several years ago had been only
slightly less dramatic than the confrontation last night. He'd been weak from loss of blood and I'd been in a hurry. There hadn't been time to talk.

It wasn't his fault that when I looked at him I saw the cheerful hellion he'd been as a toddler while he saw a stranger who looked like our father.

I spoke again. “Father would have done it. Would have killed you for standing in his way.”

“As he tried to kill you.” Tosten's voice was soft, non-judgmental. “Some Oranstonians stopped at the tavern today. They were cursing a ship that had already sailed. The older one, the dangerous one, said he'd send a man to Newtonburn, but the likelihood was that you—he used your name—were gone. He said Ciernack would have to accept money to replace his slave. It would cost more than they could afford, and the money would come out of the younger man's inheritance. Does that sound right?”

I nodded, glad to turn to less painful subjects. “What did you do, spy upon them?”

“No, I played for them. Likely that everyone heard them for a block—at least the younger man. He was vociferous about his objections to spending the rest of the year in Buril—wherever that is.”

“Buril is Garranon's estate in Oranstone. Landislaw, his younger brother, is court-raised though. He'll view it as the far side of nowhere.” I'd intended on avoiding Buril, but it was good to know for certain. I outlined the events that led to my escape in as few a words as I could.

“So what do you intend to do now?” Tosten asked, the firelight shifting over his face so I could not read his expression.

“I'm going to fight a war with Vorsag in Oranstone.”

Tosten, like Axiel, merely nodded, leading me to question his sanity, too. “It might work. War heroes are hard to dispose of neatly.” There was no doubt in his voice that I'd be a hero.

“So I thought,” I agreed.

Tosten tucked his head down, hair falling over his face. “I would like to go with you.”

It was guilt. He'd hurt my feelings and wanted to make up for it.

“Go learn from the minstrels in Estian,” I said. “I have enough fighters.”

“I'm good, Ward. You know that.”

He was. Oh, not like Father and me. His technique was speed and agility not strength, but that made him no less deadly, no matter what Father had said. Tosten would strengthen our party. Five fighters and a sorceress, with only Ciarra to guard.

“If you want to help me, I could use you in Estian,” I said. “I need somewhere safe for the Brat.”

His face came up, and I saw the same stubborn look that Ciarra had. “I'll not go to Estian. You don't have to let me travel with you, but I'll follow. Don't forget I have plenty of money to travel.”

I closed my eyes. There were many reasons to welcome him and only one to send him away. I didn't want to put my brother in danger. I'd take a look at the situation in Oranstone. If it looked too bad, I'd send him away with Ciarra. He'd go if it was to protect the Brat.

“Get your bedroll,” I said. “You might as well camp with us now.”

I helped him put the fire out and gather his things.

 

WHEN
DAWN CAME
, I
called everyone together. Ciarra sat near Tosten, occasionally patting his face as if to reassure herself he was really there. Tosten kept sliding unobtrusive glances at Oreg.

“From now on,” I said, “we are a team. We work together, helping each other if we can. Every morning, we'll
train. For today, Axiel will teach Oreg, Bastilla, Ciarra, and Tosten.”

“Axiel,” I continued, “I don't know how much Oreg and Bastilla know. Ciarra is a beginner, and Tosten, you remember, is very good at knives and hand-to-hand. Penrod and I will work out together. In the evening, I'll work out with Axiel and Penrod with Tosten. As we improve, we'll change things, but training means survival, so we're going to train as hard as we can and still travel.”

 

THE
PACE
I
SET
, both in training and travel, was brutal. We all lost weight, even the horses. A week of hard traveling saw us roughly three days outside of Estian.

“Elbow in, Bastilla.” I called, watching her fight with my sister.

She'd known quite a bit about fighting, proving the reputation of the Cholytes was not undeserved, but she hadn't had my aunt as a teacher. Bastilla's footwork in particular was still rudimentary, partially because her feet were still tender. Ciarra, smaller and younger, was a much better swordswoman.

My sister hardly looked like the delicate child she'd seemed in Hurog. Hard muscle shaped her arms and shoulders as she countered one of Bastilla's swings.

Penrod tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to Tosten and Oreg's bout. Frowning, I walked across the camp and observed them.

Like Ciarra, Oreg had thrived on our journey. His horsemanship had improved until he could ride most of the horses we had with us. His fighting was indeed somewhere between mine and Ciarra's, but much closer to mine. Watching him fight with Tosten was like seeing two flitting shadows, one gold, one dark. Their hands moved so fast it was hard to follow the action, which was why Penrod had called me over.

My brother's fighting had been rusty at first, but he'd quickly improved. It was his attitude that remained a problem. Like everyone else, he'd accepted that Oreg was a bastard relative, but it only seemed to increase his resentment. In truth, Tosten seemed so unhappy, I wondered why he'd chosen to come with us. He barely spoke to anyone except Ciarra. Oreg, he despised. Had Oreg been a normal boy, I'd have been worried for him. Instead, I worried about Tosten.

Oreg was having to work at keeping Tosten's sharp blade away from his body.

“Remember, this is practice, Tosten, not an all-out,” I called and watched grimly until the fervor of his strokes diminished.

Axiel looked up at me from where he was fixing our breakfast and nodded his agreement to my words.

“Axiel,” I said, keeping a wary eye on Tosten and Oreg. “Tell me about the siege at Farnish Keep.”

“Not Farnish Keep again,” gasped Oreg, ducking my brother's sword. “Please, anything but that.”

Axiel was a better fighter than even Stala, and under his tutelage, I was fast improving. Better yet, he had a firm understanding of army tactics. Penrod was quick and clever. He quite often beat me in training bouts. At every opportunity I picked their memories for campaign stories about Oranstone, about fighting battles, and about strategies for winning. They teased me about it, but they talked until they were hoarse because I asked it of them.

Axiel began with the mistakes the defenders made. I listened and learned.

After breakfast and stories, we rode through grasslands all day. The travel was easier on the horses than the rough coastal roads had been, but it was disheartening for the riders. One mile looked much like the last and the next. It was difficult to believe we'd ever see Oranstone.