* * *
The caravan was encamped a day’s journey from Fedal, a southern Itko Kan city, and termination point of the main north–south overland trade route. At the sprawling caravanserai grounds – a broad meadow of trampled grass – fires were lit against the dark and animals were being brushed, fed, and cared for.
As was usual, Dassem went for a long walk through the night. This time, however, he was alone. Shear no longer even spoke to him, save to lower her masked head to him in passing as if she were his subordinate, which, he knew she now believed herself to be.
It was autumn; the grass was dry and brittle and snagged at his trousers. There was an early chill to the air; he’d overheard some merchants attribute this to the Sea of Storms just to their south.
He paused in the dark to look skyward. Old familiar stars glowed above the southern horizon. The constellations of his youth: the Spear, the Cart, the Sky Mother.
Tomorrow they would part. He would carry on to the coast to take a ship out to Malaz Island, which he’d heard described uninvitingly as cold, rainy, and dreary. While she, he understood, would return to her island home far away.
He ran a hand through the tall, sharp-edged grasses. Should he simply allow that to happen? Shouldn’t he return, ask her to accompany him and Nara? Why not?
After standing silent for a time he let out a long slow breath. No; Hood had not taken his eye from him. He was certain of that. The Grey Walker held some special fate in store for him. Some stern lesson for his defiance.
He would not embroil her in that.
Yet shouldn’t that be her choice? He could warn her of the dangers and let her choose …
He half turned back to the distant flickering fires of the encampment, then quickly sank to his haunches amid the tall sighing grasses.
Weapon oil and sweat.
Then, the brush of ring-mail, and the faint click of a crossbow setting.
He reached down to his waist only to remember that he’d left his sword behind.
And is Hood laughing now. Mortal Sword indeed! Ha!
He lay still, listening. From what he could piece together it sounded as if a wide, staggered picket line just passed his position, closing on the caravanserai. Crouched still, he padded along behind the nearest of the individuals. To his benefit it was a dark night, and none of the figures carried any source of light – no doubt being guided by the fires of the camp. He took the man from the rear, clamped his hands round his neck just long enough for unconsciousness, then lowered him into the grasses. What he found, a ragged patched hauberk over a stained old Kanian uniform, confirmed his suspicion: outlaws, or renegades.
Through this gap in the picket he hurried inward, still crouched for a time, and jogged for camp.
The main body of the outlaws entered the caravanserai even as he closed. Panicked shouts arose but thankfully no screams or clash of blades – yet.
He pushed through the milling families and groggy fretful merchants to a position across a fire from where Shear stood with Horst Grethall. The fat-bellied caravan-master had his arms in the air and was shouting for calm.
Shear, of course, spotted him amid the flickering shadows. In the firelight her mask seemed to swim with a kaleidoscope of rich colours. Her blade was not drawn, as yet. A hand low at her side gave a slight flat wave – wait.
‘No need for any violence, Luel,’ Horst was saying to one of the outlaws. ‘You’ll have your payment.’
‘Tithe,’ the man clarified, rather archly. He wore a faded officer’s surcoat over a hauberk of scale. He was bearded, and his hair was long and bedraggled, suggesting he’d been camping in the field for a great many months. ‘Our legal due for keeping the roads safe here, so close to the Dal Hon border.’
‘Safe from whom?’ Horst grumbled under his breath.
The former officer chose magnanimously to ignore the complaint. He gestured to his men and women, all probably his own troops, and they set to searching the wagons.
Dassem’s hands clenched as bolts of cloth, blankets, baskets and cooking utensils came crashing out of the wagons amid protests and shouts.
‘You are searching all the wagons and carts?’ he called to the retired – or cashiered – officer.
Luel turned his way, searched the dim firelight. ‘All must contribute to the tithe.’ He squinted, frowning. ‘And you are…?’
Dassem started for his cart.
‘Stop that man!’ Luel bellowed.
Dassem threw down a number of the outlaw soldiers nearby but had to halt as numerous crossbows were levelled against him. He stood, waiting, while Luel marched up to study him closely.
Face to face, Luel said, ‘You are in an awful hurry to reach your goods, my friend.’
Dassem said nothing, fists clenched. His gaze was fixed into the darkness where his cart lay.
‘Forgot to hide something, perhaps? Some gold or silver maybe?’ Luel looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look wealthy, but perhaps it’s all hidden away in your wagon or among your rags, hey?’
Dassem studied the seven glinting crossbow quarrels arrayed before him, with more behind, no doubt. He damned this man for taking what looked like his entire command with him from the Kanian fold.
A bellow arose from the dark, a shout of open terror. ‘Plague!’
Dassem looked to the night sky and mouthed a silent curse.
One of the ex-soldiers came running to Luel, pointing a shaking finger back into the darkness. ‘A cart,’ he gasped, ‘a girl – plague!’
‘It is not plague,’ Dassem announced to everyone.
Luel’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘What’s this? You bring a sick family member south with you?’
Horst now pushed forward, saying, outraged, ‘You told me she was old and infirm!’
‘She is not sick,’ Dassem repeated, stubbornly, but sounding unconvincing even to himself.
‘I’ve seen plague,’ the outlaw told Luel, ‘and she has it.’ He slapped his hands to his mouth, saying, ‘Gods! There must have been sickly vapours in there and they touched me!’
Luel nodded to the fellow. ‘Burn it.’
‘No!’ Dassem lurched forward, then spun as a crossbow bolt gouged his left side, passing on into the darkness.
He stilled, hunched in pain, a hand pressed to his side, panting. Luel watched him warily, then waved his man onward. ‘Go on. Burn it.’
Dassem reached out to Horst. ‘Think, man. How could she be a carrier? Has anyone got sick? Have I?’ But the fat caravan-master just backed away, shaking his head.
The outlaw jogged off. Dassem watched him disappear between the wagons, and steeled himself to follow though it meant a suicidal charge through a hail of crossbow bolts.
Even as he tensed for the leap, a great flash erupted from the nearby fire, blinding him and bringing cries of surprise and shock from everyone. A hand took his arm and he did not fight as he recognized the touch.
‘This way,’ Shear whispered, dragging him along by the elbow.
He wiped at his tearing eyes. ‘What was that? Are you a mage?’
‘No. It is a chemical made by a people north of my homeland. They trade small pinches of it.’
‘That was a pinch?’
She pushed him up against a wagon. ‘Do you begin all your fights unarmed?’
‘Well – it was a spur of the moment thing.’ He blinked repeatedly, struggling to regain his vision. ‘Lead me to the northernmost part of the clearing.’
Shouts and panic now filled the air as the caravan merchants and families sought to flee. Luel’s command-voice rose over the tumult: ‘Find them and kill them!’
Shear took his arm and thrust a weapon into his hand. He hefted it and was appalled by its balance. ‘What is this?’
She was pulling him along. ‘A sword. I took it from one of the outlaws.’