Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Read online

  It was colder than anything he had ever felt before; by the time he had sluiced the mud from his skin, his teeth were chattering.

  He dried himself awkwardly with his sleeping blanket, then spread it out and stretched himself out on its damp surface to dry.

  * * *

  He sat up with a jerk, for a moment wondering where he was, then remembering.

  The sun was high above the fields now, and his clothes and blanket almost dry. He was still hungry.

  He quickly dressed and stood over his gear, rubbing his eyes, then knelt to rub his rifle down with an oily cloth from his bags before wrapping it in his blanket and tying the blanket shut. Well, it was hidden in a manner of speaking, but what it looked like was a rifle wrapped in a blanket.

  Not good enough, he decided as he untied the package.

  Jason took a couple of quills from his fletching kit, tied them to a small stick, and stuck the stick down the barrel of the rifle. Taking his bowie from his belt, he cut a few stalks of corn, stripped off the immature ears and fed them to his horse, then set the stalks down next to his rifle and wrapped the whole bundle in the blanket.

  Now, that looked a bit better.

  To the casual observer, it could easily seem to be a bow and some arrow stock.

  He stood, grinning widely, then caught himself.

  Cowards had no right to smile. He would never smile again, he decided as he wrapped his pistols in oilcloth and hid them in his saddlebags.

  But, still, Riccetti had been right, as usual: Solving even a little, unimportant problem did make the day seem a little brighter, life seem a little better.

  Hitching at his swordbelt, he swung to Libertarian's saddle and gave the horse's reins a firm twitch.

  * * *

  Wehnest wasn't like Home, or even like the smaller-sized towns in Holtun-Bieme. Home houses were wood-frame dwellings and log cabins, built with pine. Both Holtun and Bieme had long favored stone as a building material, although the ramshackle huts that tended to be built up against permanent structures could be anything, but were usually of half-timber construction, wattle-and-daub buildings: oak-framed shacks with walls made of woven mats of wicker, sealed—to the extent that they were sealed—with mud.

  Here, everything except the lord's keep in the distance was wattle-and-daub, with all of wattle-and-daub's questionable benefits.

  Half-timber houses were as drafty as the worst of stone construction, their walls were home to vermin of all descriptions, and—as if that weren't bad enough—they were incredibly easy to burn. Which was why he had outlawed any new half-timber construction in Holtun-Bieme.

  And which also might have explained the guard station on the road. Far off in the distance, Jason could see the lord's guard station, a stone gatehouse around the outer wall of the houses immediately surrounding the lord's castle.

  But Metreyll had long been at peace, and the settlement had overflowed the stone surrounding the castle at the heart of the city; the dirt road was watched by only a ramshackle half-timber building that was more shack than anything else, the shack watched over by two lazy-eyed guards.

  Jason waited with simulated patience while the two guards waved a farmer and his ox cart along.

  He dismounted at a nod.

  "Your business in Wehnest, lad?" the older of the two said. The frown on his lined face was of almost infinite weariness, and both his breastplate and helmet were rusted through in several places: a worn man, wearing worn armor. Not much life left in either.

  "Just traveling through. And I'm older than I look," Jason said as gruffly as he could, ruining the effect when his voice cracked.

  The other guard snickered. "And where from? As if we didn't know."

  "Excuse me?" Jason's hand dropped to his swordhilt. The younger guard was as fast as he was; his sword was halfway from its scabbard when the old soldier raised a hand.

  "Ta havath, Artum, ta havath," the old man said wearily, then turned back to Jason. "It happens all the time, boy; nothing unusual—and, usually, the rejected head here rather than back to the elves. The lords of Home didn't need your sword, eh?"

  Jason wasn't sure what the other was getting at, but playing along looked right. "If you say so." Back to the elves—that had to mean Therranj. It sounded as though the old soldier had mistaken him for a Therranji human.

  The old one nodded. "Thought so. Ten years back, I tried to sign up myself. Looked to be good pay. They didn't want me."

  The younger one—Artum—snickered. "You never were much with a sword, Habel."

  Habel drew himself up straight, and for just a second, Jason could see a trace of the strength that he must have had in his youth.

  "It wasn't my sword that was the problem, boy," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

  Sometimes all a warrior has is his dignity and pride; for a moment Habel's ancient pride threatened to flare into a present fire.

  But the moment passed, leaving Jason almost choked with rage. Not at Habel, and not at the other soldier—Jason was furious with himself. At least Habel had some pride; perhaps, once upon a time, Habel hadn't run, hadn't proclaimed himself a coward.

  "Artum . . ." The old man leaned back against the wall of the guard shack and sighed. "That damned dragon of theirs stared into my soul, and pronounced me unfit."

  Ellegon. His son didn't have any close friends, except for two: Valeran and the dragon. And Valeran was dead; Ellegon would look into Jason's heart, see the coward, and recoil in disgust.

  Jason had never felt so alone.

  "Which village are you from?" the younger guard asked.

  "Is that important?"

  "I say—"

  "Artum." Habel looked at him for a long moment. "No, probably not," he said, becoming suddenly businesslike. With a rough hunk of chalk, he made a mark on the wall of the guard shack. "By nightfall, you are to be out of Metreyll or registered with an armsman—you'll need to either be hired, or show enough coin to persuade him that you're not going to have to steal to eat."

  "I'll be gone before dark," Jason said, sounding more sure than he felt. Where do you go when your life is over?

  "Very well, but if you're after work, Falikos the rancher is hiring drovers. Pay is shit-poor, but I hear the food is good."

  "Thank you; I may look into that."

  "No thanks necessary; it's my job. Now be gone."

  * * *

  The first thing to do was to find a place to stay; while Jason didn't particularly want to show all of his money—how would someone of his age and appearance have come by so much?—surely he could show enough to establish some means of support. The idea of hiring on as a drover didn't have any appeal. Still, he had to do something about getting his horse fed and rested, and himself occupied.

  Where do you go to give up?

  Karl Cullinane had smiled and asked Mother that, once, when she was frustrated with the inability of an apprentice to handle Other Side numbering. Her answer had been to swear at him and redouble her efforts. There wasn't anyplace to go to give up.

  He couldn't stay here long. They'd be after him, lying to him that everything was all right, that it was okay for his son to be a coward—a filthy coward.

  The worst of it was that Ellegon might find him. He couldn't face the dragon, or him, not ever again, not until . . .

  . . . until what?

  That was the problem; he didn't have an answer to that.

  A few days. That was all he needed. Just a few days to settle his thoughts and try to figure out what to do next.

  * * *

  He found accommodations at Vator the hostler's, where he gave his name as Taren, a common name throughout the Eren regions.

  The fat, bald man, after giving Jason's gear a thorough eyeing, insisted on rather more than Jason thought was standard for boarding his horse, but after Jason gave him a hand reshoeing a recalcitrant mule, he changed his mind and offered board and sleeping space in the hayloft above the stables in return for a day's work; he
also agreed to report Jason as employed.

  It seemed a fair deal; Jason nodded and got to work.

  * * *

  The work was hard, but, even dog-tired as he was, he couldn't sleep that night.

  Part of it was the insects that infested the straw; by midnight, he was bitten in half a thousand places. He couldn't use the few healing draughts in his saddlebag; those had to be saved for emergencies.

  Which he was likely to run into.

  There was, after all, a way out. If he could do something, something so important, so brave, that his cowardice would pale by comparison, that would make up for it, at least somewhat.

  Rubbing at yet another bite, he curled himself up in the straw.

  A coward didn't have to stay a coward, not forever.

  My father proved himself when he killed your father, Ahrmin. You're mine.

  He noticed that he was crying again, that he had been silently weeping for so long that his eyes ached.

  I'll work it out, somehow, he decided. The point was that the decision had been made: He'd prove himself, somehow.

  And this time, he swore to himself, I won't run away.

  There were only two questions: how could he . . .

  . . . and could he?

  Jason didn't know. There wouldn't be many chances; would he freeze? No. No, he wouldn't freeze.

  That was the only answer he had: He just wouldn't freeze up again. That was all.

  What was left a man who had lost his honor?

  There was only one thing: resolve. For the time being, that would have to be enough.

  He dropped off to a tentative sleep that was made only of icy nightmare.

  CHAPTER TWELVE:

  An Acquaintance Renewed

  Old friends are best.

  —John Selden

  Walter Slovotsky smiled genially at the old soldier. "So you think he was just passing through?"

  The old man nodded. "That's what he said, yesterday. Did seem to be in a rush. What's your interest? You around when them Home snobs rejected him?"

  Whatever the old man meant didn't matter, and he seemed to be expecting agreement; Slovotsky nodded, and thumb-flicked him the copper coin that had been enough to attract the soldier's interest but not so much as to excite suspicions.

  "Just curious." Slovotsky shrugged. "I knew him when he was younger; thought I might offer him some work."

  "If I see him, who should I say is looking for him?"

  "Warrel," he said, picking the common Erendra name that was closest to his own, his usual phony name. "Warrel ip Therranj."

  As the old soldier knowingly nudged his partner, Slovotsky kicked his horse into a slow walk. Maybe the others were having better luck. Or worse.

  At least he had some information. That was something.

  * * *

  Wehnest was much the way he remembered it: a scattering of buildings and streets randomly radiating from the walled castle at the center; a crude painting by an incompetent artist, colored only in brown and gray.

  It was a market day, though, and the markets were busy, although not as busy as he remembered them. Perhaps because the main trading and feed grains were not ready for harvest, he could spot only two or three traders.

  Still, there was a brisk business in horseflesh; it seemed that another cattle drive for Pandathaway was in the works.

  Could Jason have signed up for something like that? Surely the boy wouldn't be so stupid.

  There was one thing that made Walter smile, although he carefully kept the smile inside: Over in the markets, the slave pens that once had overflowed with enslaved humanity were empty. There was still slave owning and slave trading in Wehnest, but it was a much smaller affair than it had been, and prices had gone through the ceiling.

  The rest of the merchants didn't seem to be suffering, though. Ahead, in front of a half-sunken storefront, a meatseller had half a dozen fist-sized hunks of delightful-smelling mutton turning on a spit over a carefully sized fire.

  Suckered me in, Slovotsky thought, dismounting and holding up a Pandathaway half-copper and pointing with three fingers to three of the servings.

  The seller held up a single finger; Slovotsky started to return his coin to his purse, allowing the merchant to stop him by holding up a two-finger V. Slovotsky nodded and smiled, flipping the coin into the air, drawing a knife, and hacking off the two biggest chunks from the spit before the merchant could catch it.

  When the merchant opened his mouth to protest, Slovotsky carefully set an irritated expression on his face, sticking one of the pieces of meat on the tip of his knife and offering it back to the man, allowing just the trace of flare of his nostrils.

  The merchant thought about it for a moment, decided that it wasn't worth the trouble, and planted a professional grin on his own face, waving Slovotsky along.

  Not bad at all, Walter Slovotsky thought, wolfing down the first piece, taking his time with the second.

  "Nicely done," floated across the noisy crowd to his ears. "I think I taught you part of that."

  He turned to look at the stall across the way; it was marked with the sign of the Healing Hand—

  —and the voice had been in English.

  Doria. He snatched at his horse's reins and headed for the stall, pausing for only a moment to tie the reins to a hitching post.

  Some people age poorly, some gracefully. Doria hadn't aged at all; almost two decades had swirled around her, leaving her untouched. Beneath her white robes, her body was unbent by the years; as she laid a hand on his shoulder, her sleeve fell away, revealing a firm young arm.

  He swept her up in his arms for too short a moment, and then pushed her slightly away.

  "God, Doria, you look good."

  Her face had long lost any look of childhood, but time had etched no lines, the weight of years had created no sag. She could, perhaps, have been as young as twenty, except for the eyes.

  The eyes. They bothered him. It wasn't just that her irises were yellow; it was that they seemed to see too much.

  Doria gripped his shoulder with a surprising strength. "It's good to see you, too." She led him through the stall and into the coolness of the small, dark room beyond.

  There was another Hand cleric inside, a sharp-eyed little woman whom Walter instantly and instinctively disliked. She turned and left without a word.

  Doria waved Walter to a seat. "You seemed surprised to see me."

  Words failed him. "I didn't think they'd ever let you leave. Or . . ."

  She smiled gently. "Or what? Or you'd have come to take me away from all that?" The smile widened as her hand gripped his. "Even if I'd gone with you, what would your wife have said? It's okay, Walter. I've been well. And fulfilled." The corners of her mouth turned up. "As I see you have been," she said, her smile turning it into a double entendre.

  "Yeah. Just last night."

  "Careful." She waved a finger. "But you are irrepressible, you know."

  "It's one of my many charms."

  Her face fell; she cocked her head as though listening to a distant voice. "Walter, we will have to make this short; a rancher has hired me as a healer, to accompany a cattle drive to Pandathaway."

  "Pandathaway?" They were probably all still wanted there.

  She dismissed his concern with a wave. "I'm of the Hand, Walter. There's no danger, although I must leave soon—" Distress clouded her face, and her fingers flew to his temple. Her fingertips rested gently in his hair, unmoving, while an almost electric charge seemed to emanate from them.

  "Karl's son!"

  "Yes, I—"

  "Shh." She closed her eyes momentarily, then reopened them. "This way was faster."

  She was silent for a long minute, her eyes focused on some far-distant point. "I see."

  This new competence was going to take some getting used to, Walter decided.

  Then he decided to get used to it now, and save himself the trouble of having to do it later.

  "Can you do anything?" />
  She shook her head. "None of the Hand will, Walter. I doubt if I could, even if it was permitted; it would take skills greater than mine to pierce the spell around Jason's amulet. The Mother could, if she would. . . ."

  "But she won't."

  "Can't. None of the Hand can help you. Believe me. There's a geas on all of us." She bit her lip, momentarily bringing up her hand, touching a fingernail to her nose in a gesture he remembered from long ago. "It's just because I'm only mainly Doria of the Healing Hand that I can help you—"

  "Doria, I—"

  She held up a hand. "Please, old friend. I can only do a little. Please. Ahira is still much more James Michael Finnegan than I am Doria Perlstein."

  "There's nothing you can do?"

  She licked her lips once, twice, then shook her head. "If I broke the geas, perhaps—if I could. But that would leave me with the spells in my head, at best. No—" She shuddered all over.

  Again, he put his arms around her and held her close. This time, he didn't let go quickly.

  "I missed you," he whispered. Until now, he hadn't realized how very much he missed her.

  They had been lovers, long ago. No, that was putting it too solemnly: They had enjoyed each other, in and out of bed; Walter thoroughly, Doria in the limited way that was all she allowed herself.

  But that was long ago.

  Now, as he held her, there was a warmth, but no passion.

  Warmth would be enough.

  Snaking her arms around him, she laid her head on his chest. "There is only one thing I can do. . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "I can wish you well." She looked up at him, her face wet. "It's not much. . . ."

  Walter had always been kind to Doria; one of the things he had always liked about her was that behind the mask she showed to the world, she was so fragile that he had to treat her gently.

  "It's plenty, Doria." He pressed his lips to her hair. "It's more than enough."

  Nodding, she pushed him away. "But you have to go. If you can find him between here and your rendezvous with Ellegon and Tennetty, this all can still be saved. If not . . ."

  It was as though a curtain descended over her face; suddenly there was no expression in Doria's face.