A Cast of Stones (21 page)

Despite the urgency pounding in his chest, he started with the most basic moves: spin, block, thrust. As his shoulders loosened he glided through the more complex forms. Thoughts of Eck and fighting drained away as he lost himself in the poetry of his staff. He moved faster until the ends of the staff buzzed and blurred through the air.

Ru's voice broke the spell. “Stay here, Rokha. I'll get Loman Eck myself.”

Errol grounded the staff. Rokha stepped close. “You flow like water, boy. I sure hope you know how to fight.” Her expression opened, became almost sympathetic. “Eck is a drunk, but drunk or sober he fights dirty. If you let him get close to you, you're finished. Don't ever turn your back on him—even when you think it's finished.”

Between the wagons stepped Ru and a big ugly man carrying a pair of sticks with heavy wooden knobs on the end. Errol judged the sticks—punja, Rokha had called them—to be about the length of a sword, maybe a bit longer.

Eck took a pull from something in a bottle and wiped his mouth, leaving a dirty smear across his face. “You brought me here to fight this?” he spat. A long scar down his cheek puckered with his disgust. “Did you tell him to write his death letter?”

Ru pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve, hid a smile from Eck behind it. “You know the rules, Eck. No killing blows. Rokha is here to make sure you both survive.”

Eck leered at Errol before turning back to Ru. “Of course, but you know accidents have a way of happening.”

Rokha tied Midnight to the nearest wagon and returned, filling the space between Errol and Loman Eck. “Ru has already told you the most important rule. No killing blows. Other than that, you fight until someone gives up or is rendered unable to fight.” She turned to Errol. “That means until you get knocked unconscious.”

She turned to Eck. “You got that?”

He waved a punja stick with a flip of one thick wrist. “Of course.” He grinned, gaps showing where teeth had once been. “I'll try to be more careful this time.” Eck's gaze grew intense.

Rokha stepped back. Errol slid his hands along the grain of his staff and removed one of the knobblocks. Eck nodded, waiting. When Errol reversed the staff to take off its mate, Eck rushed him.

Surprised, he flailed, trying to block the blow aimed at his head. He was too slow. The weight of the punja knocked the staff aside, and Errol's vision dimmed as the weapon glanced off his head.

Eck tried to finish him with a blow from the other stick. He ducked. The wind of its passing ruffled his hair. He struck for Eck's ankles with the staff. The weight was all wrong. The remaining knobblock changed the balance. His stroke went high.

Eck grunted as Errol's staff struck him in the calf. “You'll pay
for that, you little whelp. By the time I'm done, you won't have a whole bone left in your body.”

Errol retreated, tried to open space so he could remove the other knobblock. Eck pressed his advantage, swinging blows so quickly that Errol could only defend. The weighted knobs struck his staff so that his hands stung. He fought to hold on.

Blood trickled down his scalp and into his right eye. Eck grinned and circled to that side. Errol tried to back away, but Ru's wagons prevented him. He was running out of room. In seconds Eck would have him pinned and he'd have to surrender.

Or get beaten to death.

Rokha's voice cut through the din of fighting. “Call it quits, boy, before he kills you.”

Errol couldn't spare the attention to speak, gave a brief shake of his head instead. Having no time to remove the other knobblock, he searched for the new balance point of his staff instead. The wood clacked against another wild blow. Errol scrubbed blood from his forehead with his sleeve.

Eck's breathing became labored and his attacks became more frantic. He pressed, swinging the punja sticks as if he meant to break the wood of the staff. Errol parried, slid his hands a couple of inches closer to the knobblock.
Better.
Eck swung again.

Errol moved to parry, felt the back end of the staff catch on the wagon behind him.

Time slowed. Realization dawned in Eck's eyes. Errol wouldn't be able to avoid the blow coming at his side.

He thrust, pushed the end of the staff at Eck's midsection as the punja stick struck him in the side.

Both men collapsed. Air exploded from Eck's mouth.

Errol fought for breath, circled to his right. He couldn't breathe. The harder he fought to draw air, the less of it came. Dark spots appeared in his vision. Dimly, he saw Eck rising, murder in his eyes.

He slid his hands on the staff, searched by feel.

Loman Eck limped toward him, face purple with pain and
rage. One of his sticks lay discarded behind him. He gripped the other like an axe.

Errol's fingers brushed the metallic cylinder on the end of his staff.

The punja stick lifted, rising higher.

He twisted, felt the staff weight come loose.

Air, blessed air, flowed into his lungs.

Eck brought the stick down toward Errol's head. He watched it accelerate, heard displaced air as it came for him.

His hands were in the wrong position.

Errol jerked his head to the left, saw Eck shift his swing. He threw himself to the right, rolling. Eck's foot lashed out, catching him in the hip, thrusting him away.

His hands found the slight indentations in the wood where use had polished the grain. He took a deep breath as Eck picked up his other punja stick, inhaled again and noticed a circle of onlookers.

He spun the staff as Eck approached, exulted in its restored balance. Loman Eck stopped, wary. His advantage of surprise was gone. Blood still dripped from Errol's scalp, but the wound merely trickled now. He could see.

Eck looked about, his gaze darting first at the crowd, then at Errol. With a roar he charged, swinging the sticks as before, but now Errol stood ready. He flowed with the attack instead of against it. The end of his staff parried Eck's blow cleanly. The wood flexed, rebounding, and he pushed it, bending from the knees as his hands spun the ash into Eck's unprotected ankle.

The crack resounded in the stillness. He heard someone in the crowd gasp, but the sound floated past him. He lost himself in the dance.

Even as Eck tumbled, Errol spun, striking hands, head, and knee.

The punja sticks fell from Eck's unfeeling grasp as he landed facedown in the dirt.

Errol grounded his staff, panting.

Rokha regarded him, one dark eyebrow raised in consideration. Then she moved to Eck, put a booted foot on his shoulder, and shoved. After a moment, she nodded and turned to Ru, who stood gaping at Errol.

“I think Eck is done. He's breathing, but I don't think that left hand of his is going to hold a stick anytime soon.” She gave Errol an amused glance, a smirk on her full lips, before turning to the caravan master. “You're going to need a new fifteenth.”

Ru nodded but didn't respond.

Rokha leaned close to whisper in Errol's ear. “He didn't expect you to win. I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but if you bring it to us, I'll make sure you suffer for it.”

Errol pulled a breath against the pain in his side, picked up his staff, and walked over to the caravan master with as much confidence as he could muster.

He stuck out his hand. “Master Ru, I don't drink, but I like to eat. As you can see, I have my own horse. I understand you're headed to Erinon, and—”

Rokha's voice cut the air. “Watch out, boy!”

 15 
Conger's Tale

E
RROL THREW HIMSELF
forward into Ru, sent them both sprawling in the dirt and horse droppings. A muted
thwack
sounded behind him, and he rolled off the caravan master to see Eck kneeling on the ground clutching his head. A punja stick lay beside him.

Ru hauled himself off the ground with as much dignity as he could muster. He brushed here and there at his clothes, now smeared with manure, huffing with indignation. “That's it, Loman. You're done.”

Eck shook off the pain with a shake of his head and stood. He pointed his swollen left hand at Errol. “You mean you're going to ditch me for this, this boy? One decent blow would snap him in half.”

“A blow that you were unable to deliver, Eck,” Rokha said. Her fingers twitched on the hilt of her sword as if she considered thumping him on the head again with the flat of the blade. She pointed at Errol with her free hand. “And that despite the fact you took him by surprise while he was removing the knobblocks from his staff.”

Eck sneered. “Luck. How many people tried to attack the caravan while I guarded it? None.” He pointed at Errol again. “Do you think that a boy with his stick is going to scare bandits off ?”

The caravan master appeared to consider this idea. Rokha stepped forward. “He lost. You laid out the rules, and the boy beat him. As judge, I pronounced Eck unable to continue. The boy knocked him out.”

Ru tried to shrug away his assistant's logic.

Rokha bored in. “Look at the crowd. How many people saw the ending of the match besides your own guards?” She stopped speaking as he took in the throng of people clustered around his standard, gathered by the excitement of the fight. “How long will it take the story to spread that the word of Naaman Ru is worthless? The other caravan masters and their factors will eat you alive. You'll be lucky to ever make a profit again.” She shook her head. “I told you not to let the boy fight.”

Ru's eyes widened. He straightened, pointing a finger at Eck. “You're finished, Loman. The boy will take your place as fifteenth.” He snapped his fingers. “Get your gear and take off.”

Fury burned in the former guard's eyes, and he took a threatening step toward Errol. “You haven't seen the last of me, boy. I'm going to be the worst enemy you've ever had.”

Errol raised his staff, slid his hands to the ready position. “You might be surprised how much I wish that were true.”

Eck's eyes widened at the unexpected response. Then he whirled and stomped off, clutching his weapons to his chest as he left.

Errol watched him leave, his head throbbing. He probed his scalp with his fingers, trying to estimate the damage. He winced. Radere or Adele could have tended the wound with casual indifference, but there probably wasn't an herbwoman within fifty leagues of Longhollow. “Rokha, is there a healer nearby?”

She laughed. The sound caressed his ears with its warmth. “Not likely, boy, but part of being a guard is knowing how to doctor most things. Caravan people take care of their own. Follow me.”

Rokha led him between the wagons. As they approached a
wagon topped with a large arched covering, the man with the puckered scar Ru had pointed out as the first strode up, looking unhappy. “What's your name, boy?”

Errol nodded. “Stone.”

The man snorted. “That's an orphan name. Well, whatever your reason for being here, there are things you need to know. The most important thing is I'm the first. My name is Gram Skorik. When I tell you to do something, do it or you'll end up fighting me, and after I've beaten you bloody, I'll kick you out.”

Errol nodded.

This seemed to satisfy the first somewhat. “Good. You know when to keep your mouth shut. The second thing is this: You'll take one watch out of three every day. Every fifth day your watch will rotate. Since you're taking Eck's place, you'll take his spot in the rotation. We get paid when we make destination and Ru sells his goods.” Skorik grimaced and his nose wrinkled. “Right now he thinks there's money to be made in animal hides. Anything else you need to know, ask Rokha.” He nodded at the Merakhi woman. “She's not only the sixth, she's the assistant factor and more useful than most of the refuse we've got around here.”

He glanced up at the sun, his scar pulling with his grimace as if that golden fire constituted a personal affront. “You have watch in two hours.” The first snorted. “Try to look intimidating, boy. I never liked Eck, but at least he scared off the dregs.”

Errol watched the first slip back the way he came. “When do we leave for Erinon?”

Rokha shrugged. “Whenever the caravan master says, but it should be soon. He doesn't like Longhollow, never has. The horses are rested and the cargo's been loaded, so there's nothing holding us here.” She dug into the back of the wagon, pulled out a pack, and proceeded to rummage through it.

“Bend down,” she said. “This will sting, but if you make a fuss the other guards will make you regret it.”

Fire blossomed on his head as she poured a thick, yellowish liquid on it. The smell reminded Errol of lemonleaf. Rokha
waited a moment, then poked his cut with a finger. His head moved back, but he didn't feel anything except pressure. She threaded a needle, squeezed the skin around his cut together, and proceeded to sew him up with no more apparent concern than she would spare a cloak.

Errol tried not to think about what was happening on top of his head. “What else do I need to know?”

Rokha shrugged. “There's little left to tell. When we leave you'll ride where Skorik tells you, and when we camp you'll be assigned camp duties when you're not on guard. Aside from his taste for fights, Ru's not a bad employer. You'll want to challenge for fourteenth as quickly as you can.”

“Why's that?” He hadn't planned on fighting again unless forced to.

“Because anyone who wants to join up as a guard will have to challenge the fifteenth to do it.”

His mouth went dry as he pictured a long line of men with punja sticks, all of whom looked like Loman Eck, eager to beat him. “Who's fourteenth?”

“Norad Endilion.” She shrugged. “He's a passable swordsman, but you won't have any trouble with him.” She tied off the last knot and returned her implements to the pack. The sixth made to leave.

“What makes you think that? I had a hard enough time keeping Eck from killing me.”

Rokha turned, her glossy black hair lifting slightly in the breeze. It struck Errol then. With her curved nose and tilted eyes, she was beautiful, like a hawk.

Her smile came at him, wide and teasing. “Eck was fifth before Ru busted him to fifteenth for sleeping on duty.”

As he watched her leave, Errol shook himself like a dog coming up out of the water. His stomach growled and he went in search of food. Toward the end of the train of wagons that made up Ru's caravan he found a large flatbed cart piled with foodstuffs and cooking utensils. Next to it stood one of the fattest men he'd
ever seen, almost certainly the cook. He turned at the sound of Errol's approach, his florid face and light blond hair marking him as a Soede.

Errol nodded a polite greeting. “Um, hello. Can I get some food? I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and I'm hungry.”

The man's brows came together like a thunderhead. “You think I'm the cook, boy? You're lucky I'm too busy eating to fight. I'm not afraid of you or your little stick.”

Errol backed away, his hands up. “I-I'm sorry. I figured since you were standing here by the cart . . .”

The man nodded, his extra chin flapping. “You thought somebody as fat as me must be the cook. I should sit on you. We'd see how well you twirl a staff after I broke all your ribs.” Like every Soede Errol had heard, he shaped his words at the front of his mouth so that every word sounded as though it had an R in it.

A man stepped around the side of the wagon, stooped with age. “Everyone thinks you're the cook, Sven. Why shouldn't they? You're as big as a house, and you're never more than four feet away from the supply wagon. Now, move so the kid can get something to eat—that is, unless you've already wolfed down Ru's supplies for the next trip.”

The big man redirected his anger at the newcomer. Errol breathed a sigh of relief.

“One of these days, Grub, I'm going to shut that mouth of yours.”

The old man snorted, the gray wisps of hair on his head fluttering. “Yep. And then you'll have to start doing your own cooking. Not too likely.” He waved an impatient hand toward Errol. “Don't let Sven bother you. I don't think he's ever actually had to fight anybody. He's the second. The only reason he's here is because Ru is the only caravan master that will feed him all he can eat.”

Sven's anger melted from his face, transforming it until the burly man wore a wounded look on his blond features. “I don't eat that much, Grub.” He turned to Errol. “Really, I don't, and
it's not my fault nobody challenges me. I haven't had to defend my rank since I first took it.”

Grub nodded in agreement. “Yep, but you've never tried for first, either, have you, Sven?”

Sven's eyebrows rose until his fleshy forehead bunched into rolls. “I'm fat, not stupid. Only an idiot would challenge Skorik.”

Despite his resolve not to fight unless forced to it, Errol found himself intrigued. In the last three months, he'd witnessed some of the best fighters in the entire kingdom and had been fortunate enough to be trained by one of them. How did Skorik measure up to that? “Is there anyone in the guard besides me who uses the staff ?”

“Jhade,” Sven and Grub answered at the same time. Grub shook his head and went on. “Strange, that one is. She came from somewhere on the other side of the steppes. Hardly ever says a word. Eats by herself. Sleeps by herself. And makes anyone with enough sense to buckle a belt nervous just looking at her.”

“Oh.” Errol's shoulders sagged a fraction in disappointment. “I was hoping to find someone to spar with me.”

Grub's eyes widened in surprise. “You've never been a guard before, have you?” When Errol shook his head, he went on. “I didn't think so. Most of the guards go out of their way to avoid exercise.” He smirked and shot a look at Sven.

The blond man shrugged shoulders the size of hams. “I'll fight when I have to,” he said around a mouthful of bread.

Grub laughed before he turned back to Errol. “She'll spar with you, Stone. If she's not working, sleeping, or eating, she's practicing with the sword or staff. Here.” He handed Errol a large chunk of bread and cheese. Then he pulled the lid off a barrel and dipped a tankard. When he withdrew his arm, Errol smelled the malty fragrance of ale.

Errol took a step back. “Water, please, if you've got it. Else, I'll go find a place to fill my skin.”

The cook shrugged and poured the ale back in the barrel, the picture of indifference. “Got water in another barrel over here.”
He stepped up onto the cart and threaded his way toward the back. A moment later Errol held the same tankard. The ale smell still clung to it. He wanted to drink and puke all at the same time.

He looked up from the tankard to find Grub looking at him, his watery old-man's eyes filled with understanding. The cook nodded. “If there's anything else you need before we break camp, come and find me. On the road we'll eat three times a day, at camp in the evening and the morning and once while we ride. Caravans travel fast. ‘Leagues are money' as they say.”

Over the course of the next few hours, Errol met the majority of Ru's guards. Without question he'd never encountered a stranger assortment of individuals in his life. It was as if the caravan master went out of his way to hire the oddest people he could find. In addition to Skorik and Sven, there was Jhade, the woman Grub had spoken of. She was of indeterminate age and resembled no one he'd ever seen before. From the yellow tinge of her skin to the tilt of her almond-brown eyes, she was unique. She spoke in a heavy accent impossible to identify, and when he asked her birth village, she acted as if he hadn't spoken.