[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (20 page)

Oreg grinned at me suddenly, shaking off the gloomy mood. “I know you. You talk slow and fight hard. You're smart and kind to small children, abused horses, and slaves. You're the Hurogmeten. That's more than most people know about themselves.”

I smiled at him, a grateful smile, as I'm sure Seleg
would have had. The idiot talked slow; my father fought hard. Seleg was smart, arrogant, and kind—and Hurog wasn't mine. I was so good at playing roles, I'd even fooled Oreg. I would just have to make sure I didn't start fooling myself.

 

I'D
INTENDED TO SHARE
the watch with Oreg, but after our talk in the woods, I changed my mind. I'd said too much, and it had left me raw. I gave him first watch with Penrod, which left me with Penrod's usual partner, Bastilla, for second watch.

A rise in the ground not far from camp allowed a fair view of the trail from both east and west. After Oreg and Penrod retired to their bedrolls next to Ciarra and Tosten, Bastilla and I settled on a boulder large enough for the both of us.

“You came back from the village as if it gave you new direction.” She shifted uncomfortably on the hard surface.

“Knowing your enemy and understanding your allies is the best way to win a war, according to my aunt.” I gave her a wry look. “Not that we have any chance of winning a war against Vorsag, mind you, but I've an idea of what they may be after.”

She laughed and took a bit of bread and cheese out of a small pack she'd brought and handed to me. “Eat this. Axiel gave it to me for you. He said if it didn't get eaten tonight, no one could eat it, and you've been eating less as the supplies get lower. You've started to lose weight again.”

I nibbled the stale bread with all the enthusiasm it deserved. How could something be dry and moldy at the same time?

“So you think the Vorsag are after artifacts?” She laughed at my expression. “You asked me if a mage could harvest magic from artifacts.”

I put down the food without much regret. “I hope Haverness's people will be able to tell me for certain.”

“It will be good to do something else besides slogging through marshes,” she said wryly. “I prefer fighting.”

I laughed softly. “Me, too.” That was my father in me.

She touched the corner of my lips with a finger. She hadn't been flirting, so I was unprepared for her touch.

“I keep expecting you to be stupid, do you know?” She traced a line from my mouth to the corner of my eye. My breathing grew ragged despite the effort I expended to steady it.

“It's the eyes. Hard to look smart with cow eyes. And I talk too slowly,” I said.

The feather-light touch of her fingers on my face caused my belly to tighten. It wasn't the first time she'd indicated she would be willing to sleep with me. It was one of the reasons I'd always paired myself with Ciarra or one of the men. Penrod and Axiel might be able to couple without commitment, but I'd never gotten the knack of it.

“I would have thought listening to you would make me impatient,” she breathed, “but your voice is like a velvet drum. I always feel so safe with you.” She held my head with both of her hands while she came up to her knees to kiss me.

She desired me for my body. Women had liked it even when they had thought it belonged to an idiot. Maybe especially when they thought it belonged to an idiot. But she liked me, too. That would make it more than sex, a gift between friends.

Or at least she liked the man she thought I was: strong, competent, honorable, smart.

The echoes of my earlier conversation with Oreg kept me from falling into her spell. As I drank in the smooth-wine flavor of her mouth, I fought for the strength to pretend for a few hours more. One of the things the game with my father had taught me was that half of the success of the
disguise was in the mind of others. My father thought I was stupid, so he ignored signs that I might be something else. Bastilla thought me a hero; the role should have been easy, but it wasn't. I pulled away reluctantly.

“Ward?”

Breathing hard, I rested my forehead on hers, trying to find a reason for my restraint that wouldn't hurt her or me. It was easier knowing I was more recreation for her than serious prey. The Avinhellish were freer about such things than we Shavigmen.

“We can't do this, Bastilla. We're on watch. If we get any further, I won't care if a hundred Vorsagian raiders come galloping down that road.” It helped that the excuse was true.

She snickered and allowed me to break the mood. “A hundred, eh?”

I nibbled down her neck once, regretfully. Then I bounced to my feet and took several steps back. “Maybe a thousand. I'm going to run the perimeter.” I pointed at her. “You stay here.”

She was still smiling when I left, but I knew that I had just put off a problem I'd need to deal with later.

 

CALLIS
LOOKED AS DIFFERENT
from Hurog as possible, given that they were both fortified keeps. Hurog was square, where Callis was round. Callis was perhaps three times as large and built out of native stone. The gray green lichen covering the walls turned the orange stone to a muddy brown.

The gates were closed and barred. Persuading the young warrior in charge of the gate to let me inside proved to be significantly more difficult than finding Callis had been.

His lord wasn't there, which I knew.

We looked like mildewed bandits, which I also knew.
Far worse, we looked like Shavig bandits. We'd grow old and rot before he'd let us in, he informed us with a few pithy adjectives. Judging by the grins from his fellows (who'd gathered around as soon as they noticed something interesting was happening at the gate), they'd be pleased to help us along.

Well, he wouldn't be left on guard for more than half the day. I'd wait and see how the man who replaced him on wall was before I tried any more desperate measures.

We'd picked a few apples from an orchard not far down the road, and Axiel handed me one. It was green and sour but better than stale bread and moldy cheese.

“Where'd that apple come from?” called the guardian of the gate suspiciously.

“Bought it from a man down the road.” I took another bite and smiled around the sourness.

“No Oranstonian would sell our good apples to a Northlander.”

“Well,” I stared at the apple a bit. “I'd not call it good, but he said it was the best Oranstone had.”

The snappy retort lost a little because of the distance the wall put between us, but I saw from his grin he was ready to give as good as he got. The guard was bored, and so was I. Neither he nor I really wanted a confrontation, just a few minutes of stupid Northerner/Southerner, all done in good cheer. Unfortunately, one of his fellows, a young newcomer to the conversation, didn't understand the game.

“That apple's too good for Shavig scum like you!” The hothead had a crossbow, and he nocked it.

My aunt always said you had to watch out for the young ones as they are generally too stupid to understand what's really going on. It had always amused me when she told
me
that.

I caught a glimpse of the gate guard's horrified face and knew that he'd be almost as unhappy if the young man shot me as I would. The walls at Callis weren't as high as
Hurog, maybe only twenty-five feet. Luckily, I was faster with my apple than the guard was with his crossbow. He mustn't have had a good grip, or the apple would just have spoiled his aim rather than knock the bow out of his hand. His weapon fell only a few feet from me.

The gate guard, as senior on the wall, turned on the rash and bowless guard. I couldn't hear what he said, but the boy wilted.

“What's going on here?” The voice rang clear as a bell, though I couldn't see the man who spoke. Judging by the sudden attention of everyone on the wall, it was someone very senior.

I picked up the bow, disarmed it, and tossed it up and over the edge of the wall. I was hoping it would land at their feet just when the senior man approached them. Maximum embarrassment for them, possible entrance for me, as I had stopped the boy without hurting anyone and returned their weapon.

After a few moments, a new face appeared at the wall. His head was shaved from the top of his ears to the nape of his neck in Oranstonian traditional style, but he'd allowed his beard to grow out white and full like a Shavigman. It was a distinctive style and made him easy to recognize.

Haverness's right-hand man, I thought in surprise. I didn't know his name; I don't think I'd ever heard him say more than four words together. He was always at Haverness's side, and so should have been at Estian. Haverness was only allowed at Callis for a fortnight at planting and a fortnight at harvest, which was still a month or more away this far south.

He frowned at me. “Who are you, son, and what do you want?” He asked it in Tallvenish, so I replied in the same language.

“Ward of Hurog. I have some news about the Vorsag.”

“Wait here.” He scattered the guards back to their posts and then left.

Oreg handed me another apple. “So, are we in?”

I took a bite. “I think so.”

If the old fox's shadow had been here alone, he'd have had the authority to open the gate at once or send us on our way. That he'd left the wall implied he was going to speak to his superior, Haverness.

Haverness had always been kind to me. Of course he might not feel the same way when he found out I wasn't an idiot. I wondered what he was doing here; had King Jakoven finally decided the raiders were a threat?

The gate rattled and began rising slowly.

“Mount up,” I called, following my own advice.

We rode through the narrow passage into the bailey proper. Most of the expanse between the walls and the inner keep was cobbled; I suppose they'd have to because of the rain. Spring at Hurog left our bailey half a foot deep in muck. Here it would have been year-round.

Straw had been piled along the edges of the bailey, and tents were set up all along the walls. A quick glance led me to estimate that Callis held at least two hundred more men than she'd been built to. Had the king allowed Haverness to come home and defend his land? I couldn't believe that the old fox would break his word and return without the king's permission. We were met halfway to the keep by Haverness himself and a few servants.

“Ward,” he said. “What are you doing here, boy?”

I started to give him my stupid cow look out of habit but restrained myself. It would be a deadly mistake to let Haverness think I was stupid now. His dislike of lies and broken promises was the stuff of legends.

“The same as you, I imagine,” I said. “Fighting the Vorsag.”

The warm smile left his face at my crisp reply. I dismounted, loosened Pansy's girth, and continued talking to give him time to think. “I think the Vorsag are raiding rather than conquering right now, though. Kariarn has
always lusted after magic. I've just come from Silverfells, and the raiders had left there not a half day before us, killing everyone in the village. My men tell me that the last time they were there—fifteen years ago—Meron's temple at Silverfells claimed a large stone dragon, which is not there anymore.”

“Oranstone seems to have had a beneficial effect on your intellect,” he said.

I gave him a slow grin. “We'll have to recommend it.” I could see from his face it wasn't enough, so I continued more soberly. “My father killed his father to get Hurog, and he half killed me. I was afraid he'd finish the job.”

Shock came and went quickly on his face. Slowly, he nodded his head; he knew my father. “Survive how you can,” he said. “Would you introduce me? I see several Hurog faces, but I can't place them.”

“Haverness,” I said formally. Oranstonians dislike titles, so I gave him none. “These are my men, Axiel and Penrod, who fought under my father's banner and now follow me.” Normally, one wouldn't introduce one's troop to a man of Haverness's standing, but he'd all but ordered me to do so. “And my sister Ciarra.” She gave him a gamine smile in return for his courtly bow. “You're supposed to curtsy, you mannerless ruffian.” She rolled her eyes at me, then bobbed quickly up and down like a serving maid, and Haverness chuckled.

“My brother Tosten.”

Haverness's gazed sharpened on my brother. “I thought he was dead.”

“Who said that?” I asked. I hadn't heard that bit of gossip.

“Your father, I believe.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Tosten, bowing. “My father was mistaken.”

“Bastilla of Avinhelle,” I continued the introductions. “Mage and warrior.”

Bastilla smiled and sank into a graceful curtsy that
managed to look ladylike despite her moldering fighting leathers.

“And our second mage, Oreg, my cousin or some such, who tells me it is possible that Kariarn plans on draining the magic from his artifacts to perform great magic. Also that Kariarn's mages have managed to transform whatever was in the stone dragon into something real. He thinks it was a dragon.”

“Ward?” The voice was familiar, but it was so out of place I couldn't attribute it until I saw one of my cousins hurrying over to us. I could usually tell them apart, but in some strange way, this man looked like neither of them. He'd lost weight, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks—nor smiled in all that time. “As I live and breathe,” he said, sounding as astounded as I felt. (What was my cousin, whichever one it was, doing here?) “It is you. Where did you come from?”

There were no bright scarves tied in odd places, but it was the neatness of his appearance that finally made me guess. “Beckram? What are you doing here?”

He clapped me on the shoulder and ignored my question. “Father will be glad to know . . .” His jaw dropped.

“Tosten?”

“Good to see you again, Beckram,” he answered.