Hordesmen: The Wisdom of Dragons #4 Read online

  Tyber took a deep breath. His hand went to the scabbard, resting beneath the locket, his palm cupping the leather. He glanced at his hip.

  It was a weapon only when he made it one.

  A slight smile passed over his face, then dropped away. He stepped out from behind the cart briskly, purposefully. Nather had taught him that the surest way to get caught sneaking around was to sneak around. Stride with purpose. Look like he belonged. Give no one a reason to glance at him twice. Don’t avoid eye contact, just don’t initiate it.

  “Right,” Tyber whispered to himself. The mule turned its head to him, flicking an ear as he passed. He rounded the lopsided wagon and kept going.

  A woman approached along the side of the road, lugging a bucket or something heavy at her side.

  Tyber took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He was just out for a stroll, stretching his legs after a day spent in the saddle. Nothing strange about that.

  From around the corner of the wagon ahead, Ander stepped into Tyber’s path.

  Tyber’s steps faltered, his toe catching in the trampled grass.

  “Tyber?” Ander asked.

  “Proctor,” Tyber said with a nod. He took a breath. Look normal.

  “Proctor?” Ander asked. “Are we on such formal footing now, recruit?”

  Tyber gritted his teeth. “Uh, no. Sorry. You just surprised me is all. You…” He waved a hand at the shadows. “You came out of nowhere.”

  Ander regarded him in silence for a second. Tyber tried not to tense as he returned Ander’s stare. The dusk hid the proctor’s expression, so Tyber studied his posture, looking for the rigidity of an authority figure ready to express his disappointment.

  “You heading back to the camp?” Ander finally asked.

  Tyber nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’ll join you, then.”

  “Fine,” Tyber said, starting forward and leaving some of the tension behind. If Ander hadn’t said anything about it now, then it seemed unlikely that he knew about Wanlin.

  Ander fell in beside Tyber, and they walked in silence. As they approached the woman lugging the bucket, she passed through a wash of light from a campfire.

  It was Belon. She made eye contact, lifted her chin, and looked away, studying nothing in particular as if Tyber didn’t exist. She carried a bucket full of slops intended for the dung cart no doubt.

  Tyber looked away, and his gaze landed on Petraster the Storied, his students lined in neat rows behind him.

  “She didn’t come to the camp tonight,” Ander said.

  Tyber looked at the proctor.

  “The others came. They brought food for the dragons and the riders. Except you and Rius.”

  Tyber looked ahead, then shrugged. “I fed Rius already.”

  “You’re a sharp one, Tyber of True Gate,” Ander said. “I probably don’t have to tell you that they won’t be bringing you or Rius any more food for the rest of this trip.”

  “I don’t care. If they want to be angry at me for sparing Wanlin’s life, then so be it. Rius and I will eat what we brought and be happy for it.”

  “Actions have consequences, right?”

  Tyber’s shoulders tightened. He forced himself to relax. “It’s petty. On their part. But if that’s how they want to be, then fine.”

  “That’s a very mature attitude, recruit.”

  “Thanks,” Tyber mumbled.

  “Just so I understand this correctly, did I really hear you make that boy swear on the dreams of his dog?”

  Tyber flinched and looked at Ander, ready for the wrath that would take him from Rius forever. Actions had consequences, after all.

  “You did,” he said.

  The shouts of a woman doused the night. It was Belon. Her words were lost in the strangeness of the Seelian language, but the voice itself was familiar enough.

  “Not a word, recruit,” Ander said, then placed his hand between Tyber’s shoulders and pushed him on.

  A mercenary leapt off a stool and charged back toward them, clutching his crossbow.

  Tyber’s hand began to drift to the hilt of his sword, and then the mercenary dodged around them, racing toward Belon.

  “How much trouble am I in?” Tyber asked as excited shouts rose around them.

  “As you pointed out, actions have consequences. And the consequence of your particular action appears to be that you must watch myself and the others eat like kings every night, served by a crew of pretty women, while you and Rius eat your rations.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Wanlin was the horde’s prisoner. I don’t think Hewart can make much of a stink, even if he finds out the truth, which neither you nor I will deny if confronted.”

  Tyber shook his head. “Salt beef and bread will never taste better. Truth be told, I didn’t like the girls bringing us food. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Oh?” Ander said with a glance at Tyber.

  “They don’t do it because they want to. Imrich makes them do it to woo our favor. He wants us to protect his cattle over the rest of the caravan.”

  “The cattle are the most valuable commodity,” Ander said. “There’s no doubt about that.”

  “I think the people are. But he thinks we’re too stupid to do our jobs properly without his bribery. He uses his daughters and nieces like they are just more chattel to make him rich. It’s insulting.”

  Ander let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, but not a laugh either. “You are certainly a unique one, recruit.”

  Tyber glanced over his shoulder. A small crowd grew at the back of the caravan near the dung cart, their faces lit by the fire of torches.

  Let them smell their own stink for a while.

  Chapter 14

  Olsid’s whistle drew Tyber’s attention from the grass below. His heart leapt into his throat and he tried to look everywhere at once, for horses or dragons or whatever fresh terror would come racing after them.

  Wende drifted down the middle of the lane, flying directly over the caravan, heading to the back. The proctor signaled that he was repeating orders. They were to hold formation.

  Tyber’s brow furrowed. Why wouldn’t they hold formation? He twisted around in the saddle, looking for signs of trouble.

  Merilyss spiraled to the ground. Perhaps Hewart had figured out who set Wanlin loose last night and was calling for Ander and Chanson.

  Tyber’s gloved hands tightened on the saddle lip. What of it? Ander had said that Wanlin was a prisoner of Cadwaller. Only Ander and Chanson could hold Tyber accountable.

  Except Merilyss wasn’t approaching Hewart. She sped to the ground in a tight spiral. The dragon aimed for a spot a short distance from the caravan. Chanson wasn’t meeting with anyone.

  The alpha landed roughly. Chanson rocked forward with the force of the impact, his backside lifting off the seat. He slid from the saddle, took several steps forward, then disappeared into the grass.

  Tyber looked over his shoulder. Lambert and Mytalth sailed along behind Rius. Lambert scanned the grass below, looking for trouble instead of watching Chanson, as Tyber ought to be doing himself.

  Tyber rolled his shoulders, then resumed his duty, glancing back now and then at Merilyss until they were too far away to see her. Chanson had yet to reappear. Was he all right?

  Tyber flexed his stiff fingers inside his gloves. What if something happened to Chanson? What would they do?

  As Rius banked around the rear of the caravan, Tyber smiled faintly at the dung cart. It trundled along behind the mule as if nothing had changed.

  Tyber peered ahead to where Merilyss stood in the grass. A moment later, Chanson rose to his feet. He lifted his face to the sky, then staggered back to Merilyss. He grasped the gusset of the saddle, clutching it as he rested his brow on it.

  Something was definitely not right.

  The dragoneer lifted his head, scanned the horde, then began signaling to someone, calling him to the ground. Listico left her place in the patrol and glided dow
n to Chanson and Merilyss. Ander slipped off his dragon and approached the dragoneer.

  Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.

  Rius sailed over the men where they met alongside the road. As Tyber looked back, Ander turned to the horde and signaled for all to come to ground immediately.

  Tyber sat upright, his grip tightening on the saddle’s lip. At each camp they made on their trip to meet with the caravan, Chanson and the proctors had stressed numerous times the importance of maintaining formation while the caravan was in motion. It was impossible to protect the caravan without surrounding it. Yet they were all being called from the air to meet with the dragoneer.

  This was definitely not good.

  Tyber guided Rius to Chanson and Ander. As they approached the ground, the grass swept out as if bowing beneath Rius’ wing beats. She took the ground near Merilyss and lowered her head as the alpha looked her way. Chanson stood beside his dragon, leaning against her with his back and shoulders. His hand rested loosely over his belly. His face was pale with a tinge of green.

  The last of the dragons landed, and Chanson pushed himself to a standing position.

  “I have taken ill,” he said, his voice still strong. “I cannot remain in the air. I will ride with one of the wagons. Olsid will fly Merilyss, and Wende will follow riderless behind her alpha. As long as Olsid is Merilyss’ rider, he will be in charge. His commands are to be followed as you would follow my own.”

  Chanson swayed slightly. His hand went back to Merilyss’ side as he braced himself.

  A dozen or so yards away, Maybelle sniffed at the grass. Ren sat upright on her shoulders, his face resolute, stern and set. His usual air of cockiness was gone, and that was far more unsettling than Chanson’s words.

  “You have your training,” Chanson called out. “You have had more than enough time to form a bond and become familiar with your dragons. You all are capable of controlling them without help from myself or Merilyss.”

  He ended the statement with a pointed look at Ren.

  “Remember that Merilyss is still the one in charge when you are in the air. Dismissed.”

  Chanson waved his hand at them. A twinge of pain or discomfort flickered across his face.

  Leather creaked, then Olsid waded through the grass, emerging from behind Mytalth. He pointed at one of his own recruits. “Get down here and help Chanson to the caravan.”

  Chanson raised a palm in protest and wagged his head. “You should get back in the air. All of you.”

  “Too late,” Olsid said as he approached, then held a hand out to Merilyss. “You’ve already put me in charge. I give the orders now.”

  Merilyss bent her head and sniffed Olsid’s outstretched hand.

  “Though he’s right!” Olsid called as he looked at the recruits. “Back in the air with the rest of you! Resume your formation, recruits!”

  “Up!” Ander called, and Listico leapt into the air, rising on steady wing beats. More dragons followed her into formation.

  Chanson tried to wave off the recruit summoned to assist him, but together the two of them began to walk toward the caravan as it continued its slow, steady pace along the road.

  Another dragon leapt into the air with a snap of wings.

  Olsid pulled himself into Merilyss’ saddle. The alpha dragon regarded him intently over her shoulder. If a dragon could look annoyed, then Merilyss managed it. She looked at Chanson and started to turn toward him.

  “No you don’t,” Olsid called, fidgeting with his heel against the alpha’s shoulder. “Up into the air with you.”

  He looked at Tyber, and in the instant before the proctor put on a stern face, one that suggested he was wondering why any recruits were still on the ground, Tyber caught a trace of grave concern.

  “You’re still on the ground, recruit,” Olsid snapped.

  Tyber raked his heels and tugged on the lip of the saddle. Without hesitation, Rius leapt into the new situation.

  Chapter 15

  Tyber pulled a sack from his saddlebag and turned to Rius.

  Imrich’s daughters and nieces swished about with their platters of food and trays of beef. Belon was not among them. A smile teased the corner of Tyber’s lips. Had she been busted to galley duty for failing to win over his favor? Perhaps that had been why she’d been the one to haul the slops to the dung cart.

  Not that it mattered.

  Tyber breathed deeply as his attention drifted over to the caravan, stalled along the road again. Olsid had slipped off to check on Chanson as soon as Merilyss took the ground. Wende had landed behind them, shuffling next to Merilyss’s side and sniffing at Olsid as if to remind him that he belonged to her.

  Tyber fidgeted with the knot on his sack. His mouth puckered at the thought of salt beef. At least the stale bread helped dilute the salt left in his mouth after the beef.

  He watched as one of the women bent over and placed a platter on Lambert’s lap. The recruit smiled broadly at the food, ignoring the cut of her bodice. The woman looked at Tyber, met his eyes, then looked away again, smiling anew at Lambert.

  The knot fell away from the sack in Tyber’s hand. He would wait until the women returned to the caravan before eating. No point in giving them the satisfaction of seeing him deprived. He would feed Rius while he waited.

  As Ander said, actions have consequences. But he had no doubt that he’d defy Hewart again. And it didn’t seem impossible that he would have to do it a second time before they reached the mother city.

  Quall said something to the woman who brought his food, then jerked his head in Tyber’s direction. She looked at Tyber, then back to Quall and shook her head.

  Quall stood and held his palms up in an act of refusal.

  The woman glared at Tyber. She turned, the hem of her skirt billowing out before she glided away, passing quickly into the path of beaten grass.

  As Tyber looked back to Quall, the other recruit nodded, a slight smile on his lips. He looked pleased to be in on some sort of conspiracy, and then he made his way toward Loymoss’ saddlebags.

  One of the women caught Tyber’s attention. She stood upright and clucked her tongue, her face red. She glared at Ren who grinned broadly at her, his hands clutching either side of the platter she had handed him.

  She spun on her heels and charged back toward the caravan.

  Ren stood, balancing the platter before him. The grin remained firmly on his face as he approached Tyber.

  “I’ll split it with you,” Ren said, lifting the platter slightly. “Halves.”

  “I’m good,” Tyber said with a gesture at his rations sack.

  “Please! Is it any accident that the food they pack for us is worse than the food they pack for the dragons? Here, man. Have half of this. They always bring us more than I can eat anyway.”

  “Share it with Quall,” Tyber said with a nod to the other man, who dug in Loymoss’ saddlebag and glanced at them over his shoulder.

  “Quall?” Ren asked, incredulous. “They brought him food. I can’t feel bad for any guy who turns away these girls. But you, man, they’re just shorting you. It isn’t fair.”

  “It’s fair,” Tyber said. “I defied their leader. So they want to give me a cold shoulder. It’s their right. I don’t care.”

  “Really? You don’t care?” Ren nodded to the sack in Tyber’s hand. “Then let’s see you gnaw off a chunk of that junk and say it again with a full mouth.”

  Tyber smiled. His attention drifted to the platter. The beef was always so tender, fresh, and cooked quickly over a hot fire. Slivers of cheese were arranged around a handful of nuts and some scarlet berries that the women called zettia. Half of a red and yellow apple sat face down, and though it was only half an apple, it was still the size of Tyber’s fist.

  And it would all taste incredible.

  “Come on, man. What are friends for?” Ren insisted.

  Tyber looked at Ren. “Enjoy it. If they find out you’re feeding me, they’ll likely cut you off, too. I’ll
be fine.”

  “To the wilds with them,” Ren said with a shrug. “We’re a horde. If they want to slight one of us, they better wild-well be prepared to slight all of us.”

  “Give it to Quall.”

  “Quall didn’t cut that kid loose.”

  The smile dropped from Tyber’s face, but Ren’s grin grew wider.

  “Ha!” he said. “I knew it. I knew you were responsible. I knew as soon as I heard what happened.”

  Tyber glanced at the caravan as if his secret could be seen by anyone.

  Ren shook his head. “Man, you are going to get yourself in some serious trouble someday. Or worse yet, you are going to get yourself killed. You can’t go through life ready to hand every beaten dog the shirt off your back. It’s going to catch up to you. My father has a saying. He says that no good deed goes unpunished. And he should know. He lost his eye trying to do the right thing, and look what happened to him. He’s a glorified stableboy.”

  “He’s a weyrman,” Tyber said.

  “On the night watch. Glorified stableboy. But the point is that you can’t keep putting your neck out for everyone you come across. Someday you’re going to stick it out too far, and someone’s going to see it and find it a good place to rest the edge of a sword. I’m serious, man, you are going to get yourself killed.”

  Tyber shrugged.

  “Oh, please,” Ren said with a roll of his eyes. “You can play like you don’t care, but I know better. There’s such a thing as being too good. Too virtuous. You have to use your head, man! And you can start by thinking about how hypocritical it is that you put on this air of false nobility. This…”

  Ren lifted his nose into the air and stiffened his lips in mockery of royalty. “I’m too good to accept half your meal, Renfried of Cadwaller. I must accept my punishment as it is the noble thing to do even after I turned a thief loose without so much as a whipping.”