Hordesmen: The Wisdom of Dragons #4 Read online

  He continued to squint and peer at the village. Something wasn’t right. He saw no buildings. A stonework bridge spanned the placid, dark river, but beyond that there were none of the long, stone barns that were a staple of the villages. No manor house where the lord or his reeve presided. The rising smoke appeared to be from fires rather than chimneys.

  Tyber sat back in the saddle. He scanned the village from north to south, then saw that it wasn’t a village at all. Herds of cows, goats, sheep, horses, and oxen surrounded wagons arranged in circles or squares. Elaborate wagons with walls and roofs resembled buildings from the air. Alongside them sat countless common wagons made of posts and rails, each piled high with all manner of goods.

  The caravan.

  Tyber sat back in the saddle. There had to be hundreds of cattle, goats, and sheep. Many scores of horses and oxen to pull several dozen wagons and carts. It was impossible to say at that distance, but maybe a hundred or more people.

  And eighteen recruits, two proctors, and one dragoneer to protect them all. Several hundred head of livestock. Wagons fully loaded with goods. All of it destined for the people of the mother city.

  “I hope nothing goes wrong,” Tyber said as he leaned forward and placed a palm on the back of Rius’ neck. “I sure hope we’re here for nothing. Because the people back home are counting on us.”

  Tyber turned back to see if Ren grasped the sudden weight of their responsibility. His friend sat slumped, his eyes closed as if he’d perfected sleeping in the saddle, his dragon content to follow the lead of those around her.

  The horde swept down and leveled out before crossing the river. Dragoneer Chanson signaled for the colors. Weiss and Herminion pulled out the poles that were tucked beneath their saddlebags and quickly unfurled the flags wrapped around them. The purple and silver banners of Cadwaller snapped and cracked in the wind.

  They crossed the river, then circled the caravan once. It formed an oval spread along the river, sprawling outward from either side of the road. On the southern end, upriver and among the more ostentatious of the wagons, a man stood in a small clearing and waved a Seelian flag back and forth.

  Chanson ordered them to ground, and they set down near the flagbearer. A large man walked briskly into the clearing.

  “You were sent by King Cadwaller,” he cried.

  “Dragoneer Chanson of Cadwaller,” Chanson called from Merilyss’ side, her rein looped through his fist. “And yes, we were sent by the King of Cadwaller to escort you to the mother city.”

  “Hewart of Selion. I am the caravanner of this group,” the man answered, touching the rolled brim of a cloth cap cocked across his head at a strange, rakish angle. He looked across the horde again. “Will the remainder of your forces join you soon?”

  Chanson’s back straightened. “We are your escort, Hewart. We pledge our lives and the lives of our dragons to the safety of those who travel under your protection.”

  Tyber looked about. Numerous people had gathered around the edges of the clearing, peering at them from the spaces between the wagons. Beneath one of the more colorful wagons, a boy lay on the ground, propped on his elbows, beaming as he took in the sight.

  “One horde?” Hewart asked, his eyes roving over the recruits as a smile spread across his face. “Do you not have enough of the new style of uniforms to outfit all of your hordes? Are you really so helpless without the goods of our kingdom?”

  Chanson folded his arms behind his back. “Our king has sent adequate protection for you.”

  Hewart nodded at Firvoss. “Those are hardly more than whelps!”

  He pointed at Herminion before running his finger diagonally across his chest, shoulder to hip. “And if I recall correctly, that sash across their chest means they are… training? They are not real hordesmen?”

  “I assure you—” Chanson began.

  Hewart raised a finger and interrupted Chanson. “Let me straighten this. Your king sent one horde. One horde to guard one of the largest caravans to ever take goods to your mother city. And that one horde is full of whelps and children hardly large enough to hold those bows on their saddles?”

  “As Dragoneer—”

  Hewart shook his head. “I heard your king has died, but I did not know he was replaced with a son so lacking in wisdom. This is the first caravan to pass by this way in half a year. The wolves will be extra hungry. And there is little that drives beasts to such boldness as much as a good and long hunger. Is your king too inexperienced to realize this?”

  Tyber wrapped the braided leather cord of Rius’ rein around his hand once more as he surveyed the gawkers. What did Hewart mean about wolves? Surely a pack of wolves could do very little to a caravan of this size.

  He suddenly recalled Master Vark’s crossbow demonstration and searched for the weapon among those watching.

  “Wolves fear dragons no matter their age or size,” Chanson responded. “And I assure you, Hewart, that our king is every bit the man his father was, if not better.”

  Hewart spread his palms. “It doesn’t matter. We have what we have. Fortunately for the people of Cadwaller, I thought ahead and hired an extra handful of mercenaries to travel with us. They will compensate for your new king’s absence of wisdom.”

  Chanson stepped forward until the braided leather cord between him and Merilyss grew taut. “The King of Cadwaller is a man wise enough to know that the dragonjacks have shifted their attention to the commercial lanes between the mother city and the western edge of his kingdom. That is where our commerce has been forced to travel now, and it is there that the greatest concentration of our forces can be found. But now that your King Urhella has seen the wisdom of resuming trade with Cadwaller, I assure you that our forces will be redistributed as necessary. When necessary.”

  Hewart twitched with a derisive snort. He waved his hand across the clearing. “You may make your camp here. I will see to your protection while you are on the ground. But warn your boys not to stray too far outside the caravan at night. Our mercenaries have fingers quicker than their eyes, and in those costumes, they obviously stick out as not belonging.”

  “We will stay out of your way,” Chanson said with a nod. “I assure you.”

  “Yes,” Hewart said as he lifted his chin slightly. “You are full of many assurances.”

  He turned away, snapping his fingers at a man who waited at the edge of the clearing.

  The man moved quickly toward Chanson, his face breaking into a wide grin as he spread his arms. “Greetings! Let me introduce myself. I am Imrich of Bonsar. I welcome you to our caravan! Please! Your dragons must be hungry after such a long flight from your fair mother city. As we speak, a selection of the choicest cuts from one of the finest heads in our herd of cattle is being prepared for your magnificent mounts. But until it is ready, please, let me show you around our caravan so you can see the delights that await the people of your city.”

  Chanson smiled, then looked back to Ander. The men exchanged a quick nod.

  “Stake your dragons,” Chanson called out. “Proctor Ander will remain with them while we accept our host’s gracious offer.”

  Tyber took a deep breath as he looked around at the Seelians scattered along the edge of the clearing. The night-and-day attitudes of Hewart and Imrich were a bit disconcerting. It didn’t feel safe to leave Rius. At least Ander would stand watch.

  As Tyber began to pull Rius’ stake from his saddlebag, Ren asked, “Smell that?”

  Tyber looked over his shoulder at his friend, then sniffed the air. He wrinkled his nose. “What’s so special about that? All of the mother city smells like that.”

  Ren shook his head. “Not the manure, you dolt. The meat. Can’t you smell it? By the eyes of the gods!”

  He pressed his hand to his belly. “I don’t think my stomach would know what to do with that if they offered us some.” He sniffed the air again. “Beef, man. I swear that’s beef. I’d recognize that smell anywhere.”

  “Are you sure you’re not
still dreaming?” Tyber asked. “You’ve been asleep since we broke camp this morning.”

  “What? I was not! I was warming my eyes, man. That wind whips the moisture right out. It’s a wonder the gods themselves don’t fall out of the sky in boredom when watching over this part of the kingdom. If you’ve seen one clump of grass and a rock, you’ve seen everything this part of the kingdom has to offer.”

  “Tell me,” Imrich said. “Have you seen the winged wolves?”

  Tyber glanced at Imrich and Chanson, then cast a sideways glance at Ren, who shrugged.

  “No,” Chanson said. “Not so much as a scale.”

  “Dragonjacks?” Tyber asked Ren. “Does he mean dragonjacks?”

  Ren shrugged again.

  “Ah,” Imrich said with a nod, his gray beard nearly touching the top of his chest, “then let us hope that it is an omen. That the gods have shown us a glimpse of the path ahead. It would be a very special trip indeed if we were blessed with such a thing.”

  Tyber looked at Ren again, his eyes growing wide. A very special thing indeed?

  “The last time my family and I brought our cattle this way, we came under attack no less than three times. Three!” Imrich held up three fingers as he shook his head.

  Tyber’s attention snapped to Ren. “Three?” he mouthed.

  Ren’s expression grew tense, cautious. He glanced to the west, over the roofs of the wagons that encircled them.

  “In some ways, the trade embargo may have made for a safer trip,” Chanson said. “The dragonjacks that once prowled the Great Eastern Road appear to have moved on. Trade between the mother city and the western garrisons has remained brisk.”

  “But where there is profit to be made, thieves and confidence men are sure to follow. The border between our two kingdoms is merely a river to the lawless. They drift back and forth. And surely as my family and I made our way here, news spread from each village we passed through that trade with Cadwaller has resumed with the ascension of your new king. Those wolves who were unable to leave and find more profitable trade routes will be most keen to hear that our fine cattle once again move through these lands.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Chanson said with a shake of his head.

  “You may count on it! I am a wealthy and influential man,” Imrich said as he put an arm around Chanson’s shoulder and began to steer him toward the edge of the clearing, “because I am not one to underestimate dangers and risks. I am also willing to recognize and openly show my appreciation for those who are willing to help me shoulder those dangers and risks. Come! All of you! Let me show you everything we bring to your people.”

  Tyber and Ren fell into single file with the other recruits and followed Imrich out of the clearing. As they emerged on the other side, they passed a stern man holding a crossbow in his hands, a quarrel loaded into place and directed absently at the sky. The man returned Tyber’s gaze with a look far more pointed and aimed than his quarrel.

  “As I explained to Hewart,” Chanson continued, “I have brought a fine horde with me, and you will find that we are more than capable of shouldering our share of the dangers. I cannot express to you the importance that the King, myself, and all of the citizens of the mother city place upon the safe arrival of this caravan.”

  “And our goods!” Imrich said with a sweep of his hand to a gathering of tents before them. On he went, telling Chanson about his family’s history with the caravan, of how many heads of cattle they bred and sold, and how it was sought after by kings and lords. He even managed to work in a bit about how many bushels of wheat and crates of salt and pounds of ore the caravan carried.

  His chatter continued as he led them through a lane formed by tents. Most were made of plain canvas, but a few had been patched or fashioned with more colorful cloth. On many of the tents, a flap of canvas formed an awning with two poles stationed on either side of the opening. It gave their encampment the appearance of a market.

  But rather than goods laid out or displayed on racks, people sat around modest fires, their hands busy. Everywhere, knitting needles clicked, needles wove in and out through fabric, carding combs passed through fleece, and creaking spinning wheels clacked. Several young women spun fleece into yarn with small sticks that they twirled in the air before themselves. Others whittled at wood, carving intricate figurines.

  Tyber slowed his pace as they passed an older man. Chips of wood peppered his bushy beard. In his hands, he rubbed a small, flat stone over the curves of a wooden dragon.

  As Weiss began to step around, Tyber called out to him.

  Weiss looked back, his eyebrows raised.

  “Did you hear what Imrich said?” Tyber asked with a nod in the cattleman’s direction.

  “Said? You mean he stopped talking?” Weiss smirked.

  Tyber fell in beside him. “He said that this caravan was attacked by dragonjacks three times on their last trip to the mother city.”

  Weiss shrugged. “Maybe it was. But you heard what Chanson said, right? The dragonjacks have moved their attention to the route to Aerona.”

  “But three times? Is that normal?”

  Weiss shrugged again. “I don’t know. This is my first time with a caravan.”

  “But your father is a merchant, right? Wouldn’t he know? Did he ever tell you what it was like to travel in a caravan?”

  Weiss looked at Tyber as if his head was on backwards. “My father doesn’t travel with caravans. He’s a merchant, not a trader. He arranges for others to bring salt to the mother city, and then he sells it.”

  It had never occurred to Tyber that Weiss’ father wouldn’t be the person to go and actually get the salt, but of course he wouldn’t. Tyber looked off to the tents on his right. None of these people had money. Those with the money paid these people to face the dragonjacks and other dangers associated with moving goods around the kingdoms.

  He turned back to Weiss, who looked over the tents as if he were strolling through a market, looking at the wares for sale. Tyber would be wasting his time asking Weiss anything else about Imrich’s claim.

  Ahead, Imrich led them through alleys formed by tents, gesturing at everything around them. Clearly, Imrich viewed the caravan as his domain as if he were the lord of a traveling fief, and the other caravan members were no more than serfs who owed their livelihood to Imrich and his family.

  Of course he exaggerated the dangers they faced. He looked far more impressive and important, especially in the eyes of those who rode dragons for another kingdom.

  Tyber took a deep breath.

  Surely the King would have sent a force adequate for the task. The goods in the caravan were desperately needed. They couldn’t afford to lose them to dragonjacks.

  Tyber hitched a thumb in his belt, then looked at the sword at his side. How easily that blade had slid through the leather armor of the dummy and lopped off its arm of sticks and straw.

  May he never learn how that would translate to actual flesh.

  Chapter 7

  Long after Imrich’s tour of the entire caravan grew tiresome, the cattleman finally looped back to their starting point. Imrich led Dragoneer Chanson off to discuss some other important matter shrouded in whispers and shrugs, leaving the recruits with their proctors and dragons.

  “You heard Hewart,” Ander said as he approached his recruits. “Make camp here. Once your tent is pitched and your dragon cared for, you may have the rest of the evening off. I suggest you take advantage of it. We will get very little rest for the next week.”

  As the recruits turned away, Ander cleared his throat. “And remember, you are performing the function of royal hordesmen. You will reflect the values and the class of the Cadwaller court at all times. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Proctor,” the recruits replied, and then went about their business.

  Tyber held out his hand as he approached Rius. She lowered her head to sniff at his fingers as he passed, and Tyber grinned. “Nothing yet, girl. Give me a minute or two and I’
ll see if I can find something.”

  He unbuckled a saddlebag and began to pull out his gear and drop it at his feet. Near the bottom of the bag, he found the sack of smoked meat and began to undo the twine lashings that held it closed.

  “Are you feeding her?” a woman called from behind him.

  Tyber looked over his shoulder. A woman about his age approached. She held a wide, wooden tray with deep sides, almost a box. She smiled at him.

  Tyber’s grip tightened on the neck of the sack as his gaze fell to her lips.

  The woman lifted the tray slightly. “I have some fresh food for your dragon. She has not had fresh food since she left the city, no?”

  The woman had the same accent as Imrich, but hers sounded more musical.

  “Uh,” Tyber said, then looked back to the woman’s eyes.

  “She’s a stunning one,” the woman said, then glanced up at Rius. “I saw her come through the air, and I gasped like a little girl. Those wings! We have a… It’s not a bird, but it flies like one.”

  “A bug?”

  “Bug?”

  “Yes,” Tyber said. “Little…” He pinched his fingers together. “They fly about. Get into things.”

  “No,” the woman said with a shake of her head, her dark hair shifting over the green shoulders of her dress. It wasn’t quite the green of heather in the heart of the fighting season, but it looked like life next to the bleak landscape of crisp, burnt grass and the muddy gray of the river behind her.

  “What I am thinking of is the size of my palm.” She smiled and shifted the tray as if wanting to release it and present her palm to him. “It’s mostly wings. And they are the color of your dragon’s wings.”

  “Butterfly?” Tyber asked.

  “Butterfly?” she repeated, her gaze tightening slightly as if considering it. She finally nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think that might be it. Butterfly. In my land, they are called slon anuuré. They are everywhere in the full of summer, when the blossoms come to fruit.”

  She looked about, and her smile faded some. A memory recalled, and then perhaps the disappointment of realizing it was just a memory.