Hordesmen: The Wisdom of Dragons #4 Read online

  “Akacho?” Larrim called.

  Tyber scanned the grass again. He’d imagined it.

  “Akacho?” Larrim repeated.

  “Tyber?” Fince asked.

  Tyber looked back to the older man. The sun overhead accentuated the lines on his face, around his eyes and his mouth. He looked more weathered than the wood on the wagons.

  “I thought I saw something,” Tyber said. He gestured in the direction.

  Fince spoke. Larrim lifted the crossbow to his shoulder and stalked forward, sighting in the direction Tyber had gestured.

  “You return to your dracca, akacho,” Fince said. “Now.”

  Tyber kept his hand on his hilt and walked briskly back to Rius, glancing over his shoulder as he went. Larrim stepped to the edge of the grass and surveyed the space before him over the stock of his crossbow.

  Quickly, Tyber climbed the stirrups and sat in the saddle, securing the restraints around his waist. He rubbed the back of Rius’ neck, then grabbed his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver on the gusset. He notched the arrow, but didn’t pull back.

  The grass swayed and pitched beneath the wind. Something was out there. A dark spot that shouldn’t be in the golden grains. But as soon as the breeze let up, it disappeared.

  Larrim began to pace along the edge of the grass.

  Should he fly over on Rius? Try and flush out whoever it was? No. Ander had said to stay out of the sky. Rius would only draw attention.

  Fince stood at the corner of the wagon. He drummed his fingers against the hilt of a knife in his belt. One of the men stepped out from behind the wagon and retrieved the wheel they had removed. He swung back around, clutching the wheel.

  The crossbow cracked. Tyber jumped in his saddle. The arrow started to slip from his fingers, and he pinned the shaft to the saddle with his knee. Larrim put the bow on the ground, standing on it as Master Vark had, then grasped the bowstring with his hook.

  As Larrim stood upright, Tyber notched his arrow again, pulled back the bowstring, and surveyed the grass before him. Larrim was wide open to attack now as he reloaded his crossbow. He should have been paying attention to him, to where he launched his quarrel.

  The mercenary lifted the crossbow again and plucked another quarrel from his pouch. He did it all with a fluid motion that didn’t require a single glance. The entire time, he stared out into the grass.

  With the quarrel in place, he took aim, then scanned the grass slowly.

  Fince yelled something at Larrim. The mercenary turned his head back half-way, yelling something in return.

  “It is the wolfs, akacho,” Fince said as he turned to Tyber. “They are out there.”

  He pointed to the grass beyond Larrim. “You see, you loose, right?”

  Tyber nodded quickly, looking back to the grass where he’d seen movement himself.

  Rius turned her head, swinging it around on her long neck to peer in the same direction, and thereby sticking her head right in front of the tip of Tyber’s arrow.

  “Scales!” Tyber yelped, then jerked the bow away. The arrow slipped from his fingers and squirted up, out, and over the wagon to disappear in the grass.

  “You see the wolfs?” Fince asked.

  Larrim glanced back at him.

  “My fingers slipped,” Tyber said as he drew another arrow. “Sorry.”

  “You grease the bowstrings in Cadwaller?” Fince asked with a chuckle.

  “You!” Tyber hissed at Rius.

  She looked back at him.

  “Keep your head down!” He patted the air before him, another arrow held between his thumb and palm.

  Rius stared at him, unblinking, unmoving.

  “Oh, come on!” Tyber whispered in frustration. He glanced at the horde above. The dragons were a good distance off now. The teal of Maybelle rounded the rear of the caravan. For all the sky, why hadn’t Ander left Ren here? He was a dozen times over a better archer.

  Larrim shouted. The stock of his crossbow flashed up to his shoulder. Tyber notched his arrow and drew it back. He scanned the grass where the crossbow pointed.

  “He tells them come out,” Fince said. “Show their rotten hide.”

  “I’d rather they not, if it’s all the same,” Tyber whispered to himself.

  A mallet cracked against wood in several sharp blows. The wagon shuddered. The horses stirred, fidgeting in their harnesses.

  Larrim barked something more.

  “That is the final warning,” Fince translated.

  One of the repairmen raced around the corner of the wagon and flung the door open in the back. The two other men scurried to the horses, grasping bridles and yanking them. The horses jerked forward and the wagon fell onto all four wheels.

  “Flait dottet!” one of the men shouted.

  “It is fixed!” Fince said, raising his hands in the air.

  The men began to grab tools and throw them haphazardly into the back of the wagon. One retrieved the wooden column and shoved it inside as well.

  Larrim backed away from the grass slowly, his crossbow still aimed at the land before him.

  Above, Maybelle had turned the rear bank and sailed west again, back toward the head of the caravan.

  “We go, wolves might rush, Tyber.” Fince held his palm out before himself, and Tyber expected him to say that it would be all right. “They go after horses, and we are trapped. You must stop them, akacho! Breathe the fire, or use the bow, but you must stop them, ulenda?”

  Tyber nodded.

  Fince smiled, then pointed at Tyber. “We make you very warrior yet!”

  “Fince!” one of the repairmen yelled as he slammed the wagon door shut.

  “Keep the wolfs back, Tyber! What it takes is what it takes!” Fince hurried back to the wagon, moving with a lumbering gait that belonged to a man who should be twenty years older. He hoisted himself onto the drover’s bench and sat heavily. He pounded on the wall behind him, and then Larrim appeared, crawling on top of the wagon from the other side. The man pierced Tyber with his gaze, zipped his finger to his left, to where he’d been aiming his crossbow, and then sat cross-legged on the roof and took aim again.

  Tyber took a deep breath, drawing his arrow back.

  “Keep your head down!” He called to Rius.

  She looked back at him.

  He eased off the bowstring, laying the arrow across his lap. “Down!” he snapped, patting the air before him.

  Rius lowered her head slightly, then looked out to the grass.

  “This works better in the air,” Tyber said as he notched the arrow again.

  “Yah!” Fince shouted. Reins snapped. The harness creaked and metal jangled as the horses threw themselves against the weight of the wagon. It began to roll, lurching from side to side as the wheels passed over the uneven ground. Larrim sat on the roof, rocking with the jostle of the wagon, his crossbow eerily still as he continued to present it to the wolves.

  Fince turned the horses toward the road and gained speed. Larrim finally lowered the crossbow to his lap and braced himself with one arm.

  Tyber let out a sigh.

  They were going to make it.

  Grass crunched on his right.

  Tyber swung about. A young man crouched behind a clump of grass fifteen yards away. Dark hair that stood out in the grass hung ragged before his brow. He held a knife in his hand, a dagger clutched before him, the blade down. Tyber recalled how his father had taught him to handle a knife in a confrontation. Always keep the blade up, facing forward.

  The young man crouched back behind the grass, nearly obscured, but not completely.

  Tyber pulled the bowstring back, his heart hammering in his ears. There’d be no problem feeling his heartbeat, knowing when to release the arrow, except that it felt like his heart raced on with no lull between thumps.

  When struck with an arrow, the river hares made a terrible, piercing squeal. If the kill wasn’t immediate, they thrashed about, and the shaft of the arrow beat the reeds and grass and
gave away their position, making them easier to find. The first time he’d hit one, heard that telltale squeal, Fang had clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations. A grin had passed over Tyber’s face, then faded straight away.

  Nothing was easy or simple. Not a thing in this world could be painless. The hare died an awful death so that the hungry might eat.

  He eased back on the bowstring, and when the young man did nothing more, Tyber slipped his arrow back into the quiver and his bow onto its hook. Keeping an eye on the man and one hand on the hilt of his sword, he flipped open the saddlebag and rummaged inside.

  His fingers brushed over a burlap sack. He pulled it out and unknotted the top.

  The young man rose slightly, lifting himself to better see, perhaps.

  Tyber pulled a wedge of cheese from the bag, an eighth of a wheel from which several slices had been cut during the journey. It was a hard, salty cheese, but it was edible.

  He tossed it to the ground.

  The young man stood, his dagger now at his side. His gaze went from the package to Tyber.

  “Go home,” Tyber called.

  He stuffed the sack back into the saddlebag, then grasped the saddle’s lip and commanded Rius to rise.

  As the dragon reared and flung her wings wide, the young man shuffled back, no longer bothering to hide himself.

  Rius pushed into the air, and as they rose, Tyber looked over his shoulder. The young man ran forward, snatched the package, then lifted his face to the dragon and rider as they flew back to rejoin the horde.

  Chapter 10

  Firvoss lifted her head from the water and spread her dark yellow wings. Ripples crossed the surface of the pond as she reared up, then launched herself and Weiss into the sky. As she climbed back to the formation, Tyber looked expectantly at Ander. Even though they weren’t allowed to get out of their saddles, watering the dragons still provided a welcomed break from the monotony of flying endlessly in a slow moving circle, hovering over the caravan like buzzards.

  Listico banked and brought Ander around the head of the caravan again. As he approached down the line, heading toward the back of the caravan, he signaled for the next recruit and pointed to Rogerius, who flew just ahead of Rius.

  Tyber’s shoulders drooped as Rogerius urged his mount out of formation and down to the waiting waters. On the next loop, hopefully it’d be his turn.

  Below, Rovnus spread her bright, yellow-green wings and lowered her hindquarters while lifting her tail. She hit the water with a splash that brought a grin to Tyber’s face, and then she plunged her head into the water as she folded her wings neatly behind herself.

  Rogerius leaned forward in the saddle and brushed at his legs, then rummaged in his saddlebag.

  As much as he hated to admit it, the academy seemed like a better deal than caravan duty. The classes were interesting, and there was always something going on. It was the exact opposite of the last few days. Endless, long loops from one end of the caravan to the other and then back, scanning the tall grass the whole time, watching for signs of trouble and finding nothing.

  Every now and then, the cattle or a man on horseback would disturb a flock of birds that erupted from the grass in a chorus of whistles. Smaller than chickens but larger than doves, they beat their stubby brown and white wings quickly as they darted over the grass for a short distance before diving back in.

  Still, despite the boredom, the numb cheeks, and hands stiff with cold, the legs and back that ached from a day of sitting, it was better than being sent off to battle. Tyber shifted in the saddle and rested his gloved palm against Rius’ neck for a moment as he watched Weiss and Firvoss take their position ahead of him, filling the space vacated by Rogerius and Rovnus.

  Did Theola have to do caravan duty?

  He pulled his hand from the back of Rius’ neck and grasped the saddle lip. Ahead, Firvoss banked to the right, swinging around the head of the caravan and starting her slow, drifting flight to the back.

  If Theola flew caravan duty, how could she not encounter dragonjacks like Malcums’ horde had? He tried to picture her acting the same as Padrus had since returning from Aerona—hardly ever still, always on high alert, ready to flinch.

  Tyber flicked his heel and leaned into the bank. Rius swept around, the land reeling beneath them, the afternoon sun briefly warming his cheek as the air shifted around them.

  The caravan stretched along the road. Countless wagons and horses and carts. Cattle spilling out on either side, plunging through the grass, prodded on by men on horses. Herds of goat and sheep stuck to the road near the rear. A number of people simply walked, keeping a brisk pace with the caravan as it slowed over a stretch of road that had fallen into disrepair.

  A sure sign that it would be a while yet before they came across the next village.

  One of Olsid’s recruits broke formation on the other side of the caravan and made for the pond as Rovnus rejoined the horde. Tyber pressed his heels into Rius’ shoulders, asking her to slow up, to widen the space between herself and Firvoss.

  As they swung around the rear and started back up, a signal came down the line. Recruit after recruit passed along the same message. Remain in formation. Pass it on.

  After Rogerius made the motions, Tyber repeated them, looking back to Quall to make sure he saw it. But why were they passing this command on?

  The dragon in the pond rose up, rising back to formation. Listico, who’d been circling the pond, rejoined the formation.

  Weiss pointed to the south.

  Above the horizon, several dark shapes moved.

  Tyber’s hands tightened on the saddle lip.

  There was definitely blue visible beneath the figures. They were in the air. And as nice as it would be to pretend that they were birds, he’d flown enough to recognize the shapes of dragons on the wing.

  But were they dragonjacks?

  Below, the caravan continued on. The mercenaries who rode on horseback, or on the tops of wagons, didn’t appear the least bit bothered. They couldn’t see the dragons from where they were.

  Tyber took a deep breath, then squinted at the distant figures. Three? Four. At least four of them. Maybe it was another horde flying in a formation that hid the other riders?

  Or maybe it was just four dragonjacks. Padrus and the others had given conflicting accounts of their encounter, when they would talk about it at all. But the highest count had been eighteen. Most said twelve. Dragonjacks didn’t travel in full hordes.

  Tyber checked for orders. None came.

  Below, the pond passed by to Tyber’s left.

  “Seems like you’re going to have to wait for a drink, girl,” Tyber said, then patted Rius on the back of the neck.

  She kept on flying as if she hadn’t noticed his touch or the water, and her only focus in the world was staying behind Rovnus’ tail.

  Tyber looked back to the distant dragons. The figures neared the horizon, then they dropped out of sight.

  He let out a deep breath. His shoulders drooped, and he was suddenly aware of the thundering in his chest.

  His hand stirred along the edge of the saddle’s lip. A sudden urge flashed through him to pluck the bow from the hook and fling it at the pond.

  He took a deep breath, and scanned the horizon. A flock of plains fowl rose again in a flurry of whistles.

  The horizon remained empty for the rest of the day, but the dragons who hadn’t had a chance to water did without. Chanson wouldn’t allow anyone out of formation until Hewart climbed up on the drovers bench of his wagon and waved a blue flag back and forth.

  At the signal to stop for the night, Chanson ordered them to fall in, and then Merilyss led them to a suitable spot for their own camp near the head of the caravan, far from the cattle.

  As Tyber slid from his saddle, Chanson called out to them. “No one is allowed to leave the camp tonight. Understood?”

  They barked their agreement. Tyber tried to catch Ander’s eye, but the proctor turned to his saddlebag.
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  After they made their camp and had a fire going, Chanson called them all around. They gathered near the fire, standing, thankful to be on their feet. The warmth of the fire replaced the bite of the wind on their chilled faces.

  “Did all of you see those figures over the southern horizon today? As we passed that watering hole?”

  The recruits nodded.

  “They were dragonjacks,” Chanson said with a nod. “I’m certain of it.”

  Tyber looked at Quall who stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes turned to the belly of the fire.

  “If we could see them, they could certainly see us,” Chanson said. “Now, more than ever, we must be vigilant. Every one of us. Dragonjacks are unpredictable. They may have seen us, then flown the opposite direction, satisfied that we were a royal horde not worth troubling. Or they may return tomorrow, daring to come a little closer to see if they can provoke a response.”

  Tyber glanced at Ren, but his friend’s eyes were locked on the dragoneer, his face more serious than Tyber had ever seen it.

  “If they were scouts,” Chanson continued, “then we can expect to see an advance party tomorrow or the next day. Some dragonjacks will send horses out to count our numbers and see what we are guarding. Or they may disguise their advance party as travelers on the road heading in the opposite direction. Each of these tactics tells us what we will potentially deal with, so we must keep our eyes open and note what our enemies show us.”

  Tyber shifted his weight. Standing still was always difficult after a day of flight, but now more than ever he wanted to start pacing, make his way to the caravan. He yearned to smell the scents and hear the noises that were so different from the monotonous wind and the scrubbing cold.

  And now, the cold felt even deeper. Deeper than the wind could reach.

  Above, Petraster the Storied glittered in the darkening sky, watching as Chanson doled out his warning. But only two of the god’s students had joined him so far.

  “Ander and Olsid will confer with the mercenaries,” Chanson said. “The security of the caravan is their business, and they are our partners in this mission, so they deserve to know. Imrich’s daughters and nieces are not our partners in the caravan’s security, so you will not breathe word to them or anyone else. Understood?”