Hordesmen: The Wisdom of Dragons #4 Read online

  The recruits nodded their agreement. Speaking seemed too risky.

  “If the dragonjacks approach tomorrow, their intent will likely be one of two things. Either they will be testing to see how close they can get before we will react, or they will simply be coming for a fight. You will keep your eyes upon me, and not your proctors. In combat situations, the dragoneer always gives the orders. Always. You can expect me to order a blocking motion. They will take shots at me and Merilyss, attempting to kill us and break the horde. Mostly, though, they will try to swoop close to the caravan and create havoc. Expect them to use firebreath against the wagons. Expect them to sweep over the cattle and livestock as they try to stampede the herds.”

  Tyber shifted his weight again. A cow bellowed in the distance, and then its cry cut off. He shuddered to think why.

  “Should the dragonjacks evade our blocking formation, we will have to chase them and drive them off. You will be expected to deliver a fatal blow with each arrow you loose. Aim to kill. If you get a clean shot at the rider, aim for the rider. But most of your shots will be taken by the dragons. Remember your lessons. I’m sure Master Gury has spoken at length about all the vulnerabilities we can find in a flying dragon.”

  Tyber glanced quickly back at Rius. Master Gury certainly had done as much, but he had offered it as a way for them to protect their own mounts, not take down others.

  “If you can get no other shot, aim for the wings. For each puncture in the wing membrane, the dragon loses agility and stamina. And the wings are wild-well hard to miss.”

  Tyber’s hand clutched his wrist tighter.

  “But for all the sky, do not fly over the caravan if you can at all help it. The mercenaries are paid by the caravan members, and they are loyal only to those who pay them. They know that they are better off with our help than without it, but in the heat of battle, a dragon can become just a dragon. We’ve lost more than one rider and mount to a mercenary with a quick wrist and a slow eye. It is best to stay clear of the space above them unless you can come in high enough to avoid their quarrels, which have a reach similar to arrows. Also, you will find that more than a few of the caravan members have longbows stashed in their wagons. They are not trained soldiers. They are drovers or brothers or sons who have dangerous weapons and little training. In a battle, the caravan can become as dangerous as the dragonjacks.”

  Tyber inhaled deeply. He itched to glance back to the caravan. It had become expected that Belon and her sisters and cousins would come sashaying through the grass with platters and trays to feed the riders and dragons. But now they might as well be stalking through the grass bearing knives and bows. No one had bothered to mention in previous iterations of this speech that the caravan itself would become a threat to Rius.

  “Remember your training,” Chanson said with a nod. “You have each passed the trials. You have shown your abilities. In a battle, I have no doubt that we will emerge victorious. Any questions?”

  Quall looked up from the fire and raised his hand.

  Chanson nodded at him.

  “Which ones attacked Dragoneer Malcums’ horde?”

  Chanson raised his brow. “Excuse me?”

  “Which ones? Were they the ones that just came after them? Or did they send an advance party? Did they try—”

  “I’m not certain,” Chanson said. His lips parted as if to add something, but then he let it go with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. We are not fighting Dragoneer Malcums’ battle.”

  Chanson surveyed the group again, his stare intense. “I would remind all of you that Dragoneer Malcums’ horde emerged victorious that day. The dragonjack alpha was slain, and the horde broken. And each of you has had the benefit of even more training since then.”

  “But Deckert died,” Quall said, his voice so soft that Tyber looked away as if he’d seen something private.

  “Several recruits died that day,” Chanson said. “And our prince was dealt a fatal blow. It was a sad day indeed. Not only for the academy, but our whole kingdom. Yet out of that sorrow, we rise stronger. As I said, our men emerged victorious that day.”

  Tyber hoped for Quall’s silence. The young man opened his mouth as if to speak, but then Chanson’s attention snapped toward the caravan.

  Grass rustled. Through the gathering dusk, the large form of Hewart approached.

  “How was your day?” he asked as he stepped into their camp.

  “We saw trouble on the southern horizon,” the dragoneer said, his back stiffening.

  Hewart stopped. “Trouble? You mean you saw winged wolves?”

  Chanson nodded “I was about to send Olsid and Ander to speak to the mercenaries.”

  Hewart waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll talk to them. I speak their tongue. What is it you saw? They slink in, or did they show you their tails?”

  Chanson recounted what had happened.

  “Ah,” Hewart said, rubbing his chin. “We’re two days or three out of Aldarca. This is the stretch where the wolves like to slink about. See what we are doing. They got time. We don’t.”

  “The thought has occured to me as well,” Chanson said with a nod.

  “Well?” Hewart cocked an eyebrow. “You are what your king sent to protect my people. What will you do when the wolves see that I have children as my guards?”

  Ren stood with his arms behind his back, his chin up. The absence of his cocky grin, the snide sneer always near his lips, felt like the first casualty of the coming attack.

  The coming attack.

  “We will do as we were ordered,” Chanson said. “We will turn them back.”

  The corner of Hewart’s lips twitched. “May your arrows be as sure as your bravado.”

  With that, he started back to the caravan, blocking the path of trampled grass also used by a score of young women who approached with trays and platters held high.

  “Our last wild meal,” Ren said.

  Chapter 11

  A proctor’s whistle cut through the air. Tyber snapped his attention from the horizon that had remained empty all day. Olsid had sounded the alarm on the other side of the formation. He pointed to the northwest.

  A copse of trees in the grass presumably followed the course of a creek. Five riders on horseback raced away from the trees and headed for a flank of cattle.

  Tyber wrenched around in his saddle, looking to Chanson for orders. The dragoneer eyed the approaching horses, then signaled for Ander’s wing to intercept and drive them off.

  A solid plan. It would force almost half the horde to fly over the caravan before the shooting started.

  Olsid relayed the orders. Ahead, Ander signaled for his recruits to follow, then he banked Listico into a sharp dive toward the approaching riders, gaining speed and looking menacing.

  The rest of the wing fell into formation. As Lambert and Mytalth dove, Tyber urged Rius on behind them. Ahead, the riders on horseback spread out, making it more difficult to stop them all. Ander signaled for the recruits to do the same. He added a command to hold firebreath, and then he repeated it.

  Tyber’s grip tightened on the saddle’s lip. It was a good call. The grass was dry enough that they used it for kindling.

  A horseback rider near the center of the line unslung a bow from his shoulder and pulled an arrow from a quiver. He stood in his stirrups and notched the arrow, taking aim at Ander.

  Tyber grabbed his bow and notched an arrow. Ander continued to drive Listico down, bringing her close to the tips of the grass before leveling off.

  Quickly, Tyber stowed his bow and grasped the saddle, urging Rius to the right slightly, where they would take on the horseback rider on the end.

  An arrow leapt from the bow of the man standing in his stirrups. It arced into the air, cleared Listico, and zipped into the grass.

  Tyber had never been on a horse, but it was easy to understand why Ander hadn’t reacted to the bow. A racing horse apparently made taking aim difficult. The bow had been more for show than an actual threa
t.

  The horseback rider with the bow dropped to the saddle. The horse turned sharply and raced off at an angle as Listico swept over the grass, challenging the terrified animal.

  A horse screamed and darted away, cutting in front of another horse as Loymoss and Quall followed on Ander’s flank.

  A smile curled across Tyber’s face. This was too easy. He’d been worried for nothing. These men offered no credible resistance. Only the one appeared to be armed, and he was occupied with controlling his horse.

  Tyber tapped his heels on Rius’ shoulders several times. In response, she stilled her wings, gliding over the grass. May she look both stunning and terrifying.

  The rider on the horse ahead of Rius slowed his mount, bringing it to a trot, and then the horse jerked away. The rider wrestled with the reins. The horse tossed its head. With a yank on Rius’ saddle lip and a rake of his heels, Tyber sent his dragon soaring over the horseback rider.

  The horse screamed and reared. After Rius swept past, Tyber looked over his shoulder to see the horse bolt away. It was riderless.

  Tyber banked Rius sharply and looked for the thrown rider. The rider ran through the grass, racing back to the copse of trees. And he made poor time of it as the grass was as high as his shoulders, and he appeared to be limping.

  Ander and Listico were banking back toward the caravan. The attackers had scattered, heading off in different directions. What little challenge they had offered was broken.

  But last night, Chanson had said that the dragonjacks might send riders to count the dragons and assess the caravan. If that was the case, then capturing one of them might yield some information.

  Rius flew low over the grass, coming up behind the running man. The man glanced over his shoulder, face wide with terror, fists pumping hard. He tripped and fell forward into the grass as Rius overtook him.

  The grass rustled as Rius landed. Tyber slid from the saddle and dropped in a crouch, then rushed forward, drawing his sword as he ran. His eyes widened briefly as the sight of the blade brushing aside the grass as he plunged forward.

  The man rose from the ground several feet away. His eyes focused on the drawn sword, and then he froze, his breath coming in hard, ragged gasps.

  “Stop!” Tyber called, then halted before the man.

  The attacker studied Tyber with wide eyes. He was a boy. Not much older than Bear. Maybe twelve. It was difficult to say. He was gaunt with hollow cheeks and thin arms. More bone than boy. His long, reddish-blond hair, the same color as the surrounding grass, hung over his eyes.

  The boy looked at the tip of the sword.

  “Stay where you are!” Tyber barked.

  The sword felt heavy all of the sudden. Too heavy to be any kind of sensible weapon.

  The boy looked at Tyber.

  “Who are you?” Tyber asked. “What do you want?”

  The boy shifted his weight onto his left foot, flexing his right knee slightly, favoring the right foot.

  “Do you speak our language?” Tyber asked. “Cadwaller. You are in Cadwaller.”

  The boy cleared the hair from his eyes. He blinked at Tyber, then scanned the plain around them.

  “I am a…” Tyber started. “I am a hordesman of the royal court. You are under arrest. You will answer me! What is your name?”

  Wings snapped, and grass rustled behind them. “Tyber!” Ander called.

  “I got one!” Tyber called without looking back.

  Behind the boy, the caravan continued to inch along the road like a huge, cumbersome worm. From among the ranks, several caravan members on horseback raced across the grass, heading for Tyber and the prisoner.

  Ander approached Tyber’s side. “I am Ander of Cadwaller, a hordesman of His Majesty’s court. What is your name?”

  The boy blinked. He looked back at the caravan, at the thundering hooves and the riders swiftly approaching. He turned back to Ander. “Wanlin.”

  Tyber lowered his sword slightly. It was not the voice of a thief or a highwayman. Just a boy. Not old enough to have whiskers.

  “And why did you approach this caravan, Wanlin?” Ander asked.

  The boy shifted his weight and winced as he stood on his left foot.

  “You have been asked a question by an officer of His Majesty’s court. You are compelled to answer it by the King’s own law. What is your intent, Wanlin?”

  The boy glanced at the approaching riders again. Hewart sat tall on his horse. Wanlin looked away, to the northeast, where there was nothing to see but the grass and sky and the line between.

  “What have we here?” Hewart called as he brought his horse to a halt. “The horde boy catches a wolf!”

  The caravanner jumped from his horse. The mercenaries behind him did the same. Their crossbows were stowed on their saddles in elaborate-looking holsters. But they left them there and drew short swords of their own as soon as their feet were on the ground.

  “More like a cub,” Hewart said, then said something over his shoulder in the Seelian tongue.

  A mercenary smiled and nodded with agreement.

  Wanlin looked at the ground. He shifted his weight again and winced. His hair fell before his eyes.

  “Does he speak your tongue?” Hewart asked Ander.

  “I believe so,” Ander said.

  Hewart nodded as if satisfied. “You may stand, or you may kneel, boy. It is your choice.”

  Ander stepped forward.

  “Why?” Tyber asked.

  “Why?” Hewart asked, his face drawn back in surprise. “He is a wolf. He has attacked our caravan. My people.”

  “They never came close to the caravan,” Ander said.

  “I saw them loose an arrow at you,” Hewart replied. “Yet you would object to giving this wolf his justice?”

  “No one was harmed,” Ander said, lifting his hands, showing his palms. Tyber couldn’t tell if the proctor was trying to placate Hewart or preparing to defend himself.

  Tyber stepped closer to Wanlin, within arm’s reach. The boy backed up, stumbled, and fell to his arse.

  A mercenary threw his head back in laughter.

  “This is the penalty for attacking a caravan, akacho. A deterrent as punishment. Let the wolves find his rotting body and be warned to keep away.”

  Tyber moved between Wanlin and the mercenary, the sword held before him in a forward guard as Master Vark had taught, ready to deflect a blow or make a lunge.

  Hewart’s eyes widened. He turned to Ander and laid a hand on his chest. “There has been some mistake! I thought your king sent you to protect us.”

  “And by my count, not a single arrow has been loosed at your caravan, and not a single head of livestock has been lost. It seems to me that your caravan is being protected,” Ander said.

  “Yes,” Hewart replied, then gestured at Wanlin. “But that only protects us now. This instance. Justice protects us from attacks in the morrow. Let these beasts know that they must pay with their lives if they challenge a caravan of Seelia.”

  “He’s a boy,” Tyber said to Hewart.

  “A cub today is a wolf tomorrow,” Hewart snapped. “Now step aside and let us serve justice before the caravan leaves us behind.”

  Tyber shook his head. “He hasn’t done anything worth dying for. No one was hurt!”

  “Today!” Hewart barked. “But the next caravan to pass may not be so lucky. And if we show mercy, then the wolves will think us weak, feeble. Then people will get hurt. My people.”

  Ander stepped between Hewart and Wanlin.

  “You would turn your backs to a wolf?” Hewart gasped, slapping his thigh in exasperation. “You are children led by fools!”

  Ander placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword. “I will remind you, Caravanner, that we are under my king’s skies, not yours. It is his laws that determine justice. And as an officer of his court, I am forbidding you to harm my prisoner.”

  Hewart scoffed.

  Tyber flexed his grip on the sword hilt. His palm was sweaty, b
ut there was no good way to wipe it at the moment.

  “And so you will let him go, akacho? Just like that? So he can slink back to his den. Tell his pack what weak and feeble creatures await their fangs? Is that it?”

  “He is a prisoner of His Majesty’s Royal Horde. He will be taken back to the mother city where he will face justice.”

  Hewart regarded Ander a moment, then glanced at Tyber and the sword clutched before him. He turned back to Ander. “And what will you do, akacho? Give that wolf a ride on your dragon?”

  “You will escort him—”

  “I will do no such thing!”

  “—to the mother city.”

  “Shall I keep him warm at my side? On the drover’s bench? A blanket, perhaps? One woven from the hair of a fair maiden?”

  “That seems excessive,” Ander said, “but if that’s what you wish, so be it. Just understand that I am holding you personally responsible for transporting this prisoner. If anything should happen to him while in your care, you will take his place before the magistrate. Is that understood, akacho?”

  Ander hiked his eyebrow.

  Hewart’s jaw flexed as he glared at Wanlin, his face flushing red. He turned and spoke to the mercenaries. Their faces lit with surprise. One spoke rapidly as he gestured at Wanlin. Hewart slashed his hand through the air as if cutting off any further argument. He spoke again, the words of his language now sounding guttural and mean.

  One mercenary shook his head, then said something to the other as he sheathed his sword. He stepped forward.

  Tyber raised his sword, spreading his feet slightly.

  “I have instructed them to bind the wolf and take him back to the caravan,” Hewart said. “If you will permit us to dirty our hands on his grim hide. Once he is secured, he will walk to your mother city.”

  “He’s injured,” Tyber said, his eyes on the mercenary. “He hurt his ankle.”