RAYMOND E. FEIST
Exile’s Return

Book Three of Conclave of Shadows

Copyright

HarperVoyager

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpervoyagerbooks.com

First published by HarperVoyager 2004

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2004

Cover illustration © Nik Keevil

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780002246835

EBook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007373796

Version: 2014–09–08

DEDICATION

This one’s for James, with all the love a father can give.

EPIGRAPH

May see thee now, though late, redeem thy name, And glorify what else is damned to fame.

Richard Savage

Character of Foster

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Chapter One: Captive

Chapter Two: Survival

Chapter Three: Farm

Chapter Four: Village

Chapter Five: Soldier

Chapter Six: Opportunity

Chapter Seven: Decision

Chapter Eight: Commander

Chapter Nine: Murder

Chapter Ten: Westward

Chapter Eleven: Maharta

Chapter Twelve: Ratn’gary

Chapter Thirteen: The Pillars of Heaven

Chapter Fourteen: Keepers

Chapter Fifteen: Kalkin

Chapter Sixteen: Sulth

Chapter Seventeen: Home

Chapter Eighteen: Confrontation

Chapter Nineteen: Consultation

Chapter Twenty: Elvandar

Chapter Twenty-One: Conflagration

Chapter Twenty-Two: Assault

Epilogue: Missions

Keep Reading

Continue the Adventure …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

MAP

• CHAPTER ONE •
Captive

THE RIDERS CAME AT HIM.

Kaspar, who had until the day before held the title of Duke of Olasko, waited, holding his chains ready. Moments before he had been deposited on this dusty plain by a tall white-haired magician who, with only a few words of farewell, had vanished, leaving the exiled nobleman to face an approaching band of nomads.

Kaspar had never felt this alive and vitalized. He grinned, took a deep breath and flexed his knees. The riders were fanning out, and Kaspar knew they judged him a risk even though he stood alone, barefoot and without any weapon save for heavy chains with manacles and leggings attached to each end.

The riders slowed. Kaspar counted six of them. They wore alien garments, loose-fitting outer robes of indigo over white blouses belted at the waist with whipcord; ballooning trousers were tucked into black leather boots. Their heads were covered by wrapped turbans, with a length of cloth left hanging on the right. Kaspar judged that this could be quickly raised to cover mouth and nose against a sudden dust storm or to hide identity. The clothing looked less like a uniform than tribal garb, he decided. And they carried a variety of lethal-looking weapons.

The leader spoke in a language Kaspar didn’t understand, though there was something oddly familiar about it. Kaspar replied, ‘I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance you speak Olaskon?’

The man Kaspar had identified as the leader said something to his companions, made a gesture, then sat back to watch. Two men dismounted and approached Kaspar, drawing weapons. A third behind them unwound a leather cord, with which he obviously intended to bind their new captive.

Kaspar let his chains drop slightly, and slumped his shoulders, as if acknowledging the inevitability of his circumstances. From the manner in which they approached, Kaspar knew two things: these were experienced fighting men – tough, sunburned plainsmen who probably lived in tents – and they were not trained soldiers. One glance gave Kaspar the one fact he needed to make his decision on how to act. None of the three men still on horseback had drawn a bow.

Kaspar allowed the man with the leather bindings to approach, and then at the last instant he kicked out, taking the man in the chest. That man was the least dangerous of the three at hand. Kaspar then swung his chains, releasing an end at the same instant, and the swordsman on his right who had judged himself out of Kaspar’s reach was slammed across the face with the makeshift weapon. Kaspar heard bone crack. The man went down silently.

The other swordsman was quick to react, raising his sword and shouting something – an insult, battle cry, or prayer to a god, Kaspar didn’t know which. All the former duke knew was that he had perhaps three or four seconds to live. Instead of moving away from the attacker, Kaspar threw himself at the man, coming up hard against him as the sword fell through empty air.

He got his shoulder under the man’s armpit and the momentum of the missed blow carried the nomad over Kaspar’s shoulder. Kaspar’s powerful arms pushed up hard and the man spun through the air, landing hard upon the ground. The breath seemed to explode out of his body and Kaspar suspected he might have cracked his spine.

Kaspar sensed more than saw that two archers were unlimbering their bows, so he sprang forward, and with a diving shoulder roll, came to his feet holding the closest man’s sword. The nomad who had held the binding leather was trying to come to his feet and draw his own sword at the same time as Kaspar stepped by him, smashing the man’s head with the flat of the blade. The man fell over without a sound.

Kaspar might not be the swordsman Tal Hawkins had been, but he had trained as a soldier most of his life, and now he was in his element, in-close brawling. He ran at the three riders, two with bows and one with a slender lance, that man levelling his weapon as he put his heels to his horse’s barrel. The animal might not be a seasoned warhorse but it was well trained. It leapt forward as if sprinting from the starting line in a race and Kaspar barely avoided being trampled. He almost took the point of the man’s lance in the chest, but with a quick move to the left evaded it. Had the horse started only a yard or two farther back, he would have been moving too fast for Kaspar’s next move, which was to continue twisting and reaching up with his left hand, grab the rider by the back of his robe and yank him from the saddle.

Kaspar didn’t wait to see the man hit the ground, but used his momentum to keep turning until he was facing the closest rider, who was trying to draw his bow. Kaspar reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man’s ankle. He yanked it back and then up and the bowman fell from the saddle.

Kaspar spun, looking for the last opponent, or to see if one of those he had unhorsed had regained his footing. He turned twice before accepting his situation. Slowly he stood up and let the sword fall from his fingers.

The last bowman had calmly moved his horse away a few yards, and now sat quietly in the saddle, drawing a bead on Kaspar. It was hopeless. Unless he was a terrible shot, Kaspar would never avoid the arrow pointing at his chest.

The man smiled and nodded, and said something that Kaspar took as ‘good’, then flicked his gaze to someone behind Kaspar.

Suddenly one of the riders he had embarrassed smashed his forearm into the back of Kaspar’s neck, driving him to his knees. Kaspar tried to turn as he heard metal clanking, and he realized someone was approaching with his discarded manacles. Before he could get his head around, cold iron slammed into the point of his jaw. Bright lights exploded behind his eyes for an instant before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Kaspar’s jaw throbbed. His neck hurt and he felt sore all over his body. He was disoriented for a moment, then remembered the confrontation with the nomads. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, then realized it was night. From the variety of aches he experienced when he tried to move, he assumed the riders had spent a fair amount of time kicking him after he had been knocked unconscious, displaying their displeasure at the manner in which he had received their request for him to surrender.

He judged it a good thing he hadn’t killed any of them, for that would have probably earned him a cut throat. He realized his chance of escaping that encounter had been slim. He struggled upright, no mean feat with his hands bound behind him with leather cords. But he also knew that a trained fighting man might stand a better chance of survival amongst people like these compared to a common field-hand or house-servant.

Looking around, he discovered he was secured behind a tent. His bindings were tight around his wrists, and those in turn were tied by a tough rope to a tent stake. He could move around a few feet, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope to enable him to stand. A quick inspection of the stake revealed he could probably pull it out, but if he did, he would bring down the tent, clearly informing his hosts of his attempted departure.

He was dressed as he had been when taken. He did a quick physical inventory and judged that nothing was broken or sprained too badly.

He sat quietly and considered things. His instincts about these people seemed correct so far. From what little he could see beyond the tent, this was a small camp, perhaps just the six riders and their families, maybe a few more. But he could see a picket line for horses, and by rough estimation there were at least two or three mounts for every person here.

On the other side of the tent he heard voices, speaking softly. He strained to listen to the alien language. He sat back. A word here or there was tantalizing to him.

Kaspar had a quick grasp of languages. As heir to his father’s throne, it had been judged necessary for him to learn the educated speech of the surrounding nations, so he spoke fluent, unaccented King’s Tongue – the language of the Kingdom of the Isles – as well as those languages related to his native Olaskon, all descended from Roldemish. He also spoke flawless court Keshian and had taken the time to learn a little Quegan, a variant on Keshian that had evolved on its own after the Quegan Kingdom had successfully revolted from the Empire of Great Kesh nearly two centuries earlier.

In his travels he had picked up patois and cants from half a dozen regions of those foreign nations, and something about what he was now hearing sounded very familiar. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

Then he heard a word: ak-káwa. Acqua! The accent was thick, the emphasis different, but it was Quegan for ‘water’! They were talking about stopping somewhere for water. He listened and let the words flow over him without trying to understand, just allowing his ear to become used to the rhythms and tones, the patterns and sounds.

For an hour he sat there, listening. At first he could recognize one word in a hundred. Then perhaps one word in fifty. He was recognizing one word in a dozen when he heard footsteps approaching. He slumped down and feigned unconsciousness.

Kaspar heard two sets of footfalls draw near. In a low voice one man spoke. Kaspar heard the words ‘good’ and ‘strong’ from one man. There followed a quick conversation. From what Kaspar could judge, one man was arguing to kill him where he lay because he might be more trouble than he was worth, but the other argued he had value because he was strong and good at something, probably with a sword, since it was the only skill Kaspar had demonstrated before being overwhelmed.

It took total control on Kaspar’s part not to move when an ungentle boot prodded him to see if he was truly unconscious. Then the two men departed.

Kaspar waited and when he was certain they were gone, he chanced a peek and caught a glimpse of the men’s backs as they walked around the tent.

He sat up.

He fought to keep his mind focused on what he was hearing, and started to wrestle with his bindings. The danger would be to become so intent upon escaping he wouldn’t hear anyone approach. He knew his best chance for escape was this first night, while they thought him still unconscious. He had very few advantages. They probably knew the surrounding countryside and were experienced trackers.

His only edge was surprise. Kaspar was a skilled enough hunter to know what cunning prey could do. He needed at least an hour’s start on his captors, but first he had to free himself of the leather bindings around his wrist.

He gave in to the unreasonable desire to test the bindings, and found them tight enough to cause pain when he tried to pull his hands apart. He couldn’t see, but they felt like rawhide. If he could get them wet they would stretch and he might be able to slip them off.

After a futile period of struggle, he turned his attention to the rope he could see. He knew he would have little chance of getting the rope off the peg without bringing down the entire tent, but he could think of no other option. He had to turn first one way, then the other, to come to the conclusion that this was impossible with his hands tied behind him.

Kaspar sat and waited. As the hours dragged by, the camp quietened. He heard footsteps and once more feigned unconsciousness as someone came to check on him before turning in for the night. He let minutes drag by until he was certain that those inside the tent were asleep. Then he sat up. He glanced at the sky and was greeted with a display of alien stars. Like most men of his ocean-going nation, he could navigate by the stars, either on land or sea, but above him lay constellations unknown. He would have to rely upon basic navigation skills until he became used to the display above. He knew where the sun had set, marked in his mind by a spiral of rock in the distance he had glimpsed just before sunset. Which meant he knew where north was.

North and east was his most likely route home. Kaspar had read sufficiently to know where the continent of Novindus lay, relative to Olasko. Depending on where on this continent he found himself, his best chance to get to Olasko was to work his way to a place called the City of the Serpent River. There was almost no trade between this land and those on the other side of the world, but whatever trade there was started in that city. From there he could find his way to the Sunset Isles, and from there to Krondor. Once in the Kingdom of the Isles, he could walk home if he had to.

He knew he was almost certain to fail in the attempt, but whatever was to happen to him, let it happen as he struggled to return home.

Home, he thought bitterly. A day earlier he had been home, ruling his nation, before being taken captive in his own citadel, defeated by a former servant he had thought as good as dead. He had spent the night in chains considering the dramatic reversal of fortune that had overwhelmed him, and had fully expected to be hanged by now.

Instead, Talwin Hawkins, his former servant, had forgiven him, and he had been banished to this distant land. Kaspar was uncertain as to what exactly had transpired over the previous few days. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he had truly been himself for the last few years.

He had heard guards talking outside his quarters while he had been awaiting what he anticipated would be his execution. Leso Varen, his magician advisor, had been killed in the battle for the citadel. The magician had first come to him years earlier, promising great power in exchange for Kaspar’s protection. His presence had been only a minor distraction at first and he had from time to time provided useful service.

Kaspar took a deep breath and returned his attention to gaining his freedom. There would be time for more reflection on his past, assuming he lived long enough to have a future.

Kaspar was a broad-shouldered man of unusual strength, but his looks were deceptive. Unlike many men of his build, he kept himself limber. Expelling all the air from his lungs and hunching his shoulders forward, he pulled his knees hard up against his shoulders, sticking his head between his thighs, forcing his feet between his bound wrists. He could feel ligaments protest as he stretched his arms as far as possible, but he managed to get his hands in front of him.

And almost pulled the tent down in the process. He found himself able to lie down, easing the tension on the rope and peg. He studied it. The bindings were indeed of rawhide, and he set to them with his teeth. Using saliva, he got the simple knot wet, gnawing at it until it loosened. For long minutes he worried at the loops of the knot, then suddenly it came loose and his hands were free.

He flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrists as he slowly stood up. Forcing his breathing to a slow, deep rate, he crept around to the front of the tent. He peered around the edge of the tent and saw a single guard sitting with his back to the fire at the other end of the camp.

Kaspar’s mind raced. He knew one thing from years of experience: more harm came from indecision than from bad choices. He could attempt to silence the guard, thereby possibly gaining several hours on the pursuit that would certainly follow, or he could simply leave, and hope the guard didn’t come to check on him before dawn. But whichever choice he made, he had to act now!

Without conscious effort, he took a step in the guard’s direction. He trusted in his instincts: the risk was worth the potential reward. The guard hummed a simple tune, perhaps as a device to keep himself alert. Kaspar trod lightly on the balls of his feet and came up behind the man.

Some change in the light as Kaspar stepped between the guard and the camp fire, a slight sound, or just intuition, made the man turn. Kaspar lashed out as hard as he could and struck him behind the ear. The guard’s knees wobbled and his eyes lost focus and Kaspar struck him across the jaw. The man started to fall, and Kaspar caught him.

He knew his freedom was measured in seconds as he stripped the guard of his headcover and sword. But the man had smaller feet than him and his boots were useless to Kaspar.

He cursed the soldier who had taken his boots on the night of his capture. He couldn’t attempt an escape barefoot. He lacked the calluses of those who travelled without boots and while he knew little of the terrain around him, what he had seen told him it was rocky and unforgiving. He remembered a small copse of trees on a distant hillside to the northeast, but doubted he could effectively hide there. What other cover might be nearby was unknown to him; he had had no time to study his surroundings between his arrival and the confrontation with his captors. His only escape option would be to find a pair of boots and put as much distance between himself and his captors before they awoke, climbing into the rocky ridge above them where the horses couldn’t follow.

He stood silently for a moment, then hurried quietly to the largest tent. Holding the sword at the ready, he gently moved aside the tent flap. Inside he could hear snoring. It sounded as if there were two sleepers, a man and a woman. In the gloom he could see little, so he waited and let his eyes adjust. After a moment he saw a third body near the left side of the tent, a child from the size of it.

Kaspar saw a pair of boots standing next to a small chest, where he imagined he’d find the chieftain’s personal treasure. Kaspar moved with the catlike stealth uncharacteristic of a man so large. He quietly picked up the boots and saw they were of a size he could wear, then moved back towards the tent flap. He paused. Conflicting urges tugged at him. He was almost certain to be overtaken and recaptured, perhaps killed this time, unless he could find an advantage. But what? While he pondered, valuable moments passed, time never to be regained that would count against him as he sought to distance himself from this place.

Indecision was not part of Kaspar’s nature. He glanced about in the gloom and saw the chieftain’s weapons where he would expect them, close at hand in case of trouble. He inched past the sleeping couple and took out the nomadic leader’s dagger. It was a long, broad-bladed thing designed with a single purpose, to gut a man at close quarters. There was nothing dainty about it, and it put Kaspar in mind of the daggers worn by the nomads of the Jal-Pur desert of Kesh. He wondered idly if these people were somehow related. The language of the Jal-Pur was unrelated to Keshian, but Quegan had been a dialect of Keshian, and these people’s language bore a faint resemblance.

Kaspar took the blade and crept closer to the tent flap. He peered in the gloom at the child. In the dim light he couldn’t see if it was a boy or girl, for the hair was shoulder length and the child’s face was turned away. With a quick, downwards thrust, Kaspar drove the dagger through the floor cover into the earth below. The slight sound caused the child to stir, but not wake.

Kaspar left the tent. He glanced quickly around and saw what he needed, a filled waterskin. He then looked longingly at the line of horses, but ignored them. A mount would give him a better chance of survival, but trying to saddle one was likely to wake someone, and whatever chance his warning in the tent might earn him, stealing a horse from these people would certainly outweigh it.

Kaspar moved out of the village and towards the trees and the hills beyond. What he had seen before his capture indicated that it was rocky terrain and perhaps these horsemen might be disinclined to follow if the way was too harsh. Perhaps they had a rendezvous to make, or perhaps Kaspar’s message might give them pause.

For unless the chieftain was a fool he would understand what Kaspar had done. The dagger next to his child would say, ‘I could have killed you and your family while you slept, but I spared you. Now, leave me alone.’

At least that’s what Kaspar hoped the man would understand.

Dawn found Kaspar climbing over broken rocks, high into the hills. There was almost no cover above the small copse of trees he had seen the day before, and he struggled to find a place to hide.

He could still see the camp below, though by now it was a distant dotting of tents on the floor of the wide valley. From his vantage he could see that this valley was a choke point of a broad plain, flanked on his side by broken hills with a plateau opposite. On the other side of the valley, a vast mountain range rose in the distance. Snow-capped peaks suggested that these mountains would be difficult to cross. The military man in him admired the defensibility of the location, should someone choose to place a fortress where the nomad’s camp was. But scanning the horizon, he realized there was nothing to protect here.

The valley lacked apparent water. The trees he had passed through were a variety unknown to him. They were scrawny, had tough black bark, thorns, and obviously needed very little water to survive. Everywhere he looked he saw rocks and dust. The valley below and the cut through the rocks told him that once a river had flowed through here. Shifting land or a change in climate had caused it to dry up and now its only function was to mark a quick passage for horsemen between one place and another, both unknown to Kaspar.

Distant sounds informed him his escape had been discovered, and he returned his efforts to climbing, feeling lightheaded and slightly weak. He had not eaten for at least two days, depending how he calculated the time. He had been dragged before Talwin Hawkins and his allies in chains at night and transported here instantly at dawn. He must truly be on the other side of the world.

He needed rest and food. He had found some sort of dried meat and hard cracker in a pouch on the side of the waterskin, and planned on devouring these when time permitted, but for the moment he was content to put as much distance between himself and the nomads as possible.

He reached a ridge, on top of which a narrow path ran. He pulled himself up off the rocks and turned to look at the distant camp. Tents were being folded and the tiny dots he took to be men and horses appeared to be moving at a sedate pace. There was no sign of pursuit below him. Kaspar took a moment to catch his breath and regarded the path.

It was wider than a game trail. He knelt and examined it. Someone had taken the trouble to compact the earth beneath his feet. He followed it as it climbed, leading him away from the area above the camp, and soon he found a rock face on his right that showed marks made by tools. The sun was partially blocked by the rock face, so he sat and ate the cracker and some of the dried meat. He drank about a third of the water in the skin and rested.

He seemed to have escaped and it appeared that his message to the tribe’s chieftain had been understood. No riders fanned out in search, no trackers climbed the hills below him. He was free of pursuit.

The air was dry. He reckoned his orientation from the rising sun. The trail he was on had once been a military road, which appeared to have been abandoned for some reason or another. The surrounding countryside was harsh and ungenerous, so there seemed little reason to claim it. Perhaps it had once served as a highway for a nation no longer claiming this region.

He knew the heat of the day would be punishing, so he sought out shelter. None was evident. He decided to spend a while along this old military road, for if nothing else it offered him a vantage point. He allowed himself one long sip of water, then replaced the stopper in the waterskin. He had no idea how long it would be before he found another supply.

The snatches of conversation he had overheard the night before led him to believe water was a source of concern to his former captors. He assumed they would be heading for a new source, so he decided to walk the trail in parallel to their course.

An hour went by and he noticed that the distance between himself and his captors was growing. They walked their horses, but they were traversing flat terrain and he was picking his way along broken stones. The roadbed was flat for a dozen yards or more at a time, then would be interrupted by breaks, overturned stones and gaps due to slides in the hillside below. Once he had to climb down half a dozen yards in order to circumnavigate a collapsed section.

By midday he was exhausted. He removed his shirt and tied it around his head as a rudimentary covering. He didn’t know how he knew, but he vaguely remembered as a boy being told that the body could withstand sunburn as long as the head was shaded. He drank another swallow of water and then chewed the jerked meat. It was tough and with little fat, and very salty. He resisted the urge to drink more, determined to permit himself just one more mouthful when he had finished the food.

It took a while to chew the meat, but at last he finished and he took that one long drink. He sat regarding his surroundings.

Kaspar was a hunter. Perhaps not the hunter Talwin Hawkins had been, but he had enough wilderness lore to know he was in dire circumstances. Whatever rain visited this harsh countryside did so infrequently, for there were no signs of vegetation save the tough trees that scattered the landscape. The rocks he sat upon had no grass pushing its way up between cracks, and when he turned a stone over, there was no moss or lichen growing on the shaded side. This country was dry most of the time.

He let his eyes follow the ridge upon which he walked and he saw that it ran towards the south. To the east he saw nothing but broken plains, and to the west the arid valley. He decided he would take this trail for a while longer, and look for anything that would keep him alive. The nomads were heading south, and if he didn’t know anything else, he knew that eventually they would be heading for water. And to survive, he needed water.

For that was the task at hand: survival. Kaspar had many ambitions at the moment, to return to Opardum and reclaim the throne of Olasko, and to visit vengeance on his traitorous Captain Quentin Havrevulen and Talwin Hawkins, formerly of his household. As he walked, a thought arose. The two men weren’t actually traitors, he guessed, as he had condemned both to imprisonment on the isle known as the Fortress of Despair, but whatever the legal niceties were, he’d have them both dead.

He’d probably have to rally forces loyal to him and seize the citadel from them. Most likely Talwin had forced his sister Talia to marry him, to claim his throne, and Havrevulen was almost certainly in command of the army. But he’d find men who remembered who was the rightful ruler of Olasko, and he’d reward them handsomely once he was back in power.

His mind churned and he advanced plan after plan as he trod the roadway, but whatever plan presented itself he first had to overcome several significant obstacles, starting with the fact that he was on the wrong side of the world. That meant he would need a ship and crew, and that meant gold. And to get gold he would have to contrive of a way to earn it or take it. And that meant finding civilization, or what passed for it on this continent. And finding people meant he had to survive.

He glanced around as the sun reached its zenith, and decided that right now, survival looked improbable. Nothing stirred in any direction he looked, save a small cloud of dust marking the passage of the nomads who had captured him.

However, he considered, standing still only guaranteed his death, so he would keep moving as long as he had the strength.

He marched on.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Survival

KASPAR LAY DYING.

He knew his time was short as he sheltered under an overhang from the afternoon sun. He had been three days on the trail and his water had been used up at dawn. He was lightheaded and disoriented and had stumbled down the side of the ridge to a shaded area to wait out the heat.

He knew that if he didn’t find water by nightfall, he most likely would not awake tomorrow morning. His lips were cracked and his nose and cheeks peeled from sunburn. Lying on his back, he ignored the pain from his blistered shoulders as they rested against the rocks. He was too tired to allow the pain to bother him; besides, the pain let him know he still lived. He would wait until the sun was low in the west, then work his way down to the flat land below. The landscape was bleak and unforgiving: broken rocks and hardpan lay in every direction. He realized that the magician who had transported him here had given him little chance for survival; this was a desert by any measure, even if it lacked the flowing sands he associated with that name.

The few trees he had encountered were lifeless and dry, and even the underside of rocks were without a hint of moisture. One of his teachers had told him years ago that water could sometimes be found below the surface in the desert, but Kaspar was certain it wouldn’t be at this elevation. Whatever streams had graced this landscape ages before, any water was now long vanished; if any remained, it would be in those gullies that were his goal, down below the cracked surface towards which he staggered. For a brief moment he paused to catch his breath, which now laboured; no matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t seem to get enough air. He knew it was another symptom of his plight.

Kaspar had never seen so bleak a place. The great sand ergs of the Jal-Pur of northern Kesh had seemed exotic, a place of shifting forms, a veritable sea of sand. He had been a boy with his father, and a lavish entourage of royal servants from the Imperial Keshian court at his beck and call, amid a mobile village of colourful tents and opulent pavilions. When his father hunted the legendary sand lizards of the Jal-Pur, servants were always nearby with refreshing drinks – water scented with herbs or fruit extracts, cleverly kept cool in boxes packed with snow from the mountains. Each night was a royal feast, with chilled ales and spiced wine.

Just thinking of those drinks caused Kaspar near-physical pain. He turned his fevered thoughts to his current surroundings.

Here there were colours, but nothing remotely attractive to the eye, just harsh ochre, dingy yellow, the red of rusted iron, and a tan muted with grey. Everything was covered by dust, and nowhere was there a hint of green or blue indicating water, though he had noticed a shimmer to the northwest, which might be a reflection of water on the hot air.

He had only hunted once in the hot lands of Kesh, but he remembered everything he had been told. The Keshians were descendants of the lion hunters who roamed the grasslands around the great lake called the Overn Deep, and their traditions had endured through the centuries. The old guide, Kulmaki, had counselled Kaspar, ‘Watch for birds at sundown, young lord, for they will fly to water.’ For the last two days he had scanned the horizon in vain; but not a bird had he seen.

As he lay exhausted and dehydrated he lapsed in and out of consciousness, his mind alive with a mix of fever dreams, memories and illusions.

He recalled a day as a boy when his father had taken him hunting, the first time he had been permitted to accompany the men. It had been a boar hunt, and Kaspar had barely the strength to handle the heavy-tipped boar spear. He had ridden close to his father as he took the first two boars, but then he had faced his own, he had hesitated, and the pig had dodged the broad head of Kaspar’s weapon. He had glanced over and seen the disapproval in his father’s eyes, and he had charged after the boar into the underbrush, without heeding the warning of the Master of the Hunt.

Before the men could catch up, Kaspar’s horse had chased the boar into a thicket where it had turned at bay. Kaspar had done everything possible that was wrong, yet when his father and the others had arrived, he stood ignoring the gash in his leg, standing triumphant over the still-thrashing animal. The Master of the Hunt put the animal down with a quick arrow, and Kaspar’s father had hurried to bind his son’s leg.

The pride Kaspar had seen in his father’s eyes, despite the admonishing words about foolish acts, had branded the boy for life. Never be afraid. He knew that no matter what, any choice must be made fearlessly, or else all would be lost.

Kaspar remembered the day when the mantle of rulership had fallen on his shoulders, and he had stood mutely by, holding his baby sister’s hands while the priests applied torches to the funeral pyre. As smoke and ash rose to the heavens, the young Duke of Olasko again pledged to be fearless in all things, and to protect his people as if he was facing that boar.

Somewhere it had all gone sour. Seeking a proper place in the sun for Olasko had somehow turned into naked ambition, and Kaspar had decided that he needed to be King of Roldem. He was eighth in line for succession, so a few accidents and untimely deaths would be all he required in order to unite all the disparate nations of the east under Roldem’s banner.

As he lay there thinking this, Kaspar’s father appeared suddenly, and for a moment Kaspar wondered if he had died and his father had come to guide him to the Hall of Death, where Lims-Kragma would weigh the value of his life and select his place on the wheel for its next turning.

‘Didn’t I tell you to be cautious?’

Kaspar tried to speak, but his voice was barely a croaking whisper. ‘What?’

‘Of all the weaknesses that beset a man, vanity is the most deadly. For through vanity can a wise man turn to folly.’

Kaspar sat up and his father was gone.

In his fevered state, he had no idea what the vision of his father meant, though something told him it was important. He didn’t have time to ponder this. He knew he couldn’t wait until sundown, his life was now being counted out in minutes. He stumbled down the rocks to the flatlands, heat shimmer rising off the grey and ochre rocks, stumbling over the broken shards of stone once made smooth by ancient waters.

Water.

He was seeing things that weren’t real. He knew that his father was dead, yet now the spirit of the man seemed to be marching before him.

‘You placed too much faith in those who told you what you wished was true, and ignored those who tried to tell you what was true.’

In his mind, Kaspar shouted, ‘But I was a force to be feared!’ The words came out an inarticulate grunt.

‘Fear is not the only tool of diplomacy and governance, my son. Loyalty is born from trust.’

‘Trust!’ shouted Kaspar, his voice a ragged gasp as the word seemed to scrape along the inside of a parchment-dry throat. ‘Trust no one!’ He stopped, nearly falling over, as he pointed an accusing finger at his father. ‘You taught me that!’

‘I was wrong,’ said the apparition sadly and it vanished.

Kaspar looked around and saw he was heading in the general direction of where he had seen the reflected shimmer. He staggered along, lifting one foot and putting it down before the other. Slowly he halved the distance, then halved it again.

His mind continued to wander as he relived events from his childhood, then the downfall of his reign. A young woman whose name he could not recall appeared before him, walking slowly for a minute, then vanished. Who was she? Then he remembered. The daughter of a merchant, a girl he had found fair but whom his father had forbidden him to see. ‘You will wed for reasons of state,’ he had been told. ‘Take her to your bed if you must, but leave aside foolish thoughts of love.’

The girl had wed someone else.

He wished he could remember her name.

He stumbled along, several times falling to his knees, only to rise once more on will alone. Minutes, hours, days passed, he had no way of knowing which. His mind was turning in on itself as he felt his life begin to wane.

He blinked, aware that the day was fading and he was now in a small gully, heading downwards.

Then he heard it.

A bird call. Slightly more than the peep of a sparrow, but a bird call.

Kaspar forced himself out of his lethargy and blinked. He tried to clear his swimming vision, and then he heard the call again. Cocking his head, he listened, and then a third call came.

He staggered towards the sound, mindless of the treacherous footing. He fell, but caught himself on the walls of the deepening gully.

Tough grass appeared beneath his feet and his mind seized on this one fact: if there was grass, there must be water below. He looked around and could see no sign of it, but he could see a stand of trees ahead. He pushed himself forward until he had no strength left, and fell to his knees and then onto his face.

He lay panting, face down on the grass; and he could feel the moisture of the blades against his face. Weakly, he dug at the grass and his fingers clawed up the loose earth. Below it he felt dampness. With his last shred of will he pulled himself to his knees and drew his sword. The odd thought came to him that should his old swordmaster see him use a blade this way he would be up for a beating, but he ignored the whimsical thought and plunged the blade into the soil. He dug. He used the blade as a gardener would a spade and he dug.

He ripped and pulled with the last of his strength and forced a hole into the ground with near-hysterical purpose, tearing the dirt aside as rapidly as a badger digging a burrow. Then he smelled it. The damp smell was followed by a hint of gleaming moisture on the blade.

He plunged his hand into the hole and felt mud. He tossed aside the sword and dug with bare hands, and then plunged his fingers into water. It was muddy and tasted of clay, but he could lie on his stomach and pull up a meagre handful at a time. He filled his cupped hand, raised it to parched lips and drank. At some point he rubbed some water on his neck and face, but over and over he raised his cupped hand to drink. He had no idea how many times he did this but eventually he collapsed, his head striking the ground as his eyes rolled up into his head and consciousness fled.

The bird scratched at the seeds, as if sensing danger nearby. Silently, Kaspar watched from on his stomach behind a depression a few feet away, masked by a line of thorny brush, as the bird – some sort of sage fowl he didn’t recognize – pecked at the seed, then picked it up in its beak and gobbled it down.

Kaspar had recovered from his ordeal enough to pull himself into the shade that morning, leaving it only to drink what he could dredge up from his impromptu well. The water came harder each time, and he knew this little reservoir would soon be exhausted. He had decided near mid-afternoon to venture deeper into the gully, to see where it led, and to find another place to dig for water.

Near sundown he had found the tree. He had no name for it, but it bore a tough-skinned fruit. He had cut several down and discovered that once the skin was cut with a blade, the meat was edible. It was also pulpy and tough, and the flavour was nothing to delight a hedonist, but he was desperate. He ate a few bites, despite being consumed by hunger, and waited.

It seemed they weren’t poisonous. He ate several before cramps gripped him. They might not be poisonous, but they were tough on the stomach. Or perhaps three days without food had caused his stomach to act more tenderly.

Kaspar had always possessed a healthy appetite and had never known hunger more pressing than skipping a midday meal because of a hunt or sailing off the coast. Others in his father’s household had complained bitterly when he pressed on, and he laughed silently to imagine how they would react in his current circumstances. The laugh died as he realized they would all likely be dead by now.

The bird came nearer.

Kaspar had placed seeds in a line leading to a snare he had fashioned from the materials at hand. Painfully he had woven tough fibres pulled from the bulb of a strange-looking cactus; it was a trick shown him by his Keshian guide. He had ripped off the end of the bud and yanked hard, producing a sharp tip attached to a long fibre. ‘Nature’s needle and thread,’ the guide had said. He had struggled, but in the end he had produced a line twice the length of his arm. His hands and arms were covered in cuts and puncture wounds, testament to his determination to fashion a snare from the thorn-covered branches of the local plants.

It took every ounce of will for Kaspar to remain silent and motionless as the bird approached his snare. He had already started a small fire, which was now banked and waiting to be fanned back into flame, and his mouth positively watered in anticipation of roast fowl.

The bird ignored him as it worried at the seed, attempting to break though the tough outer husk and get to the softer inner kernel. As Kaspar watched the bird finished the tiny morsel and moved to the next seed. For an instant, Kaspar hesitated as a pang of doubt seized him. He felt an almost overwhelming fear that somehow the bird would escape and he would slowly starve to death in this isolated place.

Genuine doubt almost paralysed him to the point of losing the bird. The fowl tossed the seed in the air and it landed just far enough from where Kaspar had placed his snare that he felt sure it would escape. However, when he yanked his line the trap fell exactly where he had judged it would land.

The bird fluttered and squawked as it tried to escape the thorny cage. Kaspar endured punctures from the iron-like points as he lifted the small cage to reach under and seize the bird.

He quickly wrung its neck and even before he had returned to the fire he was plucking its feathers. Using the tip of his sword to gut the bird proved a messy prospect. He wished now he had kept the dagger instead of using it to warn off the nomad chieftain.

Finally the bird was dressed and spitted and he was turning it over a fire. Kaspar could hardly contain himself waiting for the bird to cook. As the minutes dragged on, the cramps in his stomach were from anticipation more than anything else.

Throughout his life Kaspar had developed a strong self-discipline, but not eating undercooked bird was the toughest test he could remember. But he knew the dangers of eating undercooked fowl. One bout of food poisoning as a young man left an indelible memory.

Finally he judged the bird finished, and with disregard for burned lips and tongue he set to with a frenzy. All too quickly he was finished, having eaten every shred of meat and the tiny bit of fat the scrawny thing had possessed. It was the best meal he could recall, but it merely whetted his appetite. He stood up and looked around, as if he might spy another bird waiting to be snatched up and eaten.

Then he saw the boy.

He looked to be no more than seven or eight years of age. He wore homespun and sandals, both caked with dust. He had as handsome a face as Kaspar had ever seen on a child and a serious expression. He was dark blond and he studied Kaspar with wide, pale blue eyes.

Kaspar remained motionless for what seemed minutes, and then the boy turned and fled.

Kaspar took off after him a half-moment later, but he was weak from hunger and deprivation. His only goad was fear that the boy would alert his father or the men of his village and while Kaspar feared no man living, he knew he was too weak to give much account of himself if faced by more than one man.

Kaspar laboured to keep the boy in sight, but soon the child had vanished down a gully and between some rocks. Kaspar followed as well as he could, but after only a few minutes of climbing where he had seen the boy disappear, he stopped as dizziness gripped him. His stomach grumbled and he belched as he sat down. He patted his middle and in a moment of giddiness laughed at how he must look. It had only been, what? Six or seven days since he had been captured in his citadel in Olasko, but he could feel his ribs already. Near starvation had taken its toll.

He forced himself to be calm and then stood up and looked around for signs. He was perhaps as gifted a tracker as any man born to nobility in the eastern kingdoms. Kaspar had few vanities, but his skill at tracking and hunting were not among them; he was as good as he thought he was. He saw scuff marks on the rocks and when he climbed up them he saw the pathway.

Like the ancient abandoned road, this was an old path, made ages ago for carts or wagons, but now used by animals and a few humans. He saw the boy’s tracks heading straight away from him and followed.

Kaspar was amused by the thought that the only other nobleman he knew who had skills to match his own as a hunter was Talwin Hawkins, the man who had overthrown him and taken away all Kaspar held dear. Kaspar stopped and caught his breath. Something was wrong: he was lightheaded, his thoughts unfocused. Those scant bits of fruit and one tiny bird were not enough to keep him more than barely alive. His thoughts were wandering and he found that as disturbing as the constant hunger and dirt.

He shook his head to clear it, then resumed walking. He forced his mind to something approaching alertness and considered Talwin Hawkins. Of course he had been justified in his actions, for Kaspar had betrayed him. Kaspar had sensed his sister’s growing attraction to the young noble from the Kingdom of the Isles. Personally, he had found Hawkins likeable, and he admired his skill with a blade and as a hunter. Kaspar paused for a moment. He found himself confused as to why he had chosen to make Hawkins the dupe in his plan to assassinate Duke Rodoski of Roldem. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he wondered how he had arrived at that conclusion. Hawkins had been an able servant and as a bonus had employed that wily old assassin, Amafi. They were a redoubtable pair and had proven their worth early and often. Yet he had chosen to put all blame for the attempt on Rodoski’s life on Hawkins.

Kaspar shook his head. Since leaving Olasko, he had several times felt that something had changed within him, something more than just dealing with his dire circumstances. After a while it occurred to him that it had been his friend Leso Varen who had suggested that Tal Hawkins could pose a threat.

Kaspar blinked and realized his mind was drifting. He turned his mind to finding the boy before an alarm could be raised. There were no signs of any habitation nearby, so Kaspar decided the boy might yet be some distance from his home. He focused on the boy’s tracks and followed them, picking up the pace as his sense of urgency rose.

Time passed and the sun moved across the sky, and after what Kaspar judged nearly half an hour, he smelled the smoke. The path had led him down into a defile, but now as it rose up and he followed it around a tall rock formation, he saw a farm. Two goats were confined in a pen and in the distance were a few cattle, an odd breed with long sweeping horns and brown-speckled white hides. They cropped grass in a green meadow. Behind a low mud-and-thatch building a full two or more acres of crops swayed in the breeze: corn, Kaspar thought, though he couldn’t be certain. And in front of the building stood a well!

He hurried to it and pulled up a bucket on a long rope. The water was clear and cool and he drank his fill.

When he finally dropped the bucket down into the water, he saw a woman standing in the doorway of the building, the boy peering out from behind her. She levelled a crossbow at him. Her face was set in a determined expression, brow knit and eyes narrow, her jaw clenched. She said something in the same language used by the nomads and it was obviously a warning.

Kaspar spoke Quegan, hoping she might recognize a few words, or at least infer from his tone his intent. ‘I will not harm you,’ he said slowly as he sheathed his sword. ‘But I have to see what you have to eat.’ He pantomimed eating and then indicated the house.

She barked a reply and motioned with the crossbow for him to be off. Kaspar was enough of a hunter to know that a female protecting her young was worthy of the greatest caution.

He slowly approached and again spoke slowly. ‘I mean you no harm. I just need to eat.’ He held his hands palms outward.

Then the aroma hit him. Something was cooking inside and it almost made Kaspar ache to smell it; hot bread! And a stew or soup!

Calmly he said, ‘If I don’t eat soon, I’m as good as dead, woman. So if you mean to kill me, do it now and be done with it!’

His reflexes saved him, for she hesitated an instant before tightening her fingers on the release of the crossbow. Kaspar threw himself to the left and the bolt split the air where he had stood a moment earlier. Kaspar rolled, came to his feet and charged.

As soon as the woman saw that her bolt had missed, she raised her crossbow to use it as a club. She brought it crashing down on Kaspar’s shoulder as he forced his way through the doorway. ‘Damn!’ he shouted as he wrapped his arms around her waist, bearing her to the floor.

The boy shouted angrily and started striking Kaspar. He was small but strong and Kaspar could feel the blows. He lay on top of the struggling woman and held tightly to the hand that still held the crossbow. He squeezed until she cried out and released it, then stood up just in time to avoid being brained by the metal skillet the boy swung at his head.

He grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted, causing the youngster to shout as he let go of the skillet. ‘Now stop it!’ Kaspar yelled.

He drew his sword and pointed it at the woman. The boy froze, his face a mask of terror.

‘All right, then,’ he said, still speaking Quegan. ‘One more time: I am not going to hurt you.’ He then made a show of putting away his sword. He moved passed the woman and picked up the crossbow. He handed it to the boy. ‘Here, lad, go find the bolt outside and see if you can manage to crank it up. If you must kill me, feel free to try again.’

He pulled the woman to her feet and studied her. She was rawboned, but he could see she had been pretty once, before a hard life had aged her. He couldn’t tell if she was thirty or forty years of age, her face being burned to brown leather by the sun. But her eyes were vivid blue and she held her fear in check. Softly he said, ‘Fetch me food, woman.’ Then he let her go.

The boy stood motionless, holding the crossbow as Kaspar looked around. There was only one room in this hovel, but a curtain had been hung so the woman had a bit of privacy when she slept. Her sleeping pallet and a small chest could be glimpsed from where he sat. Another pallet was rolled up under a single table. There were two stools. A makeshift cupboard sat next to an open hearth upon which there sat a kettle of simmering stew. An oven below it had just produced bread, and Kaspar reached down and grabbed one of the still-warm loaves. He tore off some of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he sat down on one of the stools. He looked at his unwilling hostess and said, ‘Sorry to be such a boor, but I prefer ill manners to starvation.’

As the flavour of the bread registered, he smiled. ‘This is very good.’ He motioned to the stew pot and said, ‘I’ll have some of that.’

The woman hesitated, then moved to the hearth. She ladled some of the stew into a bowl and placed it before Kaspar, then handed him a wooden spoon. He nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’

She stepped away, gathering the boy to her side. Kaspar ate the stew and before asking for another bowl, he looked at the motionless pair. Quegan didn’t seem to be working, but it was the closest language to what he had heard the nomads speak. He pointed to himself and said, ‘Kaspar.’

The woman didn’t react. Then he pointed to them and said, ‘Names?’

The woman might be frightened, he thought, but she wasn’t stupid. She said, ‘Jojanna.’

‘Joyanna,’ Kaspar repeated.

She corrected him. ‘Jojanna,’ and he heard the soft sound of an ‘h’ after the ‘y’ sound.

‘Joy-hanna,’ he said, and she nodded as if that were close enough.

He pointed to the boy.

‘Jorgen,’ came the reply.

Kaspar nodded and repeated the boy’s name. He started to help himself to more stew and judged he had consumed most of their evening meal. He looked at them and then poured the content of the bowl back into the pot. He contented himself with another hunk of bread, then pointed to them. ‘Eat.’ He motioned for them to come to the table.

‘Eat,’ she repeated, and Kaspar realized it was the same word, but with a very different accent. He nodded.

She carefully ushered the boy to the table and Kaspar got up and moved over to the door. He saw an empty bucket so he picked it up and turned it over to use as a makeshift stool. The boy watched him with serious blue eyes and the woman kept glancing at him as she put food on the table for the boy.

When they were both seated, Kaspar said, ‘Well, Jojanna and Jorgen, my name is Kaspar, and until a few days ago I was one of the most powerful men on the other side of this world. I have fallen to his low estate, but despite my scruffy appearance, I am as I have said.’

They looked at him uncomprehendingly. He chuckled. ‘Very well. You don’t need to learn Quegan. I need to learn your language.’ He hit the bucket he sat on and said, ‘Bucket.’

The woman and her son were silent. He stood up, pointed to the bucket and said the word again. Then he pointed at them and gestured at the bucket again. ‘What do you call this?’

Jorgen understood and spoke a word. It was unlike anything Kaspar had heard. He repeated it and Jorgen nodded. ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said the former Duke of Olasko. ‘Maybe by bed-time we can speak enough for me to convince you not to cut my throat while I sleep.’

• CHAPTER THREE •
Farm

KASPAR AWOKE ON THE FLOOR OF THE SMALL HUT.

He had slept in front of the door to prevent Jorgen or his mother from fleeing. Levering himself up on one elbow, he peered around in the early morning gloom. There was only a small window near the chimney to his right, so it was still quite dark in the room.

The boy and woman were both awake, but neither had moved from their respective sleeping pallets. ‘Good morning,’ Kaspar said as he sat up. He had confiscated their crossbow and any sharp utensil he judged capable of inflicting serious injury and had piled them up out of their reach. He trusted his instincts, as a hunter and a warrior, to awaken him should either of his reluctant companions attempt to harm him, so he had slept well.

After rising slowly, Kasper started returning the implements to their proper locations; the woman would have work to do. He had spent the balance of the previous afternoon and evening pointing at objects and asking their names: slowly unravelling this new language. He had learnt enough to surmise that their dialect was related to ancient Keshian, spoken in the Bitter Sea region a few centuries before. Kaspar had studied Empire history as much as any noble boy was forced to and vaguely remembered references to a religious war which had sent Keshian refugees fleeing west. Apparently some of them must have landed nearby.

Kaspar always had possessed a flair for languages, though he now wished he had spent a little more time speaking Quegan – an offshoot of the same Keshian dialect these people’s ancestors had spoken. Still, he was getting along well enough if he ever decided to stay and farm around here.

Kaspar looked at the boy and said, ‘You can get up.’

The boy rose. ‘I can get out?’

Kaspar realized his inaccuracy and corrected it. ‘I mean get up, but if you need to go outside, do so.’

Despite his early behaviour towards them, Jorgen had expected to be beaten or killed, and Jojanna had expected to be raped. Not that she wasn’t attractive enough in a weather-beaten fashion, Kaspar conceded, but he had never acquired a taste for unwilling women – not even for those who feigned willingness because of his wealth and power.

The woman rose and pulled aside the small privacy-curtain while the boy rolled up his bedding and stowed it under the table. Kaspar sat on one of the two stools. She went to the banked fire in the hearth and stirred the embers, adding wood. ‘You need wood?’ Kaspar asked.

She nodded. ‘I will cut some more this morning, after milking one of my cows. She lost her calf to a mountain cat last week.’

‘Is the cat troubling you?’

She didn’t understand his question so he rephrased it, ‘Is the cat returning to take more calves?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘I’ll cut the wood,’ said Kaspar. ‘Where is the axe?’

‘In the …’ he didn’t recognize the word, and asked her to repeat it. Then he realized it was an oddly pronounced variant of the Keshian word for ‘shed’. He repeated it, then said, ‘I will work for my food.’

She paused, then nodded and started to prepare the daily meal. ‘There is no bread,’ she said. ‘I make it the night before.’

He inclined his head, but said nothing. They both knew why she had not baked last night. She had sat fearfully, waiting for him to assault her, while he repeatedly asked odd or pointless questions about the names of things.

Slowly, he said, ‘I will not harm you or the boy. I am a stranger and need to learn if I am to live. I will work for my food.’

She paused, then looked into his eyes for a moment. As if finally convinced, she nodded. ‘There are some clothes that belonged to my …’ she spoke a word he didn’t understand.

He interrupted. ‘Your what?’

She repeated the word, and said, ‘My man. Jorgen’s father.’

The local word for husband, he gathered. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Three …’ Again a new word, but he didn’t bother to interrupt; he’d find out later if she meant days, weeks, or months. ‘… ago he went to market. He never came back.’ Her voice remained calm and her face emotionless, but Kaspar could see a sheen in her eyes. ‘I looked for three …’ Again a word he didn’t understand. ‘Then I came back to care for Jorgen.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Bandamin.’

‘A good man?’

She nodded.

Kaspar said nothing more; he knew she must be wondering what would have happened if Bandamin had been home when he had shown up. Kaspar said, ‘I’ll chop wood.’

He went outside and found the axe in the shed next to a small pile of logs. He saw Jorgen feeding some chickens and waved the boy over to him. He motioned to the dwindling pile and said, ‘Need more soon.’

The boy nodded and started speaking quickly, pointing to a stand of woods on the other side of the meadow. Kaspar shook his head and said, ‘I don’t understand. Speak slower.’

It was clear Jorgen didn’t understand him either, so Kaspar mimicked the boy talking rapidly, then spoke slower.

The boy’s face brightened in understanding and he said, ‘We will cut down a tree over there.’

Kaspar nodded and said, ‘Later.’

He was still weakened by his ordeal of the last few days, but he managed to carry enough wood into the hut to keep the fire going for almost a week.

When he put the last arm-load into the bin next to the hearth, Jojanna said, ‘Why are you here?’

‘Because I need water and food to live.’

‘No, not here on the farm,’ she said slowly. ‘I mean here …’ she waved a circle around her, as if indicating a larger region. ‘You are –’ a few words he didn’t understand ‘– from far away, yes?’

‘A foreigner,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, from very far away.’ He sat down on the stool. ‘It is hard to tell without …’ He paused. ‘I don’t have the words –’ he said at last ‘– yet; when I do, I will tell you.’

‘Truth?’

He studied her face for a moment, then said, ‘I will tell you the truth.’

She said nothing as she looked him in the eyes. Then with a single nod, she returned to her work in the kitchen.

He stood up. ‘I will go and help the boy.’

Kaspar went outside and saw Jorgen heading into the meadow. He stopped briefly, realizing he had no idea what needed to be done. He had owned tenant-farms in Olasko, but the closest he had ever been to one was riding past on horseback. He had a vague idea of what they produced, but little concept of how they did it. He chuckled to himself as he set out after the boy. He couldn’t start learning quickly enough, he decided.

Felling a tree was far more difficult than Kaspar had anticipated, given that he had only seen it done once before, when he was a boy. It had almost landed on top of him to the evil delight of Jorgen, once the initial fear of injury had passed.

He had stripped off all the branches and then cut the bole into manageable sections, which he had lashed up with large leather straps that should have been fastened to a horse’s harness. He had discovered that the family’s only horse had vanished along with Jorgen’s father, so now Kaspar played the part of the horse, dragging the timber to the house across the damp meadow. He strained and heaved forward and the recalcitrant log followed him in jumps and starts.

Pausing to catch his breath, he said to Jorgen, ‘It seemed like a good idea back there.’

The boy laughed. ‘I told you we should have cut it up and carried the wood back to the house.’

Kaspar shook his head in disbelief. Being told off by a child; it was a concept so alien to him he found it amusing and irritating at the same time. He was used to people deferring to him automatically, to saying nothing critical in his presence. He leaned into the harness again and said, ‘If Tal Hawkins and his bunch could see me now, they’d be on the floor laughing.’

He glanced at Jorgen who was obviously amused, and found the boy’s mirth infectious. Kaspar began to chuckle as well. ‘Very well, you were right. Go back and fetch the axe and we’ll chop this thing up right here.’

Jorgen scampered off. Kaspar didn’t relish the idea of a dozen or more trips across the meadow, but without a horse his idea was just plain folly. He stretched as he turned to watch the boy run to where they had left the axe and the water bucket.

Kaspar had been at the farm for eight days now. What had started off as a fearful experience for the boy and his mother had begun to settle into a relatively calm situation. He still slept by the door, but he no longer gathered up potential weapons. He had chosen that spot to give Jojanna as much privacy as was possible in a one-room hut, and also for security reasons. Anyone attempting to come through the door would have to physically move Kaspar first.

Kaspar was still vague about the geography surrounding the farm, but he had no doubt that they were constantly plagued by dangers. Bandits and marauding bands of mercenaries were not uncommon in the area, but the farm was far enough removed from the old high road – the one Kaspar had stumbled along – that few travellers ever chanced across it.

Kaspar stretched again and relished the strength in his muscles. He knew he had lost weight during the three days without food and water, and now the constant exercise of farm-work was further reducing his bulk. A broad-shouldered man, the former Duke of Olasko had always carried his weight effortlessly, and he had indulged in food and wine of the highest quality. Now Kaspar had to wear the missing Bandamin’s clothing because his own trousers were starting to fit too loosely around the waist. He had let his neatly-trimmed beard grow, lacking a razor, mirror, or scissors. Every morning, before washing his face in the water-bucket, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and barely recognized himself – sunburned, his dark beard now filling in, and his face thinner. He had been here less than two weeks – what would he look like after a month? Kaspar didn’t want to think about it; he intended to learn as much as he could from these people and then leave, for his future was not farming, no matter what else fate might hold in store for him. Still, he wondered how Jojanna would fare once he left them.

Jorgen had tried to help Kaspar, but as he was only eight years old, he was often drawn away by boyish interests. His regular chores involved milking the cow who had lost her calf, feeding the chickens, inspecting fences, and other small tasks a small boy was competent enough to perform.

Jojanna had taken up as much of her husband’s work as she was capable of, but a lot of it was just not possible. While she was as hard a worker as Kaspar had ever met, even she couldn’t manage to be in two places at the same time. Still, he marvelled at how industrious she was; rising before dawn and retiring hours after the sun set, to ensure that the farm would be maintained just as her husband had left it.

Kaspar had hundreds of tenant-farmers on his estates, and had never once given thought to their toils, always taking their efforts for granted. Now he appreciated their lives to a significant degree. Jojanna and Jorgen lived very well in comparison to most Olaskon farmers, for they owned their land, a small herd and produced saleable crops; but when Kaspar compared their situation to his old way of life, he realized they lived in near-poverty. How much poorer were the farmers of his own nation?

His nation, he thought bitterly. His birthright had been taken from him and he would have it back or die in the attempt.

Jorgen returned with the axe and Kaspar set to chopping the tree into smaller sections.

After a while the boy said, ‘Why don’t you split it?’

‘What?’

Jorgen grinned. ‘I’ll show you.’ He ran back to the shed and returned with a wedge of metal. He stuck the narrow end of the wedge into a notch and held it. ‘Hit it with the back of the axe,’ he told Kaspar.

Kaspar glanced at the axe and saw that the heel was heavy and flat, almost a hammer. He reversed his hold on the handle and swung down, driving the wedge into the wood. Jorgen pulled his hand away with a laugh and shook his hand. ‘It always makes my fingers sting!’

Kaspar gave the wedge three powerful blows and then, with a satisfying cracking sound, the bole split down the middle. Muttering, he observed, ‘You learn something new every day, if you just stop to pay attention.’

The boy looked at him with a confused expression and said, ‘What?’

Kaspar realized he had spoken his native Olaskon, so he repeated it, as best he could, in the local language and the boy nodded.

Next, Kaspar set to breaking up the rest of the bole and then chopping the remaining split rails into firewood. He found the repetitive effort strangely relaxing.

Lately, he had been troubled by dreams, odd vignettes and strange feelings. Small glimpses of things barely remembered, but disturbing. The oddest aspect of these dreams were the details which had escaped his notice in real life. It was as if he was watching himself, seeing himself for the first time in various settings. The images would jump from a court dinner, with his sister sitting at his side, to a conversation with a prisoner in one of the dungeons under his citadel and then to a memory of something that happened when he was alone. What was most disturbing was how he felt when he awoke, it felt as if he had just relived those moments, but this time the emotions were not consistent with how he remembered them before the dream.

The third night he had one particularly vivid dream-memory; a conversation with Leso Varen in the magician’s private chambers. The room reeked of blood and human excrement, and of alien odours from things the magician insisted on mixing and burning in his work area. Kaspar remembered the conversation well, for it had been the first time Varen had suggested to him that he should consider removing those who stood between himself and the crown of Roldem. Kaspar also remembered how appealing he had found the idea.

But he had awoken from the dream retching from the memory of the stench in the room; at the time he had visited Varen, he had hardly been aware of it, the smell had not bothered him in the slightest. Yet this morning he had sat bolt-upright before the door of the hut, gasping for breath, and had almost disturbed Jorgen.

Kaspar encouraged Jorgen to speak about whatever was on his mind, as his constant prattle sensitized Kaspar to the local language. He was becoming quite conversant, but was also frustrated. For all their good qualities, Jorgen and Jojanna were simple farm people who knew almost nothing of the world in which they lived beyond their farm and the village a few days’ walk to the northwest. It was there they sold their cattle and grain, and from what Kaspar could discern, Bandamin had been considered well-to-do by local standards.

He had been told about the great desert to the northeast, commanded by a race called the Jeshandi, who were not like the nomads who tried to capture him. They were the Bentu, a people who had migrated from the south in Jojanna’s father’s time. Kaspar calculated that it must have been during the war which had ended with the defeat of the Emerald Queen’s army at Nightmare Ridge in the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles. Olaskon intelligence had gathered as much information as they could when Kaspar’s father had been Duke, and some titbits had been gleaned from agents working in both the Kingdom and Kesh, but what Kaspar had read left him certain that a large part of the story was never reported.

What he did know was that a woman known as the Emerald Queen had emerged somewhere to the far west of this continent of Novindus and had waged a war of conquest among the various city states, forging a vast army – which included, according to some reports, giant-sized serpent men – and had gathered a fleet for the sole purpose of invading the Kingdom of the Isles.

While no reason was forthcoming as to why this had happened, and while it defied all conventional military logic, it had still happened. Krondor had been reduced to mostly rubble and the rebuilding of the Western Realm was still underway nearly thirty years later.

Perhaps, thought Kaspar as he finished chopping wood, I’ll learn something more about it while I make my way across this land. He looked at the boy and said, ‘Don’t just stand there. Pick up some wood. I’m not going to carry it all.’

The boy grumbled good naturedly as he carried as much as he could: a decent amount of kindling, and Kaspar carried as much as he was able. ‘I’d give a lot for a horse and wagon,’ he said.

‘Father took the horse when he … went away,’ said Jorgen, huffing with exertion.

Kaspar had grasped the various terms for time and now realized that the boy’s father had left three weeks prior to his appearance at their farm. Bandamin had been taking a steer to the village, called Heslagnam, to sell to an innkeeper there. He was then going to purchase some supplies needed for the farm.

Jojanna and Jorgen had walked to the village when he was three days overdue, only to be told that no one had seen Bandamin. Somewhere between the farm and Heslagnam, the man, his wagon, and the steer had simply vanished.

Jojanna was reticent to speak on the subject, still hoping after almost two months that her husband might return. Kaspar judged it unlikely. This area had little that passed for law. In theory, there was a covenant among those who lived in the region, enforced at times by the nomads to the north, the Jeshandi, that no one troubled travellers or those who cared for them. The origin of this covenant was lost to history, but like so many other things even that had vanished like smoke in a wind when the Emerald Queen’s army had ravaged this land.

Kaspar deduced that this farm’s relative wealth, in cattle as well as crops, was the result of Bandamin’s father being one of the few able-bodied men who had evaded being enlisted into the Emerald Queen’s army at sword-point. Kaspar felt frustrated by the gaps in his knowledge, but he pieced together a picture of what had probably happened from things Jojanna had said.

Her father-in-law had managed to hide while many others were pressed into service for a battle on the other side of the mountains to the southwest – the Sumanu she called them. He had benefited by finding strays from abandoned farms, as well as seed grain and vegetables. He had found a wagon and horses, and over a few months had come to this little dell and established his farm, which Bandamin had inherited.

Kaspar put the wood in the wood box behind the hut and started back across the meadow to fetch more. Looking at the tired boy, he said, ‘Why don’t you see if your mother needs your help?’

Jorgen nodded and ran off.

Kaspar stopped for a moment and watched the child vanish around the corner of the hut. He realized that he had given no thought to being a father. He had assumed the day would come when he would have to wed and breed an heir, but had never considered what actually being a father would mean. Until this moment. The boy missed his father terribly; Kaspar could see that. He wondered if Bandamin’s disappearance would ever be explained.

He set off to fetch more wood, admitting to himself that farm life was a great deal more arduous than he had ever imagined. Still, that was where the gods had placed them on the Wheel of Life, he considered; and even if he was back on the throne of Olasko, he couldn’t very well beggar the treasury buying horses and wagons for every farmer, could he? He chuckled at the absurdity of it all, and flexed his aching shoulders.

Kaspar looked up from his meal. ‘I must leave,’ he said.

Jojanna nodded. ‘I expected that would happen soon.’

He was silent for a long moment, while Jorgen’s eyes went back and forth between them. Kaspar had been a fixture in their house for more than three months, and while at times the boy mocked him for his ignorance over the basics of farming, Kaspar had come to fill the void left by his father.

But Kaspar had more concerns than one boy from a distant land, despite having grown used to his company. He had learned all he could from them. He spoke the local language passingly well now, and he had come to understand as much about the customs and beliefs as Jojanna knew. There was no reason for him to stay and many reasons for him to leave. He had spent months moving only a few miles from where he had been deposited by the white-haired magician, and he still had half a world to travel across.

Jorgen said at last, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

Jorgen seemed about to say something, then he fell quiet. Finally he asked, ‘What will we do?’

Jojanna replied, ‘What we always do.’

‘You need a horse,’ Kaspar said. ‘The summer wheat will be ready to harvest soon, and the corn is ready now. You need a horse to pull your wagon to market.’

She nodded.

‘You will need to sell some cattle. How many?’

‘Two should bring me a serviceable horse.’

Kaspar smiled. ‘One thing I do know is horses.’ He neglected to mention that his expertise lay in the area of warhorses, hunters and his sister’s sleek palfreys, not draft animals. Still, he could spot lameness, smell thrush in hooves, and gauge the temper of the animal, he supposed.

‘We shall have to go to Mastaba.’

‘Where is that?’

‘Two, three days’ walk beyond Heslagnam. We can sell the cattle to a broker there; he may have a horse to trade,’ she said flatly.

Kaspar was silent through the rest of the meal. He knew that Jojanna was fearful of being alone again. She had made no overtures towards Kaspar, and he was content to leave things as they were. He hadn’t been with a woman in months, and she was attractive enough in her raw-boned fashion, but the confined quarters coupled with his concern for Jorgen had kept them apart.

Jojanna alternately hoped against hope to see her husband again, then mourned him as if he were dead. Kaspar knew that in a few more months she would accept him in Bandamin’s place permanently. That was another reason why he felt it was time to leave.

‘Perhaps you can find a workman who might come here to help you?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said in a noncommittal tone.

Kaspar picked up his wooden plate and carried it to the wash bucket. From then until they went to their respective sleeping mats, there was silence.

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Village

KASPAR, JOJANNA, AND JORGEN TRUDGED ALONG THE OLD HIGHWAY.

They walked at a steady pace, as they had for the previous two days. Kaspar had never realized how tedious it was to walk everywhere. He had lived his entire life using the horses, carriages and fast ships at his disposal; in fact, the only time he had ever travelled by foot was during a hunt or when taking a stroll through a palace garden. Going more than a few miles by shanks’s mare was not only fatiguing, it was boring.

He glanced back to see how Jorgen was doing. The boy walked behind the two plodding steers. He held a long stick and flicked the animals with it when they attempted to veer off to the side of the road to crop the plants – not that there was an abundance of fodder, but the contrary animals seemed intent on investigating every possible source unless they were constantly prodded.

Kaspar felt anxious to move along, yet resigned to the reality of his situation. He was on foot and alone, save for the company of Jojanna and her son, and without protection, sustenance or experience of this hostile land. What little Jojanna had told him revealed that the area was still reeling from the ravages of the Emerald Queen’s army, even though it had been almost a generation since those terrible events.

The farms and villages had returned quickly, despite the absence of most of the men. Old men and women had eked out their livings until the young had matured enough to work, wed and have more children.

The lack of civil order had lingered; an entire generation of sons had grown up without fathers, and many were orphans. Where once a string of city states had controlled the outlying lands, now chaos ruled. Traditional conventions had been supplanted by the law of warlords and robber barons. Whoever ran the biggest gang became the local sheriff.

Jojanna’s family had survived because of their relative isolation. The local villagers knew the whereabouts of their farm, but few travellers had ever chanced upon it. It had only been through the lucky happenstance of Jorgen’s search for the lost birds that Kaspar’s life had been saved. He could easily have starved to death within a few hours’ walk of a bounty of food otherwise.

As they walked, Kaspar could see a mountain range rising to the west, while the land to the east fell away and turned brown in the distance, where it bordered a desert. Had he stayed a captive with the Bentu he would have become a slave; or if he had planned his escape badly, he’d most likely have died in the arid lands between those distant mountains and the range of hills along whose spine this old road ran.

He caught sight of a shimmering in the distance. ‘Is that a river?’

‘Yes, it’s the Serpent River,’ Jojanna said. ‘Beyond it lies the Hotlands.’

Kaspar asked, ‘Do you know where the City of the Serpent River lies?’

‘Far to the south, on the Blue Sea.’

‘So I need to go downriver,’ Kaspar concluded.

‘If that is where you wish to be, yes.’

‘Where I wish to be is home,’ said Kaspar with an edge of bitterness in his voice.

‘Tell me about your home,’ asked Jorgen.

Kaspar glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy grinning, but his irritation died quickly. To his surprise, he found himself fond of the boy. As ruler of Olasko, Kaspar knew he would eventually have to marry to produce a legitimate heir, but it had never occurred to him that he might actually like his children. For an idle moment he wondered if his father had liked him.

‘Olasko is a sea-faring nation,’ said Kaspar. ‘Our capital city, Opardum, rests against great cliffs, with a defensible yet busy harbour.’ As he plodded along, he continued, ‘It’s on the eastern coast of a large –’ he realized he didn’t know the word for continent in the local language, ‘– a large place called Triagia. So, from the citadel –’ he glanced at them and saw that neither Jojanna or Jorgen looked puzzled by the Keshian word ‘– from the citadel, you can see spectacular sunrises over the sea.

‘To the east are table lands and along the river are many farms, quite a few like your own …’

He passed the time telling them of his homeland, and at one point Jorgen asked, ‘What did you do? I mean, you’re not a farmer.’

Kaspar said, ‘I was a hunter,’ a fact he had already shared with the boy, when he dressed out a slaughtered steer to hang in the summer house – as he thought of the underground cave with a door they used to store perishables. ‘And I was a soldier. I travelled.’

Jorgen asked, ‘What’s it like?’

‘What’s what like?’

‘Travelling.’

‘Like this,’ he said, ‘A lot of walking, or sailing on a ship, or riding a horse.’

‘No,’ said Jorgen, laughing. ‘I mean what were the places like?’

‘Some like these Hotlands,’ answered Kaspar, ‘but other places are cool and rainy all the time …’ He told them of the nations around the Sea of Kingdoms, and talked of the more entertaining and colourful things he had seen. He kept them amused and distracted until they crested a rise and saw the village of Heslagnam.

Kaspar realized that he had expected something a bit more prosperous, and felt disappointed. The largest building in sight was obviously the inn, a two-storey, somewhat ramshackle wooden building with an improbable lime-coloured roof. A single chimney belched smoke and the establishment boasted a stable in the rear and a large stabling yard. There were two other buildings that appeared to be shops, but without signs to herald their merchandise. Kaspar was at a loss to know what one could or could not buy in the village of Heslagnam.

Jojanna instructed Jorgen to herd the two steers into the stable yard while she and Kaspar went inside.

Once through the door, Kaspar was even less impressed. The chimney and hearth had been fashioned from badly mortared stones and the ventilation was poor; as a result, the establishment was reeking with the odours of cooking, sweaty men, spilled ale and other liquids, mouldy straw, and other less identifiable smells.

The inn was presently unoccupied, save for a large man carrying in a keg from somewhere at the rear of the building. He put it down and said, ‘Jojanna! I didn’t expect to see you for another week.’

‘I’m selling two steers.’

‘Two?’ said the man, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. He was a thick-necked, broad-shouldered man with an enormous belly, and he walked with a rolling gait. He bore a handful of scars on his forearms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, and Kaspar recognized him as a former soldier or mercenary. He could see that under the fat lay enough muscle to cause trouble.

He looked at Kaspar as he spoke to the woman. ‘I don’t even need one. I’ve got a quarter still hanging in the cold room and it’s aged pretty nice. I could maybe take one off your hands, stake it out in the back, then slaughter it next week, but not two.’

Jojanna said, ‘Sagrin, this is Kaspar. He’s been working at the farm for his keep, filling in for Bandamin.’

With an evil grin, the man said, ‘I expect he has.’

Kaspar let the insult slide. The innkeeper looked like a brawler and while Kaspar had no fear of any man, he also didn’t go out of his way to court trouble. He’d seen too many of his friends die needlessly in duels as a youngster to believe that there was any profit in borrowing trouble. Kaspar said, ‘If you can’t use the beef, we’ll try the next village …’ He looked at Jojanna.

‘That would be Mastaba.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Sagrin. He rubbed his hand over his bearded chin. ‘I don’t have much by way of coin or trade goods. What do you have in mind?’

‘Horses,’ answered Kaspar. ‘Two.’

‘Horses!’ echoed Sagrin with a barking laugh. ‘Might as well be their weight in gold. Some Bentu slavers came through here a couple of months back and bought two of mine, then came back the next night and stole the other three.’

‘Who else has horses to sell around here?’ asked Kaspar.

Sagrin rubbed his chin as if thinking, then said, ‘Well, I’m certain you won’t find any up in Mastaba. Maybe downriver?’

Jojanna said, ‘You know that travelling downriver is dangerous even for armed men, Sagrin! You’re trying to scare us into making a better bargain for you!’ She turned to Kaspar. ‘He’s probably lying about there being no horses in Mastaba.’

As she turned to leave, Sagrin’s hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. ‘Wait a minute, Jojanna! No one calls me a liar, not even you!’

Kaspar didn’t hesitate. He reached out, grabbed Sagrin’s hand and pressed his thumb hard into a nerve below the other man’s thumb. A moment later he pushed the heavy man, and as Sagrin resisted the push, Kaspar grabbed his dirty tunic and pulled. Sagrin stumbled for a moment and then his old fighter’s reflexes came into play. Rather than landing hard, he rolled to the side and came up, ready to brawl.

Instead of attacking, Kaspar stepped away and said calmly, ‘I’ll have my sword in your throat before you can take a step.’

Sagrin saw a man standing confidently, his sword still at his side. He hesitated for a moment, then whatever fight he had left in him vanished. With a grin he said, ‘Sorry for my temper. It’s just that those were hard words.’

Jojanna rubbed at her arm where he had grabbed it. ‘Hard, maybe, Sagrin, but you’ve tried to get the better of Bandamin and me before.’

‘That’s just trading,’ said the stout innkeeper stepping forward, his hands held with palms outward. ‘But this time it’s the truth. Old Balyoo had the one extra mare, but the old girl’s spavined, and not even fit to foal, so he might have put her down already. Other than that, horses are harder to find around here than free ale.’

Kaspar said, ‘What about a mule?’

‘You mean to ride a mule?’ asked Sagrin.

‘No, I want it to pull a wagon and a plough,’ said Kaspar, looking at Jojanna.

‘Kelpita has a mule he’d probably trade for the price of a steer,’ said Sagrin. He motioned to the bar. ‘Why don’t you fix yourselves up with something to drink while I go and ask him?’

Jojanna nodded as Jorgen entered the inn, and Sagrin left, tousling the boy’s hair as he passed. Jojanna went behind the bar and poured ales for herself and Kaspar, filling another cup with water for Jorgen.

Kaspar watched as they sat at a table, then joined them. ‘Can you trust him?’

‘Most of the time,’ she answered. ‘He’s tried to take advantage of us before, but as he said, it’s just bargaining.’

‘Who’s Kelpita?’

‘The merchant who owns that large building across the road. He trades down the river. He has wagons and mules.’

‘Well, I don’t know much about mules, but in the army –’ he paused ‘– the army I was with for a while, they used them instead of horses for the heavy hauling. I do know that they can be difficult.’

‘I’ll make him work!’ said Jorgen with youthful eagerness.

‘How much will the steer bring?’

‘What do you mean?’ Jojanna looked at Kaspar as if she didn’t comprehend.

‘I’ve never sold a steer before.’ Kaspar realized that he had little idea about the cost of many items. As Duke he never paid for anything out of his own purse. The gold he carried was for wagering, brothels, or to reward good service. He had signed documents allocating the household budget for the entire citadel, but he had no idea what his housecarl paid to the local merchants for salt, or beef, or fruit. He didn’t know what food came as taxes from his own farms. He didn’t even know what a horse cost, unless it was one especially bred as a gift for one of his ladies or his own warhorse. Kaspar started to laugh.

‘What?’ asked Jojanna.

‘There are many things I don’t know,’ he said, leaving his meaning ambiguous. She looked at him pointedly and he elaborated. ‘In the army other people – quartermasters, commissaries, provisioners – made all our arrangements. I just showed up and the food was there. If I needed to ride, a horse was provided.’

‘That must be nice,’ she said, her manner showing that she didn’t believe him.

He considered what he did know about the prices of luxury items, and asked, ‘How much does a steer bring in silver or copper around here?’

Jorgen laughed. ‘He thinks we have coins!’

‘Hush!’ snapped his mother. ‘Go outside and find something useful to do, or at least play, but go outside.’

Grumbling, the boy left. Jojanna said, ‘We don’t see coins here often. There’s no one making them. And after the war –’ he didn’t have to be told what war; all references to ‘the war’ meant the Emerald Queen’s rampage ‘– there were many false coins, copper with silver painted on them, or lead covered in gold. Sagrin sees a few from time to time from travellers, so he has a touchstone and scales to tell the true from the false, but mostly we barter, or sometimes work for one another. Kelpita will list what he’s willing to exchange for the steer, then consider if it is worth a mule. He might want both steers in return.’

‘No doubt he will,’ said Kaspar. ‘But that’s negotiating, isn’t it?’

‘He has what I want, and doesn’t have that much use for a steer. He can only eat one so fast.’

Kaspar laughed, and Jojanna smiled. ‘He’ll then trade it to Sagrin who will slaughter and dress it out, and Kelpita will be able to eat and drink here for a while at no cost, which will please him and vex his wife. She doesn’t like it when he drinks too much ale.’

Kaspar waited without making further comment. Again he was visited by the thought that Olaskon peasants must lead similar lives. In Olasko there would be merchants whose wives grew bitter when they drank too much ale, ex-soldiers who owned run-down inns and little farm boys out looking for someone with whom to play. He sat back and reflected that it was impossible to know each and every one of them. He barely recognized half the household staff at the citadel, let alone knew their names. But even so, he should have been mindful of what kind of people looked to him for protection.

He was visited by an unexpected rush of sadness. How little care he had given. A torrent of images swept through his thoughts, much like the dreams he had experienced.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jojanna.

Kaspar looked at her sideways. ‘What?’

‘You’ve gone all pale and your eyes are brimming with moisture. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, his voice surprisingly hoarse. He swallowed hard, then said, ‘Just an unexpected old memory.’

‘From a war?’

He shrugged and nodded once, saying nothing.

‘Bandamin was a soldier once.’

‘Really?’

‘Not like you,’ she added quickly. ‘He served with a local militia when he was a boy, with his father, trying to make this a fit place to live in.’

‘Seems they did a good job.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We still have bandits and raiders to worry about. The Bentu slavers will take a free man and head south; they’ll sell him to a rich farmer or a miller, or if he’s a warrior, take him to the City of the Serpent River for the games.’

‘This City of the Serpent River. How far is it?’

‘Weeks by boat. Longer by foot. I don’t really know. Is that where you will go?’

‘Yes,’ answered Kaspar. ‘I need to get home, and to do that I need a ship, and the only ships that travel to my homeland are there.’

‘It’s a long journey.’

‘So I gather,’ he said flatly.

After an hour, Sagrin returned and said, ‘Here’s what Kelpita will do …’ He outlined a trade of some goods, seed at a future date, and some trade with another merchant in the next village. At the end, Jojanna seemed satisfied.

Kaspar said, ‘Throw in a room for the night, including supper, and you have a deal.’

‘Done!’ said Sagrin slapping his hands together. ‘We have roasted duck and some stew for tonight’s meal, and the bread was freshly baked this morning.’

As he walked to the kitchen, Jojanna whispered to Kaspar, ‘Don’t expect too much. Sagrin can’t cook.’

Kaspar said, ‘Food is food and I’m hungry.’

Then Jojanna said, ‘You still have no horse.’

Kaspar shrugged. ‘I’ll find a way. Perhaps I’ll find a boat heading downriver.’

‘That would be difficult.’

‘Why?’ asked Kaspar as he moved to pour himself another ale while Sagrin worked in the kitchen.

‘I’ll tell you over supper. I had better go find Jorgen.’

Kaspar nodded, drank the ale. A man could have a worse life than being married to a woman like Jojanna, with a son like Jorgen, he thought to himself. Then he looked around the pitiful inn and thought, But he could have a much better one, too.

Kaspar came awake first. Jojanna and Jorgen slept on two cots that served for beds in the inn and Kaspar lay on a pallet on the floor.

Something had disturbed his rest. He listened intently. Horses!

Drawing his sword, he hurried along the hall and down the stairs. He found Sagrin already waiting in the common room, holding an old blade. Kaspar motioned for the stout old soldier to move to one side of the door as Kaspar hurried to the window.

He counted five riders. They milled around and chattered. One pointed towards the inn and another shook his head and pointed up the road. They wore heavy cloaks, but Kaspar could see enough of their garb to recognize them for what they were: soldiers.

After a moment, they turned as a group and rode north.

Kaspar said, ‘They’re gone.’

‘Who were they?’ asked Sagrin.

‘Soldiers. They wore cavalry boots. I could see a single stripe on their tunics, though I couldn’t make out its colour – white or perhaps yellow. They bore identical swords, but no bows or shields. They wore turbans with feathers on their heads.’

‘Damn,’ said Sagrin. ‘They must have decided to go to Mastaba, but they’ll be back.’

‘Who are they?’

‘There is a bandit to the south, in the city of Delga – if you can call it a city – who calls himself the Raj of Muboya. Those are his men. He’s claiming all the land between Delga and the banks of the Serpent Lake, and he’s garrisoning the towns and villages. The bastard is also taxing people.’

Kaspar said, ‘Is he offering protection?’

‘Of a sort,’ answered Sagrin. ‘He protects us from the other renegades and bandits around here, so he can pluck us like chickens himself.’

‘It costs money to govern,’ said Kaspar.

‘I do just fine without a government,’ said Sagrin.

‘Find enough people with swords to agree with you, and you might convince him. Those five I saw could probably run this entire town without additional help.’

‘You’re right,’ said Sagrin as he sat heavily in a chair. ‘I’m what passes for a warrior in these parts. A couple of the farmers are strong, but none are trained to fight.

‘I only know what I know because my father formed a militia when I was a boy and we fought a lot of thugs in our day.’ He pointed to the scars on his arms. ‘Make no mistake, these were honestly earned, Kaspar. But now I’m an old man. I would fight, but I know I wouldn’t win.’

‘Well, this Raj might not be the first bandit to found a dynasty. Where I come from –’ He dropped the thought, then said instead, ‘If he can bring order and safety to people like Jojanna and Jorgen – women and children – that would be a good thing, no?’

‘I guess. Whatever is going to happen will happen. But I reserve the right to complain.’

Kaspar chuckled. ‘Feel free.’

‘Are you staying with Jojanna?’ he asked, and Kaspar took his meaning.

‘No. She’s a good woman who hopes that her husband is still alive.’

‘Slim chance. If he is, he’s toiling in a mine, working on some rich merchant’s farm to the south, or fighting in the arena down in the City of the Serpent River.’

‘I have my own plans, in any event,’ said Kaspar. ‘They don’t include being a farmer.’

‘Didn’t take you for one. Soldier?’

‘For a time.’

‘Something else, too, I wager,’ said Sagrin. Heaving himself out of the chair he added, ‘Well, I might as well get started; the sun will be up in an hour and I rarely fall back to sleep easily, especially if I must sleep with a sword in my hand.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘I understand.’

He now knew what his next step must be. He needed to head south. There was a man gathering an army there, no matter what he called himself, and he had horses.

Kaspar needed a horse.

• CHAPTER FIVE •
Soldier

KASPAR WAITED SILENTLY.

He crouched behind some low brush while a patrol of cavalry rode by. He had encountered two other patrols over the last week since leaving Jojanna’s farm. Given what little he knew of these people, he had decided to avoid contact with them. Common soldiers had a decided tendency to use weapons before asking questions, and Kaspar had no desire to end up dead, a prisoner, or enlisted into any army at the point of a sword.

Leaving the farm had proved more troubling than he had expected. Jorgen seemed especially disturbed by the prospect of being alone with his mother again. On the other hand, the mule would help with all the heavy work, and Kelpita had a son who would come and work with them during harvest so Jojanna wouldn’t lose her grain.

Kaspar considered how they would have fared had he never arrived. They’d still be scrabbling to run the farm and wouldn’t have had enough wood or the mule.

Still, it had been harder to say goodbye than he had anticipated.

A couple of days before, he had skirted a village that appeared to be a staging post for the local patrols, and then had bartered a day’s work at a farm just off the road for a meal. The food had been meagre and they had only offered him water to drink, but he had been glad for it. Kaspar remembered the lavish meals that had been the hallmark of his court, but quickly pushed the memory aside. He’d happily kill someone for a cut of hot rare beef, a bowl of his cook’s spiced vegetables and a flagon of good Ravensberg wine.

Certain the riders were now gone, Kaspar returned to trudging along the road. What had been a broken old highway appeared to be in better condition the farther south he moved. There were signs of relatively recent repair-work at various places he had passed over the last two days.

As he rounded a bend in the road, he saw a large town in the distance. The land around him was getting progressively more verdant and abundant. Whatever else this Raj of Muboya had done, he had pacified the territory around his capital to the point at which farmers were prospering again; farms lined the road and orchards were visible up on the hillsides. Perhaps in time this more peaceful aspect would be visited upon the area where Jorgen and his mother lived. He would like to think the boy had a chance for a better life.

As he approached the gate of the town he saw signs of harsh justice. A dozen corpses in various stages of decay were on display, as well as half a dozen heads impaled on stakes. The men had been hung by ropes on crosses of wood, ‘crucified’ in the Quegan language. He had been told it was a nasty way to die; after a while the body could not prevent fluid from gathering in the lungs and a man would drown in his own spit.

At the gate a squad of soldiers waited, each dressed like those he had seen on horseback, save that they lacked the cloaks and fancy hats. These ones also wore metal helms with chain guards over their necks.

One sauntered over to intercept Kaspar. ‘Your business in Delga?’

‘Just passing through on my way south.’

‘You have an odd accent.’

‘I’m not from around here.’

‘Your trade?’

‘I’m a hunter now. I was a soldier.’

‘Or maybe you’re a bandit?’

Kaspar studied the man. He was thin and nervous and had a habit of looking down his nose when he spoke. He had a weak chin and his teeth were grey. Whatever his rank here, he would be a corporal at the most in Kaspar’s army. He knew the type: self-important, not bright enough to realize he had risen as high as he ever would. Without taking obvious offence, Kaspar smiled. ‘If I were a bandit, I’d be a damn poor one. All I’d have to show for my labours is this sword, the clothing on my back, these boots, and my wits.’ The soldier started to speak, but Kaspar cut him off and continued, ‘I’m an honest man, and am willing to work for my keep.’

‘Well, I don’t think the Raj has need of any mercenaries today.’

Kaspar smiled. ‘I said I was a soldier, not a mercenary.’

‘Where did you serve?’

‘Somewhere I’m sure you’ve never heard of.’

‘Well, get along and see you don’t cause any trouble. I’ve got my eye on you.’ He waved him on.

Kaspar nodded and walked though the gate. Delga was the first real town he had visited in this land and it had more hallmarks of civilization than Kaspar had encountered in any settlement so far. The inns near the gate were run-down and as seedy as Sagrin’s, which was to be expected. The better inns would probably be located near the merchants’ quarter, so he walked until he reached a market square, which at this hour of the afternoon was thronged with people. Delga had all the signs of being a prosperous community and the people seemed content in their daily tasks.

Kaspar had studied governance all his life, for he had been born to rule. He had seen enough fools, madmen, and incompetents to last a lifetime and had read about many others. He knew that the populace were the foundation of a strong nation and they could only be taxed to a certain point. Kaspar’s plottings and intrigues had been designed, in part, to minimize the need for overt military confrontation, which was always an expensive undertaking that put a great burden on the people.

Not that Kaspar had cared much for his people’s happiness, one way or the other – he hadn’t even considered the plight of commoners until he had met Jojanna and Jorgen – but he was concerned for the welfare of his nation in general, and that meant maintaining a contented populace.

Whatever else, the people of Delga didn’t look overburdened or worried. They showed none of the signs of being concerned about government informants or tax officials seeing too many luxury goods on display.

The market was a riot of colours and sounds, busy with afternoon trading. Occasionally he heard the sound of coins being counted out or a jingling purse, so he judged that hard money was returning under the Raj’s care.

At first glance, it seemed this ruler had the support of his people. Uniformed men, wearing a different livery, were strolling through the market, their eyes constantly searching for trouble. Kaspar guessed they were constables or the town watch.

He made eye contact with one; a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and neck. The man stopped, but Kaspar didn’t avert his gaze and walked over to him. The man wore a blue tunic, but instead of displaying the high boots of a cavalryman with his trousers tucked in the tops, he wore balloon-legged pants that almost hid the boots entirely. His sword was a shorter weapon, and he wore no helm, but rather a felt hat with a broad brim.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Kaspar in greeting.

‘Stranger,’ said the man curtly.

‘I take it you are a constable?’

‘You take it correctly.’

‘I was wondering, where might I go to find work around here?’

‘Your trade?’

‘I’m a skilled hunter and a soldier,’ Kaspar continued politely.

‘If you bring in game, you can sell it at the inns, but the Raj has no need for mercenaries.’

Feeling as if he had already had this conversation, Kaspar didn’t debate this point. ‘What about labouring?’

‘There’s always need for those able to heft a bale or lift a crate at the caravanserai.’ He pointed south. ‘Through the town and outside the gate. But you’re too late today. All the hiring is done at first light.’

Kaspar nodded his thanks and moved through the town. All at once, he was struck by a sense of the alien and the familiar. These people dressed differently and their accents and voices sounded strange to his ear. He had thought himself comfortable with the language, but now he realized he was only used to hearing Jojanna’s and Jorgen’s two voices. This was a town, a good sized one, on its way to becoming a city. He passed new construction work and saw men eager to be about their business, and found the pace and rhythms of the settlement familiar.

Reaching the outer gate, Kaspar found that the caravanserai was indeed quiet. As the constable had warned him, most of the business of the day was done. Still, it was still an opportunity to ask questions. He went from caravan to caravan and after a few conversations he had the feel of the place. He discovered that a caravan making for the south would be departing in a week’s time, and the caravan owner said he should return then to seek a position as a guard, but in the meantime he had nothing to offer Kaspar.

By the time the sun began to set, Kaspar was tired and hungry. There was nothing he could do about the latter, but he could at least find a place to sleep if he was quiet about it. This land was hot, despite it being early spring – if he could judge the seasons on the other side of the world. The nights could get chilly, but they were far from cold.

He found some workers sitting around a fire and speaking softly, and asked permission to join them. They seemed content to let him, so he settled in and lay behind two men who spoke of things he could only imagine: villages whose names he had never heard before, rivers that coursed through alien landscapes, and other things familiar to them, but foreign to Kaspar. For the first time since coming to this continent, Kaspar wished not only to wreak destruction on Talwin Hawkins and those who had betrayed him, but simply to go home.

The wagons bumped along the old highway. It was a rugged ride, but it was a ride. Kaspar was glad not to be walking. He had finished an arduous week of work, loading and unloading wagons for scant wages – scarcely enough to pay for food. He had lost even more weight; he had to buy a whipcord belt to keep his trousers from falling down.

He had supplemented his income by playing knucklebones with some of the other workers, but on the last day his luck had faltered and now he was barely more than a few copper coins ahead. But at least he was ahead, and every little improvement was an advantage. He had endured. Though it had been one difficult week for him, the other men had suffered a lifetime of difficulty. For Kaspar, the most telling characteristic was their complete lack of hope. For these workers, each day was an exercise in survival; tomorrow would take care of itself.

Kaspar felt a mixture of impatience and resignation. He was anxious to make as much progress as possible every day and to return home as rapidly as he could to settle accounts, but he knew the journey would take time, and that time was also dependent on many factors outside of his control.

His struggle across the harsh wilderness before he found Jorgen and his mother had been simple physical hardship, but the week he had spent labouring at the caravanserai had been as miserable a week as he had ever spent. It had exposed him to a level of human wretchedness which he’d never experienced before in his privileged life.

He had learnt that the War, as it was known locally, had taken place when Kaspar was just a boy. The Kingdom of the Isles had defeated the armies of the Emerald Queen at the battle of Nightmare Ridge, when Kaspar had been barely out of nappies. Yet the effects were still being felt decades later.

Many of the labourers were the children of people driven from their homes by the advancing horde. The enemy had enlisted every able-bodied man they found, giving them the choice at sword-point: to fight for them, or die. Women were taken as whores, cooks, and menial labourers, and even some young boys were forced to serve with the luggage carts.

Thousands of children had been orphaned, and there had been no one to care for them. The weak had died, and those who did survive grew up wild, without any sense of family outside their gang of thugs, or loyalty beyond a petty bandit chieftain.

Bringing order to such a place would tax the wits of the most talented of rulers, Kaspar thought. He knew that if he was given the task, he would begin much the same way this Raj of Muboya had: by consolidating a core area, making sure it was stable and prosperous, and then expanding the sphere of influence, turning the influence into control. The young Raj might do this for most of his life before facing any organized opposition to the north.

As Kaspar had lived with the porters and teamsters for a week, they answered his questions and he had learned a great deal about the local area. To the east lay the Serpent River and beyond that the wasteland controlled by the nomadic Jeshandi; it seemed they had no interest in what occurred on this side of the river. But across the Serpent they ruled supreme; even the Emerald Queen’s army had been sorely pressed on that flank by the Jeshandi. Kaspar had read reports of the war from his father’s archives when he was a boy and given the immense size of the Queen’s army, Kaspar assumed the Jeshandi had to be a formidable cavalry to have avoided obliteration.

To the west rose the Sumanu Mountains and beyond them vast grasslands that rolled down to the River Vedra and a string of petty city-states. That natural barrier protected the Raj from conflict to the west. To the south, other minor nobles and self-styled rulers held territory, but from the rumours, the Raj was already halfway to winning a happy little war with one of his neighbours in that direction.

But far to the south, on the coast of the Blue Sea, lay the City of the Serpent River, about which these locals knew little. Once, it had held sway from the sea all the way up to the Serpent Lake, and had been ruled by a council of clans indigenous to the area. More than that, Kaspar didn’t know. Still, that was where ships docked, some from as far away as the Sunset Isles, the southern Keshian cities, and sometimes even Queg and the Kingdom. Which meant a way home for Kaspar. So, that was where he was bound, war or no war.

The wagons continued to bump along and Kaspar kept his eyes scanning the horizon in case trouble appeared unexpectedly. He thought it was unlikely, as the farther south they travelled from Muboya, the more peaceful the countryside seemed. At least, until they ran into the rumoured war.

Kaspar sat at the rear of the wagon. The only thing he had to watch, besides the horizon, was the team of horses pulling the wagon behind his, and the dour expression of Kafa: a taciturn old driver with little good to say when he said anything at all.

The driver of his wagon was a voluble man named Ledanu, whom Kaspar tended to ignore, since his words tumbled out aimlessly as his mind wandered. Still, Kaspar had grown tired of the relative silence and judged he could endure a little of Ledanu’s rambling if he could glean a bit of useful information from among the flood of words.

‘Tell me, Ledanu, of this next city.’

‘Ah! Kaspar, my friend,’ said the little man, eager to impress his new wagon mate with his expertise. ‘Simarah is a most wonderful place. There are inns and brothels, baths and gambling houses. It is very civilized.’ Kaspar sat back and endured a torrent of details about the establishments that Ledanu found most convivial in each aforementioned category. Kaspar realized that any useful intelligence, such as the disposition of soldiers, the politics of the region, its relationship with neighbouring cities and such would be lacking. Still, it was useful to hear something about the place, as it would be Kaspar’s next home until he could conspire to find a way south again.

Kaspar leaned against the doorway, waiting to see if anyone would appear this morning requiring labourers. It was traditional for those seeking day-labour to meet before sunrise in a small market near Simarah’s north gate. Kaspar had found work every morning for the first week after arriving in Simarah, and the pay was better than it had been in Muboya.

There wasn’t a full-scale war underway as yet, but some sort of border skirmish was developing down south, between Muboya and the realm of someone calling himself the King of Sasbataba. Soldiers were being recruited, and because the pay was relatively good, most workers were taking up arms. So, Kaspar had been constantly employed. He had also rediscovered his gambling luck, and so had enough coin in his purse to feed himself for another week should work stop. He could also afford a room – little more than a cot under the stairs – at a local boarding house. He ate simple food and didn’t drink, so he actually ended each day with a little more wealth than he had at the start.

He had hoped for another caravan to pass through the town, heading south and that he could again find a position as a guard, but during the conflict with King Sasbataba, all supplies and goods heading south were under strict military escort. A sense of urgency was overtaking him as he waited to continue his journey home.

Three men approached the market and all the workers came to their feet expectantly. Kaspar had seen these three before over the last few days. The first two always hired about two dozen men between them, but the third had lingered for a while, looking closely at the men in the area, as if searching for some unseen quality, and had then departed alone.

The first man shouted, ‘I need three pickers! Experienced orchard men only!’

The second said, ‘I need strong backs! I’ve got cargo to load. Ten men!’

But the third man simply walked past those racing to present themselves to the first two men hiring, and approached Kaspar. ‘You there,’ he said, his words coloured by a strange accent. ‘I’ve seen you here for a few days.’ He pointed to the sword at Kaspar’s side. ‘Know how to use that thing?’

Kaspar smiled, and it wasn’t friendly. ‘If I didn’t, would I be standing here?’

‘I need a man who can use a sword as well as having other talents.’

‘What talents?’

‘Can you ride?’

Kaspar studied his would-be employer and realized this man was dangerous. Whatever he was about to suggest was probably illegal, and if so, Kaspar stood to make good money from doing it. He studied the man’s face for a moment and found little in it to recommend itself. He had a thin nose that made his dark eyes look too close together. His hair was oiled and combed flat against his head, and his teeth were yellow and uneven. His clothing was of a fine weave, if simply cut, and Kaspar noticed that his dagger had an ivory handle. But the most noticeable thing about the man was his expression, one of fatigue and worry. Whatever he needed done would undoubtedly be dangerous, and that might mean a healthy wage. After considering the question, Kaspar said, ‘As good as some, better than most.’

‘I can’t place your accent. Where are you from?’

‘A lot of places, most of them very far from here, but most recently up north, around Heslagnam and Mastaba.’

‘You’re not from the south?’

‘No.’

‘Any problem with having to fight?’

Kaspar was silent for a moment, as if considering his answer. He knew that if a horse was involved in the bargain, he was taking the job, no matter what the task; he didn’t plan on returning to Simarah in this lifetime. If he didn’t like the job, he’d steal the horse and ride south. ‘If the job is to fight, I’m no mercenary. But if you mean can I fight if I need to, yes, I can.’

‘If things go as planned, you only need to be able to ride, my friend.’ He motioned for Kaspar to follow him. As he walked away, he said, ‘My name is Flynn.’

Kaspar stopped in his tracks. ‘Kinnoch?’

Flynn spun around and spoke in the language of the Kingdom of the Isles. ‘Deep Taunton. You?’

‘I’m from Olasko.’

Flynn glanced about and in the King’s Tongue said, ‘Then we’re both far from home, Olaskon. But this may be the gods’ way of providing us both with what we need, because unless I’m sadly mistaken you didn’t just decide to come down here to this godforsaken side of the world out of choice. Follow me.’

The man named Flynn hurried along a series of streets in the seedier part of the merchants’ quarter, then turned down a long alley. Kaspar kept his face immobile and tried to maintain a calm demeanour, but his heart raced. Flynn had been the surname of one of his boyhood instructors; a man from a region known as Kinnoch, part of a nation long ago overrun by the Kingdom of the Isles. But the inhabitants had retained their strong cultural identity and still spoke a language used only among their community. Kaspar’s instructor had taught him a few phrases, to indulge a curious boy, but even that much would have been considered a betrayal by other clan members. The men of Kinnoch were redoubtable fighters, poets, liars and thieves; prone to drunkenness, sudden bursts of rage and deep sorrow, but if this man had found a way to this godforsaken side of the world, he might well have the means to return to civilization.

Flynn entered a warehouse which looked draughty, dusty and dark. Inside, Kaspar saw two other men waiting. Flynn stepped to one side and nodded, and without warning the other two men drew their swords and attacked.

• CHAPTER SIX •
Opportunity

KASPAR LEAPT TO HIS RIGHT.

Before his attacker could react, Kaspar had drawn his sword and spun round to deliver a crushing strike to the man’s back.

Flynn’s blade scarcely blocked the blow as he shouted, ‘Enough! I’ve seen enough.’ He still spoke the King’s Tongue.

Kaspar took a step back as the other two men did likewise. Flynn quickly resheathed his blade and said, ‘Sorry, my friend, but I had to see if you really could use that thing.’ He pointed to Kaspar’s blade.

‘I said I could.’

‘And I’ve known women who said they loved me, but that didn’t make it true,’ countered Flynn.

Kaspar kept his blade out, but lowered it. ‘You have a problem with trust, it seems.’

Flynn nodded, a wry smile on his lips as he said, ‘You’re observant. Now, forgive me, but we had to be sure you’d wits enough for trouble at any time. These lads wouldn’t have killed you, just cut you up a little if you hadn’t been able to defend yourself.’

‘Your test almost got your friend here crippled for life,’ said Kaspar, as he pointed to a wiry man with shoulder-length blond hair who was not amused by Kaspar’s observation. He said nothing, but his blue eyes narrowed. He nodded once at Flynn.

The third man was broad-shouldered, thick-necked, and covered with hair everywhere, except for his balding pate. He laughed; a short bark like a dog’s. ‘It was a good move, I’ll grant.’

Kaspar raised an eyebrow and said, ‘You’re a Kinnockman, or my ears have never heard that accent.’

The blond man said, ‘We’re all from the Kingdom.’

‘I’m not,’ said Kaspar. ‘But I’ve been there.’

The two men looked enquiringly at Flynn, who said, ‘He’s from Olasko.’

‘You’re even farther from home than we are!’ observed the blond man.

‘I’m McGoin, and he’s Kenner,’ said the burly man.

‘I’m Kaspar.’

‘So, we’re four kindred spirits; men of the north.’ Kenner nodded sagely.

‘How did you get here?’ asked Kaspar.

‘You first,’ urged Flynn.

Kaspar thought it best to hide his identity. These men might think him a liar, or they might seek to use such knowledge to their benefit and his disadvantage in the future. Mostly, he decided that his former rank hardly mattered now; he was on the wrong side of the world and had been stripped of his title and lands. He might tell them more, later, after he had heard their tale.

‘Nothing very fancy, really. I got on the wrong side of a magician who has enough power to relocate the people who annoy him. One minute I’m in Opardum, the next I’m up near Heslagnam with half a dozen Bentu riding towards me.’

‘You got away from Bentu slavers?’ asked McGoin.

‘No,’ said Kaspar. ‘First they caught me; then I escaped.’

Flynn laughed. ‘Either you’ve a touch of a magic yourself, or you’re enough of a liar to be a Kinnockman.’

‘I haven’t that honour,’ said Kaspar.

‘Magicians,’ observed Kenner. ‘They’re a curse, no doubt.’

‘Well, that one certainly was,’ said Kaspar. ‘Still, he could have landed me halfway across the ocean and let me drown.’

‘True,’ said Flynn.

‘Now, your story.’

‘We’re traders out of Port Vykor,’ began Flynn.

Instantly Kaspar knew Flynn was lying. It was far more likely that they were pirates out of the Sunset Isles.

‘We were a consortium put together by a trader out of Krondor, name of Milton Prevence. When we reached the City of the Serpent River we found a clan war underway. We couldn’t even come into port, because two clans were battling over who controlled the harbour.

‘So, we turned around and looked for a landing.’ He pointed to his companions. ‘There were thirty of us when we started.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘A few merchants and how many guards?’

Flynn shook his head. ‘None. We are traders, but all of us have learned to take care of ourselves. McGoin started off as a felter’s apprentice, and got into the wool trade. From there it was fine clothing, and the silks you can buy down here are the best he’s seen, even better than from Kesh.

‘Kenner’s specialty is spices, the rarer the better. Me, I specialize in gems.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘All highly transportable and not too bulky, save for the silk.’

‘But it’s light,’ said McGoin. ‘You can pack the hold of a ship and she’ll barely lower a yard on the waterline.’

‘So what happened?’

Kenner took over the narrative from Flynn. ‘We had two choices. We could have turned west and sailed on to the City of Maharta to trade up the Vedra River; lots of commerce, lots of exotic goods, but also, lots of crafty traders and less advantageous deals.’

‘What was the other choice?’ Kaspar asked.

‘There’s a place where the Serpent River loops to the east, almost reaching the coast. It’s less than a week’s walk from the beach to the river, so we didn’t bring horses – we’d just buy them here if we needed to ride. At the river there’s a town called Shingazi’s Landing. Used to be a small trading-post, but now it’s a good place to catch a ride upriver.’

McGoin added, ‘So, that’s what we did; we hired a boat and set upriver, figuring there’d be goods up there no Islesman had ever seen before.’

Flynn laughed. ‘Talk about gods cursed arrogance. We’re not faint-hearted men, Kaspar, but there were thirty of us when we started and all of us knew how to take care of ourselves.