Call of the Herald (16 page)

It took time to carry each sack into the
loft, but he figured this was the safest place to hide them until
he came back. The loft was also where he'd hidden his sword, and he
pulled it from behind some bales of moldy hay. He had considered
taking it with him when they first left for the mountains, but he
hadn't been able to bear the thought of talking to Catrin about her
mother. He could not lie to her, and if she saw the sword, she
would surely have questions. Any answers he gave to those questions
would certainly have led to questions about Elsa. The memories were
still painful for him, and he could see no good that would come
from revealing things to Catrin that would only confuse and hurt
her. Now, though, his need outweighed his desire to spare Catrin
the pain of knowing.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard
the barn's front door open and the sound of horses walking into the
barn. In the next moment, he heard something that chilled his bones
and made him curse his own stupidity: "Why is the back door open?"
someone asked in Zjhonlander. Benjin hadn't heard it spoken in many
years, but he recognized the peril of his situation immediately.
After making sure the sacks of salt and grain were well hidden, he
climbed over the bales of straw that were stacked almost to the
angled roofline. Squeezing himself through the cobwebs, he ducked
under the rafters that gave him barely enough room to pass. When he
finally reached the other side, he quietly slid down into the small
open area between the straw pile and the back door of the loft.

From what he could hear, the soldiers below
had not called out or raised the alarm, but he heard them climb to
the loft. As quietly as he could, Benjin opened the loft door just
enough to see if anyone was outside. When the way looked clear, he
opened the door and climbed out onto the narrow ledge that ran
along the top of the barn doors. With his back to the barn, Benjin
closed the door and scooted himself sideways until he reached the
makeshift ladder he'd built many years ago. It had taken a only few
scraps of barn board cut into short strips and nailed to the side
of the barn to create a nearly invisible ladder. As he climbed down
it, he was thankful for his own ingenuity.

When he reached the bottom, he saw the
soldiers coming back down from the loft, and he raced to the fence.
Using his momentum and a hand on the top rail, he launched himself
over the fence. In truth, he was lucky his grip did not miss the
top rail since the entire fence was overgrown with honeysuckle and
blackberry bushes. It was the growth that gave him cover while he
fled. Running while crouched is not an easy thing to do, and his
knees ached terribly when he finally reached the tree line. From
there, he watched and rested.

The Zjhon seemed quite relaxed. They had
taken Harborton and the highlands, and now those who remained to
hold these seemed content to get fat on what had been left behind
by the people of the Godfist. Anger and resentment burned in
Benjin's belly, and when a sentry came too close, he moved without
hesitation. Silently he approached the bored-looking soldier and
caught him completely by surprise. Using his momentum and leverage
to focus the power of his muscles, Benjin landed a devastating
punch that dropped the soldier without a sound. After dragging the
man back to the tree line, Benjin took his uniform and left him
there.

Knowing it was only a matter of time before
someone noticed the sentry was missing or found his body, Benjin
hurried through the trees, looking for the game trail he used to
hunt. When he found it, he took a moment to change into the
soldier's uniform, and he stashed his clothes near the trail. He
tucked his hair beneath the jacket collar and hoped his disguise
would be sufficient, though he knew it was thin.

Getting to Harborton was as easy as following
a series of trails through the woods that dominated the foothills,
but when he reached the edge of town, his task became a great deal
more difficult--the darkness his only boon. After sifting through a
garbage heap on the outskirts, Benjin found some things that might
help him get to the Watering Hole without having to answer any
questions. He cut the top off an old leather flask and filled it
with a noxious mixture of rotting vegetables and stale wine, and he
hid the flask within his coat.

When the moon was high, Benjin walked the
streets, doing his best to look as if he belonged there. Careful
planning took him along a route that he guessed would have the
least traffic. One street ran along a narrow canal whose smell kept
most people at a distance, and another was little more than a dirty
alley between two rows of buildings. The refuse that had
accumulated there over many years made getting through difficult,
but Benjin was grateful for it.

At the end of the alley, he could see his
destination. The faded and chipped sign above the inn had always
been a welcoming sight, but now Benjin knew better. The Zjhon
religion declared churches and libraries sacred and decreed that
they must not be destroyed during the conquest of a city, but it
was the soldiers who declared inns sacred. It was a long-standing
practice that those the Zjhon conquered were allowed to continue a
limited and heavily taxed business, and it appeared this was still
the case, for the sounds coming from the Watering Hole indicated
the inn was still operating. Benjin could only hope that Miss
Mariss was well and still running the inn.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for
what would likely be the most dangerous part of his journey. A
patrol of soldiers walked the streets looking half asleep and
utterly disinterested, and Benjin waited for them to pass. As soon
as they were out of sight, he left the safety of the shadows and
walked into the moonlight, hoping no one chose this moment to leave
the inn. As he crossed the street, a loud outburst of laughter
emanated from inside, and Benjin nearly leaped from his skin, but
no one emerged.

With an ill-advised burst of speed, he
covered the last bit of distance between himself and the shadows
alongside the inn. Just as he rounded the corner, he encountered a
soldier who'd been relieving himself in the bushes.

"Who's there?" the man asked in Zjhonlander,
and Benjin nearly stumbled as he was taken by surprise. Quickly he
turned and leaned over, making vomiting sounds and pouring some of
his foul mixture on the ground. "If you can't hold your drink, you
shouldn't indulge," the man said as he came closer. "What's your
name, soldier? Whom do you serve under?"

Benjin felt a hand on his shoulder, and he
prayed for good luck. As he turned toward the soldier, he never
raised his head, and he made more retching noises, and then he
poured the rest of his mixture on the man's boots. The soldier
stepped back, and Benjin waited to see if his plan had worked or if
it would be the end of him. The soldier must have gotten a whiff of
the foul mixture and Benjin heard his stomach heave. Without
another word, the man turned and left, probably hoping to keep the
contents of his stomach where they were.

As soon as the man turned the corner, Benjin
stumbled around the back of the inn and was pleasantly surprised
the find the back door unguarded. Miss Mariss's kitchen looked much
as it always had, save there were fewer people and a lot less food
to be seen, and now there was an oppressive pall of desperation
that hung in the air.

When the kitchen door suddenly swung inward,
Benjin crouched down, but Miss Mariss saw him instantly. Her face
registered no surprise or fear; she simply held a finger to her
lips, grabbed half a loaf of bread, and walked back to the common
room. Admiring her strength, Benjin moved to a darkened corner and
waited. It took some time for Miss Mariss to convince her unwelcome
guests that the inn was closing for the evening, but she eventually
came back to find Benjin. Again she held a finger to her lips and
led him to the cellar, which, like most cellars, was damp, cold,
and had a smell like moldy soil.

"It's good to see you, Benjin," she said
after leading him to a place between the stacks of crates and
barrels, most of which appeared to be empty. "There's been much
worry over the safety of you and those in your care."

"We've worried about you as well."

"I've got it good compared to most. I have to
put up with the scoundrels in my inn, but I have most of my
freedom. As for the rest, things could be a great deal better."

Benjin nodded his agreement, and they settled
down to discuss their plans.

* * *

When five days had passed and Catrin and the
others still had seen no sign of Benjin, they were worried, but
they tried to be optimistic.

"I'm sure he's just being extra careful, and
all the rain we've been having is probably slowing him down as
well," Chase said.

"Knowing Benjin, he's probably so overloaded
with salt and cheese that he'll barely make it back before the
first snow." Strom laughed.

After ten days, the group was anxious and
restless. Catrin had so much pent-up energy, she thought she could
probably sprint all the way to the ocean. She was fretful and paced
constantly.

"I'm going fishing," Strom announced, clearly
wishing to escape the oppressive atmosphere, even if it was only to
sit in the rain. Chase seemed to share his desire.

"I think I'll go hunting in the high reaches
today," he said nonchalantly.

"The high reaches?" Catrin asked. "What kind
of game do you expect to find up there? Goat?"

"Perhaps no game at all. I want to find a
high place with a good view of the valley. I have a bad feeling
about Benjin."

No one disagreed, and Strom offered to go
with him, but they jointly decided one person stood less of a
chance of being spotted than two. They were going against Benjin's
orders, but they all felt compelled to do something--anything.
Catrin and Osbourne felt helpless, left without much to do.

"I think we should keep watch while they're
gone," Osbourne said, looking pale and shaken. "I'll take first
watch."

"I'm going to look again for another exit
from the cavern in case we need it," Catrin said.

She retrieved a coil of rope and a couple of
torches that Benjin had fashioned and made her way back to the old
raft. She lowered the logs to the ground and lashed them together.
It was a hot job, and her eyes burned with sweat by the time she
finished, but the raft looked strong. She grunted with effort as
she pushed off into the dark water. The raft seemed to float well,
and she hoped it would be stable. She pulled it back to shore.

Searching through the woodpile, she found a
branch she could use to push herself across the water. It still had
leaves on one end, and she hoped it would work like an oar if the
water got too deep for poling. When she returned to the fire to
light one of her torches, Osbourne looked concerned.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to go
off on that raft. It's not safe."

"Nothing we do these days is safe. But don't
worry; I'll be fine."

Catrin put her spare torch on the raft along
with the rope and her makeshift oar and climbed tentatively aboard
the awkward craft, holding her lit torch aloft. Her weight caused
the raft to sink lower into the water, and at times it was almost
completely submerged; only her quick reactions kept the second
torch from getting saturated. The sudden movements threatened to
overturn the raft. It was precarious, but she was determined.

Poling and holding the torch up at the same
time was hard, but she managed to move along the shoreline, still
staying close to the cavern wall. There was no real shoreline this
far out, but she did occasionally come across what appeared to have
been other passageways leading into the cavern. They were all
blocked with fallen rock and debris, and none appeared
passable.

As she became more adept at poling, she moved
more quickly toward the far end of the cavern. The water grew
deeper, and she had to put her entire arm in the water to reach the
bottom with her pole. Eventually the water was too deep to reach
the bottom, and she pushed off the cavern walls when she could.
Occasionally she pushed herself out too far and had to paddle back.
Her branch made a poor paddle, and at times she made more progress
by setting the branch on the raft and paddling with her free
hand.

When she reached the back of the cavern, she
came on a collapsed corridor that was larger than all the others.
Fallen stone blocked this one too, but the size of the arch
intrigued her. As she began to wonder if someone hadn't blocked the
tunnels intentionally, a small breeze caressed her cheek. She
sniffed the air--a bit dank but not foul.

After pushing the raft closer to the doorway,
she latched onto some of the rocks that blocked it. She wedged her
torch into a nearby crevice and pulled herself onto the top of a
protruding rock, hoping the raft would not drift off. There wasn't
much room for her on the small shelf of rock, but she managed to
balance as she reached out to the raft. She had to stretch to grasp
her rope, which she used to secure the raft to one of the jagged
rocks at the bottom of the doorway.

Cooler air continued to seep through the
rocks, and Catrin loosened some of the top pieces. It was slow
work, but she cleared a hole about the size of her head. She poked
her torch into it to see what lay beyond. She could see very
little, but it did appear that the corridor was mostly clear beyond
the initial blockage. When she pulled her torch back, she noticed a
narrow rectangular slit in the stone above the doorway and shivered
as she recalled the lessons that spoke of old castles having arrow
slits above the entrances, often referred to as death holes. The
sight of it was unsettling.