The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold (8 page)

“Ent lookin’ to shoot anyone,” the bandit leader said. “We ent corelings, just men with families to feed. Everyone knows you Messengers get paid in advance and keep your own bags on your horses. You unhitch that cart and go on about your business. We ent looking to take what’s yours.”

“I dunno,” said one of the men with picks, as he strode up to where Arlen sat. “Might need to take that shiny warded armor, too.” He tapped Arlen’s breastplate with his weapon, putting a second scratch in the steel, next to the one Curk had made.

“The Core you will,” Arlen said, grabbing the pick haft just under the head. He yanked it back and put his steel-shod boot in the face of the man as he was pulled forward. Teeth and blood arced through the air as the man hit the ground hard.

Arlen tossed the pick down the mountain and had his shield and spear out in an instant. “Only thing anyone comes near this cart will be taking is my spear in their eye.”

“You crazy, boy?” Curk demanded, his hands still lifted. “Gonna get killed over a cart?”

“We promised to see this cart to Brayan’s Mine,” Arlen said loudly, never taking his eyes off the bandits, “and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“This ent a game, boy,” bandit leader said. “A crank bow bolt will punch right through that shield.”

“Your bowman had best hope so,” Arlen said, loud enough for the bowman to hear, “or we’ll see if he can dodge a spear without falling off those rocks and breaking his neck.”

The leader stepped up and grabbed the arm of the bandit Arlen had kicked, hauling him to his feet and shoving him back towards the others in one smooth motion.

“That one’s an idiot,” he told Arlen, “and he don’t speak for us. I do. You keep your armor. We don’t even need your cart. Just a few crates off the back, and we’ll let you ride on safe and sound.”

Arlen stepped into the back of the cart, putting his boot on a crate of thundersticks with a thump. “These crates? You want I should just kick ’em off the cart?” Curk gave a shout and backpedaled, falling from his seat. Everyone jumped.

The leader held up his hand, patting the air. “No one’s sayin’ that. You know just what it is you’re carryin’, boy?”

“Oh, I know,” Arlen said. He kept his shield up as he squatted, setting down his spear and pulling out a thunderstick. It was two inches in diameter and ten long, wrapped in a dull gray paper that belied the power within. A thin fuse of slow burning twine hung from one end.

“I’ve a match, to go with it,” Arlen said, holding the thunderstick up for all to see.

The bandits on the ground all took several steps back. “You be careful now, boy,” the leader said. “Them things don’t always need a spark to go off. Ent wise, swingin’ it around.”

“Best keep your distance, then,” Arlen said. For a moment, silence fell as he and the bandit leader locked stares. Then came a sudden snapping sound, and everyone jumped.

Arlen looked over to see that Curk had cut his horse from the cart harness and was swinging into the saddle. He readied his spear and shield, and turned to face the bandits. Arlen saw doubt in the bandit leader’s eyes, and smiled.

But Curk kept his speartip down, and Arlen felt his momentary advantage vanish.

“Don’t want no part of some thunderstick showdown!” Curk shouted. “I got years of drinking ahead of me, and fifteen hundred suns to pay for it!”

The bandit leader gave a start, but then he nodded. “Smart man.” He signaled the others to move back, giving Curk an open path back down the road. “You stay smart, and keep on riding when you see the wardpost.”

Curk looked at Arlen. “Can’t handle a scratch on your armor, but you’ll blow yourself to bits over a cart? You ent right in the head, boy.” He kicked his horse hard, and in moments he had vanished back down the trail. Even the sound of his galloping hoofbeats quickly faded.

“Ent too late to do the same,” the bandit leader said, turning back to Arlen. “You ever seen what a thunderstick can do to a man? What you’ve got in your hand’ll blow you apart so there’s nothing to burn at the funeral. Tear that pretty warded armor of yours like paper.”

He gestured down the trail where Curk had ridden. “Get on your horse and go. You can even take that stick in your hand for insurance.”

But Arlen made no move to get off the cart. “Who told you we were coming? Was it Sandar? If I find his leg ent really broken, I’ll break it for him.”

“Don’t matter who told us,” the bandit said. “No one’s going to think you didn’t do your duty. You done Messengers proud, but you ent gonna win this. What do you care, if Count Brayan sees a dip in his ledgers? He can afford it.”

“Don’t care about Count Brayan,” Arlen admitted. “But I care about my promises, and I promised to get this cart and everything on it to his mines.”

The men spread out, three picks and a bowman at either end of the road. “That ent gonna happen,” the bandit leader said. “You try to move that cart, we shoot your horse.”

Arlen glanced at the bowmen. “Shoot my horse and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” he promised.

The bandit sighed. “So where does that get us, 'cept half hour closer to dark?”

“How close are you willing to get?” Arlen asked. He rapped his gauntlet against his scratched breastplate. “I’ll stand here in my 'pretty warded armor’ right until the rising.”

He looked out over the bandits, all of them on foot and none carrying so much as a pack. “You, I expect, need to get on back to succor at Brayan’s Wardpost before dark. That’s why you told Curk to keep on riding, and it’s at least five hours walk back the way we came. Wait too long, and you won’t make it in time. Is it worth it to get cored over a few boxes of thundersticks when you have families to feed?”

“All right, we tried to do it easy,” the bandit leader said. “Fed, shoot him.” Arlen ducked under his shield, but there was no immediate impact.

“You said no names, Sandar!” the crank bowman cried.

“Ent gonna matter, you idiot, once you put a bolt through this head,” Sandar snapped.

Arlen started. Of course. He had never met Sandar, but it made perfect sense. He shifted his shield so he could see the bandit. “You faked the break so you could ride out a day early and ambush your own shipment.”

Sandar shrugged. “Ent like you’re gonna live to tell anyone.”

But still there was no shot from above. Arlen dared to peek over his shield. Fed’s hands shook, his aim veering wildly, and finally he put up the weapon.

“Corespawn it, Fed!” Sandar shouted. “Shoot!”

“Suck a demon’s teat!” Fed shouted back. “I didn’t come out here to shoot some boy. My son’s older’n him.”

“Boy had his chance to walk away,” Sandar said. Some of the others grunted in agreement, including the man Arlen had kicked.

“Don’t care,” Fed called. “'No one gets hurt’, you said. 'Just a dip in some Royal’s ledger’.” He pulled the bolt from his bow and slung the weapon over his shoulder, picking up the spare as well. “I’m done.” He moved to pick his way down the outcropping.

One of the other bowmen eased his draw as well. “Fed’s right. I’m sick of eatin’ gruel as anyone, but I ent lookin’ to kill over it.”

Arlen looked for the last bowman’s reaction, but the man only sighted and fired.

He got his shield up in time, but it was a heavy bow, and the shield was only a thin sheet of hammered steel riveted onto wood, meant more to defend against corelings and nightwolves than arrows. The arrowhead made it through before the shaft caught fast, puncturing the side of Arlen’s cheek. He stumbled back and almost lost his balance, squeezing the thunderstick so hard he was afraid it would go off in his hand. Everyone tensed.

But Arlen caught himself and straightened, turning to reveal the match clutched in his shield hand. He struck it with his thumb, and it lit with a pop.

“I’m going to light the fuse before the match burns my finger,” he said, waving the thunderstick, “and then I’m going to throw it at anyone still in my sight.”

A couple of men turned and ran outright. Sandar’s eyes narrowed, but at last he lifted his kerchief to spit, and whistled for the rest to follow him as he headed down the road.

The match did end up burning Arlen’s hand, but he never needed to light the fuse. A few minutes later he was back on his way up the mountain. Dawn Runner was not pleased about pulling the entire load, but it could not be helped. He didn’t think the bandits would be able to follow him on foot, but he kept the thunderstick and his drybox close to hand, just in case. It was nearing dark when he made it to the next wardpost.

Sandar was waiting.

* * * * *

The Messenger had shed his miner’s disguise, clad now in battered steel mail and carrying a heavy spear and shield. He sat atop a powerful destrier, much larger than a sleek courser like Dawn Runner. With a horse like that, and no cart to slow him or limit his path, it wasn’t surprising that he had gotten ahead of Arlen.

“Had to be a goody, dincha?” Sandar asked. “Couldn’t leave it alone. Guild is insured. You’re insured. You could’ve ridden off with Curk. The only loser would have been Count Brayan, and that bastard’s got gold comin’ out his arse.”

Arlen just looked at him.

“But now,” Sandar raised his spear. “Now I
have
to kill you. Can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut otherwise.”

“Any reason I should?” Arlen asked. “I don’t take kindly to having bows aimed at me.” He picked up the thunderstick sitting next to him in the driver’s seat.

Sandar moved his horse closer. “Do it,” he dared. “Blast this close’ll set off every crate. Kill us both, and the horses besides. Either way, them sticks ent getting to Brayan’s Gold.”

Arlen looked him hard in the eyes, knowing he was right. Whatever Curk might think, he wasn’t crazy, and didn’t want to die today.

“Then get off your horse,” Arlen said. “Fight me fair, and our spears can decide which of us walks away.”

“Ent no one can say you ent got stones, boy,” Sandar laughed. “If you want me to hand you a proper beating before I kill you, I’ll oblige.” He rode into the clearing by the wardpost, dismounting and staking down his horse. Arlen followed and set the thunderstick down, taking up his spear and shield before hopping down from the cart.

He set his feet apart in a comfortable stance, his shield and spear ready. He had practiced spearfighting with Cob and Ragen for countless hours, but this was real. This time, it would end in blood.

Like most Messengers, Sandar was built more like a bear than a man. His arms and shoulders were thick, with a barrel chest and a heavy gut. He held his weapons like they were a part of him, and his eyes had the dead, predatory stare of One Arm. Arlen knew he would not hesitate on the killing stroke.

They began to circle in opposite directions, eyes searching for an opening. Sandar made an exploratory thrust of his spear, but Arlen batted it aside easily and returned quickly to guard, refusing to be baited. He returned a measured thrust of his own. As expected, Sandar’s shield snapped up to intercept.

Again Sandar attacked, this time more forcefully, but the moves were all simple spear forms. Arlen knew all the counters and picked them by rote, waiting for the real attack, the one that would come as a surprise when he thought he was countering something else.

But that attack never came. Sandar was powerfully built and had murder in his eyes, but fought like a novice. After several minutes of dancing around the wardpost, Arlen tired of the game and stepped into the next predictable attack. He ducked, hooking Sandar’s shield with his own and raising both to cover himself as he stomped on the side of the Messenger’s knee.

There was a sharp snap that echoed in the crisp air, like the branch of a winter-stripped tree breaking off in the wind. Sandar screamed and collapsed to the ground.

“Son of the Core! You broke my ripping leg!” he howled.

“Promised I would,” Arlen said.

“I’ll kill you!” Sandar shrieked, writhing on the ground in agony.

Arlen took a step back and raised his visor. “I don’t think so. Fight’s over, Sandar. Sooner you realize that, the sooner I can come set that leg for you.”

Sandar glared at him, but after a moment, he threw his spear and shield out of reach. Arlen put down his own weapons and took Sandar’s spear. He braced it against the ground and snapped it with a sharp kick of his steel-shod heel. He laid the two halves on the ground by Sandar and knelt to examine the leg.

As he did, Sandar threw a fistful of loose dirt right in his eyes.

Arlen gave a yell and stumbled back, but Sandar was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground. Flat on his back in heavy steel armor with another man atop him, Arlen had no way to rise.

“Ripping kill you!” he screamed, hammering Arlen about the head with heavy gauntleted fists. Rather than crippling him, the pain in his leg seemed to give him a mad strength like a cornered nightwolf.

Arlen’s head felt like the clapper from a bell, and it was impossible to think clearly. Half-blind from the grit, he felt more than saw the long knife that suddenly appeared in one of Sandar’s fists. The first thrust skittered across his breastplate, and the next bit into the interlocking rings at his shoulder joint.

Arlen threw his head back and howled. The armor turned the edge, but the pain was incredible, and he knew his shoulder would ache for days.

That was, assuming he lived through the next few minutes.

Sandar gave up trying to pierce the armor and stabbed the knife at Arlen’s throat. Arlen caught his wrist, and they struggled silently for the next few moments. Arlen strained every muscle he had, but Sandar had weight and leverage in addition to his mad strength. The blade drew ever closer to the thin but vulnerable seam between Arlen’s neckplate and helmet.

“Almost there,” Sandar whispered.

“Not quite,” Arlen grunted, punching a mailed fist into Sandar’s broken knee. The Messenger screamed and recoiled in agony, and Arlen punched him full in the jaw, rolling as the man fell and reversing the pin. He pinned the knife arm with his knee, and landed several more heavy blows before the weapon fell from Sandar’s limp hand.

* * * * *

Well after dark, Arlen sat by the edge of the wardnet, watching One Arm and holding the thunderstick thoughtfully. In his other hand, he held the white-tipped match. His fingers itched to light it, and his other arm tensed, ready to throw. He pictured One Arm catching the stick in its jaws, and the explosion blowing the demon’s head apart. Pictured its headless body lying on the ground, oozing ichor.