A Cast of Stones (29 page)

Errol laughed and gave him three. The new knobblocks felt twice as heavy as the old ones but looked almost identical, a slight increase in the wall thickness of the cylinder the only difference.
Perfect.
When he went through the forms, anyone watching would think he'd slowed.

He tugged Conger's sleeve, pulling his attention away from another book on church history. “Please don't tell anyone about the knobblocks.”

The former seventh smiled. “Not to worry, Errol.”

For a moment he debated what to do next—work the forms with his new staff weights or pepper Conger with questions about the men he would have to challenge. In the end, the weights won. His muscles ached with fatigue, but all his exercise would be for naught if he lost his feel for the staff.

Under the gaze of the first, who watched while he ate, Errol worked every move he'd learned from Rale and Jhade. The staff resisted him as though he were trying to swing the wood through water instead of air. He pushed on, swallowed thickly when his oversized dinner tried to come up on him. When Skorik called a halt to escort him back to the wagon and lock him in for the night, Errol almost thanked him.

For the week it took to reach Scarritt, he followed the same routine. But distraction weighed on his mind, and he started at odd moments, found himself staring westward.

The morning they camped outside the city, while Ru and Rokha scouted the merchant houses in preparation for creating
the lots, Errol emerged from the wagon, passed the table of food Grub laid out for the guards, and sought Jhade.

The woman nodded and rose from her seat on an overturned crate and gave him a small bow. “You train well.”

Errol bowed back. “Do you concede the fifth? I would prefer not to fight you for it. Hurting you seems a poor way to repay you for your instruction.”

She gave another small bow. “I do not concede. I wish to see how much you have improved.”

He'd suspected she would answer in this way. With a couple of twists of the staff, the knobblocks came loose in his hand. The weight of his staff, now unencumbered by iron, felt almost nonexistent. As he loosened up, the staff blurred in his hands and the buzz of displaced air caused the other guards to stare.

Jhade faced him, staff ready. At some unspoken signal, she attacked. Errol's only constraint now was the speed of his thoughts. His mind struggled to keep pace with the wood in his hands. When it caught up at last, Errol launched a flurry of blows that made it seem he handled two staffs at once. The fifth backpedaled, but Errol pressed his advantage.

He struck each shoulder. Numbed, she dropped her weapon.

With the same quiet dignity as before, she bowed, but more deeply this time.

He'd won.

Moments later Ru and his daughter returned from the merchant houses within the city of Scarritt. Errol knew the routine so well he didn't require Skorik's prodding to hurry back to the wagon. He listened to Rokha recount the details of each house and factor, then listened to Ru do the same.

It only took a few hours to determine where to sell their cargo and what cargo they should pick up for the trip south. It seemed they were supposed to haul hams to the city of Ambridge.

Throughout it all, Ru smiled so hard his face looked as if it would break. “It's too bad you can't find it in you to be more
cooperative, boy. As the sixth you're going to be paid quite well for today's sale.”

Errol gave a slight bow before he spoke. “Fifth. I defeated Jhade while you and Rokha were in the city. By the time we make Ambridge, you'll have to pay me even more.”

The caravan master's smile slipped. “What game are you playing, boy?”

He gave an exaggerated lift of his shoulders. “No game, Ru. You said if I wanted to make more money, I had to challenge for it.” He smiled. “You'll have to fill me in on the first's duties if I happen to make it that far. I don't know much about what Skorik does.” He paused. “Oh, he sets the roster for the guards, doesn't he?”

Ru gave him a wolfish smile. “You think you're that good? Forget it. I trained Skorik myself.”

“Yes, I've heard.” Errol glanced at Rokha, trying to read her thoughts, but Ru's daughter refused to look his way. She stared at the door as though she couldn't wait to be through it and away from him.

Should he try to apologize? He held no illusions about whether or not she would accept. The insult to her pride ran too deep. Generations of warrior ancestors were probably screaming for his blood.

With a sigh he turned away.

He drilled for another two days, kept his desire to move up the ladder in check while he prepared. His appetite seemed to have a will of its own. Grub stared each morning and evening as he piled and pirated food.

The new knobblocks no longer slowed him as much. In fact, he moved the staff almost as quickly using either pair. One evening, as firebugs drifted in the summer air at their camp, Errol heard the sound he'd been waiting for: the buzzing of his staff as he whipped it through the air. He looked in satisfaction at the heavier knobblocks at each end.

He was ready.

The next morning he sought Kajan Vujic and Diar Muen. The two men shared similar lanky builds, though Vujic's dark, bluff features bore little resemblance to Muen's bright red hair and blue eyes. Muen was the only man from the Green Isle in Ru's employ, and he spoke with the lilt common to those from there. In addition to their builds the two men also resembled each other when it came to their fighting style. According to Conger, the difference between the two was so slight they'd exchanged positions the first four times they fought. Then they hit upon the expedient of splitting the third's and fourth's portion in equal shares.

According to the roll, Vujic held the fourth. He peered at Errol through narrowed eyes. “I have seen you practicing where you think no one will notice. Is good.” His deep voice carried approval. “My village is poor. Almenia, in Lugaria.” He looked at Errol with a questioning look on his face.

Errol shook his head and shrugged. “I don't know anything about it.”

“Ah, so. Is not important. Many of my countrymen cannot afford swords, so they use the staff.” He smiled. “I have fought many who use the staff. Will be fun, yes?”

As Vujic described his homeland, Errol's stomach danced a jig against the rest of his organs. The Lugarian would know most of his tricks. Worse, his lanky build meant Errol would be open to counterattack.

When Errol took his position opposite Vujic, his heart beat as though he'd fought already. At the signal from Rokha, they approached each other, neither striking. The fourth's reach was even longer than he'd expected.

With a spinning move, Errol struck for the ankles. Vujic parried, and a swift flick of his wrist sent the tip of the practice sword racing toward Errol's unprotected head.

At the last instant, he brought the staff up to parry, just knocking the blade aside.

He counterattacked, but each strike clacked against the practice sword. There just didn't seem to be any way through the tall man's defenses. Vujic's reach kept Errol from getting close enough to use his greater speed.

Unless.

With a small nod, he committed to his plan. He would have to choose his moment with utmost care.

Errol slid his hands along the staff until two-thirds of its length extended in front of him, engaging Vujic's sword tip. With small beat attacks he knocked the blade aside, first toward the big man's inside line, then toward the outside. He watched, waiting to see which return was weaker.

There.
When Vujic returned from the inside line, his movement lacked the strength of the other. With a deep breath, Errol forced the sword to the inside line again and stepped in to the return.

Vujic's eyes widened as he watched Errol step in and take the blow on his right cheek.

Weaker it may have been, but pain blossomed nonetheless, and his skin tore with a sound of ripping parchment.

But he stood inside Vujic's defense. The Lugarian stood wide open to counterattack. A split second later Errol stood alone. Vujic lay unconscious at his feet. He put a hand up to his cheek. It came away warm and sticky with his blood. Before he could ask Grub to tend the wound, Diar came forward to help Kajan Vujic to his feet.

“Most of the people in my village were more interested in the bow than the staff,” Diar said. “If you can beat Kajan, I don't think I'd be able to give you much of a fight.” He grinned, looking boyish. “Besides, I've never seen Sven spar. It'll be fun to see him move a sword around that belly of his. You're fast. If you can keep him from sitting on you, you might have a chance.”

Errol nodded, then regretted the action. His face throbbed, and in his right eye, spots danced in time to his pulse. Pushing against his cheek to stem the flow, he sought Grub at the supply wagon. “Can you stitch me up?”

“I'll take care of it, Grub.” Rokha stepped from behind the wagon. “Let's go to Ru's wagon. The light's better there. Maybe I can keep the scar from puckering.”

She turned her back without waiting for a response. Errol followed her in silence.

Like the first time they met, she poured vile-smelling liquid on his cut. He tried not to wince at the sting and kept his gaze anywhere but on the needle she was threading.

Rokha pushed the skin around the cut together, her lips pursed in concentration. “That was a brave thing you did, stepping into Vujic's return stroke like that. And stupid. You're lucky he didn't catch you on the temple. In a real fight, you'd be dead now, instead of just bleeding. We spar in order to be ready, you fool boy.”

He didn't know what to say to that and so settled for a small lift of his shoulders.

She pulled the needle through his skin, and he felt his flesh lift away from his cheekbone.

“You'll have to watch yourself against Sven,” she said. “He's faster than he looks, and if you close with him the way you did Vujic, he'll take your first blow and then beat you senseless with his counter.”

Rokha was helping him. He kept silent, afraid that saying anything, even thanking her, would break the spell and send her away in a fit of temper.

“Keep your attacks low, wear him down, and when he tires, work behind him,” she said.

Errol nodded after it became plain she'd finished speaking. “I just didn't want to hurt you. I was stupid.”

Her gaze shifted a fraction, moved from his cut to his eyes. The needle paused. “Yes. Sometimes I forget you're fresh out of your village.” She resumed work on his cut. “I knew I couldn't beat you, but I wanted to see how far I could push you. You owe me a bout, Errol, and I intend to collect someday.”

“When?”

She shrugged, but a hint of fire came into her eyes, and she
wore a tight-lipped smile. “When it brings me the most attention and honor.”

“What about Skorik?” he asked.

Doubt clouded her eyes. “I don't know. Maybe your speed will be enough. I've never seen anyone move a staff that fast.” She moved to leave the wagon but turned at the door to look back at him. “Are you coming back out?”

He shook his head and laughed. “No. You can tell the first to lock me in for the night.”

Errol sat on the bunk and waited for the sound of the lock. It didn't take long. As usual whenever Errol roamed free, Skorik had shadowed his steps and kept close.

Two more.
Two more fights and he would be free to go to Erinon. Day by day the compulsion waxed and waned. Whenever the caravan journeyed in the general direction of the isle, Errol felt the tension in the back of his head easing, as though invisible hands soothed his muscles after a long day. It had happened when they had traveled north from Leister, but as they passed Ambridge, the tension returned, filling his head with a constant unease, like the buzzing of hornets. Under the influence of the compulsion, he often lost track of time, especially at night before he slept.

He only needed to find a way to defeat Sven and Skorik, but he needed to beat the first while Ru was away. With Ru's pupil unconscious, he could saddle Midnight and ride for Ambridge. His pockets jingled with more silver and gold than he'd seen in his life, certainly more than enough to buy his way to Erinon. Tomorrow he would challenge the second.