Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) (38 page)

      Brandon leaned back in his chair and said. "That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I want you to be my lawyer, same as you were for my father. Gerrick only just began preparing me for adulthood and I still have a lot to learn. It'll be nice to have someone on retainer that I can ask for advice when I run into something I can't handle."

      Dagget said. "What you just said is enough to convince me that you’re more than ready to take care of yourself, Bran. And I would be honored to be your lawyer. And, as for any questions or help you might need, all you have to do is call. I have to ask, though. Is there any chance at all that Gerrick might return?” He paused, trying to find the most tactful way to ask a tough question.

      Brandon said nothing for a long moment then said. “I really don’t know. I didn’t actually see him die. But it’s been 5 days. If Gerrick survived the battle on Christmas Eve, he wouldn’t stay gone like this. He would’ve returned.”

      Clearing his throat, Dagget said. "Gerrick and I never really got along, you know that. But I knew him well enough to know that counting him out without seeing a body is a mistake.”

      Brandon said nothing. He agreed with Dagget completely. Besides, his gut told him that the Tower Knight was still alive and he had gotten used to trusting his intuition on things like that.

      Dagget said. “This afternoon, if you want, we'll go to one of the auto dealers in town and you can pick out a vehicle. Of course, Gerrick’s car is yours to use as you want, but buying your first car is an important step in becoming a man. At least, it was where I grew up. Then we can get you a checking account at the National Bank and set up your utilities so they'll be paid automatically. That way, you wont have to worry about anything but buying groceries and doing well in school. If anything crazy pops up that you want to buy or do, all you have to do is call your trusted lawyer and I’ll help you take care of it."

      Brandon nodded. Less than half a year ago, the thought of having his own car would have been enough to set him hopping up and down, but priorities change. He said. "In two years, I'll graduate. Until then, I've no plans to leave Matheson. Or even Highgarden. This is my home now."

      Dagget nodded and stood. He said. "I think you'll do very well, Bran. You’re more than capable now. Far more so than most young men your age. Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna get settled in. I'll put my bags in the guest room and maybe take a shower. I wanna get the smell of that plane ride out of my hair."

      Brandon nodded and watched the man leave. After a moment, he got up and went into the sword room. The Phoenix sat on its pedestal, its blade glimmering, though no light touched it. He went over to the sword and rested his hand on the hilt, letting the power flare up inside of himself. He did that occasionally. Just to feel it. A reminder of all that had happened to him since his parents died.

      It was over, he knew. Sha’ha’Zel was dead. The doorway leading to the old world was closed and the grohlm were broken, if not totally defeated. He had avenged his family and now he would finally be able to begin his life. His new life. In time, there would be more Merryweathers to carry on his families legacy and keep the gods alive.

      Taking his hand away from the sword hilt and letting the power wash out of him, Brandon left the room, closing the door behind him.

Epilogue

      A wind rose, cutting across the barren plains of Larado like a knife, whipping up cyclones of sand and grit, and making the column of mounted men move even slower than their usual sedate pace. Nearly 1,000 men, most mounted, wound their way through the barrens like a long sinuous snake, plodding along under the fierce sun, sitting high overhead. That many horses kicked up a hell of a cloud of dust and the wind seemed intent on throwing it right back in their faces.

      Lord Captain Erik Karde rode at the head of the column, just behind his commanding officer. Coughing lightly into the dust cloth wound around his face, he glanced around at the men following behind him. His two under officers sat their horse's glumly, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the heat, and watched the landscape around them with flat eyes. Behind Toomes and Smythe, the army stretched out. Near a thousand men, and only half of what they originally set out with.

      Pulling his cloak tighter around himself, Karde turned back around and eased his sword in its scabbard. He wasn't cold(the barrens were cold enough to kill at night, but during the day it was the heat you had to watch out for) but the cloak was the only thing that kept the dust and sand from filling his clothes. Something that was impossible, but he had to try, nevertheless. The barren's killed strong men, as well as weak, especially if they were not vigilant. And Karde was far from weak. A big man, with broad shoulders and long legs, the captain towered over most men. He was the very picture of what a Lord Captain should be. Except that his polished armor and fine crimson cloak were packed away, and the cloak he wore now was faded and travel worn after almost 2 years of endless wandering. The sun had baked away most of the color.

      The red hot ball of the sun, high overhead, glared down at him and Karde cursed his luck at having drawn this assignment, not for the first time. Not for the hundredth, either. He cursed his luck everyday. And he cursed the man riding just ahead of him even more often. Coughing, he worked some moisture into his mouth, and called out. "How much longer must we continue this farce, my lord? How many more men have to die before you see the truth that is as plain as the nose on your face?"

      Turning in his saddle, Lord General Ronin Weaver squinted at Karde and said. "Halt the line, captain. We'll make camp here."

      Karde ground his teeth, swallowing the curse that wanted to come. Instead, he saluted, fist to heart, and said. "As commanded." Heeling his horse around, he began shouting orders before he had ridden two steps. Toomes and Smythe followed, directing men, as well.

      Weaver watched, lost in thought. He could hardly blame Karde his impatience, but it was past time he reined the Captain in, somewhat, before he began to do more than open his mouth where others could hear. Good Captains were hard to find and, other than his tendency to speak his mind at inopportune moments, Karde was one of the best officers he had remaining. Good men had died on this march. Hundreds of good men, but those that remained were the iron core of his troops.

      With a flurry of activity, the men dismounted and began setting up camp. After nearly 2 years of wandering the barrens, they had become quite proficient at setting up their camp. Within short order, Weaver was settling into his command tent. The big two room structure sat at the heart of their camp, the tall poles outside waving the flags of the Emperor and the glorious army proudly. Harnen, his man servant, bustled about the tent, preparing his dinner and putting away his clothes. He had begun with two servants, but Jilly had taken a bite from some strange horn backed lizard and had died screaming in the sand. Weaver sat behind his desk, a fold up table that was littered with maps and markers. As if they were on a true campaign and not on some wild goose chase.

      Stepping underneath the tent flap, Karde came inside, followed closely by Toomes and Smythe. Toomes was whip thin, with knotty muscles and piercing blue eyes. Smythe would be called stout by anybody who didn't notice the thick muscles of his neck and shoulders. Both gave brief bows before setting themselves at each side of the tent's doorway, an honor guard if Weaver ever saw one.

      Karde was grim, his face and hands clean, and resplendent in a red gold coat and britches. Every inch the lord. Weaver recieved no bow from Karde, nor did he need one. Bowing was for foolish nobles, not soldiers. Karde said, his voice tight. "Is it prudent setting up camp this early, my lord? I'll wager we lose more than one man to the heat."

      "We'll lose more on the march, if that wind keeps up." Weaver said. "We've seen enough sandstorms to know how deadly they can be when we're not prepared."

      Karde grunted, but said nothing. Toomes and Smythe only glanced at one another. They knew sense when they heard it, at least. There was a tap at the tent flap. Weaver said, in a loud voice. "Come."

      The flap opened and Rygar Kettlebuck stepped inside. Rygar was a short, lean man, with the perpetually bowed legs of a horseman. His head was shaved, except for a long braided tail in the back, and his face looked carved from knotted wood. He gave a stiffly formal leg and saluted before coming to attention.

      "You've found something?" Weaver said, before the other man could open his mouth. He felt a little trill of excitement build in his stomach. It was still early for any of the scouts to have returned, unless they had come upon something. He'd given up, long ago, on actually finding what he was sent for, but water would be just as welcome as anything else. A village or settlement was too much to hope for.

      "Aye, my lord." Rygar's voice was a raspy croak. Some years before, Rygar had been hanged for a crime he hadn't committed. Weaver had been a Captain then and had been in charge of the patrol that had found the man, swinging in a tree. Rygar had been too tough to die on the rope and had helped Weaver track down and find the ones responsible. The man had been with Weaver ever since, one of the best scouts he'd ever known.

      "Out with it, man." Karde said, irritably. Weaver arched an eyebrow at the Captain, but Rygar simply ignored the man. Rygar and the Lord Captain didn't get on well. Never had.

      Rygar glanced at the other men in the tent before meeting Weaver's curious gaze. He looked and sounded cautious, as close to unsure as Weaver had ever seen him. "It's strange, my lord. It might be best if I showed you."

      The ride took the better part of the afternoon and the sun was a fat red ball on the horizon before Rygar stopped them with a raised fist. Weaver sat close behind the scout, with Karde and an escort of twenty men waiting behind him. They were at the edge of a jagged arroyo, encircled by enormous boulders and broken rock. The break in the ground was thick with shadows, as the light slowly died away, and the climb down looked treacherous.

      Weaver studied the surrounding rocks and a series of cliffs that loomed in the east. He was thinking of how he would set up an ambush here. A wing of archers on the cliffs, maybe? Pikes on the ground? It was an old habit that had saved his life more than once.

      Dismounting, Rygar went to the edge of the drop and knelt. He gave two short trilling whistles and waited. After a moment, there was an answering call. That would be Jory, the youth that Rygar was training. Weaver didn't like sending out his scouts alone so he often paired his seasoned men with apprentices. On the off chance that one man was taken, whether by accident or by an enemy, the other might be able to escape and reach the camp with warning.

      When he heard Jory's answering whistle, Rygar turned and said. "We'll have to go on foot. It's not a bad climb, as long as only a few of us go."

      Weaver gave a nod. Turning, he said. "Karde, pick out two of your best and follow me. The rest will stay here."

      Karde nodded, plainly not liking the idea of climbing down into the arroyo with only four other men, especially on the word of a man that he didn't like personally.

      Weaver climbed down off his horse and handed his reins to a stocky private. Following Rygar to the edge of the arroyo, he leaned out and stared down at the drop. He could see the bottom, clenched in shadow, and thought he might be able to make out Jory, waiting for them. There was something on the ground beside the boy. Weaver wasn't sure, but he thought it might be a body.

      When he looked up, Rygar was looking at him with no expression. Turning, the scout began the climb down. Weaver followed, climbing carefully. It wasn't bad, no worse than the cliffs he'd climbed as a boy. Following, Karde was grumbling under his breath, but at least he kept what he was saying to himself.

      They all reached the bottom without incident, finding themselves about 20 feet from Jory and the black shape that he stood over. The bottom of the arroyo was made up of polished rock and small clear stones. River rock. Weaver thought, with wonder. 20 years ago, this arroyo would have been filled with water. A creek, really. Now, the ground was as dry as everything else in the barrens. Larado was a hellish wasteland that stretched across the middle of the lands once ruled by the StormLords, where nothing grew and no rain ever fell. Tens of thousands of square miles of nothing. Nothing but death by dehydration and slow starvation. Even for an army.

      Rygar watched him, his face blank. Weaver nodded at the boy and the thing at his feet. "How long has the body been here?"

      "Not long, I should think." Rygar said. "Less than a day." Turning, he lead the way. Jory stood as they came close, his youthful face uncertain as he gave a short bow and stepped away from the body.

      Weaver stopped, standing over the armored shape that lay at his feet. The ground underneath the black-clad man was darker than the surrounding rock and sand. Weaver knelt and touched it, blinking when his fingers came up wet. He looked up at Rygar. "How did he get wet? Where did the water come from?" He looked up at the darkening sky, half expecting to see clouds, though he knew that couldn't be. What little rain came now, fell from cloudless skies and didn't fall for very long. Only two of the great rivers still flowed, though their banks stretched for miles on either side. The few cities that remained relied on enormous underground cisterns for their water.

      Rygar didn't answer. He was standing a few feet away, watching with that same unreadable expression. Karde and his two men were off to one side, watching with almost the same lack of expression. Then Karde frowned and said. "What sort of armor is that? I've never seen the like."

      Weaver didn't answer.  He had turned the man over and was staring at his face. At a face that he knew, that he hadn't seen in 20 years. The eyes were closed, but they would be black, as black as night, he knew. He felt as if somebody had punched him in the chest, knocking the wind from him. "Impossible." That was his voice, trembling and uncertain. But it sounded the voice of a frightened boy. "This is impossible." He stood and looked at Rygar. The scout's flat gaze was disconcerting. Weaver said. "Has he been unconscious the whole time? Did he say anything when you found him?"

      Rygar spat and shook his head. Jory spoke up from behind Weaver. His voice was shaky and frightened. "He was out like this when we found him, soaking wet, like he just climbed from a tub."

      "Or a creek." Rygar said.

      Karde and the other two soldiers were standing slightly apart, watching with cold eyes and even colder faces. Weaver eyed the body for a few more seconds before looking at Karde. "Bind him. We're taking him with us." He turned but Karde's voice stopped him.

      "Why bind him? He should be happy we found him. Nobody survives on their own this far into the barrens." Karde said, his eyes narrowing. His voice was cool. Calculating. "Who is he? You act as if you know him? As if you expected to find him out here?"

      Weaver stopped in the act of turning away from Karde and the other soldiers. He faced them now, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. "It's enough that I gave the order, Captain. I expect it to be followed." Turning sideways, he faced the soldiers, putting the unconscious man behind him. He had always been accounted a more than fair tactician and he knew an ambush when he saw one.

      None of the soldiers moved to obey. Rygar looked from Weaver to Karde and lay his own hand on his sword, turning so that he faced the two soldiers. He was armed with a short curved sword and a notched sword breaker. Glancing at the General, he gave a tight nod. Weaver wanted to breath a sigh of relief but he didn't dare. Instead, he faced Karde and said. "I gave you men an order."

      Nobody moved.

      The air hummed with tension, tight enough to cut. Weaver licked his lips, wanting to appear more nervous than he felt. Karde was a more than competent swordsmen, but he was no master. Weaver had earned his sword name when he was still a youth. But if Karde was worried, he didn't show it. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if to smile, and he said. "You didn't answer my question, General. Why bind an unconscious man?"

      "We all have our orders, Captain." Weaver said. His hand gripped his sword hilt tightly, but he didn't draw it. Not yet. If he could avoid killing Karde, he wanted to do it. The man commanded the loyalty of too many men to kill out of hand. "Mine came from the Emperor, himself. We are to take this man to the capitol, under heavy guard. This is the wishes of your Emperor."

      "I know." Karde said. He pulled a folded parchment from the inside of his coat. Waggling it, his smile widened. "I've read your orders."