The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (25 page)

The next morning, Rondal ate a quick breakfast before dawn broke but did not get to work on the bridge, as he had planned.  Instead he saddled one of the two horses and bade Joppo watch the camp.  As that was well within the peasant’s limited capabilities, Rondal took his mageblade, a few other items, and rode up the trail they had arrived from.

It took him only a few moments to recognize the spot where the two of them had been so politely robbed a few days before, and once he dismounted it took but a few moments more to examine the ground with magesight.  If Baston the Brave was a reliable bandit, he preyed from the same spot, and sure enough Rondal found traces and signs that the man favored the site all over the place. 

From there it was fairly simple work to follow a slightly-worn path back to the treeline, and from there he could follow it as easily as if it were a cobbled highway.  It appeared to be a game-trail, although he was no hunter, and it led back into the wood for nearly four hundred yards before it branched.  Taking the more often-used left path, he went down one path and over the crest of a hill, and he had found what he was looking for: his bandit’s home.

It was a tiny, primitive shack, made from a pole strung between two trees which acted as a ridgepole, with the roof beams, mostly beech and cedar boughs, fastened from their to shorter poles stabbed into the dirt: enough to keep the rain off and the warmth in, but only in summer time.  There was a tiny fire directly outside the hut, and upon it boiled a battered copper pot . . . being tended by a young girl.

Rondal hadn’t expected that.  Bandits were supposed to be big tough men.  Unless she was somehow being held here . . . he remembered the degradations that his old senior apprentice, Fenar, had forced upon his old junior apprentice, Urik, before the younger had slain the latter and been slain in turn, and he was suddenly quite fearful.  The girl could not be more than six or seven years old.  She wore a shapeless, undyed homespun cotton shift, and her hair was unbound and uncombed.  She stirred the pot with a stick and sang a made-up song about how good it was to have porridge again.

Using spellcraft to sneak up on the tiny encampment, the mage crept up to the shack and peered through one of the abundant cracks between slats and poles.  When he used magesight, he had to stifle a gasp.  The bandit was still abed, and he wasn’t alone.  A young woman not too much older than himself was lying next to him, curled in his arm.  If she was a captive, she looked quite content.

That changed things.  It was one thing to threaten a bandit.  It was another to threaten a man’s family.  His first plan abandoned, the apprentice decided to try a second, less confrontational approach.  He dropped his spell, and a moment later the little girl looked up at him – and screamed in terror.

Rondal almost panicked himself – he wasn’t expecting that reaction, but he realized belatedly that he probably should have.  But once it occurred to him that a strange man appearing out of nowhere might not be greeted with casual grace by a six-year old, he also was able to predict what would happen next, and he was ready for it.  Baston came running out of the miserable hut, his rusty sword in hand . . . and tripped over a cantrip, sprawling face-first into the dirt, only inches from the fire.  His sword went flying as he went sprawling, and before he skidded to a halt it was in the mage’s hand.

“Please!” Baston begged, as he turned onto his back and saw his own blade at his throat.  “Please!  Let them go, it is me you want!”  There was real terror in the man’s eyes, even if his voice was firm.  Gone was the confident bravado of the road – he was a father who feared for his family, not a bandit.

Rondal sighed, rolled his eyes, and let the point of the man’s sword fall away from his throat.  “Get up, Baston the Brave.  You and I need to talk.”

*                            *                            *

It turned out that most of what Baston had told him was true: he had been a jongleur, acquainted with the pipes, the gitar, the lute and the tambour and trained to both sing and tell stories in a busy inn in Sendaria Port.  When the Duke had called his bannermen for troops for Farise, the poor man could not pay a scutage fee, and left for the war.  When he came home after, he found the inn had changed hands when the innkeeper had died, and the new owner was not overly fond of music.

But the old innkeeper’s daughter had been destitute, and had worked at her father’s inn as a bondswoman, as she had no other family.  Baston had fallen in love, and tried to buy out her indenture, but the new owner was not interested: Zarra (as the woman was called) was comely, meek, and he foresaw a high demand for her services at his own profit.  He had already begun abusing her when Baston had stolen away with her, eloped, and fled to the furthest reaches of the barony. 

To actually leave the barony, he explained, would make them criminals.  If Zarra could go one more year without being apprehended by her former master, her bond would be considered forfeited, and she would be a free woman . . . as would her daughter.  As long as she did not leave the barony, the most that could happen to her under law was a stint in the stocks and a resumption of her bond. 

Baston was willing to fight to keep his little family together, but he preferred another year of banditry and marginal living in the wilderness to challenging Zarra’s master. 

“Most days I stand out there by the road and just wait, while the girls gather mushrooms and berries and nuts in the forest.  In a good week, they can gather enough to sell for three or four pennies, enough for a little bread and some roots, perhaps.  I’m not too proud to do work, understand, but there are so many villeins in this domain that honest work for a free man is hard to come by.”

“Why not take up your old trade?” suggested Rondal, as he stirred the fire.  The little girl, whose name was Bastine, never took her big brown eyes off of him.  “Surely there is an inn in need of entertainment somewhere within Sendaria.”

“Plenty,” he Baston grunted, sadly.  “But they have plenty of folk who can sing for a few pennies, and most are more comely than I.  Without an instrument, I am not much use as a musician.  So that’s the only instrument I play, these days,” he said, nodding toward his battered sword.  Rondal had returned it to him, once he had accepted the man’s parole and offered to talk. 

“Well, if I recall correctly, “Rondal said, rubbing his chin, “we had an agreement.  Half an ounce of silver for two week’s protection.”

Baston looked a little alarmed, but also intrigued.  “I swear, I have not molested you or your possessions.  Indeed, when my . . . day was so successful,” he said, having the dignity to blush a little at the mention of his robbery, “we went to Birchroot village and bought food.  Oats, barley, some roots, a little bread, even.  To be honest, it’s the most we’ve had to eat in a while. 

“Summers are not too bad,” he added, with a grim smile, “and as I do not bother the folk of Birchroot with my . . . offers of security, they tolerate my presence out here.  Sometimes they will give me a little something to chop wood, carry water, or fix a roof, but . . . well, there have been plenty of nights with empty bellies,” he said, guiltily looking at his daughter.

“But you are not living up to your end of the agreement,” Rondal quietly protested.  “You promised that I would be safe here in Birchroot, yet five footpads tried to invade my camp just last night.”

“What is this?” Baston asked, his brow furrowing.  “Footpads?”

“Near enough.  Henchmen of Yeoman Ardone’s, who protest some work I am doing on the old bridge.  They tried to do violence to me and my man last night.  I was able to drive them off,” he said, with just a trace of pride in his voice, “but I expect that they will be back.  Indeed, Master Ardone promised as much.”

“That’s . . . disturbing,” admitted Baston.  “We’ve only been here in Birchroot a year or so, but it is a pleasant place . . . save for the folk across the river.  Lord Forgos of Kesteldor holds the domain yonder, and he enjoys the trade he sees through his lands to the market village of Jerune.”

“Yes, that’s really why I’m here,” agreed Rondal.  “To repair the bridge to Jerune.”  He explained the bargain that had brought him to the backwater domain, how his master had pledged his aid in rebuilding the bridge so that Lord Areas of Birchroot could find a superior market for his smoking leaf at the free market of Jerune.

“Then Master Ardone and Lord Forgos will do whatever they can to stop you, and the Lord of Sashtalia will do nothing but aid them.  The bridge was the best route from Sendaria to Kesteldor and the rest of Sashtalia.  I doubt Lord Trefalan’s grandsires would have broken away from their liege, the Baron, if the bridge was intact.  It was the only place to cross the river for miles on either side.  It’s been rebuilt twice – and burned twice.  The Sendari just gave up a while back.

“No one will burn this bridge,” Rondal said, confidently.  “That is, assuming I can finish it.  But I need more help than I have.  My . . . my assistant, Joppo, is a good sort, but limited.  I need a man of intelligence, and it occurs to me that a bandit who robbed me managed to keep his head and his bride after six years in the wild has just the cunning I need.”

“So what do you propose?” asked Baston, warily.

“That you fulfill the commission that you agreed to,” Rondal said, simply.  “You promised me security – I need security.”

“I . . . I am just a bandit with a rusty sword,” Baston protested.  “I cannot stand against as many men as Master Ardone can muster.  Not and survive.”

“Oh, I think you can,” Rondal said, snapping his fingers and producing a colorful shower of blue fire that created no heat.  It was display magic, mere illusion, but it was impressive if you didn’t know how it was done.  Bastine squealed in a combination of fright and delight and clung to her mother’s skirt.  “I’ve got some skills of my own, besides masonry.  I’m a . . . Knight Mage.  A spellmonger with a sword, if you want to get technical, but I am trained in the arcane arts.  But I cannot cast spells if people are trying to kill me, not the kind of very boring spells I need to cast.

“So I want you to come with me,” he suggested.  “I need someone to watch my camp, watch my back, and do so with intelligence.  You did swear by Herus, after all,” he reminded.  Most didn’t take their idle oaths seriously, but a man who lived as close to the edge of starvation as Baston, he was hoping, would not offend the patron of thieves and travelers.

Baston looked at his woodwife – somehow Rondal didn’t think the couple had legitimized their union in front of a priestess – and she looked back, anxiously.  The bandit looked guilty, but then his eyes lighted on the battered copper pot and the last few mouthfuls of porridge within.  He heaved a big sigh.

“I did so swear,” he agreed, a little sullenly.  “I shall come with you . . . but I admit I fear for the girls’ safety.  Particularly with folk from Kesteldor about.  They would not hesitate to . . . abuse her, if they found her unprotected.”

“Bring them,” Rondal agreed.  “Bring them both.  Can you cook, Goodwife?” he asked, politely.  Zarra blushed, but nodded. 

“I grew up in an inn,” she said, proudly.  “I can cook most anything.”

“Then I shall be glad to pay you to do so, as Joppo’s fare leaves much to be desired.  As camp cooks go, he makes a great . . . carter.  And, of course, I shall pay you for the service.  Say . . . two copper pennies a day?  Plus board?”

Zarra’s eyes went wide.  Compared to how her family had been used to living, it seemed like a small fortune, on top of the prospect of frequent meals, and she was nearly overcome.  Rondal was almost embarrassed at her gratitude.  “I shall be glad to do so, milord!” she agreed, looking at her daughter.  “Only . . . I fear detection, if we leave our little nest here in the wood.”

“I’m a little shy about throwing my name around myself,” Rondal admitted.  “So for now, you aren’t Zarra the escaped bondswoman.  For the next few weeks, you are
Zarina
, the maidservant to the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge.”

*                            *                            *

It didn’t take much to move Baston’s family – apart from the sword and the pot, the remainder of their worldly possessions were able to be stored in a burlap sack and slung over Baston’s shoulder, with room to spare.  Rondal walked the horse the three miles back to the bridgehead, getting to know the bandit and his woodwife and their daughter.  Once she overcame her shyness, she seemed to babble incessantly about the horse, Rondal’s magic, butterflies, pretty rocks, and anything else that crossed her mind. 

Baston and Zarra proved very nice, despite the former minstrel’s current line of work, and both were in awe of the events in the world outside of Birchroot.  By the time they arrived at the bridgehead camp, he felt as if he could trust them at least to not murder him in his sleep or carry off too many of his possessions. 

But once they arrived, Rondal immediately knew something was amiss.  Joppo was nowhere to be seen . . . but there was a trail of blood leading back to the encampment.  Not a lot, but enough to be alarmed.  When he called, he heard a pained moan emanate from the pavilion.

Inside he found the peasant laying on his stomach, an arrow protruding from his right buttock.  While clearly wounded, he was still alive, conscious, and hadn’t gone into shock.

“Dear gods, you tried to seduce that village woman and her husband came home, didn’t you?” accused Rondal, angrily.