Chapter Twenty-Nine

A group of guards and retainers ran toward their position, the caravan guards out in front. They swung wide to surround Tarn and Torrocka. Relieved not to have been forced to make a decision, the first two guards waited as a rotund man, garbed in fine robes, exited the middle of the approaching band. He reached them out of breath.

"What goes on here?" enquired the caravan master, huffing and puffing. When he saw his man's spear in the hands of a fur-clad barbarian he asked, "Who are ye, and why do ye accost my man?"

"I am Tarn, son of Connor, of Asgard. This man needed to learn respect for weary travellers who come peacefully seeking thy ear and to share a fire."

Ere the caravan master replied, Torrocka stepped out from behind Tarn, saying, "Good sir. I regret the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting. My young, but unlearned friend, acted hastily, but with meritorious cause, I assure ye." Tarn frowned at the civilized mincing of the truth. "Gracious sir, we be in dire need of information only a widely travelled master merchant like thyself may render. We've trailed unholy slave traders for weeks now, facing torturous challenges no man should expect to—achem—overcome—achem. Oh dear, I'm afraid my throat is rather parched."

When Torrocka paused, one hand rubbing his throat, beckoning courteous repose with a propitiatory smile, the caravan master slipped into the role of the master host. Surely a rather large young man travelling with a cultured gentleman of obvious etiquette did not threaten his many wares. And though their worn and muddy clothes had seen better times, one did not learn to speak so well unless they came from good breeding. Never one to pass up a chance to improve his position, the caravan master's expression softened.

"Yes, I see. Forgive me for not discerning thy unhealthy state. Let me extend the courtesy of my camp. I am Yakuth. Please, allow me to slake thy thirst and appease thy hunger," he proposed. "After which, I would feel pleasurably disposed to offer whatever humble assistance I am able. The slavers endow honest merchants with distasteful echoes, tarnishing the noble trade practised by those like myself. If your man would put up his weapon." Once Torrocka nodded to Tarn, Yakuth turned to his men and instructed, "Put up thy weapons, they are now my guests."

"Why, that is very generous of you, Yakuth," Torrocka answered, bowed. Turning to Tarn he said, "Help that man up, lad."

Grounding the butt of his spear, Tarn extended his arm. Once he hoisted the fat guard to his feet, he followed Torrocka and Yakuth, who chatted together like long-lost friends. Though the threat had passed, the guards remained cautious and fell in around the trio. Before they had reached the centre of camp, a porter materialized. At Yakuth's beckoning, he escorted Tarn to the food wagon, where he helped himself to a generous plate of stew and a chipped pewter mug of rich, dark ale. He chose a position far from the fire and avoided peering into its light. While he ate, Torrocka kept up a meaningless litany of small talk. Yakuth added proprietary interjections, extolling the virtues of the merchant class. The guards remained close to Tarn, but not so close as to come within his reach.

Satiated and yet nursing his first mug of dark ale, Torrocka ended his abbreviated tale of woe, saying, "So ye see, most illustrious sir, we returned from our travels to find my young friend's village slain and the children missing. Having rescued me from the clutches of that nasty snow leopard, I feel obligated to render him my assistance, however inadequate it might be."

"Of course," Yakuth granted. "Why, that is most commendable indeed. In fact, only a morally bankrupt cur would abandon the lad to his unlearned enterprise," he uttered with exaggerated principle. "We journey from the border kingdoms and seek Galpernia. No such slave band have we chanced to pass, but Galpernia doth represent a profitable locale to launch thy woeful search. Though slavery be a legal enterprise, too many abductions and unlawful sales blacken its trade. I have at my disposal one or two acquaintances in Galpernia's merchant guild. 'Twould be no great imposition for me to make a few discreet enquiries, that is, if ye wouldn't object to my limited assistance?"

"Why, gracious sir, undoubtedly ye under speak the value of thy laudable influence. Surely a wealthy and industrious man such as thyself owns many like-hearted debtors only too willing to ingratiate themselves into thy esteemed and benevolent generosity," Torrocka orated.

Yakuth's heavy jowls jiggled to and fro. Leaning his head back self-importantly, savouring Torrocka's unctuous praise like a rare delicacy, Yakuth's eyes glittered. If Tarn was forced to listen to one more word of this self-indulgent cow dung, he risked losing his supper. Having drained his mug, he stalked over for a refill, while Yakuth's oration predictably drifted back to his merchant business and the woes of unfair competition and declining profits.

The meal-wagon rested in the middle of the semicircle, furthest from the fireside chatter. After topping his mug with a frothy head of dark ale, Tarn lounged between the wagons, enjoying the quietness of solitude, while absentmindedly watching the sentries relieve each other from duty. One by one the guards who sat around the fire left to replace those outside the semicircle of wagons. Tarn frowned. The guards were lazy with ale, their bellies full, and their night vision impaired. Little more than fence posts would they be until their eyes night-adapted.

As the sentries came in from duty and fed themselves, one stopped to appraise him. Tarn had not seen this guard previously. The burly sentry possessed little fat, and both his worn sword hilt and scabbard appeared nondescript, but well-cared for. Hardened leather wrist guards protected his forearms. Somewhere in his late thirties, the guard walked with a lurching limp that gave him an unsteady gate ill-suited for long marches. Refraining from taking his meal to the fire with the others, and like Tarn, the veteran kept his eyes averted from the leaping flames.

Catching Tarn appraising his limp, he said, "I received this wound in a mercenary company hired by the King of Aquilonia. It ended my soldiering days. When my battle allowance dwindled, I was forced to hire out my services to the likes of this sorry bunch, but Yakuth pays well, and the food is plentiful and not bad tasting. Hardly the same town twice in a season. The wenches the same." The veteran leaned against the wagon across from Tarn and introduced himself. "I am called Ludvic. That was a nice piece of spear work with Micklet's. His mouth has the habit of writing notes his body can't cash."

"Aye. He was loud and slow."

Ludvic nodded agreement and shovelled in a mouthful of spicy stew, saying, "Had ye meant to relieve Micklet of his miserable life, I would have been forced by contract to take thine first. That would have grieved me, a young lad like ye. Thy back makes a broad target, lad." Ludvic quaffed his ale and shovelled another spoonful into his mouth. When Ludvic looked back up, he met a quirky grin. "What be funny?"

"Ye were fifteen paces on my left behind the large redwood tree. Ye arrived shortly after the first two guards took up position. I heard steel, maybe a buckle clinking. Did we interrupt thy sit-down?" Ludvic scowled to himself as Tarn went on, "I thought ye might have been a spearman staying that far back."

"By Mitra, so I was. Damn sword belt has a split harness that rattles its studs like an old whore's last two teeth," and offered Tarn his arm.

"I am called Tarn," he said returning the greeting, grinning at the colourful euphemism.

"I know who ye be, son of Connor. I'm not deef, just noisy," clarified the veteran good-naturedly.

Ludvic and Tarn laughed, attracting the attention of those who sat around the fire. Tarn let Ludvic finish his plate, before asking, "Know ye the habits of the slavers? Which direction they favour?"

"Where were they taken from Asgard?"

"Aye. In the high southern ranges."

"There are two routes then," began Ludvic scratching his bearded chin. "One is Galpernia, a seven-day journey by caravan from here, but they may have used ships. Be that true, ye need set thy reckoning for Kordava, a small port on Ingara's west coast. Likely they wuz coast-lining. Lessin' it was a large, well-protected band, the forest heathens render land travel all but impossible. Not easy to haul enough supplies to feed a slave chain. I'd not likely brave the marshes and skirting them takes too damn long. Too many would die that route." Tarn listened to Ludvic closely. He liked the burly veteran. Lacking bluster, he spoke with quiet assurance. "If thy mug runs dry in Galpernia, quest Kordava's docks. No slave ship berths unnoticed. Dockhands belly-up ere three tankards of ale be turned over. 'Tis a rowdy part of town, but I judge ye hale to handle thyself among the likes of that wharf rabble—"

Movement flitted across Tarn's peripheral vision. Ludvic detected the stiffening of Tarn's body, and turned slowly, listening, but heard nothing to confirm the reason for his young friend's alarm. Casually stretching sore muscles, Ludvic scanned the darkness but found nothing to alarm him.

"'Twas a falling branch," Ludvic offered after a few moments. Discerning Tarn's skeptical eyes and remembering his acute hearing, he said, "On second thought, I'd best check the guard posted farthest away."

Before Ludvic took a step forward, Tarn grabbed his arm and nodded in the direction where he detected the movement. Just beyond the cover of the forest, a silhouette passed between two trees, and then another and another.

"Aye lad. I glimpsed it true. Thine eyes be as sharp as thy ears. Come. Easy now, mind ye. Calm as light rain. We'll go warn the others, but not so hurriedly that we alarm our uninvited guests, eh. Ye take the left, and I'll go hither. Meet me in the middle, close to the open side where the ground is flat. That's the direction they will strike from."