Chapter Two.
Merric raked his sharp eyes over the horizon, which wavered and danced in the heat. To his left the peaks of the Savar Mountains towered high above, but they threw no shadow in the high noon sun. Sweat dripped steadily from his face, his rough uniform chafing at his neck and limbs.
The stone was hard underfoot as he stepped along the outer wall, cradling a crossbow in the crook of his right arm. Guard-duty was a monotonous chore, one which Merric despised. He had not enlisted for the pomp and pageantry of endless parades and stiff uniforms. He had signed up to fight the enemies of his kingdom. The only conflict he had seen so far were the occasional wrestling matches conducted by his comrades, and the ongoing war against the heat.
Before him the wall stretched ahead, straight as an arrow shaft. Merric quickly settled into the usual routine of watching the endless desert, all the while seething at the injustice of such a job. He was no green country boy. He had trained for years before signing up, dreaming of becoming an officer and leading men into battle. His own father had given his life for Ohadi when Merric was just a child, and a nobler sacrifice Merric couldn't imagine. It was his destiny, too, to perish on the battlefield.
Instead he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, as far away from action as it was possible to get. Here there were no hordes of Gyurel raiders to fight, only straw dummies to poke with spears. Most of the soldiers at Fort Savar were young men who greatly preferred being yelled at by an officer to slaving away in the mines and fields. They hardly knew which end of the sword they held, and which end they were supposed to stick the enemy with. The only thing they had going for them was their fierce patriotism.
They disgusted Merric. Most were scrawny, gangly specimens stunted from a lifetime of malnutrition and hard work. Some were thieves granted a reprieve by volunteering for the army. A few were shrewdly cunning, very able at pick-pocketing and good in a knife-fight, but the vast majority were stupid and relied on the strength of numbers rather than individual skill.
In contrast Merric was tall and powerfully built, with broad-shoulders and well-muscled arms. Short blonde hair, a mark of nobility, rested above sharp blue eyes which missed nothing. When he fixed someone in his gaze he gave the impression of a snake mesmerizing a rat, scrutinizing every flaw, vice and sin.
His father had been a wealthy horse-breeder before he died, well apt at weeding out the weak, a trait Merric had inherited. It was a skill he applied not only to the stables, but also to society. With one glance he could tell who would be worth his time, and who belonged on the midden heap. Which beggar deserved a coin and which needed a boot in the rear. Who was worth teaching and who was a lost cause.
Intelligent, courageous, strong and handsome, he was everything a good noble should be. As the heir to a fortune he could have married any girl he wished, and there were plenty who would have gladly gone to his bed had he only asked. But Merric didn't like the way the daughters of the gentry giggled at everything, or how they whispered behind their hands to one another when he passed. He hated the way they blushed when he was introduced to them, and constantly craved his attention. They were so fragile and immature and vulnerable, bred and raised to marry the richest suitor and bring wealth to their families.
At least they couldn't follow him out here. This barren, sun-kissed land was not where one would expect to find such delicacy. He could be thankful for that much. The only woman out here was the large cook Berta, and only the most foolish of soldiers would try his luck with her.
Merric could see her from where he marched along the battlement. She was standing by the cookhouse, wearing a loose brown dress with large sweat-patches under the armpits. Her white apron, cinched tightly around her substantial girth, looked like it had never seen soap. A blackened wooden spoon was being brandished like a sabre in her pudgy fist as she reprimanded one of her subordinates. Due to distance, Merric couldn't hear the words, but a tub of freshly plucked chickens lay overturned at the assistant's feet, apparently knocked down by a wagon.
The wagon itself waited a little ways off, hitched to a dusty, weary looking chestnut with a gleaming black tied to one of the traces. It was the type used to transport beer kegs and food crates, with high sides and a deep bed. It looked to be empty. The driver sat at the front with reins limp in his hands, waiting for his own lecture.
Merric thought nothing of it, Berta was constantly bellowing. If it wasn't her helpers, it was a guard who didn't finish his beans, or a dog that tried to snatch a leg of meat. There wasn't a man in the fort who hadn't felt the lash of her scathing tongue, Merric included.
He kept his eye on the ruckus below as he continued circumnavigating the walls. Berta spent much of the rest of his hour of duty shouting at her assistant, who stood with shoulders hunched and head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. By the time Merric was relieved, she had moved on to the wagon driver.
He knew he probably shouldn't interfere, but good manners dictated that he should at least attempt to save the poor soul who was now subject to Berta's wrath. Cautiously, he made his way over to the scene. As he drew nearer he came within earshot, and could finally hear what the trouble was all about.
"... driving like the Devil was chasing you! Don't you ever watch where you're going? Never mind, don't answer that, you obviously don't or tomorrow's dinner wouldn't be strewn in the dirt!"
The driver sat quietly, taking his due with dignified silence. The chestnut horse stood with its head hung low, unperturbed by the commotion, but the handsome black danced about nervously. It swung its hindquarters, picking its feet up high so that it hung in the air between each step. Its ears flicked back and forth uneasily, from Berta to the wagon.
"Tom!" Merric called as he approached, cutting smoothly across Berta's tirade. She turned her malicious glare on him instead. Merric was commended for his bravery in battle, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to slink to the barracks. He swallowed and forced himself to close the remaining distance, coming to a smart halt by the side of the wagon, the sides of which reached to just above his eyes.
"What seems to be the problem here?" he asked, looking from the irate, red-faced Berta to a grateful Tom.
"This buffoon here drove straight over my -" Berta began, halting when Merric raised a hand to silence her.
"If you don't mind Berta, I'd like to hear the story from Tom."
The wagon driver raised a hand and ran it through his long, stringy grey hair. He looked almost as weary as his horse, and no less dusty. His lips were cracked and dry, his pockmarked face peeling slightly from old sunburn. But despite his sorry appearance his black eyes were keen when he fixed them on Merric.
"I delivered my quota, as promised," he said. "But when I passed by that barrel there this God's-cursed stallion swung out and kicked it over."
Merric looked to the dark stallion, still prancing restlessly. He could smell the horse's nervous sweat, which was lathered thickly white around the saddle and on the neck. It was built like a warhorse, with sturdy, well-boned legs and strong hindquarters but somewhat smaller and lighter.
"That's a nice horse you got there, Tom. Must have cost you a pretty penny" he said.
"That dumb horse --!" Berta started angrily.
"Berta," Merric cut in, "please go see to your kitchen. I'll get Tom straightened out in quick order."
She looked fit to burst, her round face purpling in rage. Merric half-expected her to strike him, and readied himself to duck. But after a moment she made a noise of disgust and pivoted on her heel, stalking away in search of someone else to scold.
Tom heaved a sigh of relief. "You saved my skin there, Captain. I'm indebted to you."
Merric grinned. "She's a sweetheart once you get to know her" he replied.
Tom snorted and they both laughed, startling the stallion.
"Bit toey, isn't he?" Tom commented, watching the horse.
"He's just nervous," Merric said. "Where'd you get him? I could use a steed like that."
"He's not mine," Tom replied, shaking his head. His hair beat about his head vigorously. "Picked him up on the trade route on the way in."
"What? Just loose?" Merric asked, incredulously. It was highly unlikely that such a fine horse would be wandering alone out in the middle of nowhere.
Tom chuckled at Merric's disbelieving tone. "Take a look," he said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder.
With a slight frown of confusion, Merric stepped up on one of the wheel spokes and peered over the side. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
A young woman lay bound and gagged in the corner. Her long, dark brown hair fell over her face, obscuring it from view. She was curled up, apparently asleep.
"What on earth ...?"
"She tried to rob me about a league from here. Came galloping up hollerin' about an accident in Funnel Pass," Tom explained. "I'm no idiot; Funnel Pass is notorious for highwaymen. Told her I wasn't headed that way, and that I was sorry. So she pulls this here dagger out," Tom reached down and produced a sharp knife, which had been sheathed in his right boot. "Threatened to slit me chin to groin unless I came with her.
"So I turned Bessie about and we started for Funnel Pass. 'Bout halfway there I said I thought Bessie might have picked up a stone so the little missy dismounted and bent over, checking the foot I pointed out. While she was busy I snuck up behind her and pinned her arms. She fought like a wildcat, biting and kicking and screaming her head off. Called me all sorts of names I'm sure sailors would blush at. I had to conk her on the head and knock her out so I could tie her up."
Merric looked again at the woman. "She's still out cold?"
Tom shrugged. "I don't know, I hit her pretty hard. If she hadn't of tried to rob me I'd feel mighty bad about it too."
Merric clambered over the side of the wagon, boots clunking against the sturdy wooden bed, and approached the young woman. He bent over and squinted, trying to see if she was breathing. From the way she was curled up, he couldn't see if her chest was rising or not. Carefully, Merric reached out a hand and brushed away some of her hair.