Mary Herbert - Dragon's Bluff

“Most of the train is bound for Khuri-Khan,” Garzan informed them. “However, some of the wagons will be added to another smaller caravan that will proceed to Flotsam. Sadly, we do not send many caravans there anymore. Since Malys destroyed their harbor facilities, their business has fallen considerably.”

“I can imagine,” Ulin said.

Garzan rose to his feet and opened his arms wide to include them all. “A safe journey, my friends. May the wind always blow at your back and your axles stay strong.”

Ulin, Lucy, and Challie rose and bowed their thanks.

The second stage of the journey began.

“Do you ever keep a journal of your travels?” Lucy asked Ulin one afternoon. They were driving the wagon at the end of the caravan on the last leg of their journey from Delphon to Flotsam. Ulin and Lucy sat on the driver’s seat while Challie took her turn trying to nap on the pile of bedrolls behind them.

Lucy squirmed her abused backside to a different angle on the seat—not that it made much difference. The seat was little more than a board nailed across the front of the cook wagon and was probably used as an instrument of torture in Khurish prisons.

Ulin gazed at the distant horizon, his golden brown eyes lost in a world of private speculation and memories. When he did not answer right away, Lucy nudged him and repeated her question.

He heard her this time. “A journal? No, I’ve never had time. Why?”

“Because if you were writing one now, I have several words I would like to include.”

“Such as?”

Lucy swiped her sleeve over her sweating face. “Hot.”

“Dull,” Challie called from the back.

“Painful,” Lucy added. She held up her hands to examine the new calluses on her hands.

“Cold,” said the dwarf.

Lucy began to tap her hand on the sideboard and chant.

She was rewarded by a dry chuckle from the rear.

“I’ll be sure to write that down,” Ulin said in tones as arid as the land around them. Things were getting bad when drivel like that was entertaining. Not that he disagreed with them. Their choice words for his imaginary journal were well chosen and could be repeated every day for the past twenty-eight days.

In the beginning, the journey had started with some variation and interest. The caravan slipped out of Sanction in the dead of night on a bleak path that skirted the large camp of the Knights of Neraka, who guarded the east pass. From there, the caravan wound through the Khalkist Mountains just north of the ogre realm of Blöde. The path was narrow and rough, full of ruts and rocks and holes big enough to break an axle, but it was a road. It wound beside a narrow, rushing river for some miles then began the steady and arduous climb over the high mountains.

It was then that Ulin began to develop a real respect for the drivers of the wagons and the small, tough oxen that pulled them. There were ten cargo wagons in all, with narrow beds and canvas tops that held a mixed cargo of fleeces, bags of pumice, a large box of wool dyes, and a few cases of delicacies such as dried mushrooms, bottles of Sanction wines, and dried fruit. Each wagon had a driver who drove his four oxen with only a whip and his voice, a skill Ulin could not master no matter how often he tried. Fortunately, Akkar-bin, the caravan master, took pity on his oxen the second day and produced a pair of bay draft horses for the cook wagon. Ulin ignored the brands of the Dark Knights on the horses’ hips and did not ask where they came from.

In addition to the drivers, there were four assistants and ten heavily-armed guards who rode nimble-footed Khurish horses at the head and rear of the train. Including Ulin and his companions, the caravan had a respectable number of twenty-seven, a number large enough to discourage all but the largest bands of brigands.

Ulin struggled for several days before he learned the knack of cooking for so many hungry people. After the second night of burned potatoes and skimpy helpings, the swarthy Khurs warned him he had one more night to prove himself or they’d stake him to a boulder and leave him for the vultures. Ulin took no chances. He cooked a simple stew based on one of Tika’s recipes, and he tripled the ingredients. The Khurs devoured all of it and gave him a reprieve for one more night. Each night it was the same. He would cook vast amounts of something simple and filling, and the Khurs would eat it and give him one more night’s reprieve.

It did not take long for Ulin and his “helpers” to establish a routine. Every morning before dawn, he, Lucy, and Challie fetched water, lit a fire, cooked gruel, bacon, and fry bread for breakfast, harnessed the horses, scrubbed the pans, packed the wagon, and drove through the day over the mountainous roads. At dusk they set up camp, built a fire, fetched the water, cooked the dinner, cleaned the dishes, tended the horses, and prepared for the next day. After a few hours of sleep they repeated it all over again. Ulin could not imagine how one man could do it alone.

Once the caravan descended from the mountains, it entered the desert wastes of the Khurs and the arid domain of the red dragon overlord, Malystryx. The work routine continued much the same. Only the landscape changed from rock and mountain to sand, barren hills, and scattered oases that were hot by noon and shivering cold by night. The drudgery of work and travel continued, with only one short break when the caravan reached the city of Khuri-Khan and paused for a day while the caravan master reorganized his master’s wagons and drivers and sent the new train on to Flotsam.

Ulin often wondered during the long hours of driving through the dreary, dun-colored landscape of what used to be Balifor, if this was worth the intensive effort.

Now that the trek was almost over, he could say “possibly” it was. They had saved some of their coins and earned enough to buy a wagon for the return to Sanction. They were all toughened by the work and the difficult travel, and they had learned a few things from the Khurs: how to prepare kefre, how to spice a stew so it burned off several layers of one’s tongue, and how to wrap a burnoose to stay on in a sand storm.

Best of all, to Ulin’s mind, Lucy had learned to cook. At least she could start a fire and boil water now. Together, they made a good partnership.

“Akkar-bin is coming.” Lucy broke into his thoughts.

Ulin straightened and saw a rider trot his horse down the file of wagons toward them. Akkar-bin, the caravan master, looked grim when he wheeled his stallion around beside the cook wagon—but then Ulin had never seen him look any other way. The man was the most laconic, humorless barbarian he had ever met, and not once on the long trip from Sanction had he seen him laugh. At least Akkar-bin wasn’t arrogant or contemptuous of the foreigners in his caravan like some of his guards. He was too emotionless for that.

“The point guard has found sign of draconians,” Akkar-bin said without preamble. “We’ll stop early tonight.” His horse sprang forward, and he rode back up the line without further explanation.

Lucy watched him go. “Wonderful. I suppose that means we won’t get to the watering hole tonight, which means no water.” She swiped her sleeve across her forehead again, wiping the dust and sweat off in muddy streaks.

Ulin made no comment. The news of the draconians did not surprise him. He knew bands of draconians, goblins, ogres, brigands, and exiles roamed the desert. Some were in the service of Malys and patrolled her extensive holdings. The more desperate ones were out for their own survival and attacked likely caravans or travelers at every opportunity. The caravan guards had seen indications of some of the marauders before, but this was the first time Akkar-bin decided to stop the caravan before sunset. Not that Ulin faulted him. He knew from experience that draconians—the foul, sentient spawn that were hatched years ago from corrupted eggs of good dragons—were ferocious fighters. The caravan would need to prepare.