Inigo’s Second Dream
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Edeard had been looking forward to the trip for months. Every year in late summer the village elders organized a caravan to trek over to Witham, the closest medium-sized town in Rulan province, to trade. By tradition, all the senior apprentices went with it. This was part of their landcraft training, of which they had to have a basic knowledge before they could qualify as practitioners. They were taught how to hunt small animals, to clear farmland ditches, which fruit to pick, how to handle a plough, what berries and roots were poisonous, along with the basics of how to make camp in the wild.
Even the fact that Obron would be a travelling companion for three weeks hadn’t dented Edeard’s enthusiasm. He was finally going to get out of Ashwell. Sure he’d been to all the local farms, but never further than half a day’s travel away. The caravan meant he would see a lot more of Querencia, the mountains, people other than the villagers he’d lived among for fifteen years, forests. A chance to see how others did things, explore new ideas. There was so much waiting for him out there. He was convinced it was going to be fantastic.
The reality almost lived up to his expectations. Yes, Obron was a pain, but not too much. Ever since Edeard’s success with the ge-cats, the constant hassle hadn’t ended but it had certainly eased off. They didn’t speak as friends, but on the journey out Obron had been almost civil. Edeard suspected that was partially down to Melzar, who was caravan master, and who had made it very clear before they left that he would not tolerate any trouble.
“It might seem like this is some kind of holiday,” Melzar told the assembled apprentices in the village hall the night before they departed. “But remember this is part of your formal education. I expect you to work hard and learn. If any of you cause me any problems, you will be sent back to Ashwell right away. If any of you slack off or do not reach what I consider a satisfactory level of landcraft, I will inform your Master and you will be dropped back a year from qualification. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” the apprentices muttered grudgingly. There were a lot of smirks hidden from Melzar as they filed out.
They had taken five days to reach Witham. There were seventeen apprentices and eight adults in the caravan. Three big carts carried goods and food; over thirty farm beasts were driven along with them. Everyone rode ge-horses; for some apprentices it was the first time they’d ever been up on the animals. Melzar quickly assigned Edeard to help tutor them. It allowed him to open up conversations with lads who’d ignored him before, after all he was the youngest senior apprentice in Ashwell. But out here on the road they began to accept him as an equal rather than the freaky boy Obron always complained about. Melzar also entrusted him with controlling the ge-wolves they used to keep guard.
“You’re better than all of us at guiding those brutes, lad,” he’d said as they made camp that first night. “Make sure they do their job properly. Keep three of them with us, and I want the other four patrolling round outside.”
“Yes, sir, I can do that.” It wasn’t even a brag, those were simple orders.
Talk that night among the apprentices was of bandits and wild tribes, each of them doing their best to tell the most horrific stories. Alcie and Genril came top with the cannibal tribe that supposedly lived in the Talman Mountains. Edeard didn’t mention that his own parents had been killed while on a caravan, but everyone knew that anyway. He was thrown a few glances to check out how he was reacting. His nonchalance earned him quiet approval. Then Melzar came over and told them all not to be so gruesome, that bandits weren’t half as bad as legend. “They’re basically nomad families, nothing more. They’re not organized into gangs. How could they be? If they were a real threat we’d call the militia from the city, and go after them. It’s just a few bad ‘uns that give the rest a lousy rep. No different tous.”
Edeard wasn’t so sure. He suspected Melzar was just trying to reassure them. But the conversation moved on, quietening down as they gossiped about their Guild Masters. Judging by their talk, Edeard was convinced he’d got a saint in Akeem. Obron even claimed Geepalt would beat the carpentry apprentices if they messed up.
Witham might have been five times the size of Ashwell, but it shared the same air of stagnation. It was set in rolling, heavily cultivated farmland, with a river running through the middle; unusually it had two churches for the Lady. Edeard bit back on any disappointment as they rode through the big gates. The buildings were stone or had thick timber frames supporting some kind of plaster panelling. Most of the windows were glass rather than the shutters used in Ashwell. And the streets were all stone cobble. He found out later that water was delivered into houses through buried clay pipes, and the drains worked.
They spent two days in the central market square, negotiating with merchants and locals, then stocking up with supplies (like glass) that weren’t made in Ashwell. The apprentices had been allowed to bring examples of their own work to sell or trade. Edeard was surprised when Obron brought out a beautifully carved box made from martoz wood, polished to a ebony lustre. Who would have thought an arse like him could create something so charming? Yet a merchant gave him four pounds for it.
For himself, Edeard had brought along six ge-spiders. Always the trickiest of the standard genera to sculpt, they were highly valued for the drosilk they spun. And these had only just hatched, they’d live for another eight or nine months; during that time they would spin enough silk to make several garments, or armour jackets. Three ladies from the Weaver’s Guild bid against each other for them. For the first time in his life Edeard’s farsight couldn’t quite discern how eager they were when they haggled with him; they covered their emotions with steely calm, the surface of their minds as smooth as a genistar egg. He just hoped he was doing the same when he agreed to sell for five pounds each. Surely they could sense his elation? It was more money than he’d seen in his life, let alone held in his hands. Somehow he didn’t manage to hang on to it for very long. The market was huge, with so many fabulous items, as well as clothes of a quality rarely found in Ashwell. He felt almost disloyal buying there, but he did so need a decent full-length oilskin coat for the coming winter, and found one with a quilted lining. Further on there was a stall selling knee-high boots with sturdy silkresin soles that would surely last for years—a good investment, then. They also sold wide-brimmed leather hats. To keep the sun off in summer, and the rain in winter, the leatherworker apprentice explained. She was a lovely girl and seemed genuinely eager for him to have the right hat. He dragged out the haggling as long as he dared.
His fellow apprentices laughed when he returned dressed in his new finery. But they had spent their own money, too. And few had been as practical as him.
That evening Melzar allowed them to visit the town’s taverns unchaperoned, threatening horrifying punishments if anyone caused trouble. Edeard joined up with Aide, Genril, Janene and Fahin. He spent the evening hoping to catch sight of the leather-worker apprentice, but by the time they reached the third tavern the town’s unfamiliar ales had rendered them incapable of just about anything other than drinking more ale. And singing. The rest of the evening was forever beyond recollection.
When he woke up, slumped under one of the Ashwell carts, Edeard knew he was dying. He’d obviously been poisoned then robbed. Too much of his remaining money was missing, he could barely stand, he couldn’t eat, he stank worse than the stables. It was also the first night he couldn’t remember being troubled by his strange dreams. Then he found out it was a mass poisoning. All the apprentices were in the same state. And all of the adults found it hilarious.
“Another lesson learned,” Melzar boomed. “Well done. You lot should graduate in record time at this rate.”
“What a swine,” Fahin grunted as Melzar walked away. He was a tall boy, so thin he looked skeletal. As a doctor’s apprentice he’d managed to get one of the few pairs of glasses in Ashwell to help his poor vision. They weren’t quite right for him, magnifying his eyes to a quite disturbing degree for anyo
ne standing in front of him. At sometime during the night he’d lost his jacket, now he was shivering, and not entirely from the cold morning air. Edeard had never seen him looking so pale before.
Fahin was searching through the leather physick satchel that he always carried. It was full of packets of dried herbs, small phials, and some rolled linen bandages. The satchel made him the butt of many jokes in the taverns all last night, yet he refused to abandon it.
“Do you think they’ll let us ride in the carts?” Janene asked mournfully as she looked at the adults, who were huddled together chortling. “I don’t think I can take riding on a ge-horse this morning.”
“Not a chance,” Edeard said.
“How much money have you got left?” Fahin asked. “All of you.”
The apprentices began a reluctant search through their pockets. Fahin managed to gather up two pounds in change, and hurried off to the herbalist stall. When he came back he started brewing up tea, emptying in several packets of dried leaves and adding the contents of a phial from the satchel.
“What is that?” Alcie asked as he sniffed the kettle and stepped back, his eyes watering. Edeard could smell it too, something like sweet tar.
“Growane, flon seed, duldul bird eyes, nanamint.” Fahin squeezed some limes into the boiling water, and started stirring.
“That’s disgusting!” Obron exclaimed.
“It’ll cure us, I promise on the Lady.”
“Please tell us you rub it on,” Edeard said.
Fahin wiped the condensation from his glasses, and poured himself a cup. “Gulp it down in one, that’s best.” He swallowed. His cheeks bulged as he grimaced. Edeard thought he was going to spew it up again.
The other apprentices gave the kettle a dubious look. Fahin poured the cup full again. Edeard could sense the doubt in their minds; he felt for Fahin who was trying to do his best to help and be accepted. He put his hand out and took the cup. “One gulp?”
“Yes,” Fahin nodded.
“You’re not going to…” Janene squealed.
Edeard tossed it back. A second later the taste registered, kind of what he imagined eating manure would be like. “Oh Lady! That is… Urrgh.” His stomach muscles squeezed up, and he bent over, thinking he was going to be sick. A weird numbness was washing through him. He sat down as if to catch his breath after a winding blow.
“What’s it like?” Genril asked.
Edeard was about to slag Fahin off something rotten. “Actually, I can’t feel anything. Still got a headache, though.”
“That takes longer,” Fahin wheezed. “Give it fifteen minutes. The flon seed needs to get into your blood and circulate. And you need to drink about a pint of water to help.”
“So what was the lime for?”
“It helps mask the taste.”
Edeard started laughing.
“It actually works?” an incredulous Alcie asked.
Edeard gave him a shrug. Fahin poured another cup.
It turned into a ritual. Each of the apprentices gulped down the vile brew. They pulled faces and jeered and cheered each other. Edeard quietly went and fetched himself a bottle of water from the market’s pump. Fahin was right, it did help clear his head. After about quarter of an hour he was feeling okay again. Not a hundred per cent, but the brew had definitely alleviated the worst symptoms. He could even consider some kind of breakfast.
“Thanks,” he told Fahin. The tall lad smiled in appreciation.
Afterwards, when they packed the carts and got the ge-horses ready, the apprentices were all a lot easier around each other, the joshing and pranks weren’t so hard-edged as before. Edeard imagined that this was what it would be like from now on. They’d shared together, made connections. He often envied the casual friendships between the older people in the village, the way they got on with each other. It was outings like this that saw such seeds rooting. In a hundred years’ time, maybe it would be he and Genril laughing at hung-over apprentices. Of course, that would be a much bigger caravan, and Ashwell would be the same size as Witham by then.
Melzar led the caravan on a slightly different route back, curving westward to take in the foothills of the Sardok mountain range. It was an area of low valleys with wide floors, mostly wooded, and home to a huge variety of native creatures. There were few paths other than those carved out by the herds of chamalans who grazed on the pastures between the forests. Farsight and the ge-wolves also sniffed out drakken pit traps which would have swallowed up a ge-horse and rider. The drakken were burrowing animals the size of cats, with five legs in the usual Querencia arrangement of two on each side and a thick highly flexible limb at the rear which helped them make their loping run. The front two limbs had evolved into ferociously sharp claws which could dig through soil at a phenomenal rate. They were hive animals, digging their vast warrens underground, with populations over a hundred strong. Singularly they were harmless, but they attacked in swarms which even a well-armed human had trouble fighting off. Their ability to excavate big caverns just below the surface provided them with the means to trap their prey; even the largest of native creatures were susceptible to the pit traps.
A bi-annual hunt had eliminated the drakken from the lands around Ashwell, but here in the wild they were prevalent.
Watching for them heightened Edeard’s senses as they passed through the endless undulating countryside. On the third day out of Witham they reached the fringes of the foothills and entered one of the massive forests there, parts of which reached across to the base of the Sardoks themselves.
Edeard had never been in a forest this size before; according to Melzar it predated the arrival of humans on Querencia two thousand years ago. The sheer size of the trees seemed to back up his claim, tall and tightly clustered, their trunks dark and lifeless for the first fifty feet until they burst into a thick interlaced canopy where branches and leaves struggled against each other for light. Little grew on the floor beneath, and in summer when the leaves were in full bloom not much rain dripped through either. A huge blanket of dead, crisped leaves covered the ground, hiding hollows from sight, requiring the humans to use their farsight in order to guide the ge-horses safely round crevices and snags.
It was quiet in the gloom underneath the verdant living awning, the still air amplifying their mildest whisper to a shout that reverberated the length of the plodding caravan. The apprentices slowly abandoned their banter, becoming silent and nervy.
“We’ll make camp in a valley I know,” Melzar announced after midday. “It’s an hour away, and the forest isn’t as wretched as it is here. There’s a river as well. We’re well past the trilan egg season so we can swim.”
“We’re stopping there?” Genril asked. “Isn’t that early?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, my lad. This afternoon you’re going galby hunting.”
The apprentices immediately brightened. They’d been promised hunting experience, but hadn’t expected it to be galbys, which were large canine equivalents. Edeard had often heard experienced adults tell of how they thought they’d got a galby cornered only to have it jump to freedom. Their hind limb was oversized and extremely powerful, sometimes propelling them as much as fifteen feet in the air.
True to Melzar’s word, the forest began to change as they reached a gentle downhill slope. The trees were spread out, and shorter, allowing pillars of sunlight to swarm down. Grass grew again, swiftly becoming an unbroken stratum. Bushes grew in the long gaps between trees, their leaves ranging from vivid green to a dark amethyst. Edeard couldn’t name more than a handful of the berries he could see, there must have been dozens of varieties.
As the light and humidity increased, so the yiflies and bite-wings began to appear; soon they were swirling overhead in huge clumps before zooming down to nip all the available human skin. Edeard was constantly using his third hand to ward them off.
They stopped the carts by a small river, and corralled the genistars. That was when Melzar finally distributed the five revolvers
and two rifles he’d been carrying. The majority belonged to the village, though Genril had his own revolver, which he said had been in his family since the arrival. Its barrel was longer than the others, and made out of a whitish metal that was a lot lighter than the sturdy gun-grade steel produced by the Weapons Guild in Makkathran.
“Carved from the ship itself,” Genril said proudly as he checked the mechanism. Even that snicked and whirred with a smoothness which the city-made pistols lacked. “My first ancestor salvaged some of the hull before the tides took the ship down into the belly of the sea. It’s been in our family ever since.”
“Crap,” Obron snorted. “That would mean it’s over two thousand years old.”
“So?” Genril challenged as he squeezed some oil out of a small can, rubbing it on to the components with a soft linen cloth. “The ship builders knew how to make really strong metal. Think about it, you morons, they had to have strong metal, the ship fell out of the sky and still survived, and in the universe they came from ships flew between planets.”
Edeard didn’t say anything. He’d always been sceptical about the whole ship legend. Though he had to admit, it was a great legend.
Melzar slung one of the rifles over his shoulder and came round with a box of ammunition. He handed out six of the brass bullets to each of the apprentices who had been given a revolver. “That’s quite enough,” he told them when there were complaints about needing more. “If you can’t hit a galby after six shots, it’s either jumped back out of range or it’s happily eating your liver. Either way, that’s all you get.”
Only five apprentices had been given a gun (including Genril). Edeard wasn’t one of them. He looked on rather enviously as they slid the bullets into the revolving chamber.
Melzar crouched down, and began to draw lines in the earth. “Gather round,” he told them. “We’re going to split into two groups. The shooters will be lined up along the ridge back there.” His hand waved into the forest where the land rose sharply. “The rest of us will act as the flushers. We form a long line with one end there, which will move forward in a big curve until we’re level with the first shooter. That should force anything bigger than a drakken out in front of us, and hopefully into the firing line. Under no circumstances does anyone go past the first shooter. I don’t care if you’re best friends and using longtalk, you do not walk in front of the guns. Understood?”