The Reluctant Champion

6. The Tree

The rain dripped through the cedars as it had dripped ceaselessly for the last fortnight. The cold damp worked its way into Galen's clothes, into his hair, his bedding, the tack on his horse. Things were growing mold that he hadn't known could mold. And still it rained.

Madoc accepted the wet with good humor. He said the desert had dried him out so thoroughly he was only now recovering a proper balance of humidity in his system. Galen was less patient.

"Karamejian is a tight-fisted old miser and this the most wretched caravan we've yet fallen in with," he grumbled on the eighth morning of rain. Karamejian was the owner of the caravan they were supposed to be guarding.

"But, being a miser, he pays well for protection," Madoc said serenely. "We will do well this trip."

"If he pays."

"He'll pay. People who want protection pay against the next time."

They rode in silence a while before Galen spoke again.

"This horse has spavins."

"That horse is a fine example of the eastern breed. His only problem is that you ride him like a cow." Madoc was smug about the horses, having won them at play two hires back. Galen had been furious—Madoc had been gambling with his money—but they did get better jobs mounted.

"I don't ride him like a cow, I ride him like a sailor. The gods didn't give us feet so we could skid along on the backs of unreliable beasts." Galen swung off the horse and dragged the reins over its head to walk off his mood. The horse butted him companionably, leaving a green smear on the sleeve of his jacket.

He and Madoc were hired on as guards of Karamejian's caravan, as they had guarded the one before, and the one before that. Galen was losing count. Madoc found them all their jobs—and occasionally lost them too, by getting drunk and fighting with other guards or with townspeople. But he was a cheerful and knowledgeable companion for all that.

They had moved from caravan to caravan, accompanying one or two legs of each caravan's trade route, then going on to the next. They were working their way steadily north and east—Lidah had said she came from the east, and piecing that together with comments she had let fall about her travels suggested this was the direction to try.

"And once we get close, if we can't find a country afflicted by plague and at war with all its neighbors, well, we just aren't trying," Madoc had said. Galen, frustrated, had let him choose.

Now Karamejian had sent them on ahead to scout a side track that lead up into the mountains and would return to the main road. It was, he said, a favorite place for bandits to lurk. Galen and Madoc had seen no bandits and few signs of any human habitation at all. They were looking forward to rejoining the main body of the caravan and the relative comforts it provided—in just a few miles, they hoped. But neither of them were sure how much farther they had to go.

Madoc ignored Galen's temper and continued to swing along easily on his horse, relaxed, eyes scanning the brush on either side.

"This is useless. I'm not getting anywhere," Galen said at last. "We should just quit this caravan and head for the mountains. We've got to cross them eventually, anyway. The country we're looking for is almost certainly not on this side, by the news we've gathered."

"And how long before your money runs out?" asked Madoc. "Following the caravans isn't fast, but it's sure."

"It's too slow," said Galen. "I'm impatient to be doing. I made a mistake that wanted fixing, and I thought it would be a simple matter. Now I'm lost in the middle of a wilderness I can't even name. I've no idea how to find the woman I'm looking for. And I have no more idea how to find my way home than a calf in a thunderstorm."