The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 2: The Caravan

A first hint of green tinted the tawny, rolling hills, yet frost sparkled on a puddle in the well-traveled scar which was the north-south road. The little caravan moved by, paying no more attention to the mud than to the white-capped mountains looming against the western horizon. Wagon wheels squealed, leaving a thin note of complaint hanging in the air.

One traveler walked apart from his fellows, along the shoulder of the road, and ahead of the five ox-drawn wagons. A young man above average in height, but somewhat slender, he was no burly northern giant. His hair was brown, cased with gold, but he wore no beard. His tunic was plain and well worn, and his patched linen breeches were splotched with mud from his shoes to cross-gartered knees.

None of this was particularly unusual, yet an observer familiar with northern customs would have instantly known that he was no ox-drover, or ordinary traveler, either. His tunic and cloak were grey, for one thing, which contrasted with the gaudy colors and wild checks of the peddlers and adventurers. His shoes, belt, and purse, of fine leather, and the close weave of his clothing set him apart from the drovers. His conspicuous lack of weapons, except for a stout staff and a belt knife, meant that he could not be a guard or a soldier. The pale face and hands (except for a red, peeling nose), the shapeless, fur trimmed cap, and the high, stiff collar gave the answer, even if the horn pen and ink case at his belt had not been visible. He was a lore-man, a long way from his books. He could not, of course, be a "lore master," since he was obviously no older than 30. That title of respect was reserved for sages rich in both learning and years.

If the mornings on the northern grassslands are cold in early spring, the midday sun can be surprisingly warm. The travelers wiped the sweat from their faces and clustered in the shade of the wagons, as the animals rested or nibbled at the brown tufts of shortgrass. A pot of tea heated over a small fire, and dried meat and cold wheat cakes were distributed.

The wagon-master was short and beefy, with a florid face as red as a sunset and fingers as thick as sausages. His grizzled beard was close-cropped as a sailor's, and he wore a black, broad-brimmed felt had, a leather jerkin, and stained green trousers. Knee-high boots completed his costume, which announced his profession as clearly as a lettered sign. As weather beaten as the stump of a fallen fir, his name was "Stub."

"Here, lore-man," said the older man. "Have some traveler's food." He held out a round, hard biscuit and a brown strip of dried meat.

The young man gave a thin smile of thanks and accepted the food. "Your fare is plain, Mr. Wagon master," he responded. "But it lasts though the day."

"Aye! That it does, and the more you chew it, the longer it lasts. But you won't find weevils nor worms."

"No. I cannot complain . . . " The response trailed off at the end as though his thoughts were drifting.

"It doesn't compare to your normal fare, no doubt. And a staff is heavier than a pen." Stub paused, giving the loreman a fixed look.

"A good appetite is the best sauce, said the ancients," came the distant reply.

"Oh, yes! The ancients and their wisdom," smirked one of the nearby young men. He wore a scarlet cloak and a many-colored tunic and carried himself with an air of importance. "Perhaps the loreman will entertain us tonight with a fantastic tale of the old ones?"

"Perhaps I might, sir," returned the lore-man, ignoring the sarcasm. "There are many strange tales to be told, if willing ears wish to hear."

The group of young travelers snickered at that, and they all dropped the subject. The loreman finished his meal in silence. It was not long before the oxen were re-hitched and the wagons continued the southward journey, their hooves muffled in muddy ruts.