must be the road to both Anaran’s territory and the northern lands. Since the left fork headed due west and the right due north, he would have assumed otherwise, if not for the traffic, but among those coming down the west fork were men and women in clothes far warmer than the climate called for, some with mining tools on belts or backpacks.
Those who had stopped for the night were strewn haphazardly along the wayside with whatever supplies they had brought, which hardly seemed to indicate the presence of an inn anywhere on the road. Valder had brought nothing and still hoped to find shelter; he marched on past the fork and almost immediately felt a cool breeze that carried the scent of water — but not the salt tang of the ocean.
The fork had been on the side of a low rise, with the west fork following the contour of the land, while the north headed directly up over the crest. Valder pushed on over the ridgetop to where he could see what lay beyond, could see the broad river that lay at the bottom of the slope, the widest river he had ever seen just half a mile further down the road.
That meant fresh water, though perhaps not the best, unless the river was somehow too polluted to drink from. There might well be fish and edible plants of some sort, rather than the endless grasses that covered most of the countryside.
The road itself ran on across the river by means of a bridge — a bridge Valder judged to be a prodigious feat of engineering, one that quite possibly had required magic in its construction, since the river was very wide indeed. Men were standing on the bridge; perhaps, he thought, he had finally found some clever farm folk cashing in on the steady stream of traffic by selling their produce. Exhausted as he was, he stumbled down the slope toward the river.
CHAPTER 21
The men on the bridge were soldiers, in full uniform and heavily armed. They stood in front of a gate that blocked the south end of the bridge. Pitched nearby was an army-issue tent.
They did not appear to be there to sell vegetables. After a glance at them, Valder left the highway and made his way down the bank to the river. He drank his fill, wiped the sweat from his face and arms, splashed a little water on his tunic to cool himself down, then sat and rested for a few moments.
The last daylight was fading; on the bridge above him the soldiers were lighting torches. He glanced up at the hiss as the first one caught fire, and watched the procedure with interest. This was obviously a toll bridge. He had heard of such things, though in wartime they had been illegal outside the borders of Old Ethshar — or rather, the Small Kingdoms, since Old Ethshar had apparently collapsed before Valder was born. Toll bridges might have interfered with the movement of troops or supplies, so they had not been permitted.
The war was over, however, and that law seemed to have been repealed — assuming this group was here legally. With four of them and Valder alone, he had no intention of questioning their rights.
He glanced at the river. Already the far side was invisible. He could not possibly swim so far, he knew, and he doubted that a river of such a size could be forded anywhere within twenty leagues. Certainly, no one would get any goods across without using either a bridge or a ferry. He saw no ferries. All trade, then, would use the bridge. The toll collection should prove profitable.
When he was feeling somewhat less exhausted, he got to his feet and climbed slowly back up the bank to the highway.
No traffic was moving. Three small parties, perhaps a dozen travelers in all, were camped along the roadside up toward the fork, with campfires burning. The only other people in sight were the soldiers on the bridge; in addition to their torches, they had a small cooking fire in front of their tent.
Valder was at a loss as to what he should do next. He was tired, hungry, and lonely, with no idea what would become of him; these common problems seemed more important at present than his unique one of being linked for life to a magic sword he did not trust. The sword was strictly a long-term problem, while the others were all immediate.
He could handle his weariness by trampling out a circle in the grass and going to sleep — in fact, he could probably find an abandoned campsite and save himself the trouble of trampling one out. Food, however, was becoming a very serious concern, and the sight of a soldier hanging a kettle over the cookfire decided him. He trudged up onto the bridge.
The soldiers saw him coming, despite the gathering gloom. Two had cocked crossbows in their hands, but did not bother to aim or release the safety catches, while a third dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. Valder saw five in all; the fourth was the man tending the kettle, and the fifth was dozing nearby.
“Hello there!” Valder called.
“Hello,” the swordsman replied.
“What are you doing here?” His assumption that they were toll collectors was, after all, only a guess.
“Guarding the bridge.”
“Guarding it against what? The war is over!”
“Guarding against unauthorized crossing. It’s one copper piece to cross for veterans or their families, and no one else is welcome.”
“On whose orders?”
“Lord Azrad’s.”
That made sense. In fact, Valder respected Azrad for thinking of it. Not only would it add to the coffers, but it would keep the people of the Small Kingdoms — who would not be veterans, since the army had not been responsible for the homeland and had long ago moved all operations, including recruiting, elsewhere — from coming to Ethshar and further increasing the crowding in the cities. While the war had continued, none would have dared to venture into the war zones and military lands without a good reason, but now that peace had come and the war zones were transformed into the Hegemony of Ethshar, some might think there were opportunities to be exploited.
Valder had no intention of crossing the bridge until morning, when he could see the other bank and decide whether it was worth a copper piece, but he was very much interested in food and conversation before he slept. “What’s cooking?” he asked, pointing to the kettle. “It smells good.”
“Just stew; Zak caught a rabbit this afternoon.” “Might I join you? I haven’t eaten in almost two days; I can’t afford the prices in the city.”
The swordsman glanced at his companions, and, although no objections were spoken aloud, Valder sensed reluctance all around.
“I’ll pay a fair price, if you want; I’ve still got my back pay. I just wasn’t willing to pay those robbers in the city what they wanted.”
“I can agree with that,” one of the crossbowmen remarked. “If I had any doubts about staying in the army, those prices cured them. Silver bits for ale, they wanted!”
“Four the pint at the Overflowing Chalice, and worse in Westgate Market!” Valder agreed. “I can’t pay that! Better to drink seawater!”
That broke the ice, as the soldiers all chimed in with complaints. A moment later the whole crew, Valder included, was clustered around the kettle, dishing out rabbit stew. No matter where or when, soldiers loved to complain, and Valder had given this group an opportunity for which they were properly grateful.
They even forgot to charge him for the stew.
The food did not stop the conversation. Between bites, Valder exchanged accounts of wartime action seen, commanders served under, and so forth. Coming as he did from the extreme west, Valder’s tales seemed strange and exotic to the guardsmen, even though he avoided any mention of his work as an assassin. Their stories, in turn, seemed odd to him; they had lived and served without ever seeing northern troops. Their only action had been against magical assaults, either sorcerous or demonic, or against rebellion among the civilian population.
Valder had never lived in an area where there were civilians, other than camp followers and perhaps a few traveling merchants or coastal fishermen. He had never heard of civilian rebellions and could not really picture how or why they might occur.
His lone scouting patrols through empty forests were just as alien to the southerners, of whom four of the
