Chapter 2: Caravan Guard

Shantar let his pony pick its own path through the gathering darkness. It had been a long day, and only the memory of his anger was left to keep him from nodding off in the saddle. A few of the brightest stars glimmered feebly through a tattered veil of high clouds, and none of the moons would be up until later in the night. At last, he caught a faint odor of wood smoke. His pony pricked up its ears and walked a little faster, eager to join the pony herd it could smell and hear somewhere ahead. Now Shantar could see firelight reflected from around a bend in the trail. With a sigh of relief, he guided his pony to where he knew a sentry should be posted.

"Who's there? Who are you, and what's your business?" The challenge rang out from behind a large boulder.

"Shantar of the High Hills. I'm alone, and looking for a safe place to spend the night."

"Alone, are you? At least, you don't look like one of the ragged field rats who've been dogging our heels for most of this trip." The sentry raised his voice in a shout. "Balik! Here's a stranger who wants a place to bed down for the night."

Shantar followed the answering voice to where a goodˇ sized tent was pitched slightly apart from the others. The man who greeted him was almost as tall as he was, and heavier, but what had once been good solid muscle was gradually turning into fat. His jacket and trousers were the deep crimson of the Trader's Guild, but he lacked the black cuff stripes and sash of a master trader. Evidently, he was one of the independent caravan masters who ranged up and down the length of Kath, picking up a deal here, a consignment there, and trading for whatever they could find.

"Shantar of the High Hills?" he rumbled. "Well, that's a big enough place to be from. At least you look like you're able to take care of yourself. How'd you like to sign on with me as caravan guard? This country's swarming with half starved bandits trying to pick up a few scraps to live on. Seems the grain harvests just weren't big enough for the priests and the tax collectors both, and a lot of the farmers didn't have enough to live on until the next harvest. It was either starve or steal, unless they wanted to sell off some of their brats to the slave traders. I guess a lot of them did that, too, but the market will only take about so many without driving the prices down."

"Yeah, I ran into some of your bandits on down the trail a ways," Shantar put in when Balik stopped to breathe. "I thought that they were pretty poor specimens, and now I know why. How come they let the tax gatherers have so much? Up at High... I mean, in the High Hills any tax gatherer who tried to take more than his rightful share would wake up some morning with his throat cut."

"That may be so, but these peasants ain't really fighters. When a troop of soldiers comes into your farm yard and tells you at the point of a sword how much they're gonna take, there just ain't much you can do about it. Between the King and the priests, they're lucky to have enough to eat even in a good year. Say, speaking of eats, there's still some stew in the kettles. You can bed down any place there's room, and put your pony in with the herd. You ain't said yet about hiring on."

"Where're you headed?"

"On down the coast. I've got a shipment of gems and furs for a trader in Talai. After that, I'm minded to go on and pick up some dried fish and spices from the independent tribes down the coast. Pay for guards is a point a ten day."

"You've got you a deal!" Shantar didn't even try to haggle; this was too good to pass up. A point, one of the triangular bronze coins modeled after an arrow head, was good pay for even an experienced caravan guard, and he had a chilling feeling that right now this was no country for a lone traveler. Talai might not be the best place for him, either, but he didn't have to stay there. Now that summer was almost here, there would be caravans in plenty to hire on with.

By the gray light of morning, the caravan looked much the way he had expected. The high wheeled wagons, each pulled by a pair of gronches, were little more than masses of mends and patches, and there were too few guards for the size of the caravan. On the other hand, the men's weapons were clean and sharp and the gronch harnesses, though much mended, were stout and in good repair.

"Hey, you!" Shantar looked up from his scant breakfast to see a burly character, a jagged scar across his pocked face, glaring down at him. "Get a move on, and give a hand with the wagons."

He swallowed the last few bites of his food and got to his feet. "And just who are you," he enquired, smiling nastily down as the other took an involuntary half step backward.

"I'm Snurl, wagon boss. Balik says for you to stick with the main part of the caravan for a few days, until we get to know you better." The slanted eyes squinted suspiciously up at the tall hill man.

"Well, he's the one who's paying me." Shantar shrugged. "If he's willing to pay guard's wages for wagon helper work that's his lookout, not mine."

Ignoring Snurl's glare, he strode over to the nearest wagon and pitched his gear inside. Without a word, he pitched in at the familiar task of harnessing its team of gronches. The wagon's driver looked up at his approach but accepted his help without comment. Between the two of them they had the big greenish gray lizards linked up and the wagon ready to move out as quickly as any of the others.

"Thanks for the help."

"Looked like you could use some. My name's Shantar."

The driver's seamed face split in an answering smile, showing a hit and miss row of yellow teeth. "Yeah, Snurl don't like it when I hold things up, but I ain't had a helper since an arrow got mine a couple of ten days ago. My name's Gortai."

"The bandits really have been bad this trip, have they? Balik said something about a bad harvest season, but our crops were pretty good back in the hills."

"Crops weren't that bad," Gortai answered slowly, his attention on the team of gronches as the line of wagons wound its way up and out of the small hollow where they had spent the night. "It was a little dry, more so than most years, but nothing special. Main trouble was the bad blood between the priests and the King's tax gatherers. Young King Khamul's been trying to take back some of the powers that his dad, old King Chengris, let slip, and that Sholim, Kathool's high priest, don't want to let go of. One of them was collecting taxes. Used to be when I was a boy, the King's tax collectors would do all the work and then share with the local temples. Old Sholim talked King Chengris into letting him collect his own taxes, and now he's afraid that King Khamul will change things back. He told his priests to collect double this year. That, on top of what the King's men collected, didn't leave folks enough to live on. So now we've gotta fight off a bunch of half starved farmers who're trying to steal enough food to keep their families alive until harvest."

The next few days were busy ones. The rough trail took its toll of the equipment, and frequent sniping attacks by hungry bandits were an ever present danger. Shantar was glad when the trail wound down out of the hills to more open country. Here, where the trail widened out between broad fields, they could relax their vigilance somewhat. Summer came early to this part of the land and the fields were lush and green, but Shantar saw too many that had been let go to pasture. Others had more weeds between the rows than a good farmer would allow.

"Not enough hands to do the work," was Gortai's answer when he commented on it. "And, the ones what's left ain't got the strength to do a good job. There'll be another short harvest this year, and if both the priests and the King try to collect their share there'll be even more what'll starve or take to the hills." He glanced around to make sure that no one was near enough to overhear his words, his hand going to his waist in an unthinking gesture that caught Shantar's eye.

"You've been a fighting man," he stated bluntly. "What're you doing, driving a team of gronches?"

"I'm too old to spend all my time charging around on a pony, and my eyes ain't what they used to be, neither. I can still put an arrow into a moving target as far away as the next man, or farther, but I can't see good enough up close for swinging a sword. 'Specially in a dim light."

Shantar nodded. It was a familiar problem, though not many fighting men lived long enough to worry about it.

"Hey, what're we turning off here for?" He sat up straighter as the wagons swung aside from the main trail.