Byzantium, Book 1: Dead Men's Road



  BYZANTIUM

  Book 1: Dead Men’s Road

  By I.A. Watson

  Copyright © 2014 I.A. Watson

  In which we chronicle the adventures of an unusual band of travelers, featuring an interfering Wanderer, a lady with a quest, a Viking with an axe, a tracker with a pig, and a full cast of merchants, mages, pilgrims, soldiers, orphans, spies, traitors, rebels, monks, and restless undead, for the reader’s delight and edification.

  I. On the Hiring of Caravan Guards

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  The disreputable Viking with the tangled, beer-soaked beard looked round at the Caravan Master in surprise. “What?” he asked.

  “When I asked if you could fight, I didn’t mean show me!” Padavas the Portly protested. He gestured at the collection of would-be hired guards lying on the ground groaning and clutching their wounds.

  “How else would you know?” Sigroth Sigrothson puzzled.

  That got a chuckle from the forming crowd. The thronging Dirne waystation and marketplace outside Thracian Orestinas was a popular junction. The Padavas Caravan was not the only train passing through. The whole of the square was jammed with wagons and animals, passengers and traders. The brief sudden mêlée had been an amusing diversion for the seething mass packed inside the fortress walls.

  Kirkgrim the Wanderer was amongst the idle crowd. He’d arrived in Orestinas two days ago but had won too much from the forum gamblers there to stay any longer. Dirne was a natural crossroads, with two or three major caravans and a host of smaller traders passing through each day. It was a good place for Kirkgrim to find his next trouble.

  Maybe the large out-of-place Viking was it?

  The Wanderer tapped one of the many campsite whores on the shoulder, smiled charmingly, and asked her, “Whose caravan is that?”

  “Newcomer,” the painted woman answered. “Padavas’ company. First time through here. Usually runs east of Byzantium, before all that trouble out there. Quite a big train.” She eyed the traveler hopefully. “A few coins to bang my drum, soldier?”

  “I’m not a soldier, and I never charge to bang drums,” Kirkgrim told her with a grin. To soften his putdown he added, “Tell you what though. Here’s some minted resin to chew, yours for nothing.” He hoped it might help her breath for her next mark.

  “So do I get to be a guard, yet?” Sigroth Sigrothson demanded. “I’m good at guarding things. Show me a thing and I’ll guard it.”

  The train’s scout slid down off one of the wagons to join the Caravan Master. “He’s got a point, Boss Padavas,” the lanky tracker noted. “You did ask if he could look after himself. He can. And if he can do that to all these toughs queuing up to sign on as guards, he should be able to handle himself out on the trail.”

  Padavas looked at the four bravos laid out across the courtyard in various states of consciousness. The healthiest of them was groaning and clutching a shattered wrist. “I wanted to get more than one guard here, Fitz,” the caravan master protested. “Now they’re all… broken.”

  “Only a little bit broken,” the Viking pointed out. “I didn’t use my axe. Do you want to see how I use my axe?”

  “No. No, that’s quite alright,” the Caravan Master assured the big man hastily.

  “He’s large enough to count as more than one guard,” Fitz pointed out. The beaky-nosed scout liked the look of the towering Norseman. “He’s probably big enough to count as a wagon.”

  “He looks the part,” Padavas admitted in undertones to his trailblazer, “but you know what they say about Vikings.”

  Kirkgrim had slipped in to somehow join the conversation. “Do they say they’ll scare the doings out of any bandit who tries to come after your caravan after this?” he offered

  “Well… I suppose so, yes.”

  Kirkgrim winked over at Fitz. “There you go, then. Deterrent, fighter, and portable wall in one handy employee.”

  Padavas turned to the Wanderer. “Who are you?”

  “A concerned citizen.”

  The Caravan Master looked Kirkgrim up and down. The gray hooded stranger was lean and tall. His pale skin marked him as a Celt. He carried a black wood staff but no other obvious weaponry. “Are you applying to be a guard?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to end up competing with Sigroth there. I like my spine where it is. And I don’t take orders well. It wouldn’t be a good match. Stick with the very large Viking, is my advice.”

  “We do need to bring the guard back to strength, Boss,” Fitz the scout prompted. “Of the bunch we picked up in Veranus only that smith’s kid stayed the distance.”

  “I’m not a deterrent,” Sigroth insisted fiercely. “Probably. I never wash.”

  “Possibly means detergent?” Kirkgrim supplied to the confused Padavas and Fitz.

  The Caravan Master sighed. He gestured for his guard commander to come forward. Burly mercenary chief Santar Strongarm had been watching the performance with growing wariness. Now he came forward to assert his authority with a pronounced swagger.

  “A sea-thief Viking raider,” the commander accused. He scowled at Sigroth and spat.

  Sigroth was puzzled. “Why would I steal a sea? How would I carry it?”

  “Deal with him, would you, Santar?” commanded Padavas. “Sign him up and let’s get ready for off.”

  Kirkgrim stood to one side as the rough guardsman shouldered his way through the waystation crowd to follow his employer’s instructions. “Right,” Santar told the Viking, “You’re hired – against my better judgment seeing as how I don’t like hairy foul smelling red Northmen who steal our womenfolk.”

  “What womenfolk?” Sigroth puzzled, looking round the mercenary to check. He pointed to his weapon. “Here’s my axe. If I chop your balls off you won’t have to worry about women any more.” He grinned sincerely behind his bird’s nest of a beard. “Any time you like.”

  The guard commander wasn’t going to rise to the bait in front of a growing crowd eager for mischief. “Just sign the papers, red-beard,” he snarled.

  Sigroth looked at the papers and squinted.

  “The other way up,” Fitz told him helpfully.

  “I can’t make out this fiddly pen writing,” the Viking grumbled.

  “Just make your mark at the bottom, sheep-stealer,” Santar told him.

  Sigroth shrugged and took the charcoal he was offered, stuck his tongue out and leaned forward to make his signature rune. But then Kirkgrim leaned over his shoulder and helpfully asked, “Do you really want to sign that?”

  “Why not?” the Viking asked suspiciously. “What does it say?”

  “Just mind your own business, stranger,” Santar told the newcomer. “You’re not even with the caravan, are you?”

  The newcomer grinned. “Truth and justice are everybody’s business,” he suggested piously. He whisked the contract from the Viking’s fingers and skimmed down the page. “It says that you get paid one Byzantine silver florin a day, on arrival at the city,” he told Sigroth.

  “That’s not bad pay,” the Viking considered. “That’s…” - he did a calculation, counting on his fingers – “…many pints of beer.”

  “Ah, but that’s before deductions,” the Wanderer continued. He traced his finger over the parchment and tapped the relevant clauses. “Food, water, bedding, transport, and required medical attention. I take it there’s a fixed amount for the guard budget. Your Commander here is trying to save a bit for his own pocket.”

  Fitz snorted at Santar’s expression. As a member of the Free Company of Guides, Trackers, Cartographers and Foresters, Fitz got guild rates and conditions, but Santar did tend to try and swindle the regular mercenar
y labor.

  Sigroth turned on the Guard Commander. “What are you trying to pull?” he demanded.

  “It’s a standard contract,” Santar blustered.

  “It’s not a standard situation,” Kirkgrim argued. He seemed to be enjoying the interfering. The redder the guard commander’s face got the happier he was.

  “Now listen, you…”

  The stranger pointed to the long line of pack animals and wagons that Padavas the Portly was desperately trying to form up ready for the off. “You’re heading towards Byzantium, right? Rumor has it there’s a war going on in those parts.”

  Fitz had heard that in the marketplace too. “I don’t suppose you happen to have come from that way with any first hand information?” he asked hopefully.

  “Sorry, no. But there’s certainly enough soldiers on the roads to make a traveler nervous.” Kirkgrim gestured to a heavy covered wagon where fully half of Santar’s guards were clustered. “That big chest there probably has troops’ pay in it for the Duke’s Men, borrowed from the Venetian bankers, right? No wonder you lost five men to bandit attacks on the last leg of your journey. That’s why you need to hire replacements here at the waystation.” He cupped his hand theatrically and confided in the Viking. “I’d stick out for two silver florins and no deductions if I was you. Santar here must be desperate.”

  Quite an audience had gathered in the courtyard as the discussion had proceeded. Dirne waystation was little more than a walled camp with some crude wooden houses, market tents, taverns, and brothels, so any kind of other entertainment was welcome. Most of the denizens and all of the Padavas caravan travelers had gathered to watch Sigroth’s violent audition a few moments ago. The rest gravitated to watch the mean warrior haggle with the malodorous Viking. There was always the possibility of more violence.

  A tonsured monk voiced the uncertainty of the crowd. “Perhaps the young man has a point?”

  “I wonder how much our Caravan Master really does value his passengers and their property?” speculated a young lady in a long white cloak and hood. “He seems to be cutting corners.”

  “This is our Caravan Master’s first run on a western route from Byzantium,” noted a traveler in an expensive mantle with the knot of an Imperial Courier at his shoulder. “Padavas shifted away from the civil disturbances on the eastern roads. I trust that wasn’t an excuse to skimp on security precautions.”

  “I hope not,” a fat merchant replied. His liveried men were heaving him up into his saddle atop an unhappy looking gelding. “Not with what Padavas charged me to bring my wares to Byzantium.”

  Mention of his name attracted the Caravan Master back to the knot of people. “What’s this?” he asked. “Who’s cutting corners?”

  “I can cut corners,” Sigroth promised. “I can cut anything.”

  The elegant young woman in white summarized the confrontation in amused tones. “Your Guard Commander was just about to cheat the Viking you hired when this interfering stranger impertinently read the contract out loud. Things went downhill from there. We can’t help but wonder if proper care is really being taken of our persons and possessions.”

  Kirkgrim admired the white lady. She was singularly aesthetic.

  The girl’s concerns were backed up by the cries of other members of the caravan. Padavas the Portly had to act quickly to maintain his credibility. “Hire him at the higher rate,” he instructed Santar. “We always place our patrons’ security and wellbeing foremost, Lady Mirabelle.”

  “I am gratified to hear it,” the woman told him. She favored the Caravan Master with a small nod then swept away to her caravan wagon.

  “Show’s over, folks,” Fitz advised the watchers. “Those of you with the caravan get your gear together. I’ll be coming round for a check on horses and mules in a few minutes. Make sure you’ve drawn enough water from the well. There’s no reliable source ahead for two days unless you want to scramble down ravines for it.”

  The scout nodded to Kirkgrim and Sigroth and headed off. His shrill whistle summoned a remarkable creature from the chaos of the forming train. The Wanderer’s eyes widened. A huge hog joined Fitz, a great boar pig that trotted beside him like a dog, but wore leather barding like a warhorse. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day. I’d say the show is very much not over.”

  Reminded of the practicalities of travel, the crowd began to disperse. The Imperial Courier returned to packing his saddlebags. The monk went back to his pilgrim brethren to report on what had occurred. The liveried retainers of the rich merchant secured their master’s loads for the next leg of the journey.

  The last of the wagons was chivvied into place. These were humble farm carts, one piled high with some family’s entire belongings, children and grandparent included. Then came three tinkers with handcarts and small traders with donkeys. Last of all was a wheeled barred cage containing three slaves. A tall Nubian was shackled behind, compelled to walk after.

  Sigroth Sigrothson looked around to where the locals were helping his fallen opposition away from the square. “You need to keep your left hand a bit higher,” he advised one of the stunned men helpfully. “And don’t get taken in by feints to the right.”

  Strangely, the injured man had no words of thanks for the cheerful Viking.

  “Thanks for helping,” Sigroth told the stranger who’d assisted him with the contract. “Shame you aren’t coming along or we could have had a drink together.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kirkgrim. His eyes caught everything that was going on in the busy waystation. His hand strayed to his only adornment, a polished acorn and red tassel that secured his hood and cloak in place.

  “Or we could fight something together,” Sigroth considered. “That would be good too. War, you said? That’s got to mean we’ll get some good scraps on the way.”

  “It’s true there’s plenty of stories of civil unrest coming from the east,” the stranger admitted. “The regular caravan coming out from Byzantium is three days overdue now. I was intending to join up with it, head west and take a look at old Rome and the rest.”

  “Or we could have a drink and then fight something,” Sigroth continued. “That would be even better. A fight then a drink, then another fight. Then another drink..”

  “Rome sounds interesting but… you’re taking a wagon full of treasure and an Imperial courier along a lonely route on a long journey,” the traveler speculated. “Not to mention a guide with a pig and the beautiful and mysterious Lady Mirabelle.”

  “Then maybe fight something before another drink?” Sigroth had fixed ideas about his strengths.

  “It could be an interesting journey to make.”

  The Wanderer looked speculatively at the huge grizzled Viking, at the chained treasury coffer, at Fitz, at the Imperial Courier and the little row of monks, at the glowering Santar, and most of all at the covered caravan to which the Lady Mirabelle had retreated, and grinned again. “I think I might tag along for a while,” he decided. “There may be points of interest.”

  Sigroth beamed back happily. “Drink and fight it is, then.”

  The stranger didn’t contradict the Viking. Instead he flicked a gold coin over to Padavas. “Passage for one to Byzantium,” he announced.

  Padavas bit the coin then carefully stored it in his pouch. “What’s your name?” he asked the newcomer.

  “Kirkgrim. Kirkgrim Carrionwake. Kirkgrim the Wanderer.”

  “Should I have heard of you?”

  “I hope not.”

  II. On Fellow Travelers

  The caravan followed the old spice trail eastwards toward the imperial capital. Padavas’ company was swollen to some thirty four wagons and carts and two herds; almost a hundred and fifty people not counting the dozen hired warriors, the Team-master, Fitz the guide, or the portly Caravan Master himself.

  Kirkgrim hadn’t much luggage, only a knapsack and a traveler’s staff, so he perched himself on a low broken wall and enjoyed the chaos as the teamsters tried to line u
p the caravan in some semblance of order. First were the outriders, trackers and guides like Fitz whose function was to scout ahead and to clear the path. Then most of Santar’s mounted men rode as a phalanx, followed by Padavas’ own roofed wagon, his office and home. The caravan master stood atop it now, shouting instructions to his men and trying not to topple into the mud as his horses hauled the mobile hut forward.

  Behind that came the other rich traveling coaches, fewer than usual because of the rumors of strife. Lady Mirabelle occupied in one of Padavas’ hired carriages, effectively a room on wheels steered by one of the company boys who handled the horses and mules. Close by rumbled a guarded wagon that left heavy ruts in the muddy road, the one that Kirkgrim suspected carried an imperial payload. The richly dressed imperial messenger didn’t hover over it but he always kept his horse in sight of that covered vehicle.

  Then came the traders’ carts, packed with linens and chinas, salt and pitch, woolsacks and pig iron. On the return journey they’d bring niter and spices, rare woods and silks.

  The fat merchant had eighteen wagons to himself, separately guarded by his own liveried retainers. All his carts were painted alike, with a merchant sigil proclaiming them property of Davidus of Tessera. Davidus’ men and Santar’s did not mix much. Perhaps their masters preferred it that way.

  After that came the mule lines, the laden beasts of the lesser traders; the foot-travelers hefting their possessions on their backs; the herdsmen leading tethered goats and pigs. And behind them the rear guard, more of Santar's men, watchful and sullen. Kirkgrim slipped off his wall and fell into step with the last of them.

  “Hello,” he greeted the youngest looking of the watchmen, a nervous looking youth who’d hired on at Veranus three weeks earlier. “You know, I always think the only way to really get to know a caravan is to start at one end and talk one’s way to the other.”

  The youngster eyed Kirkgrim cautiously, trying to weigh the status of the newcomer. The gray cloaked Wanderer wasn’t one of the prestige travelers who had hired a sleeping wagon, but that might be because all of them had been taken this late in the journey. He’d paid for passage in gold, not by barter, but he was unlikely to be a trader for he carried no heavy sack of merchandise. The nearest thing he wore to jeweler was a polished acorn on a loop of wire that served as a clasp. He walked with a staff etched along its length with leaf patterns. He did not fit any of the regular types in the young guard’s limited experience.