The Monk's Habit (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 2) Read online

  The arrows stopped. No one had been hurt, but Pol could barely hold onto Demeron as they continued their flight. Darrol led them onto their previous path that would lead them just north of Rocky Ridge. After a few minutes, he halted.

  “A quick rest for the horses and a bite to eat,” he said.

  “I have no desire to spend another night in that town,” Kell said. “I learned my lesson. They drugged me, and I woke up in that shack this morning.”

  Paki’s mouth turned into a pout. “I was going to meet up with that girl tonight.” He sighed. “I suppose my life is worth more—”

  “Than a roll in the hay?” Darrol said, smirking.

  “A bed is a lot more comfortable than hay,” Paki said, sighing.

  Demeron was ready to pick up the pace, now that Pol had forced down some awful tasting trail bread and leather-like dried meat. He felt better after eating.

  They were picking their way through a stretch of woods when Pol could sense six horses behind them.

  “Four against six,” Pol called out to the others. “They are catching up.

  “We’ll find a place to stand. I don’t want to be dogged all the way through the pass to Terrifin.” Darrol led them further to an outcropping of tall rocks, an edge of the Spines. They dismounted. Demeron took the other three horses around the rocks.

  Paki and Darrol held swords. Kell had pulled his bow from his saddle and plunged ten arrows into the dirt in front of him. Pol kept his sword in its scabbard and held two knives in his left hand and another in his right. He had three more on him.

  They stood, ready for action, in front of a twenty-foot high curtain of rock.

  All six riders pulled up, led by the Chief Guard. They had no choice but to dismount.

  Kell drew an arrow and pierced one of the guards in the neck.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Dixtor Tildan said.

  Kell shot one of the brigands in the thigh. He went down. “That makes it four to four,” he said.

  “Get them!” Tildan said, running towards the four of them.

  “Two more coming up in the woods!” Pol said as an arrow hit Darrol in the side of his shoulder.

  “Six to three, now.” Tildan laughed as he approached Paki.

  Tildan wore armor, but Pol’s throw accurately took care of the man as he approached Darrol, down on the ground.

  “Three to Five,” a brigand said, taking up the scoring.

  Shouts rang out in the forest, turning into screams.

  “Three to three,” Paki said as he clashed with the last guard.

  Kell tossed his bow aside and drew his sword as he took on a brigand.

  That left Pol fighting against another bandit. He took deep breaths as the man slammed his sword at Pol’s. His anticipation magic didn’t work quite as well with an undisciplined fighter. He had learned that back when he fought Grostin, his stepbrother in Borstall.

  The man backed Pol up to the rock. He stumbled, giving Pol time to draw another knife, but not enough time to use it.

  The man began to methodically hack, and a rhythm was what Pol needed to effectively use his magic. He finally sensed an opening and sliced the man’s clothing on his left side, not getting much skin, but that was enough to back his opponent up. The man took the luxury of pausing to breathe, and Pol lunged, using more than a sip of magic to plunge his sword into the man’s stomach. Pol jumped back, ready to defend himself, but gasped when he noticed Paki in distress. Blood ran down his friend’s arm, and Paki’s eyes exposed the panic that he must have felt.

  Pol threw the knife left-handed at the guard, whose armor left his side exposed. The knife went in hilt-deep, aided by another big sip of magic. Pol fell to his knees, done for the fight. He watched as Kell finally took care of his opponent.

  “Eight defeated by four,” Kell said.

  Demeron led eleven horses. They ringed the small battleground. Eight to eight. If Demeron could smile, he would.

  Two brigands survived the fight. Horses had killed the two archers in the woods.

  Darrol and Paki needed attention, and Kell could use a few cuts sewn shut. Pol was, as usual, drained of energy, but he sat until he recovered enough to put all the bodies on the horses. Kell tied them securely before he bound the two injured brigands and helped them mount.

  Darrol had lost some blood, but the arrow had pierced the top of his shoulder all the way, so they cut to remove the arrowhead and bound the wound tightly. It took them just over an hour to reach Rocky Ridge. Despite their previous intentions, they stopped at the inn.

  The innkeeper ran out to view the carnage. “Dixtor Tildan?”

  “He is in league with Clorence Noster. From what we could tell, Noster directed the Chief Guard, not the other way around.”

  Townspeople gathered around the horses.

  Two guards came running up, swords drawn.

  Darrol put up his good arm. “We haven’t come to fight you. These men attacked us in the Spines. They abducted our friend.” Darrol pointed at Kell. He recognized a guard. “You saw us in your office this morning.”

  The guard nodded. “We knew the Chief was on the take.”

  “Get some reinforcements from Palleton,” Darrol said. “These two should recover from their wounds. They should confirm who their boss is. There is a hidden valley a few hours from here where there are a few more bandits. Noster ran a kidnapping operation as part of the gambling tent. I’d shut that down, if I were you. We’re going to get some medical treatment and head out first thing in the morning.” Darrol struggled to get his Deftnis document out from his clothes and showed it to the guard. “We are from Deftnis on a mission for the Abbot.”

  That brought some noise from the growing crowd. So much for maintaining a low profile, Pol thought. At least he still had brown hair.

  ~~~

  Chapter Twenty

  ~

  THE FOUR RIDERS MADE IT TO THE TOP OF THE PASS, and looked into Terrifin, letting the five merchant wagons in their makeshift caravan roll past. Pol was very glad to see Rocky Ridge behind them. Clorence Noster was jailed, along with the remaining five of his brigands. Pol wondered if the residents would wait for word from Palleton before they took care of the blight on their town.

  Paki was the only one who had taken advantage of the second night of Summer’s Come. Paki was still smiling about his two blissful nights. Evidently, his girl was very impressed by Paki’s part in fighting the bandits. Kell amiably agreed to sleep on the floor of Darrol and Pol’s room.

  They continued their trip down to the Great West Road that led all the way to Alsador, Listya’s capital city. They had decided to ride up into the Spine at intervals, rather than trying to ride west along the steeper slopes. They verified that they could use inns along the Western Road as a base. Darrol still needed the attention of healers and wouldn’t be accompanying them into the actual Spines for another few days or so, but he could ride between the inns on the smoother road.

  They learned that a Deftnis-trained healer lived in the town where they stopped on the third night.

  Kell stayed behind in their rooms to write a letter to his parents, while Paki, Pol, and Darrol found the healer’s clinic on the main street of town.

  They walked into a full waiting room and had to wait two hours before their turn arrived. The sign on the counter in the front said ‘Healer Willmont’.

  “I hope Kell had a lot to write about,” Paki said. He worried at his bandages. “I hope the stitches are ready to come out.”

  Darrol shook his head. “I wish that was all I needed. I told you I could snip those off. I’ve done it often enough, and I didn’t hear Kell whine about my work, although we aren’t quite done yet.”

  Paki pulled away from Darrol. “You won’t be pulling stitches out of my body,” he said.

  An older man with a fringe of white hair walked up to them. He didn’t wear the monk’s robes that Pol expected. “Do all of you need help?”

  “These two,” Pol said. “We r
an into some difficulties some days ago in Sand.”

  “Come on back. I’ll see you all at one time.”

  Pol and Paki sat while the healer started with Darrol, who had to take his shirt off.

  “What happened here? An arrow?”

  Darrol grunted as Willmont touched and prodded. “It’s one of our difficulties,” Darrol said drily, looking at Pol.

  “We ran into some brigands,” Paki said.

  The healer’s eyes lost a little focus. “Ah, you need a bit of additional help here.”

  “That’s why we came to a Deftnis healer,” Darrol said.

  “You’ve had some magical healing in the past?”

  “We all have,” Pol said. “We came from Deftnis Isle.” Pol decided it was time to break the ice in regards to Searl.

  “I would have guessed, except you two boys seem a bit young for acolytes.”

  Paki nodded. “We are. Pol is a special case, and I tagged along.”

  “A special case?” Willmont said.

  “I wear a red cord,” Pol said. His comment was a test for the healer.

  “Level Four, at your age? Impressive. What brings you north of the Spines?”

  Darrol looked at Pol and nodded.

  “Searl. We are looking for Searl. Do you know him?”

  The man sighed. “Who hasn’t heard his story? Just a minute.” He laid hands on Darrol and closed his eyes.

  Darrol hissed. “That’s a magical touch, all right,” he said.

  “And it’s good that it is. You might have lost the use of your shoulder at some point. You are a monk?”

  “Second Level Magic, Third Level Sword. I’m at Deftnis as Pol’s sworn man,” Darrol said.

  Healer Willmont raised his eyebrows, but the placid look never left his face. “Sworn man. Pol must be important.” The healer turned his gaze to Pol.

  “I was a prince.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s a disinherited prince.”

  “North Salvan?”

  Pol nodded.

  “I heard of you. I keep my ears and eyes open and send an occasional message to Abbot Pleagor. I trust he’s been doing well?”

  Darrol nodded.

  “So you are looking for Searl. Why would you do that? He was cast out of Deftnis years ago.”

  Pol worried with his hands and decided to tell all. “I have a condition. He is the only one who might be able to cure it.”

  “I could guess. Heart? You are a bit undersized for your age. Fifteen? I’m sure Searl could have done what you want before he was taken.”

  “Taken?” Pol said, quite alarmed with the term.

  “Taken by minweed. He’s an addict, you know.”

  Pol nodded. “He is my only chance to get really well that I know of.”

  The healer closed his eyes again, and Darrol winced one more time. “There. Take it easy for another week. No more ‘difficulties’?”

  Darrol nodded.

  “You next, young man.”

  Paki took Darrol’s place and took his shirt off. The healer unwound Paki’s bandage. “It looks like a local healer didn’t do too badly here. Not like your friend.” He sent a pulse of healing power into Paki’s arm. “Time to take the stitches out.”

  Paki jammed his eyes tight as the healer used tiny scissors and a knife along with tweezers to remove every thread.

  “That hurt more than the cut.”

  “They nearly always do, if the sword is sharp. But now that pain is only a memory.”

  The placid exterior of the healer astounded Pol. The man was so calm.

  “Now you,” the healer said to Pol. “I’m no Searl, but I’ve no lack of talent. I wore the gray cord.”

  Pol took his shirt off and Willmont instructed Pol to lie down.

  The healer sent a warm surge of magic through Pol. It felt just like the treatments he received at the infirmary. “You have a unique heart. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it wasn’t quite human.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Pol heard Darrol and Paki gasp.

  “I am one of the last descendants of a non-human race. My hair is actually nearly silver.”

  The healer bent over and parted Pol’s hair. “Indeed. Go on.”

  “The male offspring between humans always have or had bad hearts. My real father died not long after he turned twenty.”

  “What about King Colvin?” Paki said.

  “He’s not my father.”

  “Good for you,” Darrol said. “I never liked your stepdad.”

  Willmont put his ear to Pol’s chest. “A murmur like I’ve never heard. I can’t help you other than to give you a bit of strength, but you’ve had such help before at Deftnis?”

  “I have, but my heart is beginning to reject the treatments,” Pol said. “The healers said Searl could do more than give me a treatment.”

  “He could,” the healer said.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Willmont gave Pol his shirt. “He’s not in Terrifin or in Asfall, the next dukedom to the west. Minweed grows best in Lawster and Hardman. I would guess he’s got a place there surrounded by the stuff, if he still lives.”

  “He sent a letter to Deftnis this winter. It was hardly intelligible.”

  “Minweed does that. The addiction can be powerful. It hit Searl badly. We talked about it when he first left Deftnis. He came through here and told me that he had given himself over to the stuff.”

  “He’s my last chance. My heart is beginning to fail,” Pol said.

  “I know,” Willmont said. “I wish you well. Tell him that you visited me and I’m am still doing exactly what I wanted to.”

  “You could teach at Deftnis, if you wanted to?” Darrol asked.

  “But that isn’t really healing the way it’s supposed to be done. It’s like being a pattern-master with no one to fight, except those who want to learn to be a pattern-master. In a sense, it is the sign of a job unfinished, to put it charitably.”

  “Pol’s a pattern-master,” Paki said.

  “Have you put it to use?”

  Pol snorted. “I have, but I can’t fight for very long.”

  “Of course, you can’t.” The healer walked over to a pitcher and poured water over each of his hands in succession and dried them off with a towel. “I wish you well.”

  “How much for the treatment?” Darrol said, pulling out his purse.

  “I treat the Deftnis-trained for free,” Willmont said with a calm smile.

  “Then a contribution to your clinic?” Pol said. He pulled out his purse and gave a South Salvan Lion to Willmont.

  “I don’t deserve this.”

  “Think of it as recognition for healing the way it’s supposed to be done,” Pol said.

  The healer bowed. “I will put this to good use.” He smiled and ushered them out through his still-full waiting room. “I wish you luck. Again, give my best to Searl. If you can free him from the addiction, the world will be a much better place.”

  ~

  Pol looked at the same landscape. Every dukedom seemed a little different from the others. The guards wore different colored uniforms, although the people looked much alike. Asfallians tended to like their buildings whitewashed, where the fine citizens of Goste must have had large stone deposits of light yellow stone, since they built most of their houses out of the stuff.

  He looked forward to Lawster. Whenever they asked about minweed or Searl, every piece of the pattern seemed to point them to the dukedoms of Lawster and Hardman as the prime sources of the drug. The healer had to be in the western part of the Spines.

  Paki and Darrol had recovered from their wounds. Kell had Darrol remove the last of his stitches along the way. They still traveled the Great West Road, which wound around the foothills of the northern slopes of the Wild Spines. Although they traveled in relative peace, they were all ready for ‘difficulties’, as Darrol had referenced their adventures to Willmont back in the dukedom of Terrifin.

  Pol e
xpected more danger to arise when they plunged south into the foothills and into the Spines. Everyone they talked to warned them of the ‘wild lands of the Wild Spines’ that seemed similar to the situation they confronted in Rocky Ridge, but they never ran into bandits, and no one had heard of Searl.

  “We will visit Senaton, the ducal capital of Lawster,” Darrol said. “I think we can splurge on a nice inn before we begin heading south into the Spines.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Kell said. “We won’t have to practice our swordplay in the middle of a city, will we?”

  Darrol laughed. “Did I overtax your ability to learn? I thought we could all use practice while on the road.” His hand went to his shoulder. “I needed to work out the injury. You did too, Kell. Don’t you feel like you’ve improved? I think both Paki and you have.”

  Pol remembered the last six days of stopping by the side of the road and spending an hour or more with their weapons. Pol sparred for half the time and spent the rest working on throwing knives. He felt that all four of them had become more comfortable fighting with one another, and that would prepare them for anything that came their way in the Spines.

  They had all fought well outside of Rocky Ridge, and that experience had made them more of a group. A bit of seasoning, Pol had thought of it. Still, he had to admit he looked forward to a night in nicer surroundings.

  The Great West Road curved to the north to intersect the ducal seat of Lawster. In an hour, the spires of Senaton rose above a plain just below the foothills. Many of the fields displayed a shimmer of green growth as the crops began to poke their way into the world of sunlight and rain.

  The Senaton city wall shot up fifty feet from the ground. The stone was pale, but as they got closer, Pol noticed mottled tans of various shades against a basic white. The Lawsterians liked spires. They rose up from behind the walls. There must have been thirty or forty of them making the city’s skyline look like a box of pikes.

  The Duke of Lawster ran an orderly city, and that included a visitor tax of a silver guilder. That was what the inhabitants called their silver coinage. Darrol paid the equivalent and extra for information about exceptional inns in Senaton. As expected, the best shops, marketplaces, and inns clustered around the ducal palace. The Duke of Lawster didn’t live in a castle, although it looked enough like one to Pol.