On the Road to Cadamor

The Sixth Anecdote of The Samyuzot.

The Samyuzot is a loosely-connected set of stories following the life of a cursed warrior, cast off by his people and sent to wander in exile.

This is the sixth anecdote in the collection.

Every story in the series is stand-alone. There’s no need to catch up and new readers won’t be lost.

However, if you prefer… 

← you can click here to start at the beginning…

← or click here to see all of The Samyuzot…

… or you can just keep reading down below. 

A wagon squealed down a muddy road that wound through sloping pastureland. On its bench sat a dangerous man who desired nothing more than to be left alone.

That particular desire of his had already been thwarted that morning. But now, perhaps, his unseen passenger was about to bring with him a load of trouble.

The wagon’s wheels were ever shrieking—the awful sound of wooden wheels grating on wooden axles—but the driver now discerned a low rumble, inaudible in his ears and yet known to him through some other bodily instinct. He turned in his seat to the western horizon.

Dark clouds were gathering there—typical for late summer. But their thunder was not what he heard.

Horsemen. It was little surprise. He’d seen their outriders moving from copse to copse all morning, searching, scouring, seething. They would overtake him soon. He only had to wait a moment before they appeared over the rise. They were at a trot.

The man glanced at the line of horses he himself kept in train behind his wagon. Their ears were flicking and their heads were turning back to cast eyes behind. They felt the rumble too.

The man turned forward again, kept onward.

✹ ✹ ✹

“Explain your business on this road, carter,” demanded the lead horsemen, once he and his score of men had surrounded the wagon.

“I am going to the markets at Calver,” replied the driver. He was an odd sight in these parts: high cheeks, squat shoulders, bald head, and scraggly beard. He spoke in a thick plainsman accent: “What does it matter to you?”

“Bailiffs of County Coulville have free use of the county’s roads, as well as the privilege of knowing anyone’s business. You would do well to remember it, outlander.”

Only now did the driver see the chain of silver around the leader’s shoulders. He had failed to notice it against the man’s chainmail. “My apologies, sir.”

“You are a merchant?”asked the bailiff.

“Until I finish selling this load, yes, sir, I am.”

“What are you selling?”

“Weapons and armor.”

There was a stir among the horsemen. The bailiff nodded to one of his men, who dismounted and made for the rear of the wagon.

“Save your man the trouble,” announced the driver, standing on his bench. He reached beside him and pulled back the oiled canvas which covered the load of goods behind him. “See for yourself.”

The bailiff and his men craned their necks to peer into the wagon’s belly. The one who had made towards the rear now came forward to see. There were scabbards and hilts, bundles of chainmail, helmets in a heap. Exactly as the driver said.

“This perplexes me,” said the bailiff. “How does such a cache of arms come to be inthe possession of a plains’ exile like yourself?”

The driver’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth and closed it again in confusion. Then: “You know what I am? Ten years and five I’ve traveled these lands, and only once have I met a man who knew what this meant.” He spoke with unbridled amazement and tapped his bald head.

“Is it so uncommon?” asked the bailiff.

“Yes, I… Have you seen another? Another of my kind? In these lands?”

The bailiff’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Yes. There’s some word for your kind, isn’t there?”

“Samyuzot.”

“Yes, samyuzot, I remember now. Well, I have seen such a one. There is another. At Cadamor.”

“Cadamor,” the driver repeated the name to himself.

“Now tell me how you came into this hoard.”

For answer, the driver reached into a sack that was near him and produced a rolled piece of parchment. He handed it to the bailiff and sat back down, staring ahead but seeing nothing.

The bailiff examined the writ. “It says here you were in the service of the Count of Guiffard. But the seal of the duke. That’s fine, I suppose. Is the count as brutal a man as they say?”

For reply, the driver only shrugged.

The bailiff looked over the writ one more time. “Well, you have paid the duties at Indamrion, and earned your goods. I have no quarrel with this. Now to business:

”We are looking for two men, outlaws who murdered a farmer. We destroyed their camp not three leagues back that way, but two of the men escaped. Have you seen any lone travellers? Any vagabonds moving across the fields? They would be travelling light. The two might be together, but perhaps not.”

The driver of the wagon did not move at first.

“Carter!” barked the bailiff, making him jump. “Have you seen any vagabonds?”

“No. No, sir. I haven’t. Not a soul but me is on these roads. Not with that rain coming.”

The bailiff nodded and looked to the western horizon himself. He considered the wisdom in finding shelter, but then thought again of his charge to find the outlaws.

“Very well.” The bailiff nodded to his men, and they began to move away. “Take no passengers. There are dangerous men about.”

✹ ✹ ✹

A mile onward, the road bent around a hillock and grazed the edge of a wood. The wagon squealed off to the side of the road and stopped under shade and out of view.

“They’re gone,” the samyuzot announced.

The canvas at the rear of the wagon flew up to reveal a wide-eared young man. “I thought that was the end for me, sir,” said the figure. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You told me that you ran off from the outlaws on your own,” replied the older man. “You didn’t mention that the bailiff found you.”

“That was… after I left. I wasn’t there.”

“You must be blessed with that timing, then.” There was no humor in the plainsman’s scowl. The boy looked ashamed. He was perhaps fourteen, but looked like a child caught pilfering from the kitchen.

“Listen!” the young outlaw said, “I didn’t like what they did to that farmer. I tried to tell them, but they—I, I only joined the gang because I needed food and my pa’s gone. And I never stole from anyone neither! But I wanted to get away from them. And I knew it was only a matter of time before… before the count’s men found us. So I decided to go. I won’t hide my whole life, so… so I left. Just yesterday. I promise, sir, I never—.”

“Enough. I’ve decided to take you at your word. Give your tongue a rest. You don’t seem the sort of lad to…” he trailed off. “What those men are like… that’s no way to live.”

“Thank you, sir. You saved my life, hiding me like that.”

“I know what it is that drives men into your state.” The driver turned away, sniffed the air, disappeared for a moment into reverie. “I should be on the move again. What are you going to do next?”

“As you say, sir. Can I stay with you to Calver? I don’t mean to trouble you. If you can only take me as far the ferry, once I’m over the river I’ll be off and gone before we reach the town.”

“What good will that do for you?”

“I want to join a militia, or answer a levy call. I hear there’s always need for men further north in Buric, and there’s rumors about another war between Lorioux and Clarendon. The king might even step in! That’s sure to be a way to earn a name for myself, don’t you think?”

“You should stay out of Buric March.”

“Why?”

The samyuzot turned fully away now. He had the reins in his hands. “Just find another trade. It’s no way to live.”

✹ ✹ ✹

They did not make it far before the thunderstorm overtook them. The boy helped the driver unhitch the drafthorse and tether the other horses around the wagon. They took one of the spears and laid it across the rear of the wagon, draped the canvas across it and over the sides of the wagon, then slithered beneath. The wagon was not deep, and was nearly full. The young man and the old lay under the tarp and nearly atop each other.

A dark hour passed in the heated confines. The thunder did not last long, but the rainfall did not lessen. Rain pounded on the oiled covering. Water gathered and bent the roof of their coffin, and the two occupants had to push from below to banish the pools over the side. The samyuzot tried not to splash his horses, even if they were already soaked.

The noise and the lack of light lulled the man into a waking dream. He remembered afresh his scalping at the hands of his priestess and the pronouncement of his exile. He wondered what he must look like in the eyes of his mother now. He wondered if she was still alive.

There is another at Cadamor. Not there was. Not I once saw. There is.

Another like him. Another with the same mark.

“Where did you get all these weapons anyway?” The boy’s words made the samyuzot flinch. He had to speak loudly over the rain, but the constancy of the drumming had faded from perception, so that the question came like a resurrected thunderclap. “It looks like good equipment. I saw that dagger while I was hiding earlier and thought its hilt was pretty, and with the red leather on the handle? Much better than the refuse we had in the woods.”

“I told you I don’t want you touching any of that.”

“You must have killed a whole garrison to have collected all this!”

One thing now became abundantly clear to the older man: this lad had certainly fled his gang before the count’s men showed up. If he had seen them die, the excitement would not have so greatly wrapped his words. The older man didn’t say anything. His eyes were fixed on the looming sack over his head which was growing drop by drop.

“Or maybe you were in a battle? A real battle! And these are all your trophies!”

The plainsman turned his head. “Stop talking.”

“It was a battle!” the boy’s enthusiasm only grew. “It’s so dull in here. Won’t you tell me about it?”

“No.”

“But why?” the boy whined.

“Who saved your life today?”

“Wh?—you did.”

“Then stop! Talking!” Unable to contain himself, the samyuzot pressed his arms upwards and shoved the balloon of liquid out away from him. They could hear the gushing and splashing all around them. When he’d pushed away most of it, the man convulsed, slapping his hands against the canvas and punching at the falling bulges.

When he relented and lay his arms back down, he was panting. It was humid. He began to sweat.

They went no farther that day.

✹ ✹ ✹

The next morning was one of muddy roads and rolling fields, greener now for the rain. They went eastward and made good distance despite the wet ground.

At a fork in the road, the samyuzot stopped. He thought for a long moment.

“Where does that lead?” he nodded to the right-hand path.

“Into County Sutton. We want that way,” the youth pointed left, “towards the river, and Calver.”

“That goes to Sutton Town itself?”

“No, that’s on the river too, downstream of Calver. This way goes into the county though, to Cadamor.”

The driver looked one way, then the next, then snapped the reins and steered the horse right.

“What are you doing? I said that way,” the youth threw a hand out to the eastern road.

“No. I’m going to Cadamor.”

“We don’t want to go that way,” the whine came through the boy’s nose. The high, meandering note accentuated the wheels’ squealing. “We want to go east, and then north.”

“I don’t think you should join the wars, son.”

“I’m not your son!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not about that anyway.”

“Then what is it?”

The youth looked at the road ahead through pinching eyebrows, fear plain on his face. He gazed over his shoulder, back at the eastward road. Then ahead again. There were woods on the horizon. “It could be dangerous this way.”

“There are county-men on the eastward road, and it will be three days at least until we reach the river. Sutton must be closer than that, right? You’ll be much safer this way.”

“But this…” the boy scratched his head. “Nevermind.”

✹ ✹ ✹

For the long hours afterwards the man pondered what the boy meant. He asked, but received only vagaries. The trees closed in around the road.

The boy’s thoughts became clearer when, nearing dusk, their wagon came down a long slope and around a bend to find two trees fallen over the roadway–one from the left, another from the right. By the time the driver was able to rein in the horse’s momentum from the slope, it was too late. The wagon stopped only just before the horse’s legs tangled in the brush.

The last shriek of the wheels died among the rustling leaves.

A greasy-haired man stepped out of the underbrush with a long pike. He was on the right, nearer the driver. His spearhead was hovering just out of arm’s reach—too far for the driver to grasp at it, close enough to kill. The driver put up his palms, showing deference but ready to fight.

To his surprise, the outlaw didn’t strike him, but instead turned to the boy.

“So, Walwen,” he said, “this is where you ended up?”

“I’m…I’m glad to see you, Coren,” said the boy. Fear poked through the feigned nonchalance and made his voice tremble. “How do you fare?”

“Better than Donatien and Mathur,” replied the outlaw. “Do you want to know what happened to them, Wallie?”

“Did—did something happen?” the boy was a poor liar.

“You were supposed to keep watch!” screamed Coren. The pike trembled back and forth. “But the count’s men found us. No alarm. No warning. They came right up the gorge, Walwen. Now our friends are dead. Urbin, Donnie, Gabin. All dead. Except me. And you.”

“I didn’t—I—”

“You ran, boy! It’s because of you!” The rage of the man’s words filled his limbs, and he lunged at the youth.

The samyuzot sprang forward, throwing his weight and whole self against the spearshaft. His arms wrapped around the weapon. He tumbled out of the seat and into the horse-rigging below.

He scrambled, now on the ground, hooves stamping near his head. Something was churning under him—the pike. He rolled over, saw the outlaw trying to get the spear out from under his unskewered prey. The samyuzot sprang up before the bandit could recover, and slammed into him.

The boy sat on the bench, unable to move. Wide eyes watched the struggling tangle of limbs, a seething lump of bodies twisting around and over each other. A bald head appeared, disappeared, then greasy hair whipped up and around. Rolling. Cursing. Hitting.

The samyuzot got up onto his knees, the outlaw below him. The plainsman lifted the hatchet up into the air, flipped it around, then brought the back of the axhead down onto his opponent’s face. Thud, crunch, groan.

Coren the outlaw gave up all resistance. He rolled, blinded, blood pouring from his nose. A few heartbeats later he was on his belly, hands behind him, the samyuzot straddling his back.

“Get the rope, boy!” shouted the plainsman.

The youth didn’t move.

“Walwen! Rope!”

The boy blinked, shook, stood up. The samyuzot heard a rustling in the back of the wagon. Footfalls. The lad appeared at the samyuzot’s shoulder, crouching down beside the prone bandit.

“We’ll tie him there,” the plainsman nodded to a tree nearby. “Leave him for the county men to find. Tie his hands, here. Wait, where’s the rope?” The boy leaned forward. A dagger, shining hilt and red leather near the handle.

The man on the ground gave a cry when he felt the point on his neck, and then it was over. The bandit’s life spilled out with a gurgle.

✹ ✹ ✹

“What does it matter to you?” the youth was nearly shouting at the plainsman. They had moved the trees to the side of the road but had yet to resume their journey.

“He didn’t need to die.”

“It was the easiest way,” said the boy, not for the first time. “I know what he did. You don’t. And I know what he would’ve done if we had left him alive.”

“You don’t know his fate, or what the Skies wanted. You don’t understand this. Now things will be harder for us. The blood, the body, and you… what does this mean for you?” the plainsman’s accent was cutting into his words. His own anger was rising and he wasn’t able to find the verbiage in this foreign tongue.

“For me? Why do you care? You’re a warrior! Are you so superior to me? Are you some Word-blessed cleric? How many men have you killed?”

“This is not about me. I know my path. This is about you. You could have been better. Instead you kill a man. What does that gain you?”

The youth advanced on the older man until they stood toe-to-toe. The plainsman realized then, for the first time, that the boy was taller than him. Gangly and thin, yes, but this boy was nearly a man.

The youth realized it too. “I will make my own life. And I will take what I must take.”

“You killed a man while he was helpless. You won’t make any kind of life. You lack the courage.”

At this, the lad screamed, put his hands against the plainsman’s chest, and shoved. The samyuzot found his footing again, saw the dagger coming at his gut.

He caught the young man’s hand in both of his own. The blade wobbled in the space between them.

The boy grunted at the grip.

The plainsman’s foot slammed into his knee. There was a pop, and the youth went down. The next kick struck him in the throat. Then came a heel—into his teeth.

✹ ✹ ✹

The bailiff of county Coulville led his men down the slope and around the bend.

Someone, it seemed, had done their job for them.

There was a corpse near the edge of the roadway. The face was bruised and bloodied, but the hair, the height, the clothes… this was one of the criminals. They had seen him flee. How the man ended up here, the constable did not know.

More curious, however, was the other one: a youth tied up against the trunk of a tree. The bonds were tight. The boy was delirious. His lips were blood-stained and dried and cracked. How long had he been without water?

Even once he was lucid, he could not speak. He had lost most of his teeth, and struggled to form words. But there was still no mistaking his identity. He was the other outlaw, the one who had first run.

Had these men laid another ambush? Had they joined another outlaw gang? There were no reports of one in this area… Had these murderers met their own kind on the road and made into victims themselves?

Justice, it seemed, had been accomplished. But by whom? Perhaps, thought the bailiff, he ought to scout through the trees and find the perpetrator.

“Strap that lad across your saddle, Jedin,” the constable commanded. “It’s time to go home.”

✹ ✹ ✹

Thank you for reading. Want more of The Samyuzot? 

← Read the previous story: Inheritance Paid

← Or read the first story: The First Death of Segitars Arpadi.

You can also find all the stories on this page, along with the rest of my writing. 

The Samyuzot will return later in the spring, and reach its conclusion sometime in May.

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