feet, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope to enable him to stand. A quick inspection of the stake revealed he could probably pull it out, but if he did, he would bring down the tent, clearly informing his hosts of his attempted departure.
He was dressed as he had been when taken. He did a quick physical inventory and judged that nothing was broken or sprained too badly.
He sat quietly and considered things. His instincts about these people seemed correct so far. From what little he could see beyond the tent, this was a small camp, perhaps just the six riders and their families, maybe a few more. But he could see a picket line for horses, and by rough estimation there were at least two or three mounts for every person here.
On the other side of the tent he heard voices, speaking softly. He strained to listen to the alien language. He sat back. A word here or there was tantalizing to him.
Kaspar had a quick grasp of languages. As heir to his father’s throne, it had been judged necessary for him to learn the educated speech of the surrounding nations, so he spoke fluent, unaccented King’s Tongue – the language of the Kingdom of the Isles – as well as those languages related to his native Olaskon, all descended from Roldemish. He also spoke flawless court Keshian and had taken the time to learn a little Quegan, a variant on Keshian that had evolved on its own after the Quegan Kingdom had successfully revolted from the Empire of Great Kesh nearly two centuries earlier.
In his travels he had picked up patois and cants from half a dozen regions of those foreign nations, and something about what he was now hearing sounded very familiar. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander as he eavesdropped on the conversation.
Then he heard a word: ak-káwa. Acqua! The accent was thick, the emphasis different, but it was Quegan for ‘water’! They were talking about stopping somewhere for water. He listened and let the words flow over him without trying to understand, just allowing his ear to become used to the rhythms and tones, the patterns and sounds.
For an hour he sat there, listening. At first he could recognize one word in a hundred. Then perhaps one word in fifty. He was recognizing one word in a dozen when he heard footsteps approaching. He slumped down and feigned unconsciousness.
Kaspar heard two sets of footfalls draw near. In a low voice one man spoke. Kaspar heard the words ‘good’ and ‘strong’ from one man. There followed a quick conversation. From what Kaspar could judge, one man was arguing to kill him where he lay because he might be more trouble than he was worth, but the other argued he had value because he was strong and good at something, probably with a sword, since it was the only skill Kaspar had demonstrated before being overwhelmed.
It took total control on Kaspar’s part not to move when an ungentle boot prodded him to see if he was truly unconscious. Then the two men departed.
Kaspar waited and when he was certain they were gone, he chanced a peek and caught a glimpse of the men’s backs as they walked around the tent.
He sat up.
He fought to keep his mind focused on what he was hearing, and started to wrestle with his bindings. The danger would be to become so intent upon escaping he wouldn’t hear anyone approach. He knew his best chance for escape was this first night, while they thought him still unconscious. He had very few advantages. They probably knew the surrounding countryside and were experienced trackers.
His only edge was surprise. Kaspar was a skilled enough hunter to know what cunning prey could do. He needed at least an hour’s start on his captors, but first he had to free himself of the leather bindings around his wrist.
He gave in to the unreasonable desire to test the bindings, and found them tight enough to cause pain when he tried to pull his hands apart. He couldn’t see, but they felt like rawhide. If he could get them wet they would stretch and he might be able to slip them off.
After a futile period of struggle, he turned his attention to the rope he could see. He knew he would have little chance of getting the rope off the peg without bringing down the entire tent, but he could think of no other option. He had to turn first one way, then the other, to come to the conclusion that this was impossible with his hands tied behind him.
Kaspar sat and waited. As the hours dragged by, the camp quietened. He heard footsteps and once more feigned unconsciousness as someone came to check on him before turning in for the night. He let minutes drag by until he was certain that those inside the tent were asleep. Then he sat up. He glanced at the sky and was greeted with a display of alien stars. Like most men of his ocean-going nation, he could navigate by the stars, either on land or sea, but above him lay constellations unknown. He would have to rely upon basic navigation skills until he became used to the display above. He knew where the sun had set, marked in his mind by a spiral of rock in the distance he had glimpsed just before sunset. Which meant he knew where north was.
North and east was his most likely route home. Kaspar had read sufficiently to know where the continent of Novindus lay, relative to Olasko. Depending on where on this continent he found himself, his best chance to get to Olasko was to work his way to a place called the City of the Serpent River. There was almost no trade between this land and those on the other side of the world, but whatever trade there was started in that city. From there he could find his way to the Sunset Isles, and from there to Krondor. Once in the Kingdom of the Isles, he could walk home if he had to.
He knew he was almost certain to fail in the attempt, but whatever was to happen to him, let it happen as he struggled to return home.
Home, he thought bitterly. A day earlier he had been home, ruling his nation, before being taken captive in his own citadel, defeated by a former servant he had thought as good as dead. He had spent the night in chains considering the dramatic reversal of fortune that had overwhelmed him, and had fully expected to be hanged by now.
Instead, Talwin Hawkins, his former servant, had forgiven him, and he had been banished to this distant land. Kaspar was uncertain as to what exactly had transpired over the previous few days. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he had truly been himself for the last few years.
He had heard guards talking outside his quarters while he had been awaiting what he anticipated would be his execution. Leso Varen, his magician advisor, had been killed in the battle for the citadel. The magician had first come to him years earlier, promising great power in exchange for Kaspar’s protection. His presence had been only a minor distraction at first and he had from time to time provided useful service.
Kaspar took a deep breath and returned his attention to gaining his freedom. There would be time for more reflection on his past, assuming he lived long enough to have a future.
Kaspar was a broad-shouldered man of unusual strength, but his looks were deceptive. Unlike many men of his build, he kept himself limber. Expelling all the air from his lungs and hunching his shoulders forward, he pulled his knees hard up against his shoulders, sticking his head between his thighs, forcing his feet between his bound wrists. He could feel ligaments protest as he stretched his arms as far as possible, but he managed to get his hands in front of him.
And almost pulled the tent down in the process. He found himself able to lie down, easing the tension on the rope and peg. He studied it. The bindings were indeed of rawhide, and he set to them with his teeth. Using saliva, he got the simple knot wet, gnawing at it until it loosened. For long minutes he worried at the loops of the knot, then suddenly it came loose and his hands were free.
He flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrists as he slowly stood up. Forcing his breathing to a slow, deep rate, he crept around to the front of the tent. He peered around the edge of the tent and saw a single guard sitting with his back to the fire at
