“And what if they don't all take off running?” Dormael asked.
“Better not to borrow trouble from the gods,” Shawna said. “They've been trouble enough as it is.”
“Let's get it done,” D'Jenn nodded. “I'll do the illusion of Shawna, I'm better at that sort of thing than you.”
“Fair enough,” Dormael said. It was true, after all. D'Jenn was more complicated with his magic than Dormael. Dormael got by mostly on the strength of his power, and was an artist with destructive types of magic. D'Jenn, however, was more calculating and subtle with his workings.
“We'll hide here in the alleyway while I do this. You keep us hidden,” D'Jenn said.
“Got it,” Dormael nodded.
“Let's be ready to make a quick exit. If this works, we'll need to get out fast,” D'Jenn said.
Once everyone got into position, D'Jenn went to work. Dormael felt the tingling sensation along his arms and legs that heralded another wizard using magic, and heard his cousin's song whisper out into the night. Dormael, for his part, deepened the shadows in the alleyway to hide them from passersby.
In a few moments, a horse rode past them to the edge of the torchlight. Astride it sat Shawna—or a version of her, anyway. She rode tall in the saddle, displaying her twin blades on her hips, her red-golden hair streaming out behind her. D'Jenn made the illusory woman pause at the edge of the torchlight, and wheel the horse around, appearing confused about what to do. Dormael watched from the edge of the building, waiting for the men to take up the bait.
The Red Swords started shouting immediately. One of the men went for a pair of horses that were tied near the gate and brought them over, offering the second mount to one of his fellows. He shouted a few terse orders, and the rest of the guards—with a moment of protest by one of Ferolan's City Guardsmen—took off down an adjacent street to cut her off. The two mounted Red Swords got into the saddle, and kicked their horses into motion.
D'Jenn made the illusion wheel her horse around and take off in the opposite direction. Dormael marveled at the detail D'Jenn worked into the spell, and for the artistic license he took with Shawna herself. The illusory Shawna rode past the alleyway, one sword drawn, hair streaming out behind her like some warrior maiden in a song. Dormael could hear the horse's hooves hitting the cobblestones, could see the play of torchlight along her sword, and even the fierce expression on her face. She leaned forward in her saddle, hair blazing like fire in the ruddy light, and out-paced the two Galanians with ease.
Dormael poured a little more power into his own spell as the two Red Swords galloped past the alleyway, hoping that they wouldn't look to the side. Their hoof-beats faded into the night, and finally D'Jenn opened his eyes and looked up.
“We ride!” he hissed.
Dormael didn't protest.
Bethany clutched to him as he kicked Horse into motion, and the companions headed for the gatehouse at a run. Dormael whipped out with his power and sucked the flames from the torches burning by the entrance, plunging the square in front of the gate into deep shadows. They passed beneath the city gates without a fuss, and soon their backdrop became the rolling hills surrounding the northern edge of Ferolan.
Dormael felt like howling at the moon as the cold wind bit into his face. He wondered how long it would take the Galanian colonel to figure out what had happened, if he figured it out at all. He wondered if they would waste days—or weeks—searching the city for the noblewoman, only to find out that she had escaped their clutches some time before. It was a warming sort of thought, and Dormael held onto it.
The moonlit hills around the northern edge of Ferolan were spread out before him, and though it was damnably cold, he was happy to be out of the city. The wind whipped at them from the sea, coming in hard from the gathering storms out over the water. It felt good, though. Out here, one could at least see their enemies coming from a long way off.
Dormael just hoped it would be a while before they came.
Dancing with the Fire
“What do you mean 'gone', soldier?” Grant asked, trying his best not to toss everything on his writing desk into the floor.
“She was just gone, sir. Disappeared. We chased her, but she outran us, and when she went around the corner...just gone, sir. I can't explain it,” Ferun, one of his privates, said. The man was clearly frightened of what Grant would do, and for good reason. Grant was trying hard not to dismiss the man and his entire detail for gross incompetence.
“That's twice the bitch has escaped my grasp,” Grant said, sitting down in the chair at his desk and gazing out the window. He felt like throttling the private. He felt like screaming.
The emperor will have you dismissed for this, and you'll probably be strangled afterward because you know too much.
“Sir, if I may offer an opinion?” Havram said from behind him.
“Speak, Lieutenant,” Grant sighed. He still wasn't sure if he could trust his aide, but the little girl was gone now—stolen from him in the night, or escaped. Grant didn't know if Havram had anything to do with it, but he suspected. Still, it meant that the point of contention between them was removed, and Havram had always been professional otherwise.
“There's something interesting going on here. We've gotten the reports from the docks. That ship they had requested sinking out of nowhere, the sails catching fire. One of the survivors from the attack on the quay said that some of his men were pulled into the water, as if something invisible had come out of the harbor and jerked them into it.”
Grant turned his eyes to his aide. “Go on.”
“Now, this woman appears at the North Gate, leads our men on a chase, and just disappears around a corner. It's more than a little odd, sir.”
Grant thought he saw where Havram was going with this train of thought.
“The flames, the ship, the disappearance,” Grant mused. “This mysterious Sevenlander we heard about—the one that pompous little shit Keeting reported to us—you think he's a sorcerer?”
“It sounds like a definite thing at this point, sir. Ships don't just break open at anchor and sink to the bottom of the harbor. They certainly don't just catch fire on their own,” Havram pointed out.
“And you think this appearance of the woman was done with magic?”
“I think so, sir.”
Grant looked back out the window. “The westerners are known for their tolerance of sorcery. They celebrate it, even—or so I've read. Yes...I believe you're right, Lieutenant. Quite perceptive. Ferun!”
Ferun straightened up into a position of attention. “Sir!”
“Find one of Lindesholm's servants, and bring me a map. Quickly, now!”
“Yes, sir!” Ferun's footsteps faded into the hallway as the man went to his task.
“So, Lieutenant,” Grant said as Ferun left the room. “You think the girl is still here in the city?”
“I don't, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, we know that they were trying to find passage over the Stormy Sea. If this woman appearing at the gate was a trick of sorcery, then the only reason I can think of to do something like that is to get our men to abandon their posts.”
“And slip out when they did,” Grant nodded. He'd been so stupid. He cursed himself silently, but didn't let it show on his face. The officer never shows weakness before his subordinates.
“Sir, if I may suggest—there is one place we can go to find out their destination,” Havram said.
“This Alton Dersham, you mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant thought for a moment about that. They had pieced this bit of information together a day or so before, but at the time they knew when the woman would be trying to escape, and where she would go. Grant had thought that snapping her up would be easy, but he had obviously been wrong—twice.
However, he was already operating outside the bounds of his original orders. This was supposed to have been a secret mission, something the emperor could explain away, or de
ny completely. Now he had to spin the tale that the girl was a criminal being pursued by the Empire, and that tale might only go so far to allowing Grant a free hand. Dragging a Cambrellian nobleman from his home and putting him to the question was probably too far, though Grant wasn't sure about the Cambrellian laws. The woman was a hard sell as it was, but apprehending her cousin...Grant wasn't sure about that course of action.
“I'll think on that, Lieutenant. For now, let's see what we can figure out on our own. We're flapping in the wind, and I hate being at the mercy of events. I rather prefer to control them,” Grant sighed.
“Of course, sir. Just a thought,” Havram nodded.
“A good one, Lieutenant. Let's get the lay of the land first, and then I'll decide what to do,” Grant said.
Ferun returned shortly with a map of Cambrell, and spread it out on Grant's desk. He dismissed the man with a curt nod, and Ferun retreated into the hallway. Grant couldn't very well punish the man for failing to defeat sorcery. None of his men were trained to deal with that.
Grant gestured Havram over to the table, and the two of them ran their eyes over the map. Cambrell wasn't the largest kingdom in Alderak, but it was one of the richest. Perusing the coastline, Grant saw that there were only two real ports in the entire kingdom—Ferolan, and an innocuous mark near the border with Dannon, a place called Borders.
“What do you know of Cambrell, Havram?”
“Not much, sir. Just general knowledge, so to speak.”
Grant ran his finger over the coastline that ran north from Ferolan. “This entire section of land is supposed to be unusable for ships. Sheer cliffs, no natural harbors, that sort of thing. All the way up to this city here.” He moved his finger to the town of Borders.
“What do we know of it, sir?”
“Nothing, but we can ask the noble Duke Lindesholm. The question is thus—what are the girl's intentions?” Grant asked.
“Well, we know she was trying to get across the sea. She's in the company of a Sevenlander, so he might be taking her back to the west in tow,” Havram said.
“And if he's a sorcerer, that probably means the bloody Conclave of fucking Wizards,” Grant cursed. “We cannot allow that to happen. If she leaves Alderak, we will never get our hands on her. How did the damned girl fall in with a sorcerer, of all people?”
“Her family may have been sympathizers. There are rumors about the Conclave, sir.”
“Rumors, Havram?”
Havram's face twisted with reluctance. “Just things people have been saying for years, sir. Nothing you probably haven't already heard yourself.”
“Speak up, Lieutenant. You're not standing here looking over this map with me because of your chiseled jaw and pleasant demeanor,” Grant sighed.
Havram uttered the barest hint of a smile. “Yes, sir. They say that the Conclave has agents everywhere. A network of spies, sir. People say they're supported by sympathizers, locals who don't see the danger that sorcerers represent.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” Grant sighed. “I think I may have heard that somewhere before. Still, it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. A reasonable assumption, then, is that the girl is still trying to get across the sea. Do you agree?”
Havram nodded. “It sounds reasonable, sir.”
“Then it stands to reason that she wouldn't be going to Arla, or to Lesmira. If she's headed north, then there's only one place she can find a ship to take her across the water,” Grant said.
“Borders,” Havram agreed.
“Very well. I'll begin drafting letters, then. First, I'll have a message to send back to our ship. Second, I'll need you to talk to the duke's chamberlain, ask the man if he has any pigeons that know the way to this charming little hamlet on the northern end of Cambrell. After that, we'll send another letter to the Cambrellian king, and spin our little tale to him—just on the off chance she heads for the capital.”
“Yes, sir,” Havram nodded.
“Have the men prepare for sea deployment. We'll be taking to sea as soon as our galleon enters the harbor,” Grant said.
“We will, sir?”
“Yes. This coastline along the north side of Cambrell is all craggy highlands. It will be cold, and the winter snows will soon be upon them. The girl has a long ride ahead of her, but we don't have to slog through the snow in pursuit. All we have to do is catch her ship when they leave the port at Borders, and take them out on the sea. There aren't any extra eyes to see us out there, and we can turn around and head for Shundov as soon as we have her,” Grant said.
“Yes, sir,” Havram said, banging out a salute and turning to leave.
“And Havram?” Grant said, stopping the man in his tracks.
“Sir?”
“Good work today. Keep this up, and you'll do well here.”
Havram's expression remained unreadable. “Thank you, sir.”
“Fall to purpose, Lieutenant. And have the servants send something up from the kitchens. I'm starving.”
Havram disappeared through the doorway and shut it behind him. Grant once again turned his eyes to the window. The day was bright, but judging by the frost lining the edges of the window, it was going to be cold. Grant hoped the girl was feeling the full brunt of it. She had been a thorn in his side since this entire thing had started.
No more, though. Soon she would be at his mercy. All he had to do was prepare, and wait.
***
Dormael awoke to the dull ache in his right shoulder.
His hand was itching under its protective wrappings, which meant it was healing. It didn’t help the fact that it was irritating him to no end, though. Levering himself out of his bedroll with his good arm, he climbed from his blankets and looked toward the fire.
D'Jenn stoked the campfire, watching a steaming pot he had hung from a spit. Dormael could smell the pleasant odor of Sweetpenny tea wafting from it, and his mouth watered as he trudged over to sit down. Sweetpenny was a plant native to the Sevenlands, and the tea made from its dried leaves had different properties. It cleared the mind, and gave a jolt of energy to help one wake up. Dormael and D'Jenn shared it on most mornings when they were on the road together, though Dormael rarely made the concoction when he was alone.
“Morning,” D'Jenn grunted. Dormael only nodded in reply.
Bethany and Shawna were still tucked into their blankets. The ride had been hard on Shawna. By the time they had stopped—well into the early hours of the morning—her face had been drawn with pain, and covered in sweat. Dormael had quietly awakened his Kai and fed her body some of his magical energy, though he wasn't sure if it had done much good. She had folded herself into her bedroll and slept, silent as a stone.
Bethany's head had been rolling by the time they had left the road to make a quick campsite. Dormael had carried her, bundled into the winter cloak Alton had given her, to a space between himself and D'Jenn. She didn't make a sound except to mumble something nonsensical before Dormael had laid her down, though she had kicked him relentlessly in her sleep. Judging from the bags under D'Jenn's eyes, and the dark glances he kept shooting at the youngling, Dormael wasn't the only one to have been on the wrong side of Bethany's dreams.
Given where they had found the girl, Dormael could allow Bethany her nightmares. He just hoped that they would die down with time—mostly for her own well-being, but for the sake of his own rest, as well. Her bruises were fading, but he hoped the hidden scars would heal, too.
“We should start moving as soon as we can,” D’Jenn spoke into the silence of the cold morning. “I’m not so sure that Colonel Grant hasn’t figured out where we’ve gone, and chances are he’s sending out search parties as we speak.”
“Agreed,” Dormael sighed, “but let's give it a few minutes, anyway. I haven't ridden in a while, and my arse is chafed something fierce.”
“Have some of this,” D'Jenn smiled as he dipped out a cup of the steaming Sweetpenny tea, “and toughen your arse up. We've got a long way to go.”
&
nbsp; Dormael accepted the tea, shooting D'Jenn a flat look as he did so.
“They'd have been here already if they were going to give chase,” Dormael said after taking a short pull from the cup. “The Galanians don't seem the type to just let things go.”
“It is odd,” D'Jenn nodded. “I expected our ploy to work well enough to get out of the city, but I expected them to come after us, too. I put down some wards around the camp to warn us of anyone approaching, but they never woke me. It doesn't sit well with me.”
“Maybe Shawna's plan worked better than we thought,” Dormael shrugged. He didn't believe it, though.
“It worked exactly as planned,” D'Jenn grunted, “but it wasn't meant to be a full deception. Something isn't right. I did a little mind-flight this morning when I awoke, but didn't see any signs of pursuit. I don't like it.”
“You'd rather they were following us?” Dormael asked.
“I'd rather they were predictable, cousin,” D'Jenn said. “Unpredictable enemies aren't good things to have at your back—or not at your back, as it were.”
“If they do come, we'll take them,” Dormael said as he took another drink. “If they're dumb enough to attack trained wizards, they're dumb enough to get killed.”
“Hubris,” D'Jenn said, elbowing Dormael in the ribs. “All that brute strength you have makes you careless. An arrow through the heart will kill you just as soundly as another man, you know.”
“True enough, coz,” Dormael smirked. “The arrows have to find my heart first, though.”
“There are children all over the world that can take a rabbit at a good distance,” D'Jenn smiled. “Remember how good your brother was with a sling when we were children? A boy of eight springs could kill you.”
“Now you're just being deliberately obtuse,” Dormael said.
“Oh, forgive me, great wizard,” D'Jenn replied in a sarcastic tone. “I'd hate to draw your ire. My cousin, wrath of the gods.”
“Stop doing that,” Dormael grunted.
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