The Banished of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “I have her!”

  Ignoring the pain, Maia twisted to get a better look at her attacker, only stopping when she saw a dagger dangling from a sheath on the man’s belt. She let go of the wrist and grabbed the hilt, pulling it free.

  Another horse boxed her in on the other side, and two arms reached down to pull her up by the armpits. The motion threw her off balance, but at least her hair was free. She struggled against his grip, but he easily turned her over, stomach down, and gave the horse a sharp kick to get it moving. In a series of quick movements, Maia stabbed his thigh with the dagger, drew it out, and stabbed him a second time in the hip. Grunting with pain, he dropped the reins and grabbed her wrist to prevent a third strike. He swore at her, the words laced with anger and pain.

  Something yanked on her boot and pulled her off the horse. She landed sharply on the road, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Argus crouched over her, defensively snapping and barking with savage fury.

  “By the Blood, kill them all!” the captain roared.

  Maia struggled to kneel, trying to breathe through the fiery pain shooting through her lungs. There were so many soldiers. Hooves trampled dangerously near to her, one nearly crushing her hand. She choked for breath, feeling a surging panic.

  Dust clotted in her eyes, stinging them. She hunkered down, becoming as small as she could, but a horse still knocked her over. She was going to be trampled. Argus yipped with pain.

  Maia could feel the Myriad Ones swarming her, drawn to her terrified emotions, feasting on them. There were hundreds of them—no, perhaps a thousand or more. She could feel their effect on the crazed horses and the lust-filled soldiers, in every blade of grass that surrounded them. The immensity of the feeling swept over her, like the stars glittering in the sky above and the crescent-shaped moon. She felt them probing against her clothes, rooting into her skin—hungry to be part of her, to claim her, to squirm their way inside her. Her heart wrinkled with dread, and she felt a burning sensation in her skin.

  Maia lifted her head, drawing on the power of the kystrel.

  She blasted the Myriad Ones away from her, sending them scattering about like leaves before a hurricane. She conquered the ache in her stomach enough to struggle to her feet. Clamping an arm around her middle, she lifted her head and stared at the wounded captain, who gazed back at her with terror. Her eyes were glowing silver, she knew that well enough, so he clearly knew she was using a kystrel.

  She snuffed out his lust like a candle doused in a bucket. His courage, his fierceness, his bravado—she wrapped these up in the tangled veins of the kystrel and stripped him of everything that made him a man. His horse bucked with horror, and he slipped off the back, crashing to the road in a heap of gibbering fear.

  The soldiers saw her and knew her for what she was.

  “By the Blood!” someone screamed.

  “Kill her! Kill her!”

  One crossbowman still lived. He lifted the stock of his weapon and aimed for her heart. Maia sent out a blast of fear, throwing it in every direction like a shattered bottle of glass. The jagged bits flung into everyone. The crossbowman blinked, threw down his weapon, and spurred his horse to flee. Maia whipped the horses with her mind, making them believe they were being hunted by lions. Rather than respond to bit or bridle, they charged recklessly and quickly as far as they could.

  Maia stood there like a beacon of fire, her shoulders drawn in, her cloak whipping about her as the crackle and pop of thunder rippled overhead. The winds were drawn to her, and she no longer felt any sign of the Myriad Ones. They were all cowering and skulking away from her.

  Argus whined and cowered from her, so she let go of the kystrel’s power, feeling it drain from her slowly. Then came exhaustion, as it always did. There were a few twitching soldiers on the ground, and the kishion went to them one by one, snuffing out their lives.

  Jon Tayt collected his axes, his expression dark. He glanced at her without speaking as he finished his dark task, then walked over to where the captain lay sniveling with fear. Jon Tayt was not a tall man, but he towered over the fallen captain.

  “Never threaten a man’s hound,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. Maia turned away as the captain was killed.

  When they finally rested that night in the woods, Maia dreamed about her past again. She awoke, the dream still fresh in her mind, her emotions as vivid and real as if she had only just been informed of Chancellor Walraven’s death. All these years later, she could still remember every word of the note he had written to her.

  Had I served the Medium with but half the zeal as I served your father, then it would not have left me naked to mine enemies. Until we meet again, in Idumea.

  It was the custom of kings and queens to choose the wisest and most able counselors in the realm to advise them. The practice of consulting with a Privy Council was centuries old, dating back to before the mastons fled the kingdoms. The chancellor always led the Privy Council’s discussions, and while Walraven’s influence and power had not always been appreciated, it had always been felt. He had been the most powerful Dochte Mandar in the realm . . . moreover, he had been her staunchest advocate and friend.

  The memories brought a painful ache.

  She opened her eyes to ground herself in reality. She was tucked into the shade of a fallen tree whose exposed roots twisted like a tangle of vines. The kishion sat nestled in the cover of ferns with her, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. A small creek murmured next to them.

  It was midmorning, but Maia still felt exhausted. They had walked through the night to put distance between themselves and the scene of slaughtered soldiers. Several times during the night they had listened as hunting horns blasted in the trees. There was no doubt the king’s army was hunting them now. After finding a suitable shelter in the ferns beneath the fallen tree, Jon Tayt had gone back to cover their trail and make false ones. He still had not returned.

  Maia rubbed her eyes, careful not to rouse the kishion from his nap. Argus lay near her, she noticed, head resting on his paws. She reached out and stroked his fur, apologizing in her own way for frightening him the previous night.

  Birds chirped in the tree heights, and the drone of insects offered the illusion of tranquility. The woods were full of the king’s men, she realized. But the woods were vast. It would not be easy for the others to find them if they held very still.

  As she stroked Argus, she thought about Walraven again, remembering him with fondness as well as sadness. His actions—his sacrifice—had resulted in the Dochte Mandar being expelled from the realm. And he had known, prophetically, that things would go horribly wrong.

  The news of evil had begun with his death. Her father had summoned Walraven to Comoros to stand trial for treason. Everyone knew that he would be condemned and executed, for his own hand had betrayed him. But Walraven took ill on the journey and died of a fever and chills before reaching the city. His body was interred in an ossuary in a mausoleum. There were whispers that he had been poisoned, but the coroners found no evidence of that. Because he had died a traitor, his lands and wealth were forfeited to the Crown. The Dochte Mandar were all given a fortnight to vacate the realm or risk execution.

  When they left, the devastation began.

  Word came next of a pack of wild boars roaming the hinterlands, besetting villages and killing children. The hunters sent to destroy the pack had failed. Wolves began marauding through the woods as well. Without the Dochte Mandar, the many Leerings in the kingdom were useless, forcing people to carry water or harvest fuel for fire. There were mastons, of course, who could and did use them, but their number was small compared with the Dochte Mandar. The extra work angered the people—a feeling that began to fester.

  Soon riots broke out across the kingdom, but that was not the worst of it—tales started to pour in from around the realm, each more horrid than the last. A man with a scythe had gone on
a rampage in his village, killing innocent villagers. A mother had drowned her three children in a well. A young man had set fire to a barn full of his village’s grain right before winter. It seemed that every fortnight, another tale of woe would arrive, and the court would gossip and statutes would be passed forbidding this or that. But while a deadly spring that poisoned all who drank from it could be cleansed, this madness kept no pattern. No, it was mercurial and erratic, which meant no one knew when or where the next tragedy would strike. The only commonality was that such things had never occurred under the gaze of the Dochte Mandar. Expelling them from the realm had fundamentally altered Comoros. The people began to fear it was another Blight.

  Maia brushed her hair back from her ear, listening to the clicking noise of a series of insects speaking to each other across the vastness of the woods.

  Suddenly Argus’s head lifted and his ears shot up. His pale fur twitched. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

  Maia reached over and touched the kishion’s knee.

  His eyes opened immediately.

  “I am sorry—”

  She pressed her fingers against her own mouth, signaling for him to be silent.

  He rubbed his eyes and shifted forward onto one knee, cocking his head. Then, motioning for her to stay put, he stepped into the soft mud of the creek. The water did not even go up to his knees, but it muffled his footsteps as he ducked under the fallen tree and disappeared from sight. Maia felt a rumble in Argus’s throat and she patted him to quiet him. His ears quivered and his tail had stopped wagging.

  The kishion returned shortly thereafter and motioned for her to join him in the water. She grabbed her pack and followed, plunging into the cold water, mud churning beneath her boots. She ducked under the bridge of the fallen tree, trying to keep her cloak from being soaked along with her skirts, and came through into sunlight and solid land on the other side. A bird fluttered past, trilling a song.

  The kishion awaited her just past the tree.

  “I hear voices coming this way,” he whispered in her ear. “Keep low and follow.”

  Maia obeyed, hunching down and following him as he trailed along the creek, staying inside the lapping waters. The ferns offered some cover, but she knew it was not much. Her heart thrummed with anxiety. Argus, who trailed behind her, wagged his tail and stared into the woods.

  A few moments later, she could make out Jon Tayt’s voice.

  “I tell you, I have not seen a soul these last three days except for you lads. If I had, I would tell you. I am just a humble woodsman who fells trees for a living. Do you think the king would hire me? I can split wood faster than any man—”

  “Be silent!” barked another voice. “Can you not stop talking?”

  “If that pleases you, my lord. I was just saying that an army needs wood for fires, does it not? I can cut a cord of wood faster than you can put on your boots.”

  Maia smiled in spite of herself. She recognized that Jon Tayt had been captured and was trying to warn her by talking loudly.

  “Be still, man!” said another, cuffing him.

  Argus growled.

  Maia tried to grab at the dog’s ruff, but Argus broke through the brush of ferns and ran to his master.

  “A boarhound!” someone shouted.

  The kishion uttered a low curse.

  Twigs snapped behind them. The kishion whirled, dagger in his hand, but something whistled and struck his head, knocking him down. He did not move. Maia dropped down beside him and turned him over. She feared an arrow had pierced him, but there was no mark on his body. He was quite unconscious.

  Maia heard the whistling noise again and something hard struck her temple.

  Her eyes filled with blackness and she slumped into the bed of ferns, joining him in oblivion.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Mark of Dahomey

  It was the throbbing of Maia’s temple that woke her. As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt herself bounced and jostled so much she quickly lost the sense of up and down. Her wrists were bound together, her arms were bound to her sides—her ankles were secured as well. She struggled for a moment against the bonds and tried to calm the swelling panic that speared her heart.

  Her movement had a sway and bounce to it, and after a few moments of startled awareness, she realized that she was being carried. Not on horseback, but on a litter of some kind, two long branches or poles with a blanket or cloak slung between them to cushion her. One man marched in front of her, another behind her. The sky was draining of color as she blinked, the woods filling with purple shadows. She could sense the Myriad Ones everywhere, thronging to the procession as it moved through the trees.

  She tried to quiet her heart and focus her thoughts. It was not too late—she could still summon her magic. She could—

  It was then Maia realized that the kystrel was gone.

  She was defenseless against the Myriad Ones, and she now understood why they were flocking so thickly to her. They were drawn to her helplessness. She could sense their greedy thoughts as they whirled beside her in the twilight, waiting for full dark to attack her, to feed on her fears, to worm their way inside her skin, to steal her will and supplant it with their own. She began to wrestle against the bonds, her terror mounting with every hammer-stroke in her chest.

  “She is rousing,” one of the soldiers muttered.

  “Do not speak, lass,” another warned. “Or we have orders to gag you.”

  She twisted against the litter, trying to count the men. She could see a dozen or more, all wearing the tunics of Dahomey. Trailing after her litter, she could see the kishion and Jon Tayt stumbling forward, hands bound in front of them with chains, pulled along by a rope secured to their bindings. Blood smeared across half of the kishion’s face. His hooded eyes stared at her, searching her face. He said nothing. His expression was hard as stone, implacable. She knew he was plotting how to escape.

  Jon Tayt was dejected, his chin lowered in shame as he walked. She could not see any weapons on him. She was surprised, and startled, to see that his boarhound had been spared. Argus padded beside him, jaws muzzled with leather straps, tail bent low between his legs. Her heart sang with relief at the sight of him, but while her friends were alive now, their futures were unsure.

  The Myriad Ones hummed around her gleefully, reveling in her capture, her defenselessness.

  “You found her?” came a voice from ahead. She strained to see, but her position forbade it. The jostling walk came to a halt.

  “Aye, Captain. The hunt has ended. We ran her to ground.”

  “We found her before Corriveaux did. Is she alive?”

  “Aye, Captain. As His Majesty ordered. A little bruised, but unharmed. What do we do with the two traitors?” He snorted and spat.

  “They will stretch by a rope come dawn. They butchered the watch, remember? Take them away. No food. Keep them under heavy guard. If they try to flee, kill them. Do you have her medallion?”

  “It is right here, Captain.”

  Maia heard the whisper of metal from the kystrel’s chain as it was placed in the captain’s hand. The Myriad Ones were gleeful, and she felt them pressing closer, snuffling against the taut fabric of the litter. It made her stomach sour.

  “Set her down.”

  The men carrying her litter lowered her into the brush. One of them slit the ropes at her ankles with a dagger. Two others hoisted her up onto wobbling legs. Someone steadied her. The captain carried a torch, revealing a face with a blond goatee and crooked teeth. He raised the torch and stared at her, eyeing her with animosity. The chain from her kystrel gleamed brightly in his hand.

  “The king wishes to see her?” one of the soldiers asked curiously.

  “Aye,” the captain said with a trace of smugness. “He’s with Feint Collier right now. Collier has seen her before, and the king wants him to identify
her. She is as described.” He looked her up and down, his eyes narrowing. “Wine-colored dress. Dark hair. A beauty. The eyes are not glowing, though.” He smiled shrewdly. “I think we have the girl. If you will, lass, follow me to the king’s pavilion.”

  A band of ten soldiers walked with her, flanking her from behind. Maia’s eyes were pinned to the chain dangling from the captain’s hand. Her muscles were bunched and sore, and her head still throbbed. She looked back and watched as Jon Tayt and the kishion were led a different way with Argus. It pained her to see them marched to their deaths. She grieved for them, but she was determined to plead with the king for their lives. Not that he would listen to her.

  Myriad Ones were everywhere in the king’s camp. They hung over it like the smoke from the dozens of cooking fires. The men were bedding down for the night—some of the fires had spits roasting meat across them, and she could both hear the clank of cups and smell the wine within them. Everything and everyone was filthy, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. Some of the soldiers leered at her as she passed them, others butted each other and pointed at her. She drew the eyes of everyone in the camp. Her stomach quailed with fear, but she put on a brave face. Somehow, she had to get the kystrel back. With it, she knew she could scatter the army and send them running. Without it, she was powerless.

  In the center of the camp was a cluster of huge pavilions. Some were still being assembled, but the main one—the king’s—was already erect with a pennant fluttering from a pole at the center. Guards were stationed at the entrance, and she could see the lanterns illuminating the interior. The air was muggy and hot and she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her cheek. She mustered her courage, preparing to face the man she had been promised to marry as an infant.

  The captain showed the kystrel to the guards stationed outside the tent. She looked away, unable to bear the sight of it in his hand, and saw several horses tethered nearby—one of them Feint Collier’s cream-colored stallion. She dreaded seeing him again under these circumstances, but maybe he could help her escape? The thought of being near him again so soon after their dance made her stomach flutter. Jon Tayt had said Collier could not be trusted, but she secretly hoped the hunter was mistaken. She would have to be careful of what she said in front of the king. She did not want to incriminate Collier if she could avoid it.