Annette laughed softly. “You were a fool. Do not ever think I will do the same for you, Rafen.”
The word “please” was on Rafen’s tongue. He bit it back, slowly pulling his sword free. He was too late.
Annette’s black beam split the air and shot straight toward the bridge of his nose. Rafen threw himself right, and the beam singed the sleeve of his left arm, striking the iron fence. Again, a black smudge appeared, as if a huge blowfly had flown straight into a wall and expired in a messy blot. It spread, and steam rose. For the first time, Rafen smelled the fumes from the kesmal: sickly, acrid, and overpowering. His eyes watered and his head spun. His knees gave way beneath him, and he sank to the ground.
Great gray globs slid down the sinking fence and onto the ground, crawling toward his knees. The steam around him acquired shapes, mass, color…
The shambling Naztwai ran through the trees of the Cursed Woods, their naked, black-haired, blue-skinned figures crossing the ground at abnormal speeds. Their talons and darkened teeth were bared, and their pale green eyes watery. The thought of spilled blood was in the air, in the stirring wind and the rustling leaves that were like shiny fish in the half-light of the sea of the Sianian night. The Naztwai were all but on him now, and with each shuffling burst of movement, their muscles hardened and tightened into rocks. Rafen felt their hot, foul breath on his neck. Though he wanted to run, he was somehow rooted to the spot. The foremost beast’s scarred mouth was open and drooling; and the eyes, once like the water of a pool, suddenly swirled with blood-frenzy.
Rafen broke the spell and threw himself backward.
There was a sickening lurch when his feet hit something slippery, and Rafen felt heat waves through his boots. The kesmal had no time to burn him, because he was falling.
Warm air screamed past Rafen. Blue sky and clouds flashed above; the main road’s approaching flagstones flashed below… the sky again – the road again… Rafen flung out his left hand, frantically trying to remember his kesmalic practice sessions. A warm force ballooned around him.
A muffled crackling. Rafen lay with his eyes closed, his face scratched and intolerably itchy. Something had cushioned his fall. His head was reeling.
“Get out, you fool!” someone screeched. “It’s on fire; get out!”
An arm pulled him, and Rafen rolled sideways out of the wagon full of hay and landed shakily on his feet. The farmer supported him with an iron grip.
The wagon was on fire, and the flames spread unnaturally fast, consuming the hay and licking the wooden frame. The farmer had released his horse from its harness first, and it chewed half-grown weeds between the flags further down the road.
An innkeeper with a bucket ran out of his inn opposite them. A barmaid and two gangly farmhands followed him with more water, which they threw it on the wagon to no avail.
“I was only riding along, that was all,” the farmer said numbly. “Only riding along. Then a boy drops out of the sky and the wagon is on fire.”
Rafen pried the farmer’s hand off his shoulder and lunged toward the wagon again.
“Boy, don’t!” the innkeeper shouted, but Rafen raised his left hand and made to catch the flames.
At his movement, they only leapt up more excitedly. He was no better now at stopping his fires than he had been in the Hideout.
“You are burning my wagon on purpose!” the farmer roared. “Get away!”
He shoved Rafen back. Rafen’s face reddened with shame.
Hoofbeats sounded further up the road. Annette was after him. Rafen dropped to the ground and shot down the main road on swift paws. A clamor of human voices rose behind.
Nothing save the rhythm of his paws and the rushing wind through his fur was important to him. He was the spirit of survival, the water dashed across the rocks of a waterfall.
His paws brought him to the marketplace where, once again, everyone parted for him. He flew toward the narrow gateway as twelve Tarhians turned and leveled rifles at him. A flurry of sparks and smoke burst near his ear. The Tarhians screamed incoherently, but Rafen was already through their legs. He ran among the abandoned camps of today’s merchants.
Shouting filled the air behind him. The Tarhians were leaving their posts to pursue him.
Rafen transformed at the foot of the slope and froze on all fours momentarily, animal adrenaline still vibrating in his body.
“Stay where you are, fools!” Annette cried to the guards at the gate. “I will find him with the escort. Men.”
She looked round imperiously at the six Tarhians on horseback behind her. Then she faced the deserted campgrounds. Rafen’s heart sank, pulsating faintly in his stomach. He couldn’t return to Sirius. Annette would find him. Even as he thought of it, he realized he couldn’t see any trace of Sirius’ camp from where he was. The blue grama grass at the top of slope was vacant… a sign that either Sirius and his men had left, or that Sirius had used kesmal to keep his camp from being discovered again.
Now that Rafen had failed in his mission of writing to the others, he decided the only thing to do was to find them before Sirius did. As a wolf, Rafen could commune with other members of his pack, and every wolf in Siana counted as one of that number, he realized with a jolt. They would all listen to him and tell him of the scents he required. He smiled.
Bolting once more, he felt his face elongate and the hair rush over his smooth skin. As his black and gray form vanished over the slope, keeping well away from the camps, he heard Annette’s yell of triumph.
The hoofbeats began again.
*
Rafen lay on his front near the creek, his chest heaving. He had run as a wolf most of the day, trying to lose Annette and the Tarhians. He knew he didn’t have the heart to kill Annette. Instead, he had done his best to confuse her, leading her deep into the forest around him. The Lashki likely knew Rafen’s rough whereabouts now. Perhaps he wouldn’t be looking for the royal family anymore.
After traversing a large area of grasslands, Rafen had come to this long fringe of trees stretching away to the north. The spearheaded pines pointed to the sky, and there was a comfort in their starkness, their strength in the otherwise blank countryside. Rafen had plunged into them and purposely lost himself. The belt of trees was wider than he thought, and in places the undergrowth of holly was so dense the horses could not find their way through it quickly.
Annette had dismounted and chased him on foot, leaving the Tarhians far behind. Though Rafen had thought his fleet paws would mock her, Annette’s kesmalic ability extended to her running as well, making her unnaturally fast. She would never be as swift as the Lashki Mirah, whose running was like that of a terrifying, slimy leopard; but she was fast enough to keep him in sight for most of the day. Rafen felt the vigor of his own kesmal leave his veins, and he tired. Thankfully, around sunset, he had lost her in a tangle of thick, bald cypress branches. The cypresses told Rafen he was near water, and sure enough, he discovered the muddy creek.
Its music was comforting, an audible twinkling. His heart was like a rabbit bounding in his chest; he tried breathing deeply as he shifted to his knees, watching a wood stork dip its bill into the water.
Once his strength returned somewhat, he would summon some other wolves and glean information from them. Perhaps Etana, Sherwin, and Francisco had been seen and smelled not far off. If not, he would return to Smitton, questioning other members of his pack all along the way.
His mind wandered back to another danger. Had Annette’s kesmal caused the vision of Naztwai he had seen? Its vividness was impossible to shake off. It reminded him of the strange dream he had had after his lashings, again, an episode when he had been physically disorientated and in shock. He had seen himself killing Talmon as a man of eighteen.
He was not quite fifteen, so he had three years to wait. He didn’t question this, just as he didn’t question seeing the Phoenix.
Rafen dug his hands into the soft, clayey ground near the creek. He squeezed it between his fingers. Which was
stronger: his desire to believe that one day he would kill Talmon, or his desire to believe there could not be a battalion of Naztwai pounding through the Cursed Woods, preparing for massacre?
The leaves of the low hanging cypress branches behind him stirred, and Rafen stiffened. Above, sparrows and wood thrushes chattered about the day’s end. Slight breezes accompanied the fall of night. Through the trees, the blue sky was gradually turning gray, purple, and pale white in patches.
Rafen rose slowly, wondering where Annette was now. His hand instinctively dropped to the sword at his right hip. It was time to go. If he waited too long, he risked the others’ lives.
A burst of green shattered the air; Rafen threw himself backward onto the ground, landing with his hands half propping him up.
Chapter Twelve
Sirius’
Punishment
The smoke in the air was thick, toxic. He coughed, rolling onto his front and scampering away, unable to see. A whipcrack sounded behind, and a beam shot toward his back. Rafen threw himself sideways and hit a tree trunk. The beam curved accordingly and shot toward the point between his eyes. Rafen lurched sideways again, and the beam turned mid-flight and flew toward his ear. Screaming, Rafen flung up his hands to create a shield. A thin sheet of his flame appeared, and the beam struck it with a dull plink like that of rain hitting glass. It rebounded and hit the sheet again, persistent. A network of cracks appeared in Rafen’s kesmal before it shattered and the flame became butterflies of smoke. Rafen swerved behind a cypress trunk. The kesmal curved round the tree bole, but Rafen had his sword ready. He jabbed the air, creating another, stronger shield. This time the beam had so much speed that it shattered the shield instantly, hitting his neck.
Stumbling backward, Rafen choked, dropping his sword and grabbing his throat with both hands, scrabbling at something unseen that pulled him forward. He was coughing, his ribs bursting with the pain, and he threw himself backward to stop himself moving. The force hurled him forward, so that his feet skimmed the ground and his face rushed through a mesh of branches that scratched his eyes and nose. Then he was directly before Sirius, and the kesmal released him abruptly.
Sirius’ hand shot out and grabbed his face. Rafen snatched his fingers, trying to push him away, gasping desperately.
“Where have you been?” Sirius said in a steely voice.
In his cold, gray eyes, there was no feeling, no light, nothing but unbendable, unerring purpose. Rafen tightened the muscles in his left arm, and flame burst into being on his hand where it touched Sirius’. With an oath, Sirius flicked Rafen’s fire into nonexistence, using the black-handled dagger, which he now thrust to Rafen’s throat.
“Don’t even try that, Rafen,” he hissed, pressing the blade harder against his flesh. “Answer my question.”
“I was doing what you asked,” Rafen blurted. “I went to the city, with Wilkins—”
“And where is Wilkins?”
His fingers were merciless; they were squeezing Rafen’s head out of shape.
“Annette came. I lost—”
“You what?” Sirius forced his face into Rafen’s. He smelled like ale and old tobacco. His grip had tightened again, and Rafen gave a strangled moan. “By Gor,” Sirius said. “I should kill you.”
He threw Rafen against a tree trunk. Rafen’s skull hit it with a muffled thump that he took longer to feel than to hear. His raised his hands to his throat and tried to massage more air back into himself.
“Where is Wilkins now?” Sirius said.
Rafen looked at him, his breath coming fast. “I don’t know!” he yelled. “Can’t you find another one?”
He briefly contemplated running back to find his sword and fight Sirius with, before realizing that he could never overpower this man.
I have to find the others, he thought. He’s going to punish me for this, and I don’t want him to do it through them.
“Another what?” Sirius said. His eyes had never left Rafen. “Another skull?”
He lunged forward and grabbed Rafen’s head as a replacement, wrenching it sideways as if unscrewing it. Rafen screamed; burning liquid rushed down a tendon in his neck. He threw himself sideways, tearing free from Sirius’ grasp and transforming instantly. His paws barely hit the ground before he took off, his legs churning mad circles. He expected to hear footfalls behind, but he didn’t. Sirius’ scent became fainter as he wove through the trees, and Rafen’s delight was an even, violent drumroll on the ground, taking him further away. Squirrels and white-tailed deer scampered away from him.
A knife of green filled his peripheral vision; something struck his side, and he tumbled over with the momentum, hitting a stone. He leapt up again, only to be hit on the other side and pinned to the ground by something invisible. When he tried scrambling up, an intolerable weight stamped him to the twiggy earth. He whined, desperately working his muscles, tensing them, pulling them. The weight became heavier, and he couldn’t breathe. The compression in the lean barrel of his belly and back made him feel light; the world around him darkened much too fast, even though night was coming.
At last, the weight lifted. He rose shakily to his paws to leave, but a force lifted him up and blasted him against a rock near a pine tree. His wolf body slammed against it. Panting dryly, he willed his muscles to carry him. Then a foot hit him, first on the belly, then on the back, then on the head, again and again and again. He made to run, and hit a barrier of kesmal. Though he tried spinning around to escape, the blows were falling faster and faster. He shrank toward the ground, the pain less startling, but the impacts his entire world. His heart conformed to their accelerating rhythm. They had a tangible language that told him his worth more powerfully than words…
He was a boy again. Sirius had done it. His kesmal had found Rafen and held him, until Sirius himself had caught up at a leisurely pace and forced him to transform. Rafen huddled against the stone, shivering, bruised, his lip and nose dribbling blood. Though he wanted to move, his body was too weak. His eyes smarted.
“Less than dirt,” Sirius said. “Child of mud. Less than nothing!” he roared, and then guffawed. “Gor! Your mother should have smashed your skull with a rock the moment you were born. You’re a curse, Rafen.”
He paused, allowing that and the cooing of the night pigeons to sink in.
“I can’t simply get another skull, idiot,” Sirius said. “That was a signal every pirate on the Pillar knew. The skull with three teeth, one of them gold. The panflute too – all part of it. Anywhere I go, they know that symbol. They’re not all literate, I can’t send a letter.”
Rafen’s body ached so badly he couldn’t even unfold himself from his crouched position. So he tightened his grip around his knees and tried to pull his head into his shoulders.
“Gor!” Sirius said again. “You had to go a billion leginis out. We’ll have to go back on foot. By that time, the battle for Rusem will be over. And you’re probably happy about that.”
One of Rafen’s hands found his phoenix feather and he clung to it. Once, in King Robert’s bedchamber, this simple action had produced images of Thomas and Fritz, two kings of old, who had frightened the Lashki greatly. The incident had never repeated, however, and Rafen was left wondering if it would ever happen again.
“Get up!” Sirius screeched, swinging a foot into his shoulder.
The pain was an invocation for all his other bruises to shriek. Rafen struggled to his feet.
“Faster! Now!” Sirius said, kicking his shins and ankles. “You’re coming with me, boy.”
Sirius grabbed his collar and turned him around. Rafen nearly fell, and Sirius cuffed him round the back of the head for it.
“No running away, birdie,” Sirius said. He grinned, and in the moonlight, his gold front tooth gleamed. “You’re mine now.”
*
In the distance, terraced Rusem rose as the only milestone on the grasslands of central Siana. They stood forty minutes’ walk from the city, and all appeared calm… Yet a pl
ume of smoke rose from within.
The sky was swirling gray; and the wind was warm, the breath of spring itself. Prairie dogs and field mice scampered through the long, blue grama grass that reached Rafen’s knees.
He and Sirius had traveled all night. Rafen had not tried to run again; he knew now how far Sirius’ kesmal could travel and what its strength was. Escaping was an unlikely option. He had to wait for a chance to kill Sirius. That was, he realized with horror, the only way out. Now halfway through another day, he was doubled over with the pain of his bruises, reduced to stumbling. Whenever he was too slow, Sirius slapped his face. Occasionally Sirius talked to himself, but he seldom addressed Rafen. He had lit up his pipe after they left the belt of trees and hadn’t stopped smoking since, refilling numerous times.
Rafen had not realized how far he had fled the previous day. On a wolf’s paws, he had journeyed tremendously fast. It had taken him and Sirius seventeen hours to get this far back. Yesterday, Sirius had ridden out to find Rafen as soon as he saw Annette and the Tarhians pursuing something. Rafen had no idea what had happened to Sirius’ horse, and Sirius didn’t explain.
When Rafen tripped, Sirius seized his collar, jerking him upright again. Rafen groaned involuntarily. He had the vague idea parts of him were rather swollen. His left cheek and lip felt puffy.
Releasing Rafen and removing his pipe momentarily, Sirius drew a water pouch from his coffee-colored robe and took a long drink. The way he licked his lips suggested to Rafen it did not contain water.
Though Rafen’s mouth was painfully dry, he knew better than asking Sirius for something to drink. It was as futile as desiring a meal.
“Move,” Sirius said, kicking the backs of his legs.
Rafen staggered forward. Vague ideas formed in his head about attacking Sirius. His own kesmal was feeble compared to the Pirate King’s, but perhaps he could get Sirius when he was drunk. Even then, the Pirate King was dangerous. He had shot at Marius moving in the dark and still hit his target. Nevertheless, it was the only advantage Rafen was likely to have. He stared at the city and walked on irregularly, in a burst of short steps and then unexpectedly halting. His eyes were sandy.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 11