by Mark Shane
Two men impeded their path as they exited the town. Falon’s heart skipped a beat. She did not need to sense the magichae to know what they were. She reined in her horse casually, putting herself between the stripling and Max. Hopefully, the motion did not raise suspicion.
“Might I inquire who you are and where you’re going?” the black haired stripling asked, arrogance thick in his voice.
“Who we are should be obvious unless you’re less witted than you appear,” Falon replied, sitting erect in her saddle, returning his gaze with one much colder. She was the greatest assassin of the Rang Shalan, this arrogant buffoon had no idea how outclassed he was. “As for where we’re going, that is none of your business.”
The stripling’s eyes widened for a moment. Clearly he was not accustomed to anyone standing up to him. No doubt he spent a good deal of time bullying the town residence. He licked his lips, glancing at his magichae then fixed his eyes on Max like a cat on a mouse. As overconfident as he was arrogant.
“Might I see your mark?” he asked, regaining his steely expression.
Falon felt a tingle on her right forearm. Absently she pulled her sleeve back, barely managing to conceal her shock at seeing a tattoo on her arm.
“Why is your magichae wielding?” the stripling asked sharply, as his own magichae took an aggressive posture.
Falon’s hand darted to Max's wrist, snatching it firmly. The shock in Max’s face added to the illusion. “Perhaps because he does not trust you,” Falon replied sharply. “His family’s lives depend on my survival, not yours. He’s rather protective.”
The stripling’s sly grin dropped. He glanced at Jorgen and the two extra horses lightly loaded down with supplies. “I haven’t heard of any seeker teams containing three. Who’s your companion?” He twisted the last word, implying something dirty.
“Extra muscle,” Jorgen replied. Falon suspected his tone had sent many a person scurrying.
The seeker’s sly smile never faltered. “I see. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
“Perhaps,” Falon replied coldly, staring at the stripling while she walk her horse past him and his magichae. She did not dare breathe until they were fifty paces away.
“That was too close,” she breathed. “How did you know about the mark he asked about?”
“I noticed they had matching tattoos so I took a chance,” Max replied. “It only took a small trickle of power to form one on our arms. I’m surprised he could sense it. He’s a dangerous one.”
“He’s a bully looking for a fight,” Jorgen growled. “I suspect he’s tried to pick fights with other seekers before.”
“Perhaps, but I felt it too,” Falon said. “Better for us, his magichae companion gives off a unique feel. I think I’ll know if they come near.”
If the arrogant stripling chose to stick his nose in their business, she would happily chop it off for him.
CHAPTER 36
Reunions and Pardons
Michael and Garen lay under a fir tree looking down on a town nestled between two hills. Evergreens, firs, and maple trees covered most of the area except where they had been cleared for the town’s surrounding farms. A few leaves still hung on, the last vestiges of autumn, dotting the evergreen background with intermittent reds, browns, and oranges. The rain had stopped mid-morning, replaced by a misty drizzle.
Lying on their bellies, they watched the town go about their afternoon business; shopkeepers talking with customers on their porches, farmers entering town with produce-laden wagons, housewives fetching the evening water or tending to laundry and children at the same time.
The town looked like a sleepy community the rest of the world had forgotten about. The road traveling east and west through town was barely wide enough for wagons to travel each direction and beyond the immediate area around the town there were few ruts or signs of regular use. The tall palisade surrounding the town was probably more protection than they would ever need.
“Well, I’d say it’s all clear,” Garen said, standing up and brushing fresh dirt off his travel-worn clothes.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked, looking around, waiting for someone to point at them and scream ‘magichae’.
“I’m going down there,” Garen replied.
“Maybe we should move on.”
“Michael, we’re almost out of food.”
Michael’s grumbling stomach replied for him.
Garen grinned. “I’ll go check it out and come back. If the town’s as quiet as it looks then we’ll stay the night, get supplies in the morning, and be gone.”
Michael took another long look at the town, scanning for any danger signs. He had every right to be skittish. He wished Marla was with them. They could use her guidance.
After leaving Marla’s, they rode east toward the border hoping to find a crossing before border patrols took up positions. Just as Marla predicted, sentries had already started patrolling key areas of the border. No doubt many were seeker teams.
They had reached Roqmar the next day, shortly after noon, their horses worn out keeping the hard pace from Finery’s Way. Michael hid in the forest while Garen went into town and traded the horses for fresh ones. He had returned with two brown mares and a wanted poster bearing Michael’s likeness he had received from a guard at the gate. They headed south again hoping Larrington would be clear.
Midafternoon that day a group of bounty hunters had spotted them and gave chase through the forest. At one point, Garen suggested Michael set one of them aflame and watch the rest go running. Michael emphatically refused.
Garen’s second plan proved far more subtle and just as effective. Late in the night they had snuck into the bounty hunter camp. Garen mumbled something about poor sentries deserving a knife in their ribs as they cut saddle girth straps and horse lines leaving them little chance to give chase in the morning.
Losing the bounty hunters had proven to be a short-lived victory when a Seeker team picked up their trail the next day. Unable to lose the seekers they were forced to lie in wait, killing the pair with a shuriken each. It was the first time either of them had thrown a shuriken at anything except a target board. Quick and silent, the shuriken’s lethal result impressed Garen.
Deep in his mind, Michael felt a small pang of guilt emerge for killing the men, but he pushed it down. They were Seekers. Better dead at his hand than a noose around his own neck.
With their supplies exhausted and their nerves frayed, they had stumbled across the town. The lure of a warm bed was very tempting after several fireless nights.
Michael’s stomach rumbled again and he stood up. “No need to arouse suspicion. It’s a small town. Someone will get curious if you go down there alone, leave and then come back with a friend.”
“True. Still, why don’t you stay near the gate while I get us a room and ask a few questions? If there’s any danger, you can bolt before they can stop you.
Michael looked at the sky. It promised more than fine mist and it would be nice to get out of the rain. “Fair enough.”
Garen secured them a room at the inn not far from the west gate while Michael purchased supplies. The town had never received word of what happened in Finery’s Way much less wanted posters. The road was only used during the spring and summer months and the last trader’s wagons had passed through more than a month prior. During the winter, the town was all but forgotten by the rest of Valan.
The Lancer seemed to be the warmest inn Michael had ever stepped foot in. They settled into a booth near the fire and devoured two bowls of stew apiece before slowing down. With their bellies fuller than they had been in a week, they quietly slipped upstairs to their room.
Hardly as grand a room as some they had stayed in, but the bed felt fantastic compared to the cold ground. The most important feature, however, was the small window overlooking the slanted tiled roof. Garen had declined the first room the innkeeper offered (the bed was too small he had said), but it was actually due to the room being windowless. After s
ecuring the door, Garen took the first watch and Michael laid down on the bed, thinking how luxurious it felt when sleep took him.
Michael woke with a start as a gloved hand covered his mouth, but he relaxed when he heard Falon’s voice whisper in his ear. The sweet sound of her voice brought images of her face to his mind. Then her words registered. “Troops have arrived from the west, we have to go.”
In the same manner, she woke Garen in the chair he had taken during his watch. Michael would have to give him a hard time about it later.
Quietly they slipped out the window Falon had used to enter. Michael could hear someone banging on the inn’s front door.
Falon slid off the tiled roof, landing on the soft ground like a cat. Garen and Michael weren’t so graceful, but they managed to do so quietly. The mist had subsided and the half-moon managed a faint glow behind the thinning clouds. Michael thanked the Creator it wasn’t a full moon.
They crept through alleyways dimly lit by second story windows and moonlight. Falon stopped abruptly, her body rigid. Michael opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong when she ducked around the corner and a soft scuffle ensued. Michael and Garen rounded the corner to find Falon had pinned a man against the wall, her hand around his neck. Michael knew instantly what he was.
“Where’s your seeker?” Falon asked with a voice colder than ice.
“He...he’s hiding, waiting for me to drive you to him,” the magichae stammered.
He was young, Michael noticed, about their age. “Falon,” Michael said quietly, but she did not loosen her grip.
“He’s an arrogant coward,” the magichae went on. It seemed he had gained some confidence from Michael’s hesitation. “He bullies people and brags about how great a seeker he is, but I’m the hound. He sends me out to chase his prey to him then he strikes while they’re distracted.”
Falon looked up and down the alleyway expecting the seeker to appear from the shadows. “Garen, cover Michael, put an arrow in anything that moves.”
“So where is he?” she asked, her voice still cold.
“He was three alleys down, toward the center, but he can track me easily so he knows when I’m drawing close. I’m sure he knows I’ve stopped.”
“My family, my da and ma, two sisters, they all depend on me to stay alive. I’ve got no choice.”
“Sure you do,” Falon said, “better to die fighting than live a slave.”
“I know. But my family.”
“If we free you, how long before your family’s in danger?” Michael asked.
His question drew surprised looks from the magichae and Falon.
“A week, maybe two.”
“That’s enough time. Head east with your family, cross into Timmaron. There’s an innkeeper named Serin in the town of Anista. Tell him Michael sent you.”
“Over here!” shouted the stripling. “Over here you buffoons!” He stood at the end of the alleyway gesturing to his right for the soldiers and pointing down the alley. “Hurry you stupid, loafing—”
An arrow pierced his neck spinning him with the impact as he fell to the ground.
Falon smiled at Garen for a moment then turned back to the magichae. “Today’s your lucky day. Now disappear and get your family out of this godforsaken country.” She released the man but watched him closely.
The magichae glanced at the body of the stripling then ran down the alley, disappearing into the darkness.
The soldiers closed in, the clink of armor announcing their approach. Falon, Michael, and Garen ran down the alley to the wooden palisade surrounding the town.
“We need a hole, Michael,” Falon said.
Michael looked down the alleyway, spying movement in the shadows, soft light glinting off armor and swords. He touched the wall examining it like a new piece of wood he was preparing to use for a table. Wielding Earth he delved into the wood, touching the grain, feeling the fibers. He didn’t need his sight to see the pattern of the grain. He smiled as an idea struck him.
“Umm, we might want to hurry, Michael,” Garen said.
Michael released the power within him and a small area of the wall turned to dust.
“Hey! Over here! Over here!” a soldier yelled.
Falon went through, followed by Garen. Stepping through the hole, Michael solidified the air in the gap, making the palisade solid again.
The first soldiers slammed into the invisible wall, cursing and yelling to their comrades to mount up and give chase.
“How did you do that?” Falon asked, amazed.
“I don’t really know,” Michael replied. “It just seemed simple to do.”
They ran toward the tree line, the yelling soldiers spurning them to run faster. Max and Jorgen met them halfway. Falon swung into the sorrel’s saddle while Michael took the reins of a red dun Jorgen tossed him and Garen took the dappled grey.
“If those soldiers know the area, we’re going to be hard pressed to outrun them,” Jorgen growled.
“We’ll have to take our chances,” Max said, spurring his horse east.
CHAPTER 37
No Alternatives
Deep into the night they raced, the terrain taking them southward till the trees of the Great Forest forced them due east. The slick, rain-sodden ground made running their horses dangerous. Around midnight the clouds broke, unleashing the half-moon’s twilight on the landscape.
Michael looked over his shoulder. Moonlight glinted off armor as the soldiers crested a hill half a mile back. Their number did not matter, he could wipe them out. The face of the little girl floated in his mind and he pushed it away. He prayed they didn’t force him to.
A horse screamed. Falon shrieked. Her sorrel mare had tripped and both horse and rider lay strewn on the ground.
“Falon!” He reined in his horse and charged back to her, the soldiers closing in. If any harm came to her, he would grind the soldier’s bones to dust.
“Impetuous fool!” Max yelled.
A wall of fire erupted in front of the soldiers, burning an after image in Michael’s eyes.
Good job, Max. Let them get through that, Michael thought.
Hellish howls, long and vile, pierced the night air. Michael’s skin pebbled in remembrance. Other howls answered from the west, toward Gatton.
Nightstalkers. More bloody nightstalkers!
“Get her on your horse!” Max yelled, turning his horse in a tight circle to keep him from bolting.
Michael slowed just enough to grab Falon’s arm and swing her up behind him. “What do we do now?” he yelled, running back toward the company.
“We ride into the forest,” Max replied.
“Are you insane?” Garen exclaimed.
“We can’t fight soldiers and nightstalkers in the open,” Max replied. “We need a defensible position.”
“We can’t go in the Great Forest!” Garen said. “No one comes out alive.”
“Then stay and face the hellhounds.” Max spurred his horse into motion.
“Madness!” Garen said.
Michael agreed, but soldiers and nightstalkers left no alternatives. Hopefully, the soldiers would not follow. Hopefully, they would turn tail and leave before the firewall dissipated.
Nothing he knew about the forest said there were wraiths like the Black Woods. He hoped the only threat they faced was the tree people. Perhaps they could be out of the forest before the Seran’tu discovered them.
The first branches of the trees whipped at Michael’s face. He drove further, following Max until he reined in near a group of large boulders clustered together in a misshapen semicircle.
“Drop the packs and climb the trees,” Max commanded.
“Why does this seem familiar?” Garen growled, dismounting.
Max shot him a stern look as he unhitched the girth strap on his horse.
Garen’s horse snorted and reared, knocking him down. The dapple grey pawed at the air as red eyes emerged in the darkness.
“They’re here!” Garen yelled, drawing h
is sword.
A black shape streaked past him, laughing its hideous laugh as it charged at Michael.
Wielding Air, Max formed a barrier, but the beast barely slowed. Its disruptive nature was greater than they had encountered before and prevented the wall from solidifying.
Something inside Michael snapped. After Finery’s Way, he swore he would never lose his temper again. Now, with nightmares unleashed and Falon caught in the middle, he saw it as an ally, a weapon to be used.
Sweeping Falon aside with his free arm, he drew the Sword, anger and adrenaline infusing with the Eye as it awakened with a crimson glow. He no longer held on to his former life, no longer dwelled on what had been lost. Fully embracing his magic, a surge of power coursed through his veins that made his experience at the rocky outcrop pale by comparison. He felt like he could lay half the forest to waste in one stroke. He thought he could do anything.
The Eye sharpened his awareness. He sensed Falon’s rapid heartbeat, Jorgen’s steady breathing, the hellhound’s vileness as it smashed through the shield and lunged.
Michael reacted by instinct, moving with inhuman speed, slicing the beast in half.
“Climb,” Max said, looking around.
“I’m done running,” Michael replied.
“Fool! More are coming.”
“So we hide and wait for sunlight? How bout tomorrow night? Then what? No, Max, we finish this here and now.”
Michael formed a massive fireball and suspended it ten feet above them. Blue light bathed the forest, and three nightstalkers snarled as they retreated from the edge of the light.
“Get against the boulders,” Michael commanded.
More black shapes lurked at the edges of the light, red eyes burning with hatred. Then the maddening laughter began.
“Max, get against the boulders and shield everyone,” Michael said, driving the Sword into the ground. He fed every emotion, every ounce of power into the Eye. The hair on his arms stood on end, his body felt electrified. He reached out with his mind, feeling the texture of the earth, the tree roots snaking through the dirt and buried stones, the vibration of the nightstalker’s paws as they charged in. Twenty beasts in all.