Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye

by Scorpion ZS 256

  Kirah could scarcely contain her pleasure at the victory. "Just think. This may be our last adventure before you're an old married man."

  "I don't like adventure," Guerrand snapped.

  They rode east, following the coast. Though the moonlight was bright when it broke through the clouds, neither horse, man, nor girl cast a shadow. Clouds of dirt kicked up by invisible hooves revealed their course across the moor.

  Before long Guerrand sighted his destination in the distance, could feel the ground beneath them rising, marking the end of flat DiThon land and the beginning of sloping Berwick land. In the blue light of the nearly full moon two ancient, carved pillars dominated the night sky. Stonecliff. They seemed to hang upon the cliff face, like joint figureheads on a ship.

  The young mage had been here only twice in his memory, many years ago, before the property had been sold to Anton Berwick. It would belong to the DiThons again in just four days. Three now, he corrected himself with another glance at Solinari.

  Guerrand knew from rumor that most people were uneasy when near the two stone pillars perched in the clearing at the top of the bluff. Everyone believed it was a magical place. Perhaps because of that, Guerrand found the spot intriguing. The plinths were massive and tall, carved with images of grinning and sneering faces and symbols whose meaning no one seemed to know. Superstitious folk thought the symbols were missives to evil gods, and Cormac in particular reviled the carved columns as an affront to all decent deities. But Guerrand sensed their potency was untainted by human emotion or ambition; Stonecliff's power was of Krynn itself, natural and uncorrupted.

  Sensing Guerrand's thoughts, Kirah said softly, "You know Cormac is going to tear down the pillars once he gets his hands on the land again."

  "How do you know that?" he snapped.

  "How do I know anything? By listening in tunnels," she said simply "It's the truth, Rand. I heard him tell Rietta. It makes sense, given his hatred of magic. Besides, I'll bet he's doing it to make room for the fortress."

  "What fortress?"

  "The one he's going to build as a tollbooth to tax the ships that travel to Hillfort on the river just beyond Stonecliff, the new boundary between Berwick and DiThon land."

  "But most of those are Berwick's ships! Cormac would be taxing the very person who gave him the land!"

  "And your father-in-law," Kirah added smugly. "Despicable, isn't it?"

  Guerrand shook his head slowly. "I can scarcely believe it, even of Cormac."

  "Ask him!"

  The young man clapped his hands to his ears. "I will, but I can't think about that now, Kirah. Right now I have to think about Quinn's killers."

  "Do you know where these men are?" she asked. "I couldn't see anything in the mirror."

  Guerrand knew exactly where they were. He'd been studying the mirror constantly for the half day he'd had it. He now pondered the irony of the men's location. "Up there." Though Kirah couldn't see him point, his meaning was obvious.

  "They're hiding out at Stonecliff?" she gasped.

  For an answer, Guerrand pulled out the mirror and held it over his shoulder for Kirah to examine. Though the outline of the mirror was invisible, the image it projected hovered in midair before her face. Kirah could see one of the men leaning against a carved pillar three times his height. All three men were seated between the twin columns, a small fire burning at their feet.

  Kirah looked away from the mirror, toward the pillars on the hill that ended at a cliff above the sea. She saw firelight flickering between the carved columns. Guerrand was right.

  "They sure match the description given by the men who brought Quinn's body back," she whispered. "Awfully gutsy of them to camp so near our home."

  "They may have no idea who they murdered," said Guerrand, "or that anyone who cares lives nearby."

  "With a magic mirror," giggled Kirah.

  "Sshhh!" Guerrand hissed. "For the gods' sake, Kirah, this is no joke. These men killed a fit, heavily armed cavalier and wounded two others. They won't hesitate to do the same to a slip of a girl and a barely competent warrior. They can't see us, but they'll be able to hear us soon, so say nothing, do nothing from here on out."

  "Yes, Guerrand," she muttered meekly, properly chastised.

  Guerrand, fearing the horse's labored breathing would draw the bandits' attention, reined the creature in on the far side of a cypress tree, some twenty rods from the stone pillars. The horse would become visible as soon as Guerrand moved away from it, but the young mage hoped the branches of the cypress would hide the roan. Now, if he could only similarly stash Kirah. Guerrand slid down quietly and looped the reins around a low branch.

  "Kirah," he whispered softly, "I need you to stay here and keep the horse still. You'll both become visible, but you'll be in deep shadow under the cypress."

  "You're not going to leave me behind that easily," she said. Guerrand winced. "How am I going to keep a horse quiet—clap a hand over its mouth? It's going to make noise, whether I'm with it or not. You need my eyes up there," she insisted, pointing toward the fire. But then she decided to soften her approach. "I promise I'll be quiet and careful."

  Knowing this was neither the time nor the place to argue, Guerrand whispered firmly, "See that you do."

  He could hear her slide off the horse, felt her hand groping for his. "You won't be sorry."

  "I already am." He searched with one hand for the shield he'd lashed to the horse's saddle, then thought better of it. He was already wearing his sword, and the metal shield would be cumbersome to carry. He didn't intend to engage the men in battle anyway.

  "What exactly are we looking for?" whispered Kirah, straining at his side to be off.

  "I've been watching them closely in the mirror since I got it, but I've not seen them holding anything of Quinn's so far. I want to search their packs." Holding her hand firmly in his, Guerrand led her up the grassy hillside. It was difficult to remember that they didn't have to crouch to keep from being seen. His footfalls sounded as loud as thunder to his own ears.

  They came to the crest of the hill, well within earshot of the three men. Guerrand could scarcely hear them talking for the hammering of his heart. He had Kirah firmly by the wrist and could feel her own pulse beat rapid-fire under his fingers. Though still invisible, he could not resist the urge to crouch behind a boulder to observe, peering left, while Kirah leaned right.

  The men were dirty and poorly dressed, with the look of old soldiers about them. They wore odd and mismatched pieces of armor that bore patches of rust. One of the men was missing an ear; another limped noticeably; the third was a dwarf with a tremendous beard tied into numerous tiny braids.

  There had to be something of Quinn's here, reasoned Guerrand. He heard a horse whinny nearby. His heart stopped, and then flooded with relief when he spotted three horses illuminated by moonlight, grazing on the far side of the pillars. Their saddlebags lay on the ground near them. Apparently these bandits were too confident to worry about security. Guerrand tugged Kirah's hand and pulled her away from the camp to circle quietly to the other side.

  The horses' backs were bare, stripped down for the night. Guerrand's eyes fell on the bags, several paces from the mounts.

  "Pick a bag and start searching through it," he whispered. "Quiet now, we don't want to startle the horses. As it is, they'll be able to smell us, so we'll have to move quickly." Kirah started to scamper away. Guerrand's hand reached out at the last second and yanked her back. "Remember, you can't go farther than about four paces from me, or you'll become visible."

  "Then hurry up," Kirah hissed impatiently. They moved up to the horses, more quickly than Guerrand liked, but Kirah could not be restrained.

  Guerrand knelt by the first bag. Biting the fingers of his right glove, he pulled it off and quickly tossed back the bag's heavy flap. He rummaged almost blindly, pulling out tattered clothing, gloves, cheap jewelry, and a few goblets and other trinkets. They would become invisible only if he tucked them into his clo
thing, so he held them up to the moonlight for inspection. If any of the items had been Quinn's, there was no marking to prove it. Discouraged, he moved on to the second bag, nearer Kirah.

  Hearing noise and smelling human sweat, the horses began to get nervous. Their snorts turned to loud whickers. Guerrand looked anxiously to the men at the firepit between the pillars. They were oblivious so far.

  Guerrand looked back to the bag beneath him in time to see a large medallion dangling from a shiny gold chain above the pack Kirah was searching. Though he could not see her, he could tell from the pause that she was peering at it, obviously having trouble placing it.

  Sucking in a quick breath, Guerrand knew instantly why it seemed familiar. Quinn had been given the medal by Milford, who had loved Quinn dearly, to mark the day he had officially progressed from squire to cavalier. Quinn had been inordinately proud of the piece, polishing it as regularly as his armor.

  Like a river of fire, a rush of rage replaced the numbness Guerrand had felt since Quinn's death. Somehow the futility of his brother's death was made real by seeing Quinn's property in their possession, in a way that seeing his dead body had not. Quinn loved that medallion, would have wanted it on his journey to Habbakuk.

  "That's Quinn's!" Guerrand whispered hoarsely. He reached out angrily to snatch it from the air.

  What he did was bump the invisible Kirah, knocking her over. "Hey!" she cried without thinking. They both dropped the medallion. The horses whinnied and pawed the air. Guerrand looked anxiously toward the firepit. The men had noticed. The earless one stood and peered through the gloom in their direction.

  "Must be animals rummaging for food in our packs," both Guerrand and Kirah heard him say. The man pulled up the waist of his trousers and began heading their way.

  "Come on, Kirah," Guerrand whispered frantically standing to a crouch. "We've got to go, now!"

  The man was halfway to them.

  Guerrand couldn't see Kirah, but she was on her hands and knees, looking for the medal. "One second. I've got to get Quinn's medallion." She struggled to push the heavy pack aside and look beneath, but it wasn't there. Suddenly the shiny gold coin simultaneously caught the moonlight and her eye in some low scrub between the packs and the horses. "I see it!" she whispered. "The thing really flew."

  "Kirah, no!" he gasped, hearing the words too late to stop her or even run nearer. Suddenly, the young girl in the ratty shift blinked into view, as if a light had been turned on her. She, too, instantly knew her mistake; she'd stepped too far from Guerrand.

  "It ain't no animal! It's a girl!" brother and sister heard the bandit say. He closed rapidly on Kirah.

  Blinking in the light like a cornered deer, Kirah looked left and right for escape. Now clutching the medal in her hand, she darted toward the darkness behind the horses. Anticipating that, the man launched himself in a flying tackle, grabbed her skinny ankles, and dropped her to the ground before him. The maneuver knocked the wind from both of them.

  Guerrand felt like he was watching a dream, a very bad dream. Kirah was kicking the man as he tried to pin her to the ground. Guerrand had to do something. His hands went to his sword, but then froze. How could he fight three men, experienced killers, without even a shield for protection? He was invisible for the moment, but Guerrand knew that as soon as he attacked, the fragile spell would be broken and he would appear. It would be suicide for him, and then they would certainly kill Kirah as well.

  Yet what else could he do? Guerrand was already walking toward the man who struggled with Kirah before he was conscious of his own resolve to fight. Guerrand glided forward, noiselessly sliding the heavy, well-oiled sword from its scabbard. Silent, invisible, he stood above the man who was on his knees above Kirah and swung the heavy pommel down onto the man's head. It hit with a low thunk. The bandit swayed, stunned, but was still conscious. Surprised, Guerrand struck again, harder this time. The sword handle hit with a loud crack, and the bandit collapsed immediately, landing on top of Kirah.

  "Thanks a lot," she gasped, struggling to wiggle out from underneath the heavy man. "Now you're visible, too." Grinning, she rolled away and rubbed her wrist with one hand, hanging on to the medallion with the other.

  Brother and sister were both visible now. Guerrand doubted they could outrun the bandits who were fast approaching. This is a nightmare, he found himself thinking. I'm asleep and having a nightmare.

  "Asleep!" he cried aloud. He hadn't time to warn Kirah. Waiting for the bandits to close the distance a bit more, Guerrand stooped down and scraped at the hard soil. He needed dust! A few quick stabs with his sword loosened enough for his purpose. Dropping the blade, he snatched up a handful and tossed it in the air before him.

  Kirah succumbed first, being the smallest and nearest. Guerrand saw her legs buckle and her eyes sink shut. Looking up, he saw the steps of the two approaching bandits slow noticeably. First, the limping man yawned and sank to the ground near the bandit Guerrand had clubbed unconscious. The dwarf looked in surprise at his fallen companions, then tumbled, rubbery-legged, next to them, fast asleep.

  Guerrand closed his eyes, dropped his face into his hands, and muttered a prayer of thanks to Habbakuk. He knew with certainty in that moment that he could never be a cavalier. He'd heard Quinn speak of the incredible blood-rush brought on by the heat of battle. His brother had said it was thrilling, that nothing compared with it. Looking at the thin trail of blood and the welt rising on the bandit's scalp, Guerrand was sure he could never learn to enjoy beating someone over the head.

  He couldn't remember how long the sleep spell was supposed to last, but he knew it couldn't be long. Guerrand took a loop of strong rope from one of the bandit's saddles. He started to tie up the one nearest him, then decided he'd make better time with help. Using his toe, he nudged Kirah gently in the ribs. She grumbled in her sleep but didn't awaken. He shook her shoulder hard; she mumbled for him to go away. Hating what he knew he had to do, Guerrand raised his hand and slapped her pale cheek, hard. Kirah's eyes blinked open in confusion, and a hand went up to rub her face. Guerrand could see the red imprint of his own fingers.

  "What the—?" Kirah sat up stiffly and looked around at the unconscious men.

  "I'm sorry, Kirah," said Guerrand, and he was, "but it was the only way to awaken you before the others. I put everyone to sleep with a spell. I'll tell you about it as we tie up these scoundrels. Hurry, now," he said, handing her some rope. "I don't think we want them to wake up before they're securely bound."

  "Gods, no." Kirah shuddered. She snatched up the length of rope and began looping it around one of the men, while Guerrand held him up.

  "Won't that wake him up?" she asked, worried.

  "No, they've got to be roughed up quite a bit before they'll wake up. That's why I had to slap you. Or wait for the spell to wear out, which could happen at any time." He pushed the man's arms behind his back. After Kirah looped them together, he tied a sturdy knot and sliced the rope.

  They quickly trussed up the other two. Guerrand saddled the bandits' horses, adding the bags for inspection back at Castle DiThon. Kirah held the horses still, while Guerrand struggled each of the unconscious men onto their stomachs over the horses' backs. He put the wounded man on one horse, and had the other two share one, leaving the third horse for Kirah. He would collect the roan from the cypress for himself.

  Reviewing their work, Kirah still looked uneasy. "Let's tie them to the horses, too—just in case they wake up before we get back."

  Guerrand complied, feeling a little apprehensive himself. The men most certainly would waken before they reached the castle. Anticipating the abuse they would hurl upon waking and finding themselves trussed, Guerrand stuffed some dirty clothing from their saddlebags into each of their mouths for good measure.

  He instructed Kirah to ride in back, to watch them closely. He rode lead, setting a quick pace. Still, as much as he wanted to be rid of these men, for other reasons Guerrand wasn't anxious to reach the castle.


  "What are you going to tell Cormac?" Kirah called from the back of the line, as if reading his thoughts.

  "Frankly, I don't know. If we were going to get there before dawn, I'd consider leaving them tied in the courtyard with a note attached to Quinn's medallion." He looked to the sky lightening over the strait to the southeast. "Besides it being cowardly, I'm afraid it won't be possible.

  Guerrand rubbed his tired eyes, sighing. "Truthfully, I'm hoping Cormac will be so overjoyed at having Quinn's killers delivered to him that he won't think to ask many questions."

  Riding in weary silence, both brother and sister knew that was as unlikely as stopping the sun from rising behind them.

  *****

  The courtyard was filled with gawkers as the scraggly, unlikely quintet filed in. Guerrand glared at Kirah, who was waving happily to the crowd, obviously thrilled by the attention. She's not the one who's going to have to answer for all this, he grumbled to himself.

  The absurdity of the situation struck him. He should have been rejoicing like Kirah. But all he could think about was having to face Cormac's anger and his questions. Guerrand began to resent his older brother's attitudes in a way he never had before. Belize had said something about choosing which path his life would follow. Guerrand felt as if he were walking someone else's path, and could find no forks in the road.

  Just then, Cormac stormed into the courtyard with Milford at his side. "Guerrand, Kirah!" he bellowed, taking in Kirah's attire in particular. "What's the meaning of this?" Cormac unpinned the dark plaid cloak drawn around his shoulders and tossed it over the girl.

  "We captured Quinn's killers!" Kirah burbled before Guerrand could form an answer.

  "You what?" Cormac looked stricken with apoplexy; his fleshy face instantly turned a hideous purple-red.

  "Look!" Kirah held up Quinn's medallion eagerly.

  Cormac nearly yanked the chain from her hands and turned it over in his thick fingers. "It's Quinn's, all right." His glare traveled from the bound-and-gagged men to Guerrand. "How do you know they didn't simply acquire it from his real killers?"