Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two

by Brian S. Pratt

  James sat there as the dust settled to the ground. When it had cleared sufficiently, they saw the massive crater. Its edge began a mere twenty feet away and spanned nearly fifty feet. Chunks of earth littered the ground in every direction.

  “Stalker.”

  Looking to where Miko pointed, he saw one of the creatures heading their way. He readied a stone as he got to his feet.

  Miko drew his sword. “Better let me take this one.”

  James shook his head. “You need to maintain the Star’s healing power. We can’t take the risk.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked skeptically.

  Sighing, James replied, “Yes.”

  Beyond the one Miko had pointed out, another five ranged scattered across the desert. All were heading their way at a quick pace.

  The first one skirted the outer rim of the crater on its way toward them.

  James laid a hand on Miko’s shoulder for support. His skin felt raw after the last tingling effect and his muscles felt weak. Taking two calming breaths helped and he made ready.

  The stalker came round the pit and charged.

  He braced for the tingling reaction, cast his spell and threw the stone.

  The sky remained clear, the stone flew unerringly from his hand to smash into the front of the stalker.

  As the stalker fell, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Miko glanced to him. “No shimmering.”

  “Yeah. I noticed that.”

  “Why not?”

  James shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. But let’s just be happy it didn’t.”

  One by one, stones flew across the desert to take out the remaining stalkers. Each time James braced for a repeat of the severe tingling he experienced before only to not feel even the slightest tingling sensation.

  Miko dropped the shield once the area was clear. “There are bound to be more out there. We need to find a patch of vines.”

  “Doubt if we’ll find one before nightfall.”

  James walked to the edge of the crater and gazed down to the bottom. “Wow.”

  “If that had been any more powerful we would have been caught in it.”

  Nodding, James reached down to pick up a stone. He gazed at it while it rested on his palm.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The sky reacted when I caused the ground to erupt.” James held the stone between his thumb and forefinger and held it up, “Yet it did nothing when I threw the stones.”

  “I noticed that too,” Miko replied. “Why?”

  The stone failed to provide any insight. James shrugged and tossed it back to the ground. “Darned if I know.” He looked southward and saw a few stalker silhouettes far off in the distance. “We better hurry if we want to reach a vine patch before dark.”

  As he skirted the crater and headed due south, he considered conducting a test to see if he could figure out the nature of the phenomenon in the sky. Or at the very least, why it reacted when he did one thing but not another. If not for the severity of the effect experienced earlier, he may have done so, but for now, it was best just to put miles behind them and find someplace safe to spend the night.

  Travelers had grown sparse the last few hours. He’d overtaken a ten-wagon caravan miles ago and recently passed a lone rider headed north. Now, he had the road to himself. The sun hung low in the sky and Potbelly figured he had less than an hour to the inn.

  Scar had showed no improvement when he stopped earlier to dribble water into his friend’s mouth. Food was out of the question, but if he kept Scar’s mouth moist, at least it should stave off the worst effects of dehydration.

  He looked eastward across the desert and saw the rider. For the last hour the rider had appeared at regular intervals; always paralleling the road, and always just a little bit behind. When the rider had first appeared, another had been with him. The second rider hadn’t been seen for some time.

  Potbelly figured them for bandits, most likely the other rider had gone for the rest of their men or to set up an ambush. He hoped he was wrong, but doubted it. Why else would the two riders separate and the remaining rider pace them just out of visual range? Bandits were the only conclusion that made sense.

  Under normal circumstances he would relish the diversion a fight. But with Scar comatose, the wisest course of action might be to avoid combat. So he kept an eye out both on the road ahead and toward the rider in the distance. When a half hour later more riders appeared on the road ahead and the one pacing him altered course to intersect the road, he knew trouble was on the way.

  He reached into a small pouch attached to his saddle and produced three small tubes. From another he pulled forth a vial and a small wooden box. Working quickly, he slid open the box and took out three of the small darts. Then popping open the vial, he dipped each in turn into the liquid contained within. Once suitably coated, he slipped each into one of the three tubes. The tubes he slid into the trio of sheaths sewn into his right sleeve. Then he returned the vial and box to their pouch.

  By the time the tubes were in place, the rider in the desert had broken into a gallop and had gained the road some fifty feet behind him. Those riders ahead continued at a measured pace.

  Next he produced a white handkerchief. Then with a slice of his knife, opened a shallow, two-inch incision along the back of his right hand. As the blood welled forth, Potbelly took the handkerchief and dabbed the blood, ensuring to stain several sections of the white cloth. Next, he applied some of the blood to the corners of his mouth.

  The riders had drawn close by the time he wrapped the cloth around his right hand. He held the cloth to his mouth and coughed.

  Five men rode toward him with another coming up on his backside. Two of the five held crossbows; they held back a bit while the other three rode forward. The rider at the fore was young, couldn’t have seen more than twenty-five summers. Despite his age, he seemed to be the leader of the group. He rode forward and held up his hand.

  Potbelly came to a halt as the two crossbows rose to level their bolts at him. He coughed again as the leader spoke in the Empire’s tongue. At the end of his speech, Potbelly coughed for an extended time into his handkerchief.

  The leader gazed at him a moment, then took in Scar, the horses and the numerous bags they had. It was clear what he had in mind.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Potbelly said, “we have been cursed.”

  Two of the leader’s men’s faces turned pale at that; the leader merely frowned.

  Potbelly coughed again and with the handkerchief shielding what he did, pulled one of the tubes from out of his sleeve and cupped it in his palm.

  “Cursed?” the leader asked.

  Potbelly nodded. “A creature from the Waste attacked our company three nights ago. Wiped out all but me and my friend.”

  Beneath the handkerchief, he held the tube between his thumb and two fingers. Coughing again, he brought the handkerchief to his mouth as if to deal with blood produced by his cough. While in fact, he brought the end of the tube to his mouth, aimed it at one crossbowman and blew. A second later, the crossbowman brushed at his neck as if swatting at a bug.

  The leader eyed Scar. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. It came upon him night before last.”

  Slipping the spent tube back into its sheath, Potbelly pulled forth another. He could see the riders behind the leader looking uneasy at the motionless Scar and at the blood-soaked handkerchief he wielded.

  “And yourself?”

  Coughing, Potbelly held the handkerchief before his mouth as he readied the second tube. “This morning when I awoke, I could feel something eating away at my innards.” He held forth the blood-soaked handkerchief. “Then not an hour ago, this.”

  Feigning another coughing spell, he aimed and blew toward the second crossbowman. Like the first, this one too brushed away the poisoned dart as if it were a biting insect. He flicked his gaze to the first and saw how the crossbow was no
longer held at the ready. Rather, it drooped a bit as had the man’s eyes.

  Potbelly turned his gaze to the leader. “We need a healer,” he said with some urgency. “If we don’t reach a temple soon, I fear we will not last much longer.” Snaking the second tube back into its sheath, he pulled forth the third.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the rider that had come up behind him edge around to his right. Coughing again, he brought the tube up to his lips and blew. The rider swatted the dart away. Wiping away the “blood,” Potbelly turned to the leader.

  “Can you help us?”

  For a moment, silence hung between them, then it was shattered by the clatter of a crossbow hitting the ground. All eyes turned to the first crossbowman who lay slumped forward in his saddle. Then he tilted to the side and fell from his horse.

  Cries went up from the leader’s men. He barked an order and though they settled down, there was a marked increase in the distance between Potbelly and themselves. The leader turned to the rider on his right, spoke in the Empire’s tongue and pointed to the fallen crossbowman. The rider shook his head and backed his horse a few paces further away from his fallen comrade.

  “Cursed!” Potbelly wailed. Waving the bloody handkerchief and coughing hard, he nudged his horse forward. “Help us!”

  When the second crossbowman finally succumbed to the poisonous dart and fell from his saddle, the rider that had backed his horse away, cried out, turned and fled. The leader shouted but the rider paid no heed.

  The last rider, fear wild in his eyes, pointed to the third man Potbelly had hit with a dart.

  Sitting motionless in the saddle, the poisoned rider’s eyes were half-closed. His horse took a nervous step and the rider’s head lolled backward before he toppled to the ground.

  That was enough for the leader’s final man. Turning, he fled.

  The leader shouted at his man as the rider raced off, but to no avail. He returned his gaze to Potbelly who grinned.

  Stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, he reached behind his saddle and untied the rope leading Scar’s horse; then rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Superstitious lot,” Potbelly chuckled, “aren’t they?”

  Rage filled his face as the leader drew his sword.

  Potbelly’s knife and long sword were in his hand a split-second later.

  Giving out with an inarticulate cry, the leader dug his heels into his horse’s sides and bolted forward.

  Potbelly laughed and did the same.

  As the leader hacked downward with his sword, Potbelly leaned to the side allowing the blade to slice through empty air. Pulling back on the reins, Potbelly brought his horse to a halt and turned.

  The leader did the same.

  Moving forward at a more measured pace, the two combatants eyed each other. The leader was again the one to attack first.

  Potbelly knocked the blade aside with his knife then followed through with his long sword, opening a shallow wound along the leader’s side.

  Bringing his sword back, the leader aimed for a headshot only to have his blade caught between the cross guard and blade of Potbelly’s knife. Before he could remove it, Potbelly’s long sword struck his weapon near the hilt and knocked the blade from his hand. A moment later he felt the point of the long sword pressed against his sternum.

  “If I thought I’d be shed of you,” Potbelly said, “I’d let you live.”

  Thrusting hard, the blade parted flesh and slid between two ribs on its way to the heart. As the leader fell backward, he added, “But I don’t think I would.”

  Thrashing, the bandit hit the ground and after a few seconds grew still.

  Potbelly glanced up and down the road to see if any travelers were in the area. Not seeing any, he dismounted and went to ensure that the leader was in fact dead. Vacant eyes, lack of motion and goodly sized pool of blood said it all. He then went to the three men struck by the darts and made sure they would not trouble the world again.

  Pausing by Scar, he looked to his friend. “Glad we spent all those hours practicing with the tubes. Never imagined we’d ever actually use them on anyone beside mages.”

  Scar gazed forward without giving any indication he heard.

  “Give me a moment to gather their horses and crossbows and we’ll be on the way.”

  Ten minutes later there were four more horses secured in line behind theirs, minus their saddles. One was burdened with several blanket-wrapped bundles, containing items taken from the deceased; including the two crossbows and the bandits’ store of bolts.

  He left the bodies where they lay, mounted his horse and continued toward the inn.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The night was thick when four riders entered the small cluster of buildings bordering the eastern side of the road. In the dim light they made out little more than an inn, a stable and a few outlying shadows. Two caravans camped on the other side of the road, their campfires illuminated more than three dozen wagons between them and a score of men.

  “Think they stopped here?”

  The lead rider turned to the other. “Possibly. The caravan master did say he directed them here.”

  “Father Vickor?”

  “Just Vickor, Kip,” the priest admonished quietly. “We must remain discreet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment, the priest asked, “What is it?”

  “What do we do if they aren’t here?”

  Tinok turned to the young priest, “Find them of course.”

  Kip saw Father Vickor nod agreement in the dim light cast by the inn.

  “If the caravan master was correct, then one of them is in a bad way.”

  “My money’s on Scar,” Shorty said. “From the description given, it has to be him.”

  From the lead, Tinok said, “I agree.”

  Several men loitered about the entrance to the inn. As Tinok led them to the hitching post, he rested his hand on one of his two knives. He was slightly disappointed when the men failed to prove hostile and he and the others managed to reach the inn without incident.

  “Wait here,” he said as he dismounted. “I’ll see if they’re here.” Heading for the door, he heard Shorty whisper, “Don’t kill anyone.” Only if I have too, he replied silently.

  Once through the door and into the inn’s foyer, he paused to scan those in the common room. A rather rowdy bunch with most tables occupied. From a small raised platform near the back, a bard plucked a merry tune on a lute. Two serving girls moved throughout.

  Two long tables near the middle were occupied by Lord Cytok’s men; he recognized their insignia. Now touting himself as the Emperor, Lord Cytok’s men retained the same uniform as they had before the fracturing of the Empire.

  His scan of the common room failed to uncover their two friends. Leaving the foyer, he made for the crowded bar and the hard-looking man behind it. Teamsters and other travelers stood before it laughing, drinking and in some cases swearing. He had to nudge one burly man aside in order to reach it. The man gave him an annoyed look, then returned his attention to the young woman on his other side.

  “Yeah?”

  Turning to the barkeep, Tinok said, “Looking for two friends of mine that may have come this way. One was sick, possibly paralyzed. Have you seen them?”

  The barkeep eyed him a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. You gonna have something?”

  Tinok laid a couple coppers on the counter. “Ale.”

  Taking the coins, the barkeep placed a frothy mug before him. “Might know something about it if you’re interested…?”

  Tinok produced a silver and held it up. “If your information is worthwhile.”

  “Fair enough.” The barkeep leaned close and spoke in a whisper. “You may want to talk to Farhan. He came in a little after dusk talking about curses, death and blood.”

  “What does this have to do with my friends?”

  Lowering his voice even further, the barkeep said, “He c
laimed that he and several others encountered two travelers on the road leading a string of horses. One was either dead or close to it, the other was spitting blood and saying he was cursed. Farhan claimed that before he fled the curse struck down at least three of his comrades.”

  “At least?”

  “There were two others. One supposedly escaped with him but where he is, is anyone’s guess.”

  “And the other?”

  The bartender shrugged. “He doesn’t know. An hour ago some men went to check out his story. He refused to go.” Eyeing Tinok thoughtfully, he asked, “Were they your friends?”

  Shaking his head and chuckling, Tinok replied, “Doesn’t sound like it.” He laid the coin on the bar, “Good story though.”

  He sipped his ale while gazing about the common room, his gaze lingered upon the soldiers. None looked familiar from his time in the Empire, but many more knew him than he, them. Finishing it, he set the mug on the bar then left the inn.

  Father Vickor stood near the others who remained mounted.

  “Are they in there?” he asked.

  Tinok shook his head. “No.” He eyed the men standing nearby and stepped closer to Father Vickor. In a quiet voice he related the barkeep’s story.

  “So that’s what happened to those bodies we found.”

  “Yeah. We should get out of here before those men return. Also, there are soldiers inside. I don’t think any recognized me.” He paused a moment. “Do you think Potbelly could really be cursed?”

  “I don’t know. But if he is, we need to find him as soon as possible.”

  Tinok nodded. “Agreed.”

  Swinging up into the saddle, Father Vickor asked, “Where could they be?”

  “If Potbelly did kill those men...,” mounting, he turned his horse to where the road continued southward, “he’d have avoided this place as if it was a strumpet with the pox. My guess is we’ll find them somewhere farther down the road, in a location where he can keep an eye out for when we pass by yet not be too noticeable by others.”

  “Can we find them?”

  “We can but try.” Tinok kicked his horse into motion and they left the inn behind.