The third hunter came on. His narrow mouth was a stony sneer beneath the dense growth of his wheaty whiskers. A flash of indiscernible colour struck Kelven with momentary blindness. When his vision returned, a rangy timber wolf was loping at the hunter's side. Here was the man’s totem—an animal bound to the hunter by the magic of their melding. The wolf’s fangs were bared. Its amber eyes were locked on Kelven's throat. With such singular focus, it never saw its own danger.
A stag exploded from between the trees all ruddy hide and great, sprawling antlers. Its head was lowered like a battering ram, and it bore into the wolf with so much force that it lifted the smaller animal off its feet and sent it tumbling into a nearby tree. It yelped once and collapsed in a heap of black and grey fur. The hunter swore, turning to find the raven flittering before him, tearing at his face with its onyx talons.
“Enough, Shrill!” commanded the magus. The bird scratched once more before retreating to a branch, keeping its beady eyes focused on the hunter’s bloodied face. The stag moved to stand beside the Ravenwalker, accepting the magus’ affectionate pat on the side of its head. “Are we done?”
“Ravenwalker.” That hunter spat the name. It was an acknowledgement of sorts, but Kelven noticed that the man never quite lowered his sword.
“Must everyone call me that?” muttered the magus.
“What are you doing here?” asked the hunter.
“Conducting a bit of business. You?”
“Hunting him.” He motioned toward Kelven without ever taking his eyes from the magus. “He stole six melding wands from the stonehold in Styrven and killed one of our hunters. The Stone Seat demands justice and the return of the wands.”
“I’m sure they do. Unfortunately, our friend will be needing them.”
“But the Stone Seat—“
“Is not here. I am, and I happen to have information that my brethren in Zayen do not. Information that is leading me down a particular path, for which I happen to require the services of this man. You may consider him under my employ.”
“The wands—“
“Will be put to good use. All in the name of the Graven One.”
The hunter scowled. His sword trembled slightly in his hand. His jaw was clenched so tightly that Kelven was amazed he could speak at all. By contrast, the magus’ scarred face remained a mask, passive and inscrutable.
“See to your companions,” said the Ravenwalker. “I apologize for any injury they may have sustained. If they require medical assistance, be sure to report it. I’ll see that all expenses are covered. I don’t expect to see you again.”
“I have orders.” The hunter’s voice had lowered to a growl. Kelven wondered how much of the timber wolf was seeping its way into the man through their melding.
“You have new orders. From a magus of the First Order. Remember that I have taken my turn sitting the Seat. I speak with its authority.”
“Only when it suits you,” said the hunter.
“It suits me.”
“Very well, Your Eminence.” The man’s voice dripped with scorn as he jammed his sword into it scabbard. “If you want this scum, he’s all yours, but I’ll be making a detailed report to those currently sitting the Stone Seat.”
“I applaud your diligence. You can also report that I look forward to discussing the matter when I return to Zayen. For now, we’ll leave you to see to your companions. Shall we depart?”
It took Kelven a moment to realize that the magus was speaking to him. He nodded and crept forward to retrieve his pack, which lay only a few feet from the timber wolf. The beast was recovered now, seated on its haunches and watching with the same furious glare as its master. It growled as he approached, deep and ominous as distant thunder. When Kelven’s hand closed on the canvas pack, he retreated step by careful step until he stood beside the Ravenwalker.
The magus nodded once at the still-seething hunter before turning and walking back through the trees. Kelven had no choice but to follow, and hope that the magus was not leading him toward some greater doom.
Their journey out of the forests of the Turn lasted a full two days. They travelled south, carrying Kelven farther and farther from his daughters, Ylana, and the farm. They passed the time in relative quiet. Both the stag and the raven had vanished, and the Ravenwalker seemed content with the company of his own thoughts. That suited Kelven well enough. Too much talking strained his lungs. Even in their silence, he was still hit by several more coughing attacks. They were coming with alarming frequency now. With each episode, the Ravenwalker stopped, waiting quietly to see whether or not he would need to intervene. It happened only once, when Kelven's chest grew so tight that it would not draw even a wisp of breath. Even coughing became impossible. As before, the magus used whatever magic existed in his staff to banish the suffocating agony. Afterwards, he built a small fire over which he boiled a concoction of roots and dried leaves—a concoction that Kelven was expected to drink. It had a rich flavour, deep and earthy and not entirely unpleasant. Within moments of swallowing, Kelven felt a rush of warmth coursing through his body, thawing the icy grip that clutched at his chest. The relief was temporary, and the pain never fully subsided. But it was enough.
They maintained this pattern—a flow of relative silence, coughing and arcane treatment—until they reached the edges of the Turn. There, they found a small village, where the Ravenwalker was able to purchase horses. Then they rode on, settling into a mounted version of the same routine.
A week passed. The forests gave way to hills of rolling green and autumn gold, which in turn flattened into an open stretch of low-lying plain covered in fields of drying corn and barley. Small groves were scattered amidst the fields, breaking up the landscape but providing very little in the way of shelter. More often than not, they were forced to spend their nights sleeping in the open. Eventually, even the farmland began to dwindle, and they found themselves approaching a sea of deep evergreen and the rough brown of exposed branches. Bathed in the bright light of the autumn sun, the few remaining leaves festooned the forest like gems of topaz and ruby.
The Aspenrun seemed to stretch on into entirety.
“We'll find Skeeves here.” The magus' voice was startlingly loud against the deep hush of the evening. “He's holed up in an old castle, built into a knoll a few miles in. It's supposed to be partially ruined, but everything I've heard suggests that its foundation is strong and that most of its walls are still standing.”
“You’ve never seen it yourself?”
“No,” the magus admitted. His lips curled into half a smile.
“Stones! That could make this more difficult. What do you know?”
“Only what I’ve already said. He’s set his guards to patrolling the woods around the castle. We’ll need to find a way past them.”
“Are they trained soldiers or just hired thugs?”
“Does it matter?”
Kelven nodded. “Your common ruffian is cowardly and superstitious by nature, but somewhat unpredictable. Soldiers, on the other hand, are trained in discipline. They’re less likely to be driven by fear, but they also tend to be slaves to their own routines. You deal with them very differently.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say for certain.”
“Then we’ll have to ensure we are certain. I’ll start by scouting the area—” The black lung chose that moment to remind them of its presence. Kelven doubled over, clutching his chest. It was not as intense as some of the previous attacks, but it was enough to steal the words from his mouth. He fell to one knee, desperate to scream; the best he could manage was a faint whimper that drew a look of sympathy from the Ravenwalker. That only infuriated Kelven even more.
“Here,” said the magus after a moment, offering Kelven the skin in which he kept his brew. Kelven snatched it and drank deeply.
He nearly spat from his mouth. “I think it’s going bad.”
“It’s fermenting,” responded the magus. “You should be glad. It only makes the effect stron
ger.” Kelven was more thankful that the draught didn’t kill him on the spot.
“Bloody hells,” he wheezed. “This whole thing will fall apart if I have another attack while scouting the area.”
“I might be able to help with that.”
Kelven sniffed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I thought you said you weren't any good at stealth.”
“On my own, I’m not, but I was a watcher once,” said the Ravenwalker, “after my first melding.”
Kelven nodded in understanding. Watchers were able to temporarily inhabit the spirit flesh of their totems. It was said to be a rare talent. “Which totem?”
“Shrill. What do you need to know?”
“Details. If there are guards, how many? Where do they patrol? How are they armed? A detailed description of the castle would be helpful. From there, we can formulate the quickest way in—and out again. In my experience, that’s always the most important part.” It was the sort of careful planning that had once been like a second nature to him. He’d tapped into all those old instincts when he’d slipped into the stonehold to steal the melding wands. Now they were coming back to him again, quick and unfettered, as comfortable as an old pair of gloves. They fit like a second skin.
“I’ll find what I can,” the magus assured him. “But I’ll need a place to lay down.” He cast his gaze to the west. “Those trees will provide some shelter.” Moving like a wraith, the Ravenwalker strode toward a lonely huddle of poplars, a hundred yards from the edge of the forest. Wordlessly, Kelven followed, leading both horses and wondering how he had managed to get himself involved with this black-cloaked man, who seemed both more and less than the legends bearing his name.
When they reached the grove, Kelven tied up their mounts, watching as the magus sought and found a place where he would be comfortable. He lowered himself to the ground. “What I’m about to do may seem strange,” he warned. “I’ll be completely incapacitated, and trusting you to watch over me.”
“I won’t stick a knife in you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“How reassuring.” The magus almost grinned as he laid back and closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then his body sagged and there was a familiar burst of colour. Kelven found himself surrounded by three animals. The stag was there again, inclining its antlers in something like a formal greeting. The raven cawed and shook out its black feathers. Between them stood a wolf, larger and thicker than the hunter's had been. Its ears were perked, and its eyes regarded Kelven with such keen intelligence that Kelven was only partially surprised when it spoke.
“Watch him well,” it growled. Its voice was soft and almost musical. It turned and bounded away. The stag reared and followed, only a few strides behind. A moment later, the raven took to its wings.
Kelven watched as the animals closed on the Aspenrun and vanished into the deep shadows that filled the space between the trees. When they were out of sight, he unlatched his pack and settled himself against one of the trees, his gaze alternating between the forest and the magus, who appeared to be slumbering peacefully.
By the Graven One, Kelven thought, his mind turning to his two daughters. Melina and Quelana. Stars of my heart. What have I gotten myself into, girls? His eyes darted to the pack where the melding wands were still tucked away. What would happen to them when this matter was over? Would the Ravenwalker demand them back? They had a deal, but the specifics were still uncomfortably fuzzy. Somehow, Kelven had never found the courage to raise the matter during their week-long journey. For a moment he considered taking the pack and running, but he suspected there was nowhere he could run where the magus could not follow.
Resigned, Kelven leaned back to wait.
The Ravenwalker woke with a scream. He jerked up abruptly, his eyes wide and his ruined face contorted in agony. Pale hands clutched at his throat. His breathing was fast and laboured. Kelven leapt to his feet, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
“What the hells happened?” he asked.
When the magus looked at him, his eyes were distant and unfocused.
“There’s something—“ He choked on his words. “Something terrible in the woods.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, as though trying to dispel some nightmare from his memory. He reached for his staff, holding it close as he fought to compose himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer and steadier, with only the faintest hint of a quiver.
“It attacked Drend—my stag. Ripped open his throat before we even knew it was there. I barely saw it, but it was big and strong and so bloody fast. Stones! It’ll take at least a week before Drend recovers enough to take on spirit flesh again.” He shuddered and muttered quietly to himself. “What has Skeeves done? By the Stone, what has he done?”
The magus remained still and unmoving for long minutes before coming back to himself and remembering the original purpose of his errand. “There are a dozen men patrolling the woods around the castle,” he said. “More within the building itself. They're well-armed, but don't appear to be professional soldiers.”
“Thugs then. Any sign of your sorcerer?”
The Ravenwalker shook his head. “He’s likely in the castle, working on his wretched experiments.”
“Could we wait for him to come out?”
“No. We’d have to be close enough to keep watch, and I don’t think we want to linger in those woods.”
“Scared?” Kelven’s asked. His tone was mocking and sardonic, but the magus’ reply made his blood run with ice.
“Terrified.” Levelling his gaze on Kelven, the magus spoke very quietly. “Drend is a big stag. It’s part of the reason I chose to meld him. I’ve shared his strength and speed. Whatever’s lurking in those woods took him down with one attack. A single strike. A big rockcat might be able to manage it, but not that fast. So answer me this: what’s bigger, faster and stronger than a rockcat?”
Kelven didn't have an answer. In his entire life, he’d only seen one of the reclusive mountain cats. It had been the totem of a hunter who passed through his hometown in the years before he left to find his fortune. The animal had been massive, its iron-coloured fur covering a thickly-muscled body that moved with predatory grace. He tried to imagine a creature bigger and stronger than a rockcat. It was not a pleasant thought.
“What do we do? Abandon this madness?”
“That’s not an option. We’ll need to proceed cautiously.”
Kelven sighed. “What about the castle? How many entrances are there?”
“There’s a single portcullis over the main gate.”
“I’ve never been one for using the front door.”
“I’d assumed as much. There’s also what appears to be a servant entrance around the back.”
“Any windows?”
“Several. Most of are boarded up, but one or two remain open near the top of the northern tower.”
“A tower? Is it sound?”
“Seems to be. The stonework’s the same as the rest of the castle: old but well-built. There’s a meager covering of moss and some vine growth.”
Kelven smiled, glancing at the pack full of melding wands. The beginnings of a plan were forming in his mind. It was bold and perhaps even a little mad—exactly the sort of plan he’d always relished. “Then here’s what we’re going to do…”
They left the horses tied in the grove and entered the Aspenrun an hour after sunset. Dense clouds had rolled in, casting the forest in murky darkness. Their only light came from the bluish glow of the small stone the magus produced from the folds of his cloak. Insects chirped high in the trees or hidden within the brush and bramble. An owl's mournful cry echoed in the distance. Otherwise, a deep hush filled the forest. Somewhere ahead of them, Kelven caught the occasional flicker of a something moving beyond the veil of shadow. Every so often, the magus paused, as though listening to the whisper of the night.
They walked quickly over the first hour, but their pace slowed as they drew nearer to the castle. The
Ravenwalker dimmed his stone to the faintest of glows to avoid attracting the attention of the mercenary guards—or whatever else was lurking in the darkness.
The movements came easily to Kelven, as though it had been only yesterday that he was making himself into just one more blot in a wall of darkness. Still, it felt strange in its way too, carrying the memory of Cyana with him as he stalked the shadows. What would she think of me now? He already knew the answer to that question. He preferred not to dwell on it.
They came to a halt just outside the guards’ perimeter. The magus was casting his gaze all around him.
“How far is the castle?” Kelven whispered.
“Close.”
“Then let's get this done.” Kelven unlatched the pack from his back and stripped off his tunic. The cold night bit at his skin. He retrieved four of the melding wands—strength, endurance, grace and healing—and laid them out before him. His eyes met Ravenwalker’s gaze.
“You’re certain about this?” asked the magus. His expression was openly dubious. “Multiple fortifications can be somewhat disconcerting. I’ve been told that the stress on the body is immense.”
“You’ve never done this?”
“No. I was melded to Shrill at a young age, and once a melding’s in place, fortifications won’t take.”
“Well, I’ll need all of them to pull this off.” Kelven shrugged. And I’m dying anyhow. So what does it matter? He pushed the thought from his mind. There was no point in dwelling on what he couldn’t hope to change. “Just do it.”
“We’ll start with endurance,” said the Ravenwalker. “It might help you bear the rest.”
The magus lifted the slate melding wand and, after a moment of hesitation, pressed its rune against the Kelven’s exposed chest. There was a moment in which all he felt was the cold of the stone against his skin. Then the pain struck. The rune seemed to latch onto him, fusing with his flesh. Something like a wind rushed through his body, and if he hadn't already experienced the sensation from the previous fortification, he might have cried out.
The Melding Thief Page 2