At that moment, Dormael’s eyes locked onto a form in the distant darkness. The form of a man, stalking as quietly as he could through the dead leaves on the earth. To Dormael’s wolfish ears, the man made as much noise as that of a charging bear. He didn’t appear to be a hunting man, nor did he appear to be overly concerned about his actions. He was obviously looking around, then turning and looking in the other direction. He would walk for a second south, and then turn west and then back to the north. Dormael smelled the stink of metal on him, as if he was smeared in pungent oil.
Guard, Dormael’s thought reached out to his cousin.
Yes, I see him. He doesn’t see us yet, though, D’Jenn thought back.
Of course not, Dormael scoffed at that, we are in our element here, cousin.
And what, Dormael, exactly is our element?
Everything, Dormael thought back with a little mirth. He felt D’Jenn’s appreciation for the joke through the mental link they were using to speak.
Let’s take him, but we must do it quickly and silently. I’ll go high, D’Jenn shot back grimly, and Dormael could feel his excitement.
Then I shall go low, Dormael thought back, and ghosted silently off to the man’s side, swinging wide around behind him. The guard, his night vision far inferior to their own, couldn’t have hoped to see the pair of wolves, now moving into position to strike at him. He was doomed from the moment they saw him. Dormael, belly low to the ground, muscles tense in anticipation, moved in behind the man, just a few steps away from him.
Now. Dormael sprang, his pent up energy releasing like a taut spring, and in three lightning-fast steps he was there, his teeth closing around the man’s hamstring and severing it. In one fluid movement Dormael had ripped the tendon from its place and slammed his wolfish body into the man’s legs, which were quickly going limp. Just a split second later, as he felt the man inhaling for a scream, D’Jenn slammed into the man’s chest, teeth closing around his throat. The only sounds had been the patter of wolfish feet across the ground and the dull thump of the man’s lifeless body as he was tackled into the earth. The cousins did their grisly work quickly, and without noise.
The coppery taste of blood filled Dormael’s mouth, and in his wolfish form he was invigorated, charged with killing energy. He quickly shrugged off the feeling and retained that part of what kept him human, holding on to it like a lifeline in a flood. He could see D’Jenn’s black-furred sides heaving, and knew he was fighting the same battle.
Perhaps it is time we forego the animal form, cousin. It is becoming hard to control, Dormael thought to D’Jenn.
Indeed, D’Jenn thought back, and using the magic once again, the two Sevenlanders were now crouching over the dead body of the guard they had just killed. Dormael quickly took out a skin full of water and washed the taste of blood from his now human mouth with a familiar feeling of revulsion. He saw D’Jenn do the same.
Taking animal form was always a risk. There were some animal forms that had a strong essence, and the wolf was definitely one of them. To the careless or undisciplined, the psyche of the animal could invade human thoughts, and soon enough anyone could be lost in the instincts and urges of that animal. During any transformation, special care had to be taken regarding all actions one took while in animal form. Realizing too late it had been a lapse in judgment to give in to the urges of the wolf, the cousins rinsed the blood from their mouths and spoke no more about it to each other.
Soon, they were ready to move on, and D’Jenn stood and took a quick look around. Dormael blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden loss of his heightened night vision. The night was like a thick blanket of black, pressing in on him. After a minute or two of closing his eyes and letting them adjust, he could focus them and make out dark shapes of tree trunks around him.
He could sense the tension that remained in the air, and for a second, he regretted killing the guard. He was sure that had he been in human form, he would have found a way to slip past the sentry, but the instincts of the wolf had made for a different outcome. There was no sense in brooding over it though, and soon D’Jenn finished washing the blood from his mouth. He stood slowly, and Dormael followed his example, being careful to make as little noise as possible.
D’Jenn signaled him to follow, and the cousins began to stalk northward through the dark forest, moving from tree to tree while straining their ears for the sounds of men in the woods. All was quiet here, and before long Dormael’s ears were ringing from the prolonged attempt to hear something, anything, that would bear fruit for their search. It wouldn’t be long before he would be satisfied.
In the distance, Dormael could see orange light flickering off the trunks of trees, and as he moved closer, he could see that there were fires set up about a half mile away. D’Jenn crouched against the backside of a nearby tree, and Dormael moved off to the side and found one beside D’Jenn’s to lean against. Now that he was close enough, Dormael once again smelled the remnants of cooked meat from the fires with his now human nose. There were scattered sounds of men talking in the quiet dark, and the cousins crouched still and silent, observing and waiting for something to happen.
Soon enough, a crackling noise caught Dormael’s attention, and he realized that there was someone just beyond his tree. The sound had been the footfalls of perhaps another sentry, but he was out of Dormael’s sight and Dormael couldn’t tell. D’Jenn had gone tense and stared in Dormael’s direction with intense interest, waiting to see what would happen. Dormael heard one step, two, three steps closer to his position, and he opened his magic just in case he would need it. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he readied himself for the confrontation that may happen in the next few seconds.
After a few tense seconds, the footfalls receded back to the north, the crunching of dead leaves and twigs sounding into the night as the sentry walked back towards the camp. Dormael let out a long, silent breath. The kill that the cousins had made as wolves just earlier had unnerved him a bit, and it was as if he could still taste the man’s blood in his mouth. He shuddered inwardly.
D’Jenn hissed at him quietly, and Dormael looked in his direction. His cousin made a few rudimentary signals, simple signs from the Hunter’s Tongue to make Dormael understand what he was saying without getting much into detail. It was too dark to read D’Jenn’s hands with any detail, but Dormael thought he understood what he was trying to say.
Closer, to see, D’Jenn’s hands said. Dormael nodded, and they ghosted closer, moving with caution and placing every foot in the most silent spot they could find. Heel to toe they stalked towards the camp of the men that had fled Borders, and as they moved toward it the trees began to thin out a little. It became harder and harder to find reliable places to conceal themselves, and once or twice they had heard the sounds of footfalls in the flickering darkness. Once, Dormael had been caught in the open and had been forced to wrap an illusion of shadow around himself to stay hidden, but it was of no moment. The footfalls had once again moved in another direction, and the cousins had remained undiscovered. As the trees thinned out, however, it became apparent that they would have to find another option.
They couldn’t just walk into the camp and start tossing fireballs about. If they could trust Hadrick’s reports, there were around thirty men in the camp, and even with magic thirty men were a lot to deal with. That was thirty arrows that could find their mark in one of the cousins, thirty chances to die. An arrow or knife in the gut could kill a wizard just as quickly as any other man. Many wizards had died in just this way, deceiving themselves that their gifts made them feel invulnerable, and their bravado leading ultimately to their death at the hands of a knife-wielding guard or an archer with nothing more than reliable skill. It was the fact that Dormael and D’Jenn were more careful than most that had kept them alive through many such tense incidents. To get through this, the cousins would need cunning more than any other weapon.
Dormael gazed upwards at the boughs of the large ancient trees. The
canopy was thick, a web of intertwined limbs and branches. He gauged that most of them would most likely support his weight. He had an idea. He tapped his cousin lightly on the shoulder.
Up, his hands said, and D’Jenn glanced up to the canopy of the ancient forest. D’Jenn’s mouth quirked into a bemused expression, and he nodded. Turning, both cousins headed for the trunk of a nearby tree.
The forms of both wizards blurred yet again, and within a few seconds there were a pair of squirrels scampering up the trunk of the ancient tree for the canopy above. Dormael hated changing into rodents, they were flighty little creatures, but for the current job there was no better form. He dug his agile little nails into the bark of the tree and practically flew up the side into the canopy of branches above. Soon, he and D’Jenn were crouching just above and to the south of the camp.
Dormael could not believe the size of these mammoth trees. Many of the branches were so large that they seemed like avenues in some forgotten city. He was only in the lower reaches as well, above him the branches intertwined even further, and he felt as if there was an entirely new world above him, just out of reach. He swallowed his amazement for now, though. He had a job to do. He did, however, make a mental note that when all of this was over, he would come and explore the Darkroot as fully as he could. When they reached a suitable spot, the two wizards blurred once again and crouched on the limb of a particularly large oak tree.
The escaped syndicate members had not made their camp in a large clearing as would have been suspected, but rather set up between the trunks of the giant trees around them. There were scattered cook fires among the trees, and men walking to and fro. Most of them, save the sentries that were coming in and out of the makeshift camp, had already sought their blankets for the night, and Dormael could see many men who were huddled beside this fire or that, and even a few pup tents pitched here and there.
A low whinny brought his attention to the east side of the camp, where a line of horses were picketed. They appeared to be poorly fed, and it appeared that either the men here neglected them or that these usurped syndicate leaders had also fallen on the same hard times as Hadrick. Looking just beyond the emaciated horses, Dormael could see some wagons parked and loaded with crates, some of which had been busted open. There was the proof of the banditry that Hadrick had described.
Three large pavilions were set up in the middle of camp, near an old tree trunk that appeared to have at one time caught a blight of some sort. Those must be the current homes of the syndicate leaders, and in one of the tents candlelight still burned. Dormael suspected that there was a meeting of sorts going on inside, and it was unlikely that these men weren’t somehow working together. All three must be inside. Now for the hard part, Dormael thought.
To the western side of the camp there was a path through the trees, and it was from there that the raiding parties likely came and went. They would have needed such a path to get those wagons back here into the forest, and to quickly ride out near the roads and make their escapes into the forest. Dormael made a mental note of it and settled down to think about their next move.
The cousins didn’t want to kill anyone that they didn’t have to. They had promised Hadrick that they would take care of these men, but Dormael suspected that killing the leaders would suffice. If you cut the head from the beast, the body was useless. Likely the remaining men here would either wander back to town, bereft of their leadership, or just fall into an internal war and kill each other for the right to lead this pack of miscreants. Either way, the threat to Hadrick would be eliminated. So the question remained: how best to go about it? D’Jenn was rubbing his goatee, and Dormael knew he was contemplating the same problem.
There was also the problem of the stolen supplies. Hadrick needed those wagons to help him get through the winter, and stealing them back was a secondary priority for the cousins. Hadrick hadn’t asked for it, but seeing the crates and the wagons right here at hand had made Dormael think about it. He couldn’t just leave them there when he knew that Hadrick needed them so much. This presented an entirely different problem, indeed.
Most of the guards were still asleep, and that took a huge load off of Dormael and D’Jenn’s shoulders. If they could remain silent enough, they could slip past the majority of the men on the ground, take out the heads of the syndicates, steal the wagons and move down the trail. The wagons would be the hardest part, and Dormael was uncertain as to the best way to go about using his magic.
He turned over many scenarios in his mind, and D’Jenn’s hand was still stroking his gingered goatee, assuring him he and his cousin were yet again contemplating similar thoughts. He took in the surroundings once, twice, three times and then again. He tried planning a silent route through the sleeping guards, but it would lead him into the firelight of scattered campfires smoldering all over camp and leave him exposed in the open. Finally, frustrated and impatient, Dormael decided that they would need a diversion to shake things up enough to expose the syndicate leaders. If they could cause enough confusion, then the cousins might be able to slip quickly through the bewildered guards and take them out. He didn’t like the idea of being surrounded by so many sword arms, but he felt that it was the only option left to them. Since D’Jenn offered no ideas, Dormael spoke up in the Hunter’s Tongue.
We need to cause a little chaos, his hands said to his cousin, who raised a questioning eyebrow; I’ll slip around to the east and cut the horses’ picket lines. If I can spook them quickly, they’ll run about the camp, disturb the camp and get the chiefs out of their tents.
It’s risky, cousin, D’Jenn’s reply came.
It’s the only idea I have. Got one better? Dormael signed back. D’Jenn only shook his head. Then I’m going down to set the horses loose. We’ll figure the rest out from there. D’Jenn appeared as if he was going to say something else, but held back and took a deep breath. He nodded to Dormael and with that, Dormael turned to move down the enormous bough of the tree they were both sitting on.
Dormael’s form blurred once again into that of a tiny squirrel, and he scampered and jumped nimbly from limb to enormous limb as he worked his way toward the east side of camp. Coming to a halt directly over the picketed horses, he practically ran down the side of yet another large tree trunk, coming to rest upon the leafy ground below.
Pouring the magic into his body once again, he changed back into his human form and took a second to listen to the sounds of the night around him. The horses were tethered at the edge of the camp, and Dormael had set down on the forest side of it, so that he was facing the line of horses with the camp beyond. To his back was the dark and foreboding forest, shadows filling the holes between trees like a pool of dark ink. The only sounds were a slight wind rustling forest debris upon the ground, and the scattered crackling of campfires beyond the horse line.
Reaching one foot forward at a time and moving in a low crouch, Dormael stepped slowly and carefully toward the picket lines, trying very hard not to make any noise. Dead leaves crunched quietly under his booted feet, but the noise was scant and not likely heard by anyone beyond five or six hands distance. He continued forward cautiously.
One of the horses, an ill-fed chestnut, whickered nervously as Dormael approached the picket line, but gave no other alarm. As he got closer, Dormael realized that there were two picket lines here, each with around twelve horses tied to one side. The horses were obviously cramped and uncomfortable, but Dormael doubted very much if the camp’s inhabitants cared about taking care of their mounts. That was a mistake, considering that horses were the lifeblood of any bandit camp. These men, however, were a motley collection of town thugs, taken to banditry by necessity. There wasn’t a real soldier or even a highwayman among them. The state of the horses was an obvious indicator of that. He approached the first line and stood to cut it.
DORMAEL! D’Jenn’s voice rang inside his head, but before he could react to anything, he felt cold steel pressed against the side of his throat. Dormael froze. Sudden f
rustration and disbelief sent shocks of anger through his head. How had he been crept upon? He had heard nothing.
“Move, and your throat will be cut,” spoke a gruff voice behind him. He had heard a hint of tension or fear in the man’s voice, though the hand holding the blade was steady enough. He wondered if he was quick enough to turn the tables and take the man’s weapon. Maybe he was, but he wasn’t good enough to do it quietly. He could always use magic, but as he was preparing to do just that, Dormael heard footsteps off to his right.
“Tell Roburn that we’ve found someone sniffing around the camp,” The voice at his back said.
“Right,” the other guard answered, and trotted off toward the camp. Dormael cursed inwardly, and started thinking fast. He was in a bad situation now, and a cold sweat started to run down his back. How was he going to get out of this one?
“Now we’re going to walk toward the center of the camp,” the voice commanded him, “make any sudden movements, or try to run, and you’ll die where you stand. Got it?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got it,” Dormael replied with a bit of sarcasm.
“Then move,” the guard barked gruffly. Dormael began taking reluctant steps around the pickets and toward the center of camp, moving slowly and hoping to be able to think of something in the last second to stall the man or escape. He thought again of striking the man with lightning or something to that effect, but as he thought more and more about escape, he realized that the syndicate leaders were going to come out and look at him, to see who was caught at the edge of camp. This could be exactly what they needed, and then again, it was incredibly risky.
He would be surrounded by ten men at the least, and the entire camp at the most. There was supposed to be around thirty men in this camp. That was a lot of men to get through, magic or not. That was thirty swords, thirty arrows, thirty knives in the back. Dormael took a deep breath and prayed to all the Gods that D’Jenn was up there in the trees, watching and maybe planning something. He knew he could count on D’Jenn when the time came to do something, to improvise, but still he was tense. He would be unarmed and surrounded.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 30