Dormael and his captor began passing sleeping mounds of men and smoldering fires, and as they passed, Dormael’s captor began kicking men awake. Dormael cursed inwardly, clenching his fists in frustration. This was how sloppiness and recklessness was repaid.
Dormael, D’Jenn said into his mind, what are we going to do now, cousin?
Watch, and wait, Dormael replied.
Oh, I am watching, believe me. I’m above you and to the south. What are your plans, do you have any plans? D’Jenn’s frustration at Dormael bled through the communication, and Dormael felt a little abashed.
I imagine they are going to bring me to one or all of the leaders. If my theory is right, then they are marching me to those big pavilions in the center of the camp. They’ll probably put me on my knees while the syndicate heads asks me questions, and beat me when I don’t give them satisfactory answers, Dormael thought back, sarcastically.
Sounds like an interesting time, I’ll leave you to it, D’Jenn’s reply shot back.
Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the party? The ending is very nice, the part where they kill me? It’s quite the sight, Dormael thought at him.
Here’s what we’re going to do, D’Jenn’s voice said in his mind, it’s my turn to plan something, as your plans have obviously landed us exactly where we did not want to be.
Fair enough, Dormael replied.
Yes, yes, I know it is, now listen. When you see the leaders, when all three of them appear, kill them immediately. Unleash something powerful and take as many men as you can, I will make sure you are protected, D’Jenn instructed.
That sounds like a great plan, coz, except that I doubt I can kill very many men at one time. How would I escape, I would still have swords and bows all around me, Dormael asked.
After your initial attack, summon some sort of cover, an illusion perhaps. Confuse them. I will shield you, but it will take all of my concentration to keep the others off of you. You will have to make your escape on your own. It appears we will not be able to take the wagons, but at least we can tell Hadrick where they are. We can escape in wolf form, they won’t be able to chase us that way, D’Jenn answered.
If we escape at all, Dormael shot back, but D’Jenn did not reply. His captor’s sword point pressed into his back reminded him to step a little faster, and Dormael resisted the urge to set the man behind him aflame. Instead, he only walked quicker, biding his time.
More and more men were coming awake and moving to the center of the camp, toward the three large tents. He could see men grabbing up shortbows and swords and strapping them on as they made their way to the center of camp. As they rounded the trunk of a particularly large tree, the pavilions came into view.
There was a crowd of brigands accumulated around the front entrance of the tents, milling around and waiting for Dormael and his captor to make their way there. Dormael counted eighteen men in all, with more showing up randomly from the corners of camp. That was a lot of men to deal with, indeed. Dread filled him like an unsavory drink. At a few harsh commands barked by someone unseen, the crowd parted.
Three men stood near the entrances of the three tents, one slightly in front of the others. He wore a black tunic with gold threaded trim, but the tunic had seen better days, and it was definitely not the kind of attire one should be wearing in the field. It was tattered slightly and beginning to wear at the hems and seams, and the man who filled it had obviously lost a little weight recently, for the tunic hung loosely on his shoulders like an overlarge blanket.
His pants were a bit better for the time in the wilderness, and they were made of dark but not quite black leather. His posture was one of assured authority, the kind of arrogant pose that immediately put a man on his defensive. His right hand rested upon a large knife that was sheathed at the right side of his belt, and this was the only obvious weapon the man wore, though Dormael suspected he had other knives hidden about his person. He wore fur-lined boots and a matching cloak that fell to mid-calf, his hood thrown back to allow Dormael to see the sneer on his face.
This man, who must be Roburn, had a face like a rat. There was just no other way that Dormael could describe it. His eyes were small, beady and set back into a sloping brow, and his nose protruded from his face like an odd growth. It had been broken at least once in the past, and was slightly crooked. His hair was slicked back either with some form of grease or perhaps from bad hygiene. The man’s teeth, yellowed and decaying, made Dormael suspect the latter.
The other two leaders of this ragtag outfit obviously were deferring to this man for one reason or another. They stood behind him and tried to keep up the same stance and attitude as he did, but it was obvious to Dormael who the sword arms took their orders from. Both men had drawn their cloaks closed against the cold, and were sneering at Dormael with the same arrogance that he was getting from this Roburn.
“Bring him forth,” Roburn spat at Dormael’s captor, and Dormael received a nudge with the tip of a blade to urge him to obey. Dormael stared Roburn directly in the eyes, and stepped into the space that the guards had cleared in front of their leader. After he stepped within eight hands of Roburn, Dormael’s captor kicked him in the back of the legs, sending him painfully to his knees. Dormael swallowed a bout of sudden, red-hot rage as the guards closed in around him. He filled himself with his magic.
He felt the hairs on his arms rise as the power filled his body, his senses, and his mind. He could hear a rushing noise in his ears, and feel his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage as he began to gather his power for the attack. He hoped D’Jenn was ready.
Roburn was speaking to him, but his mouth seemed to move slowly, and his voice sounded as if he was speaking through a wall. Dormael groaned inwardly with the effort of drawing so much power at once, at gathering so much of his will and energy to release in one deadly attack. The men standing around him could have been statues for all the attention Dormael was paying them, save for watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. Roburn had a look of irritation and anger on his face, and he took a step forward as if to kick at Dormael. To Dormael it seemed that all of this happened in slow motion; he could feel Roburn’s heartbeat speed up with his mood and sudden movement, and he could sense the tense excitement in the air all around him.
His magic was so charged now that he felt he should shine like the sun, felt that he should be crackling with energy and screaming with the sheer elation of holding so much power. He knew, however, that the men around him could sense nothing, feel nothing of it. Somewhere behind and above him, he felt another song in the void, another gathering of power and energy. D’Jenn was ready. Dormael released his hold on the magic.
It began as a tiny light coming into being directly in front of Dormael’s face, which held a look of intense concentration, and it reflected off the bottom of Roburn’s boot, which had been rushing to meet with Dormael’s face. The light was bluish white, and inside of it Dormael could see roiling waves of power. Power pressed so tightly together so that it fit into the size of this tiny little mote shining in the air between the wizard and his aggressor. The moment seemed to freeze in time.
An arc of matter was released abruptly from the light, something that appeared to be some strange mating of lightning and liquid fire, and slammed with a loud cracking noise into the chest of Roburn. It only took a split second, but to Dormael it seemed to take ages for the spell to play out. He watched it all in grim satisfaction.
As that first bolt of energy loosed from the mote, it began to spin and roil out of control. Now there were more arcs of power jolting from the mote’s center, arms of blinding light that caused pain where they brushed and gruesome death where they touched completely. In a flash the other two syndicate leaders were down as was Roburn, dead the instant they were touched by the spell. A few other men went down as bolts arced from the mote over and over again, but more men were able to duck or roll to safety. Some were still touched, though not directly by the arms of energy from the mote
, and Dormael could smell burnt flesh and clothing all around him as men screamed in pain and dismay. With each flash of bluish light, Dormael could see a look of surprised horror on one face or another, burned forever into his mind from the flashing light.
Dormael suddenly felt tired as the spell died away, and knew that he had spent much of his energy on the attack. Panic gripped him for a split second as he crouched there, defenseless in the middle of so many swords and bows, which were stunned for the moment but would soon regain their wits. Now would come the hard part; the part where he would have to take no action, and only trust his cousin and companion.
Suddenly the air seemed to thicken around Dormael, and he could feel a weaving of magic being done over his head. It was a shield of some sort, and he could feel D’Jenn’s song in it, the melding of D’Jenn’s mind with the magic. He smiled and felt relief wash over him.
An arrow thudded against the hardened air, and Dormael knew then that the shield wasn’t impenetrable. It sank in and stuck there in the air, quivering with its movement suddenly cut short by the magical shield. The arrowhead was a mere hand’s distance from Dormael’s exposed neck. A good shot, that one. Dormael knew he didn’t have long before D’Jenn would have to abandon his spell, and he didn’t want his cousin to expend too much of his own energy trying to protect him. He reached deep into his being to draw on more of his magic, and it sang around him as he gathered it for an illusion.
The men around him were collecting their wits and rallying, and more arrows thudded against D’Jenn’s magical barrier as Dormael released more magic into the night. The clearing suddenly seemed darker, more foreboding, as if the forest itself pressed in around the men who were scattering about gathering their weapons. A deafening roar came out of the night to the north side of camp, and many of the men stopped suddenly to gaze off into the shadows there. There was a moment of silence after the bestial sound came out of the night, broken only by the whinnies of spooked horses who were tugging at their picket lines, sensing a great predator somewhere in the night.
A great pair of yellow, shining eyes appeared in the forest just beyond the torchlight on the northern side of camp, and Dormael shook with the effort of holding this illusion together. The roar had been a rough touch to create, and he could feel his energy draining. He dug deep, and kept the illusion in place.
Fear washed over the camp like a wave, and suddenly men were scrambling away from the eyes, running into the forest to the south. A few brave men turned to face the “creature” in the forest, but as soon as they turned their gaze from Dormael, he felt the shield around him lift, and the arrows that were stuck there just seconds ago tittered harmlessly onto the forest floor. Dormael didn’t wait to see how this would play out.
Abandoning his illusion, Dormael used the last of his magic to transform into the wolf, and was suddenly bounding away to the southwest, into the welcoming inky blackness of the Darkroot. He did not wait for D’Jenn, because he knew that D’Jenn had made the change and started his escape as soon as the shield had been dropped. He could hear shouts of confusion and dismay behind him from the camp, and hoped that the syndicate thugs hadn’t witnessed his transformation.
Suddenly he felt a white-hot sting along his left hindquarter, and his step faltered momentarily. He didn’t bother to look or wonder at what had hit him, he had no time to dally here. Each bounding stride was painful now, but not unbearable. Soon Dormael found the rhythm of the wolf’s loping gait, and he was running full tilt into the night, away from the chaos of the syndicate camp.
It seemed hours later when the great black form of D’Jenn caught up with the silver and gray form of Dormael. Both wizards were tired and the effort of running prevented them from speaking, but they didn’t have the need for conversation. Turning further to the west, they broke from the edge of the forest and out into the snowy night. The stars twinkled in the night sky, which seemed to go on forever above them. The world was keener, more alive to the two wizards in wolf form, and Dormael found it hard to fight off the urge to run down a deer with his cousin. The wolf had a strong psyche, and the essence of it sank into the cousins and exhilarated them a bit, keeping them going. They didn’t dare change back when there was still so far to go. They simply tried to hold off the urges of the wolf for a little while longer. Over the eastern horizon behind them, a blue tinge began to appear. Dawn would be coming soon, and they hoped silently that they could reach Borders before the sun.
****
The gate guards at Borders were a little more than confused when the two wolves came loping down the road with the dawn. Fredrick, the man who was captain of the guard that day, rose from his seat in the guard shack which was just outside the gate, his mouth slightly agape and eyes narrowed in a questioning expression. He thought for a minute that the jug of whiskey he had been tugging on all night had been spiked with a little something extra at first, but he could think of no substance that would cause such hallucinations. Grumbling a little and moving slowly, he donned his fur cloak and stepped outside into the snowy morning to stand next to the two men at the gate, Chance and Stewart.
The two wolves, great big bastards, came loping down a snowy embankment about one hundred hands away from the gate, spilling tufts of snow ahead of them down the hill. The sun had crested the horizon just a second before the wolves came over the hill, so they seemed to follow the sunlight down towards the city. It had to be the strangest thing Fredrick had ever seen.
One of the wolves was black, with eyes as yellow as golden coins, and he appeared to be nudging his companion, a silver and gray wolf, along as if he was helping the other wolf to continue. After a closer look, Fredrick noticed that there was dappled blood in the snow where the gray wolf had tread, and it appeared that he was injured somewhere.
Just as Fredrick thought that the morning couldn’t get any stranger, the wolves came to a stop before the gate and stood gazing calmly at the guards. Chance cast a quick glance at Fredrick and hefted his spear a bit, coming to a ready position just in case anything happened. Stewart just gazed open mouthed at the pair of wolves, his hands slack on his weapon. Dumb son of a bitch, Fredrick thought quietly to himself and not for the first time in his life, in reference to Stewart. That thought came up in his mind whenever he had duty with Stewart, which seemed to be all the time, lately.
As Fredrick returned his gaze to the wolves, hand on sword hilt, he saw something that he would never forget. The air around the black wolf seemed to shimmer, and suddenly the thing flowed into a man. One second there was a black wolf standing there, and the next it was a man. Fredrick took a step backwards and almost lost his footing. Stewart did lose his footing, and Fredrick cursed him once again.
The man was clothed in a dark cloak the like of which Fredrick had never seen. It was more of a robe than a cloak, but Fredrick could see other garments underneath it; some sort of strange tabard, black in color with red writing scrawled on the edges, and leather boots and pants. The man’s hood was thrown back to reveal long brown hair framing a fair complexion and a gingered goatee that fell from the man’s chin and lip. His eyes were such an intense blue that Fredrick averted his gaze from them.
He might have appeared merry, he had the face for it, and Fredrick thought that he could see the man laughing and clapping people on the back in the smoky atmosphere of a tavern somewhere. That is, he could have been, if it weren’t for the searching scowl the man was wearing. It seemed like an expression that sat on his face much of the time, for he fell into it so easily. It was a look that ran over you, through you, and past you before you could breathe. It was a look that weighed you, and dismissed you. The man’s gaze chilled Fredrick to the bone.
“You there, captain of the guard!” the man barked at Fredrick. How had he been picked out so easily? Fredrick quailed a bit inwardly as that piercing gaze fell on him.
“Who…who are you?” Fredrick challenged him, “What are you?”
“We are friends of Hadrick Lucius,” the man an
swered him, and with a start Fredrick realized that he was referring to himself and the wolf at his side. Would that one also change suddenly into a man?
“Who isn’t?” Fredrick shot back, “devils, that’s what you are! Devils!”
“I have not the time, nor the patience to play this game with you, captain. You will go and alert Hadrick to our presence. Tell him the Sevenlanders have returned, and tell him that we need a healer,” the man with the piercing eyes commanded.
“I will do no such thing!”
“You will go, or send one of your lackeys. Go, NOW!” the man shot at him. The last word seemed to have substance, seemed to flow through the air and slam into Fredrick. It broke his will and his resistance like a battering ram breaks a castle wall, and he found himself stumbling back a step, his mind blank and his hand leaving his weapon. Fear seeped into his bones, and he realized that his man here was some sort of sorcerer. He had said “Sevenlanders”. It was said that the men of the west dabbled with spirits and could do strange things. Fredrick’s hand would not return to his sword, no matter how hard he told it to in his mind. He turned to Stewart.
“You, go and do as he says. Find Hadrick and relay his message,” Fredrick commanded.
“But, Fred, he’s-“
“Just do it, you dim-witted donkey! And no more retorts! Move, you son of a whore!” Fredrick shouted at Stewart, and Stewart ran to obey. Fred and Chance were left to stand there with the strange, dark man as they all three waited for Hadrick to show up. Fredrick thought that this had to be the strangest morning he had ever seen in all his years.
The man, the sorcerer, stood there crouched in the snow, his hand lightly resting on the shoulders of the gray wolf at his side. The wolf’s sides were heaving with effort and there was blood trickling into the snow from somewhere on the wolf’s left side. It gave a little whimper and licked its chops as it looked around. As its gaze fell on Fredrick, he had the distinct impression that something in there was calculating. This was no wolf, indeed.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 31