“And you left them there?”
Tynaiv gripped his pipe stem with his teeth.
“Well, now I quite understand why you bribed Lieutenant Pilt to keep quiet while you skulked about the forest, thinking yourself a hero.”
Tynaiv went rigid. “Who told you that?”
“The lieutenant himself. He came groveling back to camp only this morning.”
“I paid him off because I didn’t want him revealing my real mission to Nabal.”
“Is that it? I thought it was because you didn’t want information to get back to me. After all, capturing Prince Linden and dragging him halfway through the Hinge was not my instruction.”
“I needed the prince to get to the girl.”
“Lies,” the crow replied. “You wanted to eliminate the prince because of your ridiculous obsession with the girl. Your frail vanity has been a waste of my time.”
“Listen,” Tynaiv answered hotly. “I don’t care what you plan to do with the object. I don’t care that you staged that fake coup to overthrow Nabal, or that you lie daily to that illiterate idiot. All I want is to live as I please, with nothing and no one standing over me.”
A cold wind swept into the tent, closing the flaps and filling the place with gusts Tynaiv could actually see, for they glowed red. The lanterns blew out, and Tynaiv was standing in the pitch dark with a bitter chill on his neck. Pider’s words met his ears with steely precision.
“You are nothing, boy. You are the wilting flower of a tree. You have barely lived long enough to know your own name. I am the tree, and my roots reach the center of the earth, and my limbs pierce the clouds.” To Tynaiv’s horror, the obscured figure of a man came slowly toward him.
“I have searched for that object longer than you can comprehend,” the shrouded man said. “No man can grasp it, or he will be blinded just as I was. You had your chance to cut the girl’s hair, but you failed. Now that she has been allowed to escape, the deal has been altered. I require both the object and the girl.”
Tynaiv dropped his pipe and retreated as the red wind swirled all the more violently within the tent. “But what then? You still cannot touch it, my lord.”
The gusts gathered about the man, illuminating only his hazy, clasped hands. “Two centuries ago, I slipped past an enchantment that kept me in that wretched cell. And though my blindness remained with my spirit, I was given a great gift. In the form of an animal, the object cannot blind me again. But before I destroy it, the girl must use it to restore my sight. Now, you will bring me the girl and the object with her, or you will long for a time when the whip was your greatest fear.”
“My lord,” Tynaiv whispered, bowing low. He didn’t know what to make of this horrifying vision. He had never heard of red magic so powerful it could manipulate a person’s own spirit. And if Tess refused to cure Pider’s blindness or give him the shenìl to destroy . . . Tynaiv told himself not to think of what might happen to her.
“You will go to Redfoot,” Pider said. “And you will lead our forces here in two days.”
“What of the object?” For the first time in his memory, Tynaiv’s knees trembled.
“The harder we crush her people, the swifter the girl will return home. And when she does, you will draw her to me. Fail, and you both will die.”
Above Nabal’s tent, the pines were filled with sleeping raptors of the Hinge. Vultures, eagles, kestrels, and hawks weighed down the needled branches, each carefully positioned so as not to touch his neighbor. On one such branch perched a vulture named Baggs, who quietly addressed his comrades.
“He would teach us red magic; that’s what the crow said. Have you had a lesson, Curvyclaw?”
“Not me, Baggs. Not a blessed minute of instruction,” Curvyclaw answered.
“Well, what does that tell you?” Baggs’s naked head swung up and down the way a cobra follows a charmer’s pipe.
“It tells me he hasn’t gotten around to it,” Wingmolt said. “Anyway, we haven’t done our part of the deal yet, Baggs. When we’ve helped them take down these humans, then he’ll teach us the red magic and we can be on our way.”
“Supposing he decides he doesn’t want us to learn red magic?” Baggs shot back. “Supposing he says, ‘You’re welcome for keeping a war out of your forest, now go away’? Eh? What then?”
“Then we go home,” Wingmolt said. “And we leave the humans to deal with each other. Either way, there’s no fighting in the Hinge.”
“I’m with Baggs on this one,” Curvyclaw said. “If we don’t have the red magic, what’s to keep these brutes from turning around and marching straight back into the Hinge? They may not offer an alliance next time, and we’ll be defenseless.”
“Exactly. That crow never intended to teach us red magic; he’s afraid we’ll use it.” Baggs’s head bobbed faster.
“He taught the dogs, Baggs,” said Wingmolt. “He taught the dogs, and he’ll teach us. Now shut up so I can get some shut-eye.”
“Those dogs,” Baggs said, “are as dumb as squirrels. They are dumber than squirrels. They spend half the day catching their own tails.”
Wingmolt squawked broodily. “Well, what of it?”
“We aren’t dogs; we’ve got some brains,” Baggs said. “And it’s brains you don’t want in an enemy. Mark my words, lads, we’re going to come out on the wrong end of this carcass.”
The vultures looked at one another dubiously, but there was no time to debate the subject further, for a hawk came rocketing through the night, calling out an alarm.
“An escape. There’s been an escape. Glademontians on the run.” The piercing cry echoed through the camp. “Three of them headed for the Hinge.”
Chapter 34
The waning moon shone bright enough for Ryon to see himself in the reflection of a shield propped against a several-hundred-year-old beech tree. In the shield’s surface, Ryon examined the leather vest strapped to his chest, thick enough to stop an arrow. Clamped to each forearm was a metal vambrace, which Ryon hoped would deflect the blow of a sword in battle. His hair was slicked back with a salve of Ryon’s own invention—a combination of mud and oils. Completing the look, Ryon bound his hair with a strap of green cloth across his forehead. He grinned with satisfaction, jumped to catch the lowest beech branch, and hoisted himself into the tree.
Amid the gently sloping limbs, Ryon approached the simple wooden tree house with a thatched roof, rounded walls, and four small windows. Prince Linden’s militia called this place the Armory, and having pieced his armor together, Ryon entered once more in search of weaponry.
He lifted a lantern from its hook and took stock of all that Prince Linden, Nory, and Rette had crafted in the last months. In one corner leaned a bundle of spears with bronze tips, all twice Ryon’s height. Almost as large as these were the few longbows hanging nearby, and much as Ryon wanted to emulate Linden, he knew his arms could not draw the tension needed to release a fatal arrow. At last, Ryon knelt to observe a row of swords, knives, and daggers, carefully arranged on a long woven runner. His eyes widened with excitement when he spotted a slender dagger in a polished sheath lined with velvet. The hilt was bound with comfortable, worn leather. When Ryon attached the sheath to a hook on his vest, the end of the dagger almost reached his knee.
Perfect.
No other weapon seemed suitable, but as Ryon headed for the door, a night breeze blew against an object swinging on the wall—a simple sling.
The sling boasted a superior design over Ryon’s old weapon. The strap proved sturdier and longer, which would allow for increased power. The pouch felt soft and malleable to the touch, sure to secure any projectile before launch. Ryon stowed the sling, and replaced it with his outdated model. He smiled. He would make Prince Linden proud yet.
Just then, Profigliano came flitting into the Armory.
“Is this where you’ve been sneaking?” Profigl
iano whistled. “Your horsey was getting a touch on the nervy-side and I says to him, I says, ‘Rushing, Your Hoofiness, you leave it to his fellow of the bondship. He’s the bird for you.’ And what do you know? My Ryon-y intuition led me straight to ya. How’s that for magical connectedness, eh? Un-dee-niable.”
Ryon chuckled. “Undeniable, Fig.”
“We’re so magical, we’ve got nothing to worry about. Worrying is what those moldy old Atheonians should be doing right about now.” Profigliano puffed out his chest proudly.
“I don’t know.” Ryon tried not to sound nervous. He had been suppressing a growing dread of the realities of battle ever since that morning’s meeting at the Birch Grove. “I’m not so sure the Birch Herd elders should have listened to us. What do we know of war?”
“Master Ryon.” Profigliano solemnly hopped to Ryon’s shoulder. “All those great horned-ed animals made us a promise. Now, I’m an expert on promises and pledges”—Profigliano covered his heart with his wing—“and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that promises and pledges don’t work if one fellow chickens out.” Profigliano pecked Ryon’s ear sternly. “And we fellows of the bondship ain’t no chickens.”
“Ow. All right, Fig. I’m no chicken.” Ryon rubbed his ear. The towhee was right. If Ryon was going to dress like a warrior, he had better start acting like one.
“I have an idea,” he said, blowing out the lantern and hanging it on his hook. “If Evening is right, we are only a half hour’s march to the edge of the Hinge. And we’re pretty far north. I bet we’d run smack into the castle grounds, if we headed due east. How about, as our first official act as members of the FOM, we scout out the enemy? They may have made a move since you last visited.”
Profigliano whistled. “Right you are, Captain.” He gave a salute.
Ryon swallowed, glanced at the moon, and begged for a touch of luck as he tightened the green strap across his forehead.
“Let’s go.”
With boyish agility, Ryon descended from the branches of the old beech, snatched his shield, and raced eastward in the moonlight. They traveled more easily than when Ryon was in the southern wood, as there were fewer ferns and the trees grew farther apart. Every now and then, Profigliano would flit to the treetops to check their bearings. The minutes crawled by in the dark and silence, until Ryon felt sweat collecting under his leather vest.
From somewhere in the distance, Ryon heard the sudden cry of a hawk. He froze and strained to hear the words.
“Escape.”
Profigliano landed on a low branch. “Sounds like those sassy-beaks over at the castle aren’t as crafty as they thought,” he whispered.
Suddenly they could hear, “I’ve got them—first watch, follow me.”
Soon, Ryon could hear the answers of other raptors squawking in agitation.
Within moments, Ryon reached the edge of the forest. From behind a tangled shrub, he saw Glademont Castle nestled against the mountain. Only a few lights flickered in the towers’ windows. He wondered whether his parents and sister were somewhere behind those walls.
Raptors cried out from somewhere south of his position. “Come on, lads. Move your carcasses. Keep those filthy humans out of the Hinge,” he heard between their squawkings.
Then three figures appeared in the moonlight, sprinting full speed toward the Hinge. Above, six raptors flying in a precise formation dove for the fleeing figures. As the birds descended, the two taller, bipedal figures halted to a kneel. The third figure, a small four-legged creature, stood rigidly between them. When the birds reached their targets, the men drew swords and carved slicing arcs in the air. The first four raptors were cut down. Two, however, managed to evade the blades and raked the face of the larger man. His companion grabbed a bird by the throat and slammed it to the ground, giving the other man time to run his sword through the last raptor. With feathers and carnage at their feet, the three escapees resumed their flight.
“Come on, Fig,” Ryon whispered, “let’s see what we can do for them.” Ryon darted northward along the forest edge. From his new vantage, Ryon felt he might be in range of the raptors still in the sky. But from their wingspans, he guessed only vultures remained and thanked the moon for his luck. Vultures were slower than hawks, and larger targets.
The vultures ceased their circling and came swooping down upon the escapees once again. Ryon leapt into the open, swinging his new sling over his head, and before the first vulture could reach his victim, Ryon propelled a stone. The missile cracked against the bird’s head. Ryon’s target went limp before careening to the ground. The next moment, a swirl of golden magic exploded from the Glademontian animal in the distance and blasted the next two birds. In the face of such unexpected retaliation, the remaining three vultures took to the sky again.
“Did you see that, Fig?”
“Master Ryon, you are the bringer of pain and justice. That smelly joker didn’t stand a chance—look out!”
One of the vultures had spotted Ryon and was diving toward him with talons extended. Though foiled by the metal vambrace on Ryon’s forearm, the vulture knocked the boy off his feet. Completely forgetting his new knife, Ryon threw his shield over his head. When the bird came down again, a brilliant flash of gold knocked it to the ground and sent it into a wild somersault. The vulture’s two surviving companions looked on with horror.
“Baggs, what do we do?” cried one of the stupefied birds.
Profigliano hopped out into plain view, golden magic still streaming from his beak. “You go and tell your sneak-thief crow that you’re lousy babysitters, you rotten traitors. And remember what happens when you cross beaks with Profigliano Julius Towhee the Eleventh.” He glared jauntily at the night sky and gave a triumphant laugh as the two remaining vultures fled.
By now, the three escapees had reached the forest edge and ducked through the thickets beyond. Ryon raced after them, but they were swift and clearly familiar with the terrain. He could not call after them for fear the raptors would hear. So he and Profigliano sped between the trees, barely keeping up with the two men and their four-legged companion. Eventually, as Ryon forced his tired legs to jog on, he noticed they were passing the Armory just to the left. The escapees were headed straight for Prince Linden’s training ground.
Then, a shrill neighing could be heard from somewhere among the trees. When Ryon finally hurtled into the clearing, he swerved just in time to avoid the two men, who were now kneeling before Jesse. The stallion snorted and reared wildly. His hot breath formed clouds in the night air.
“Who comes?” Jesse demanded.
“Beg pardon,” one of the men said, holding his side to catch his breath, “but you are in our training ground.”
“Nory Rootpine,” Ryon said, gulping for air and leaning on his knees. “I don’t believe it.”
Evening appeared from the shadows, apparently having hidden at the first hint of danger. “I know these gentlemen.” He sauntered forward and cocked his soft head. “They are acquaintances of Prince Linden.”
“I’m Nory.” The shorter, more muscular gentleman waved. “This towering fellow here is Rette. And the Colonel should be somewhere around here. I don’t mind telling you, we’ve had a time of it.” Nory looked more pleased than anything.
“Colonel who?” Evening said.
Just then, the third companion stepped into the mulched clearing, his salt-and-pepper beard quivering with indignant anger.
“Colonel Regency Thorn, you bedraggled forest cat. You’d do well to show some respect.” The terrier was covered in dirt, and a few dead leaves clung to his furry skirt. Otherwise, he was just as stern and wonderful as Ryon remembered.
“Reggie,” Ryon cried. He fell to his knees, scooped up his governor, and squeezed him with abandon.
“Master Ryon, thank the skies.” The Colonel’s warm sides pulsated under Ryon’s arms as the terrier snuffled his ear. Ry
on buried his face in the Colonel’s silky fur. But he knew the Colonel’s show of affection could not last forever. “Now, Master Ryon, compose yourself. This is no way to treat a ranking officer.”
Ryon released the Colonel and pulled the leaves from his coat. Profigliano peered scrupulously at the Canyon’s governor.
“Real good pallies, are we? Best friends for life and a how-dee-do? Must be hard to keep track of all your best animal friends.” Profigliano petulantly scratched his head with a talon.
The Colonel gave Profigliano a withering stare and growled.
“Reggie, calm down.” Ryon looked about anxiously. “If you start that barking, you’ll lead those birds straight to us.”
The Colonel continued to growl, but kept his temper in check. “This is Glademontian business, you spy. You and that squirrel-tailed black menace can show yourselves out.”
Evening scoffed. “So says the mutt with no tail at all.”
“Come.” Nory struggled to his feet and, despite a nasty cut on his nose, positively beamed at the creatures before him. “Let’s get to headquarters before any more vultures spot us. We have a small stove there. Or have you already discovered that, Master Ryon?” Looking to the shield and blade at Ryon’s side, Nory winked, sending an adventurous thrill through Ryon’s heart. Rette, the shier of the two, simply smiled. Ryon tugged on a loose strap of his leather vest (which he was pleased to see matched those of the other young men) and smiled.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
Nory laughed. “It was for just such an occasion that we built the Armory in the first place. Now, Colonel,” he continued, “to our headquarters? It’s not much, but it’s better than staying out here in the open.”
And with that, the company set out.
Chapter 35
Tess and Linden resolved to leave that night, as soon as Osiris returned. In the interim, Linden studied old maps of the Hinge Forest, wiggling the fingers of his bandaged hand. Tess packed fresh provisions for the journey, then took a basin to her room to wash her nightgown. It was so thin and shapeless in her arms, with a mar for each harrowing memory. Ash from her burning home, rips from her flight from the nest, blood from her fall at Ruby Creek . . . and the faint smell of licorice and tobacco.
Fyrian's Fire Page 22