The workmen were snoring. One had quiet little snorts. Another had heavy, long-winded wheezing. A third had rhythmic grunts. They were quite distracting; he couldn’t sleep.
After a few minutes, he sighed and sat up.
Still the body.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Still the mind.
He ran through the silent mantra until he was relaxed and his attention was sharpened to a fine point, eliminating one sound after another from his conscious awareness. When he finished, he lay back and rested. He wasn’t sleeping, exactly, but he wasn’t actively engaged with the world, either. It was a sort of middle ground between the two, one in which he could remain mentally alert while not thinking of anything in particular, and physically at rest without being completely inactive. Eventually, he would need full sleep and the dreams that would come with it, but the meditative exercise could forestall that need for several days.
He was still in this state when he heard a footfall just outside the tent flap.
It was a familiar footfall.
He opened his eyes and brought the magical threads into focus.
The thief had pursued him.
He was not alone.
13
The footsteps—almost as silent as walking on butterfly wings—made their way slowly around the tent’s exterior, as if the man accompanying them was studying the thick cloth of the tent wall for some sign of weakness.
In the distance, barely audible even in Angus’s highly attuned state, a horse snickered. There were other horses with it, but he couldn’t tell how many. Someone dismounted, metal softly clacking against metal, muffled by a layer of cloth. Armor? They were near the boulder.
Angus slid the blanket from him, the cloth brutally rough against the hypersensitive skin of his hand. As he sat up, he quickly brought the magic closer to him. He reached for a deeply crimson strand of flame—a strong one full of energy—and wrapped it gently around his right forearm. The energy pulsed, its barely constrained incendiary force writhing furiously over his skin and trying to break free. Once it was firmly anchored, he sought the second strand. He avoided the deep navy blue strands—too much moisture in them—in favor of a thin, sky blue one. It would have less sky magic in it, which would help to contain the explosive force while feeding it just the right amount of air. He didn’t want to kill Giorge; he only wanted to warn the thief and his companions away. But if it wasn’t Giorge, if his memory of Giorge’s footfalls was flawed, he wanted to be prepared.
He started intertwining the two strands, alternately knotting the sky around the flame and then the flame around the sky. They were simple knots, ones that would come apart quickly when he released them. He kept making knots until the two strands were fighting against him so strongly that it became difficult to contain them, to keep them from breaking free and releasing their energies. He gripped the last knot in his right hand and held it as tightly as he could as the complex chain wiggled about his arm as if it were an angry.
He eased himself slowly upright, balancing on his left knuckles.
The thief was almost directly across from the tent opening, and Angus walked as softly as he could to the flap. He opened it a crack and peered out. It was dark, but the kind of light darkness that can only happen in the mountains on a cloudless night. The unimpeded starlight was more than enough for him to see the vague shapes of a handful of horses and four men gathered next to them. Three of the men had bows ready at their sides; the fourth was a towering silhouette of armor. Angus let the flap fall back into place and turned toward the sound of Giorge’s quiet breathing, just beyond the tent wall. He walked swiftly through the tent to within a few feet of the sound, not overly concerned about the noise he knew would be heard. When he was in position, he said “Hello, Giorge.” His voice low, steady, calm.
The breathing paused.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Angus purred. “Or shall I introduce myself?”
The boy stirred in his sleep, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and asked, “What is it?”
Angus held up his left hand for silence. “Well Giorge? Which will it be?”
Giorge was breathing again, but he wasn’t moving. A few more seconds passed, and then Giorge softly asked, “Angus?”
Angus smiled; he hadn’t told him his name. “Yes,” he said, “and I am prepared.” The spell was fighting against him, and sweat was beading on his forehead from the effort to control it. He would have to release the spell soon or the knots would begin to unravel on their own, releasing an unguided torrent of flame….
Giorge’s footfalls moved quickly away. Angus followed after them until they stopped just outside the tent opening. Giorge slid his fingers through it and lifted it slowly outward. When he saw Angus, he said, “We’ve been looking for you.”
A few of the workers woke up, saw the stranger at their door, and began waking their comrades. They tried to move quietly to their tools, but the sounds they were making shouted out their activity. Angus and Giorge ignored them.
“For what purpose?” Angus asked, letting the spell slip a little closer to release.
Giorge glanced back at his friends and said, “We’d like to make you a proposition,” he said.
Angus felt the sweat trickling from the furrow of his brow as he tilted his head. “What kind of proposition?” he asked. His right hand began to tremble.
Still the body.
“Our banner needs a wizard,” Giorge said. “We’d like to offer you the position.”
Angus frowned in surprise, and the spell almost slipped free before he could pinch the last knot tightly between his fingertips. He winced and thrust his right hand—flickering crimson flames engulfed it—through the tent flap.
Giorge leapt backward and retreated several steps.
Angus ignored him. He had to; the spell sizzled violently along his fingertips as he stepped forward and opened his hand. He had no time to aim, and the first explosive burst struck the edge of the road before he could raise his arm high enough to send the explosions skyward. He half-screamed, half-grunted when the last knot loosened and the strand of flame snapped free from his arm and slashed against his palm like a whip.
The horses reared, turned, and fled.
Giorge had his knife out in front of him.
Angus dropped to his knees and gasped, blinking back the tears as the last of the magical fire sputtered out. He took a slow, deep breath—Still the body.—and pushed away the sharpness of the pain.
Still the mind.
He fell forward, caught himself with his left hand.
“Giorge!” the armor-clad warrior called. “The horses!”
Still the body.
Giorge looked back, hesitated, and then glanced at Angus.
Still the mind.
Angus ignored him.
“Giorge!” the man called from further away, his armor clattering loudly as he ran.
Still the body.
Giorge turned, sheathed his knife, and ran after him.
Angus focused on the pain, captured it—Still the mind.—and cast it away. His breathing was slow, steady, rhythmic.
Still the body.
He sat back on his heels and pressed upward, rising to his feet in a single graceful motion.
Still the mind.
Angus held his hand out in front of him, palm up, and looked at it with a clinical, detached eye. The fingertips had blistered, and a wide welt ran across his palm from the wrist to his pinky. It had burned through the skin and most of the flesh was charred. He flexed his hand, but the fingers weren’t moving properly. If the damage were permanent….
Still the body.
Angus turned, entered the tent, and walked past the throng of workmen. They had their picks and mallets out before them, but when they saw it was Angus, they relaxed a bit and let him past.
“What is it?” Billigan demanded as he approached.
Angus ignored him and walked steadily to the water barrel.
Still the mind. He stuck his arm in it up to the elbow. It was the laundry barrel. There was a film of grit floating on it, but he didn’t care; the water was cool on his skin.
Still the body.
The boy whimpered from behind the laundry barrel. Angus ignored him.
Still the mind.
“Fire!” one of the workmen called from the tent flap.
Billigan cursed and hurried up to the tent flap.
Still the body.
“Water line!” Billigan ordered. “We have to put that fire out before it spreads!”
The workmen tossed their tools aside and rapidly formed a line from the wash barrel to the tent flap.
“Yes,” Angus said, his voice calm as he took his arm out of the laundry barrel. “Use the laundry water first,” he suggested, moving along the line until he reached the wash barrel.
Still the mind.
The workmen passed ewers and basins of water along in quick procession until two of the men decided to lift the barrel and carry it out through the tent flap. The line began to reform at the wash barrel as the empties were handed back.
Angus shook the grit off his arm and dipped it into the barrel before they started siphoning off the water. Then he went to the corner and picked up his backpack. He made his way through the men and up to the table. He set the backpack down next to the bread, opened the flap, and began removing the scrolls, stacking them neatly as he went.
By the time he had them all removed, a man near the entrance shouted, “It’s out! Let’s stomp the ashes to make sure it stays that way.” The other workmen dropped the basins and hurried outside.
The boy started picking up the ewers and basins, and as he passed the table, Angus said, “I need your help.”
The boy paused, cradling a couple of ewers and three basins in his arms.
“When you finish, bring a lantern to the table,” Angus added.
Angus slid the sleeve of his robe back to see how far the burn went up his arm, but the damage stopped abruptly at his wrist. The robe will protect you, Voltari had told him when he left. Is that what you meant, Master?
The boy brought the lantern up to the table and set it down next to the scrolls.
“Not there!” Angus cried as the hot glass nestled against his precious magic. The boy pulled it rapidly back, and Angus continued, “Come around over here, and set it on the other side of the backpack.”
The boy complied and turned to leave.
“There’s a pot in my backpack,” Angus said. “I need you to take it out for me.”
As the boy brought the pot out, Angus reached across his belly with his left hand and withdrew the dagger from its sheath. The boy set the pot down and Angus handed him the dagger. “Use this to pry it open. Do it gently,” he warned. “I don’t want the lid broken.”
After a few seconds effort, the lid popped up, followed by the rush of air and a tart, not-quite-completely-unpleasant odor.
“Thank you,” Angus said, lifting the lid and setting it upside down on the table beside the pot. He dipped two of the fingers of his left hand into the pot and brought out a small glob of the ointment. He dabbed his tormented fingertips with it, and the pain from the blisters lessened immediately. Then he spread it liberally over the welt on his right palm. He spread the goo over it, braced himself for the pain, and began rubbing it into the trench cut into his palm. But instead of searing, raging pain, there was only a pleasant tingling sensation. Once the ointment had been absorbed, he spread another layer over it and asked, “Are there any clean bandages?”
The boy nodded, hurried to the back of the wagon, and rummaged for several seconds in a compartment Angus had not seen before. When he came back, he had a six-inch-wide swath of cloth in his hands. “There are accidents, sometimes,” he said. “I can wrap it for you. I’ve done it before.”
Angus nodded and held out his hand.
The boy rapidly secured the bandage over the wound, and when the boy finished, Angus used his left fingertip to wipe a thin layer of the ointment around the lip of the pot before replacing the lid. Then he pressed down firmly on the lid to seal it.
“What is that stuff?” the boy asked.
“A healing salve,” Angus said.
“Is it magical?”
Angus shook his head. “No,” he said. “But it works almost as well.”
“It smells funny,” he said.
Angus chuckled. “Why don’t you put it back in my pack,” he said. “Then you won’t have to smell it any longer.”
The boy did so, and then reached for one of the scrolls. “Are these more maps?” he asked.
Angus’s left hand snapped out and grabbed the boy’s wrist in a tight grip. “Don’t touch those,” he hissed in his most severe tone.
The boy winced and tried to pull his hand back.
“They are my spells,” Angus said, letting go. “They are quite dangerous for anyone not trained in their use.” Then he held up his injured right hand, and smiled. “Even for those who are trained, there is sometimes a hefty price.”
The boy leaned back and said, “I should help them stomp the ashes.”
Angus nodded as he started to return the scrolls and map to the backpack. When he was done, he secured the flap and waited.
Several minutes later, the workmen returned, stomping and grumbling. One of them carried the empty water barrel, and another went to the wash barrel. “We’ll have to fill these tomorrow,” he said. “There isn’t near enough for the day.” He glared accusingly at Angus but didn’t say anything more.
Billigan entered and took a seat opposite Angus.
“All right, Angus,” he demanded. “Why the devil—”
“It was an accident,” Angus sighed. “Giorge startled me.”
“Giorge?” Billigan repeated. “Who’s Giorge?”
“A thief I met in Wyrmwood,” Angus said. “He was outside the tent with his friends.”
“Do you know them?” Billigan asked.
“No,” Angus said. “My encounter with Giorge was brief. I never met any of the others.”
“Will they be back?” Billigan demanded.
“I suspect so,” Angus said.
Billigan turned to two of the workers. “Guard duty,” he said. “Keep an eye out for them.”
Angus stood up and put his backpack on. “They’re here for me,” he said. “You’re in no danger from them.” You have nothing worth taking, anyway, he thought.
“What about you?” Billigan asked.
Angus half-smiled. “I don’t think they’ll risk testing my patience overmuch,” he said. “Not tonight, at least.” Angus walked quickly over to the tent flap and opened it. Giorge and his friends were nowhere to be seen. He turned back to Billigan. “After all,” he finished, “they did invite me out for a chat.”
He stepped outside and let the tent flap fall back into place. He barely looked at the scorched patch of hillside to his left as he walked rapidly up to the boulder blocking the road. He stepped around it and still couldn’t see them. He climbed one-handed up the scaffold and took another look. From his perch, he saw the glint of moonlight reflecting off metal in the valley, well away from the road. It was the armor-clad warrior lumbering along at a sluggish pace. Once he saw him, he was able to pick out the other running shadows. There were five of them, and the metal-clad warrior was lagging considerably behind the others. Then he saw the horses his visitors were chasing after. Even if they caught up with the horses quickly, it would take time for them to return. If they were still interested in returning. He sighed and went back to the tent.
Billigan and two workers were standing beside the tent entrance. The workers had their picks hanging loosely over their shoulders, and their hands tightened on them as Angus approached. He stopped in front of them and said, “No need for guards tonight. Their horses scattered. It will take them at least until dawn to catch them.”
The workers looked relieved and were about to turn back into the tent when Billigan shook h
is head. “No sense in taking chances,” he said.
“They’re gone for now,” Angus countered as he stepped between them and opened the tent flap. He paused and added, “I don’t know if they’ll be back again or not, but they aren’t looking for a confrontation. If they were, they would have attacked when they had the element of surprise on their side. We may as well get some sleep.”
Angus let the flap fall and walked back to his corner. He set his pack down and lay with his head resting against it. Within a few moments, he felt sleep approaching, and just before he was overtaken by it, he wondered how he had lost control of the spell. What had caused his brief, almost deadly lapse of concentration? It was almost as if his right hand had acted of its own accord….
14
The muffled, rhythmic, distant CHNK-nk of metal on stone.
The sloshing of water being vigorously stirred.
A kink in his neck—noticeable, distracting, but not overly painful.
His hand was throbbing, a dull, soft throb that was neither urgent nor negligible.
The warm, inviting aroma of baking bread.
His stomach grumbled.
There was a thick, nauseating film lining his cheeks, teeth, and tongue.
He had to pee.
Angus opened his eyes to a narrow, patient slit and let the dim light from the lamps filter into his consciousness. It was subdued, casting mottled patches of soft light and long, fluttery shadows on the tent walls.
He took a slow, deep breath, savoring the aroma of the bread as it tickled his salivary glands to life. The spit was a welcome change to the foul-tasting, gunk clinging to his tongue and teeth.
He sighed, stretched—winced as his neck muscles protested—and sat up. The tent was nearly deserted; only the boy was there, scrubbing away at the workers’ tunics and trousers. They must have two sets, Angus thought, not really caring. Maybe I should wash mine?
Angus nodded to himself and carefully removed the black wizard’s robe. He shook it and all of the dust and dirt on it dropped easily to the ground. He examined it closely (it looked as clean as the first day he’d gotten it), folded it, and set it on his backpack. His removed his boots and set them next to his backpack. Then he began removing the items secreted in his reinforced leather tunic, placing the picks, garrotes, tiny vials, and whatnot into his boots. Only as he was putting the last item into his boot—a small key—did he realize he had no idea where any of these items had come from or, for that matter, how he knew they were there. And the key….
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 8