It was a complex key, one with a prong curved like a misshapen sickle facing away from the handle, jutting out from just behind the sharp point of the main prong. On the top, there was a series of three notches, each slightly askew from the vertical. What is this key for? What does it open? The right half of his mouth tilted upward as the left dipped down.
He eventually shrugged, dropped the key into his boot with the rest of the things, and removed his tunic and under-tunic. The stench was overwhelming, familiar and not-quite-right. But it only lasted a few seconds before his nose adjusted to it. He finished stripping, finding a few more items hidden in the trousers, and carried his clothes over to the boy.
“What do they call you?” Angus asked.
The boy shrugged. “Whatever they want,” he said. “Sometimes they even use my name. It’s Dirdl.”
“Well, Dirdl,” Angus said. “Would you mind washing these while I bathe?”
The boy used a short oar-shaped piece of wood to fish out the worker’s trousers he was scrubbing, and then used it to skim away the grit floating on the surface. When he finished, he held out his hands and Angus gave them to him.
“What time of day is it?” Angus asked.
“Nearing midday,” he said.
Angus nodded. “Any sign of our visitors from last night?”
“None,” Dirdl said. “Unless they’re out there right now.”
“All right, Dirdl,” Angus said. “Don’t scrub too much on the leather. When you finish with them, put them on the table.”
“We have a line strung up outside,” Dirdl said as he put Angus’s undergarments in the barrel and began twisting them around the oar.
“No need for that,” Angus said, smiling. “I’ll dry them myself.”
Dirdl nodded and went back to work as Angus moved to the tent flap and stepped outside. The workers were clambering over the rock, their mallets and chisels clattering away in a well-conducted ballet. The sun was near its zenith, and it was warm, as warm as it got in late summer, and there was a brisk, moist wind hinting of a storm. There were clouds to the west over the mountains, and Angus wondered if it was going to rain. If so, it might be wise to stay with the workmen another day….
He went to the down-slope side of the road to urinate, shaking his head at the extensive scorch marks from his miscast spell. Wasteful, he thought as his dark yellow stream shot outward with a vigor that nearly surprised him. I’ll have to prime myself before I leave. When he finished, he went back inside the tent and made his way to the wash barrel. Once he began scrubbing, he was surprised by how much dirt had accumulated on his skin, and by the time he had finished washing, Dirdl had already put his wet clothes in a pile on the table. Now he was taking the loaves of bread from the brazier.
Angus went to the table and focused on the magic only long enough to tweak a light red strand and make a single long, looping slipknot with it. He wrapped the knot around the clothes, as if he were tying up a horse to a stable gate, and slowly pulled the loop tight. As it dwindled, its energies escaped in a carefully controlled minor burst of warmth, just hot enough to cause a fog-like mist to sizzle up from the wet clothes. By the time he was finished, they were dry enough to put on, and he dressed quickly. I should have dried my boots this way, he thought, instead of letting my feet get infected. He returned to his boots, robe, and backpack; picked them up; and carried them to the table.
He dumped the items out of his boot and reached for the first one. He picked it up and hesitated. Where do they go? he wondered, holding a small vial of dark green fluid in his left hand. What is this, anyway? Then he shrugged, dropped it in his right hand, and quickly slipped it into a small pouch just below his elbow. He barely paid attention as he efficiently replaced the other items and promptly forgot about them.
He slipped his boots on, stretched—his neck barely twinged—and opened his backpack. He paused to unwind the bandage from his hand and looked at the burns. They were almost fully healed! No sense using the ointment, he thought, setting the bandage aside and flexing his hand. He still had full mobility, though his flexibility was a bit stiff. In time….
He sorted through his scrolls and selected two of them. He set them on the table and collected one of the lamps. As he returned with it, he broke off a sizeable chunk of bread from one of the fresh loaves. By the time he finished the bread and washed it down with a half flagon of beer, he had the lamp’s wick fully extended to provide the most intense flame.
“Dirdl,” he called.
“Yes?” the boy promptly replied.
“I must not be interrupted,” he said. “Is that clear?”
Dirdl nodded.
“Good,” Angus said, turning away and beginning the preparations for priming himself to receive the imprint of the spell from the scroll. It was a familiar spell, one he knew well. Still, he had to reinforce his memory to make sure he had both his body and mind receptive to the magic. He steadied his breathing and heartbeat, slowing them significantly in the process, and then cleared his mind of everything around him. The sights, the sounds, the smells—all of them disappeared from his awareness as he went through the process Voltari had taught him. When he reached the trancelike state, he brought the magic within himself into focus and quickly aligned it for the familiar spell, pleased to note how quickly the strands followed his direction. It wouldn’t be long before he wouldn’t even have to be in a full trance to prime himself. Then he turned to the second scroll.
It was a difficult spell. The strands were interwoven in a complex, ever-changing pattern, and he had to go deep within himself to connect with it, to manipulate it, to pave the way for the magic. The complexity was at the limit of his ability, and it would take all of his mental strength to prime it properly. It was a time-consuming process, but without it, the spell would be ruined—or worse; it would backfire.
When he was satisfied that he was once again in full control of the magic within him, he turned outward, shifting his awareness to the scroll’s pattern of knots and the runes mixed in among them. He followed the runes directions and gradually shifted his internal framework to match the one described in the scroll. Minutes passed before he reached synchronicity and was ready to memorize the knots themselves. It was the most vulnerable, sensitive point of the priming process, and he had only memorized a few knots when the workmen entered. They were laughing, talking, clapping each other, but Angus was completely absorbed in the priming and set the intrusion aside. He had to; if he lost control now….
Dirdl tried to intervene, but they pushed him aside and moved to the table, filling flagons with beer and grabbing loaves of bread.
Angus ignored them, turned to the next knot. It was a simple one, the kind that could easily be taken for granted….
Billigan cried out a greeting and sat down across from Angus.
The next knot was a complex one, and he almost made a mistake….
Billigan was chattering, going on and on about a wounded hand. Was it his? It didn’t matter; he needed to concentrate. Billigan paused, clearly expecting a reply of some sort.
Two more knots left….
Billigan repeated something he had just said, this time more urgently.
The last knot was crucial. It indicated how to conclude the spell, how to restrain the power unleashed in the spell and let its threads return to their natural state….
Billigan reached out, put his hand on the scroll. It crinkled as he gripped it too tightly. He pushed it unceremoniously down, trying to force Angus to look at him. “Angus?”
Angus shuddered, lost contact with the magic within himself….
He blinked rapidly….
The spell….
“Are you all right?” Billigan asked.
Angus took a slow, deep breath. The muscles along his jaw threatened to snap as the narrow slits of his eyes settled on Billigan’s sweaty, dirty hand gripping his scroll. When he lifted his gaze to meet Billigan’s, all he saw was a soft, blurry outline of a face. He blinked
once and noted how odd Billigan’s mouth looked when it was open, as if the teeth were trying to swallow the emptiness beside them. He blinked again, lifting his gaze up a few inches, meeting the wide-eyed fear in his companion’s eyes.
The scroll rustled as Billigan’s hand shook. He let go, and his arm snapped backward.
Angus carefully smoothed the intruding wrinkles, tried to erase the stains, and then rolled up the scroll. He turned to Dirdl and said, his voice a sinister whisper, “I told you no intrusions.”
Dirdl wrung his hands together. “I t-t-tried—” he stuttered. “They—”
Billigan closed his mouth, gulped. He took a breath, steadied himself somewhat, and said, “Don’t blame Dirdl. I didn’t listen to him.”
Angus turned his attention back to Billigan and said, “It can be deadly to interrupt a wizard when he is in that state.”
Billigan nodded. “My apologies, Mage,” he said. “I was unaware….”
Angus put the two scrolls in his backpack. “I assume you have a reason for the intrusion.”
Billigan exhaled, half-smiled, and nodded vigorously. “They’re back.”
“Who?” Angus asked.
“Them that was here last night,” Billigan replied. “The Banner of the Wounded Hand.”
Angus frowned. “Oh?”
Billigan nodded again. “They’re outside,” he continued. “They request an audience with you.”
Audience? Angus laughed, feeling the tension lifting from his shoulders as if he were shedding a pair of monstrous, crumpled butterfly wings.
The workmen grew quiet, watched him.
Dirdl looked as if he were about to jump into the laundry barrel.
Billigan chuckled and fidgeted, as if he wasn’t sure which he should do.
When his laughter dwindled to inconsistent chuckling, Angus stood up, draped his backpack over his shoulders, and said, “Well then Billigan, it is time we parted company. Thank you for the hospitality of your tent.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked rapidly toward the tent flap, thinking about that last knot and wondering if it ended in an inward or outward loop. It would do no good to look at the scroll to find out; the whole sequence had to be primed without interruption….
Hellsbreath
1
Angus stepped through the tent flap and was buffeted by a stiff, chill breeze coming from the mountains to the west. He turned that way and studied the clouds scattered across the horizon. Rain? he wondered. Another day in the tent? The sun was just past its zenith, though, and there was plenty of time to find shelter before the storm arrived. If a storm arrived; the heavy rain fell on the west side of the mountains.
Off to the side, patches of scorched ground were ringed by brittle, dry grass. If his aim had been lower or the workmen less efficient, much of the hillside would have been burned.
The boulder was lower than it had been the day before, and the stacks of cobblestones were a bit higher. Several men sat atop horses next to it, and one edged forward. It was Giorge.
“Hail Wizard,” he called. “Is it safe to approach?”
Angus half-smiled and thought about saying no, but waved him forward. As he neared, Angus asked, “What is it, Giorge?”
Giorge trotted to a stop a few yards from him, turned his horse sideways, and leaned toward Angus. “You aren’t going to try to kill me again, are you? That fire last night was a bit too close for my liking. I think it even singed my eyebrows.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider sneaking up on wizards,” Angus said, noting the thin black eyebrows were perfectly fine. His cloak was turned with the light gray inside and the black outside, but neither would provide much concealment in this rocky terrain.
Giorge grinned, the white of his teeth punctuating the brown of his skin. “No sneaking this time!”
“Indeed,” Angus agreed. “What of your friends?”
“Would you like to meet them?” Giorge asked. “They are anxious to meet you.”
“Why?” Angus asked.
Giorge moved his horse to the side and pointed at a slumped form draped over one of the horses. “We need a wizard,” he said. “Ours is dead.”
“Oh?” Angus prompted.
Giorge shook his head. “Poor old Teffles. He ran the wrong way.”
Angus frowned, wondering what he meant and not sure if he cared to know. “Billigan called you the ‘Banner of the Wounded Hand.’”
Giorge grinned and perched like a chicken strutting in his saddle. “That’s us, all right.”
“What is it?”
“What is what?”
“What is the Banner of the Wounded Hand?”
“That’s us,” Giorge said. “Ortis, Hobart, and me.”
Angus looked at the rest of the group—there were four, three of whom looked remarkably similar to each other even at a distance. “Who are the other two?” he asked.
“Other two?” Giorge repeated, looking back.
“There are five of you, but you named only three,” Angus said. “Who are the other two members of your little group?”
“Our Banner,” Giorge corrected. “We are officially sanctioned and registered within the Kingdom of Tyr.”
“Banner, then,” Angus said. “Who are the other two?”
“Why don’t I bring them forward so you can meet them?”
“All right,” Angus said, and Giorge quickly waved the others closer. “We can talk while we walk.”
“It’s better if we ride,” Giorge said. “We have an extra horse you can use.”
Angus frowned, wondering if he knew how to ride a horse. “Tell me more about this banner,” he said, trying to cover up his uncertainty. “What is it, really?”
“Well,” Giorge said. “It would be better to ask Hobart. He’s the one who started it.”
As the riders neared, Angus assessed them. One was a stocky, barrel-chested fellow almost completely concealed beneath the bulk of his dented, grass-stained plate armor. His wooden shield was a stark contrast to the metal plates, and the helm had clearly seen better days. The hilt of a sword stuck up over his left shoulder, the massive grip suggesting a sizeable blade. An axe dangled from a strap wrapped around the saddle horn, resting against the shoulder of his steed—a large black mare with fierce, battle-worn eyes. When he reined in his horse and removed his helmet, a tangled mass of wavy, tallow-textured hair cascaded over his shoulders and the sun glinted off the sweat lining his receding hairline. His moustache was thick and angry, and he had long sideburns, but his chin was free of even the barest hint of stubble. He leveled his walnut-colored eyes at Angus and nodded. “Well met,” he said.
Angus nodded in reply and turned to study the man next to him. He was of average build but looked almost dwarf-like next to the exaggerated bulk of the first man’s armor. He wore a gray-green tunic and breeches, and his brown leather boots were flexible, soft-soled, the kind that would fall quietly on brittle dry leaves. He held a bow loosely in his right hand, and a quiver of arrows was slung over his left shoulder. His left hand rested near—but not on—the hilt of a short, curved knife. He wore a brown leather cloak, and when his horse settled, he lifted the hood and let it fall backward. His skin was pale, like frothy fresh milk, and it contrasted wildly with the short-cropped black hair and the mottled gray of his steed. But what was most striking were his eyes: they had orange-tinted irises and the pupils were narrow, vertical slits—like a cat’s. Those eyes met his with an implacable gaze that suggested controlled violence tempered by deep wisdom, a kind of reserved preparedness for action.
“Well met,” the next man said, his voice a soft tenor that seemed to snap across the gap between them. Angus turned to him, and his mouth slipped open as a soft gasp escaped through his lips. The third man was the spitting image of the second man, even down to the peculiar orange eyes. Identical Twins! The man smiled—a thin, knowing smile with the cream of his teeth peeking through the narrow slit made by his lips—and the last man chuckled.
Angus frowned, turned, and blinked rapidly. Triplets? He had heard of them, of course, but they were rare. With orange eyes?
“I am Ortis,” they said in unison. There was no harmony or discord when they spoke together; their tone, their cadence, their words were perfectly timed, as if a single voice was approaching him from different directions. But it had none of the qualities of an echo.
“And I,” the armor clad one said, “am Hobart.”
“Angus,” Ortis said, ushering a saddled horse around the group. “Would you mind if we finish the introductions while we ride? We’re on our way to the Temple of Muff, and it is a matter of some—” he glanced behind them and one of his brothers continued without interruption “—urgency. We’ve already delayed much longer than we intended.”
“A little problem with my eyes,” Giorge said, smiling wistfully. “Fortunately, they recovered fairly quickly.”
“Glad to hear it,” Angus said without malice or regret.
“As were we,” Hobart agreed. “If he had not, our business with you would be quite different.”
Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “It was a rather minor spell,” he said. “I could easily have thrown the one I cast last night at him instead.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Giorge said. “I’m not altogether fond of being roasted.” He chuckled, and then added, “But it was a most impressive display of your talents.”
“Yes,” Ortis said. “When we arrived last night, we were hesitant about offering you a place in our banner, and it dispelled our doubts.”
“I believe you are on your way to Hellsbreath, are you not?” Hobart asked.
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 9