by Barb Hendee
"Sestmir!" he shouted. "Now."
Someone dropped feet-first through the window, landing on the floor between her and the undead nobleman. His eyes were bright, and his open mouth showed jagged teeth between elongated canines. Point downward in each fist, he held long, triangular daggers.
He lunged, stabbing down at her chest.
Magiere rolled right, coming to one knee. She clenched the falchion's hilt with both hands as she reversed her twist and brought the blade down on the back of his neck. As the edge hit, he jerked upward in panic, and the blade cleaved through.
His body toppled backward. His head struck the sill and bounced down between his legs. Dark liquid pooled on the floor around the corpse.
Before the head had even stopped rolling, Magiere was on her feet. She felt something cool and wet flowing around her left foot as she faced her first opponent again.
For the first time, he looked uncertain. He'd moved like a much better swordsman than his actions portrayed. Why the toying, and why the loss of bloodlust she'd felt from him? He no longer showed an interest in killing her, yet he also made no overt move to flee.
She still felt her own hunger, and stepped away from the cold wetness around her feet.
The tall undead began whispering, the movement of his lips quick, and his eyes rolled up once before he made a flashing gesture with his hand.
The clothing of the headless corpse upon the floor burst into flames.
The heat was blinding, and Magiere shielded her face with her free hand. When she looked back a moment later, the nobleman was gone. The fire climbed the wall around the window.
"Magiere!"
Leesil burst through the door and held one arm up at the sight of the flames. He looked about frantically, until she reached out and grabbed his arm.
"I'm here."
Something metallic brushed against her, and she saw his new blade still clenched in his fist. It was stained black, and fluids smeared on her forearm as he turned toward her. Shallow, jagged cuts ran along his throat and shoulder, bleeding down his chest.
"You're cut," she choked through the smoke.
Leesil crouched, shielding his face from the blaze, and he reached out to grab the nearest handle of their chest across from the bed. He jerked it toward the door. The fire now lapped across the ceiling, and its crackle grew deafening in Magiere's ears as the air became painfully hot in her chest.
"Grab the other end," he yelled. "We have to get out of here."
She spun around the chest and grabbed its other handle. Leesil had never been one to care much for possessions, but hauling on the chest, he pulled it and her out into the hall. As she passed through the frame, Magiere snatched her sheath by the door where she'd left it.
Leesil dropped his end of the chest, leaving his blade on top, and ducked inside his room. He picked up his sheath from the bedside and tossed it to her. Magiere slapped it down on top of the chest with his blade.
Magiere was stunned to see young Vatz kneeling next to Chap, an empty crossbow in his arms and quarrels tucked through his belt. His overlarge hazel eyes watched the animal in either worry or anger. Leesil scooped up the hound in his arms.
"Hurry up," Magiere said. "Vatz, where's your uncle?"
"He's out," the boy answered, and followed Leesil to the door. "I take care of things when he's with his lady friend, and he…" His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as he looked back down the hall. "What the hell did you do?"
Smoke rolled along the hallway ceiling from out of Magiere's room.
"Not now," she snapped, and shoved him toward the stairs.
Leesil hurried after Vatz, Chap in his arms. Magiere tucked their weapons under one arm and dragged the chest behind her. It suddenly occurred to her why Leesil wouldn't leave the chest behind: His box of tools was inside. She shuddered at the thought of what he'd wanted to save as she glanced back at the smoke-shrouded hallway.
Ashes and fire, as well as blood, seemed to follow wherever they went.
Chapter 14
As the light of the Burdock's flames faded in the southern merchant district of Bela, a different light shimmered unnoticed near the north point of the Outward Bay.
A large ship skimmed the water, rounding the point, long and sleek, its iridescent sails reflecting the crescent moon's light. Sails began to fold, and it slowed well away from the harbor to slip as close to shore as the bay's depth allowed. A small shape bobbed upon the water, moving away from the vessel.
Slender as its parent, the longboat glided into shore with four cloaked forms aboard-one to the stern, two at the oars, and the last at the bow. As the boat drifted to a stop, the forward passenger leaped out upon the gravelly sand.
His cloak was colored between charcoal gray and forest green. He wore a scarf around the lower half of his face and a cowl covering his head. Large amber almond-shaped eyes gazed back at the longboat. He raised a slender gloved hand.
His companion in the stern returned the gesture and called out, "D'creohk."
"To an end," he repeated back in the language of the land he now stood upon.
"And good hunting, Sgaile," his companion added.
The longboat drifted back toward the ship, and Sgaile fled into the shoreline trees.
A light rustle of autumn leaves and pine needles on the forest floor followed in his path, with no thump of footfall or crack of twig. When the nearest of Bela's outerlying villages was in view across the fallow fields, he settled upon the mulch carpet between the trees. He would wait and enter the city by daylight amongst its populace on the streets.
Sgaile sat still in contemplation. Word had passed to the homeland from the city's watcher, and then to the ship where he'd been assigned.
"A half-blood?" he whispered.
So few such aberrations existed in this world. He was mystified why this particular one distressed the watcher enough to call through the trees across the continent. Sgaile had never met a half-blood. Traitor, this one had been labeled, and in that there was possible sense. For the only one he heard of had been born years ago to another traitor to his people… a traitor to her people.
Aoishenis-Ahare-Most Aged Father-was wise beyond comprehension in ancient memories, and as leader of Sgaile's people, knew more reasons than his descendants why they should fear the humans. It was not Sgaile's place to challenge such wisdom, though it concerned him that he did not know how or why his target had been judged.
He untied the cloth strap running crossways over his chest and pulled its end until the narrow bundle it held to his back slipped from under his cloak and into his lap. He unfolded the cloth, arranging his belongings with care, and made sure each piece was in proper condition.
Picking up a tube of silvery metal and two double-curved lengths of polished, tawny wood, he assembled the short-bow and strung it. Five arrows with teardrop points also lay on the cloth. His stilettos were strapped to his forearms beneath his shirt.
Setting the bow across his lap, he reverently picked up his last possession, a plain but finely crafted wooden box as long as his forearm, wider than his palm, its depth less than the thickness of his wrist. When he opened it, he carefully inspected each item within, from the strangling wire to the bone-cutting blade, to the delicate struts, hooks, and implements hidden beneath a second panel in the lid.
Traitor, this half-blood had been called. The only other Sgaile knew of who'd borne such judgment was now dealt with. And her child, if that was truly who this one was, would not receive the mercy she had been granted by her people-or by her kind, the anmaglahk.
Magiere and Leesil trudged through the late-night streets to the front door of the sages' barracks. Lanterns to either side were extinguished, but Magiere banged upon the door anyway.
By good fortune, her breeches and boots were in the chest, so she hadn't had to walk the streets half-naked waiting for some guard to arrest them for indecency. She was certain her hair was a wild mess. Her shirt hung loose, black smears and spatters acr
oss it. There were no marks of her own blood, but her ribs and hip ached where she'd been kicked. She was about to pound on the door again when it cracked open.
To Magiere's relief, Wynn Hygeorht peered out, clutching her robe closed. She held up a lantern, its light somehow brighter than any Magiere had seen.
"Oh," she said, "it is you."
She took sight of Leesil's state of undress and his gashes, and the massive gray form of Chap in his arms. Magiere knew she didn't look much better. Wynn's eyes widened in alarm.
"Spare a little bread for a few beggars?" Leesil jested.
Wynn jerked the door open. "Come-come inside."
It was then that Vatz stuck his head out from behind Leesil. Wynn's surprise grew, but she motioned the boy in as well.
"What happened? Why are you carrying Chap? Is he all right?" Wynn asked all at once.
"He's alive," Leesil answered, "but can't seem to walk on one front leg."
Without another question, Wynn ushered them down a hallway, then along another passage that emptied out into a kitchen. Magiere imagined the room probably looked similar to when it served the city guard, but now narrow wooden poles hung from the ceiling with a variety of harvested herbs arranged there to dry.
"Lay him on the table," Wynn said. "I must find Domin Tilswith. He has more medicinal knowledge than I."
Setting the lantern on the table next to Chap, her hand hesitated, about to touch the hound lightly on the head. Instead, she hurried away back down the passage.
Vatz walked up to Chap but didn't touch him either. "He won't die, will he?"
There was a bit of concern in the boy's voice beneath his general fuming. For half the walk to the barracks, he'd spouted a never-ending barrage of angry questions and foul exclamations over the fire at the Burdock. Magiere had bitten her tongue more than once. As much as Vatz had every reason to be upset, it wasn't helping matters. They could only apologize so many times in one night.
Leesil shook his head adamantly at Vatz. "No, absolutely not. You won't believe how soon he'll be up and around again."
"Good. I thought that vampire was gonna kill him."
At the word "vampire," Magiere closed her eyes for a few breaths. Small for his age, probably due to poor diet, Vatz couldn't be more than ten years old and yet spoke so matter-of-factly about something she'd only recently come to accept.
"Well, you saved him," Leesil said. "A good shot."
"I was aiming for the bastard's eye."
Leesil roughed up the boy's already frayed hair.
"Knock that off," Vatz snarled. "I'm not your dog!" But he remained at Leesil's side.
Magiere felt a stab of loneliness and the desire to see little Rose at the Sea Lion again. She'd never really paid attention to how children so easily attached themselves to Leesil-even those who didn't show it openly. Though in all honesty, Vatz didn't behave much like a child.
After they fled the inn, the boy roused the locals, and a fire brigade was organized faster than Magiere thought possible. The local constabulary arrived, and Leesil gave them a story about brigands raiding the inn. The Burdock's bottom floor was lined on the outside with stone, and one-story buildings bordered it. With enough people at hand, the fire was kept from spreading, and a portion of the ground floor might be salvaged.
So far, no one had located Milous, the innkeeper, and Magiere dreaded facing him. She planned to ask Lanjov for council money to rebuild the Burdock. If he refused, then the cost would come out of her and Leesil's final payment. Milous and Vatz couldn't be left homeless and without a livelihood.
Leesil knelt and took the crossbow from Vatz. Smaller than most, its length was two-thirds of the boy's height.
"How did you load this?" Leesil asked.
"I didn't," answered Vatz. "My uncle loads it for me whenever he leaves for a night."
"We're safe here," Magiere said. "You shouldn't need it anymore."
"Course I will," he answered. "I'm gonna help you fight vampires."
Leesil looked at Magiere.
"I don't think so," she said, putting an end to the subject.
"It probably pays better than sweeping floors or packing some fop's baggage," Vatz added.
Leesil frowned and sat on the floor next to the boy, showing him how to put his feet against the bow and use his legs to help pull the crossbow's string back to the catch.
The sound of trotting feet — flooded in from the hallway. Wynn reappeared, followed by an older sage of medium build and close-cropped silver hair and beard with a few hints of black remaining. His bright green eyes appraised the room's occupants. Like Wynn, he wore a simple gray robe, and his expression was somehow calm and concerned at the same time. Magiere guessed this was the head of Wynn's order, Domin Tilswith.
He stepped close to Chap and said something to Wynn, though Magiere didn't understand the words he spoke. Wynn retrieved a small jar from a shelf behind the table and handed it to the domin, but her gaze was locked upon the dog.
"Can you fix him?" Vatz asked in a challenging tone.
The elder man smiled down at the boy. "Yes, but not know he need me." The accent of his broken speech was like Wynn's but thicker. He turned toward Magiere. "I Domin Tilswith, head of new branch of guild. Your dog heal now."
Magiere peered to where the domin gently fingered Chap's fur. A narrow cut along the hound's right shoulder was no longer bleeding and had closed. Wynn also studied the wound, and her lips parted, speechless.
"What about his front leg?" Magiere asked. "Is it broken?"
Tilswith felt gingerly along the limb, and Chap let out a low whine.
"Bone feel right, but…?" He paused to speak again to Wynn in their strange, guttural tongue.
"Fractured," she added for the old man. "It might still be cracked."
She quickly poured a liquid like brewed tea from the jar onto a large wooden spoon. She was about to lower it to Chap's muzzle but stopped. Looking to Magiere, she held out the spoon.
"This will help the pain and allow him to sleep. Perhaps you should try. He seems to listen to your words most."
"Not lately, he hasn't," Magiere said, but she took the spoon.
Putting one hand under Chap's jaw, she tilted his muzzle up. Leesil put his hands around the dog's shoulders to hold him steady. Oddly enough, Chap didn't struggle and lapped the fluid from the spoon.
"Good boy," Leesil praised.
Chap licked his jowls and laid his head down.
Domin Tilswith looked from Magiere to Leesil to Vatz and then chuckled.
"We not see visitor at night much. I have… salve? Yes, salve for wounds." He stopped suddenly and examined Leesil's cuts more closely. "Claws?"
"Fingernails," Leesil answered.
The domin raised one eyebrow and picked up another jar. Wynn fetched a bowl, filling it with water from a clay pitcher, and began washing Leesil's throat and shoulder with a clean cotton cloth. She worked gingerly, but Leesil still flinched, and Magiere tried to see how deep the cuts were.
"They're not bad," he assured her.
Once Wynn finished, the domin liberally applied white salve to Leesil's wounds.
"Good stuff," Leesil remarked with a soft smile. He rolled his wounded shoulder a little, but didn't wince at the movement.
"May I take that with me?" Magiere asked, pointing to the jar. "I may need some myself… later, in private."
The domin merely nodded and handed her the salve.
"What happened to all of you?" Wynn asked. She glanced up briefly from stroking Chap's back.
"Blazes and bloodsuckers is what happened," Vatz grumbled.
Before Leesil could add anything, Magiere presented a less colorful and somewhat sketchy account of the night's events. When she finished, the domin spoke with Wynn. The elder had some trouble with the Belaskian tongue, and it was annoying not knowing exactly what he now said. With a nod to her elder, Wynn turned to Magiere.
"You must be tired, and we have a room for you."
&nbs
p; "A room?" Magiere asked, somewhat startled. "We just needed to get inside and didn't know anyone else in the city. We'll stay in the kitchen until sunrise and then find an inn."
"We know Lanjov," Leesil suggested dryly. "Perhaps he could put us up?"
Tilswith chuckled again. Wynn tried to scowl disapproval at him but couldn't hide her own smile. The two knew the council chairman well enough.
"Domin Tilswith says you should stay here," answered Wynn, "with us-for the remainder of your time in Bela. We have quarters set aside for scribes or visitors. You will be safe here and able to save your coins for other needs."
Magiere was uncertain but relaxed a bit more. These sages reminded her of Karlin back home, who still thought his own generosity of spirit was commonplace. She looked to Leesil to see if he agreed.
"Thank you," Leesil said to Wynn. "We do need the rest."
He picked up Chap, and Wynn grasped her lantern to lead them back through the passages to the far end of the building. Along the way, Wynn assisted Magiere in retrieving the chest. She showed them to a simple room with no door and two identical sets of stacked wooden bunks. Blankets had already been laid out, and another of the brilliant lanterns rested on a table at the room's rear.
"Will this do?" Wynn asked, as she led them inside.
"It'll do fine," Magiere answered.
Leesil laid Chap on the lower bunk to the left and gestured to the bed above it.
"Up you go, Vatz. We'll find your uncle tomorrow."
Vatz stood outside the doorway. His normally dour and serious expression had given way to worry as he glanced up and down the dark hall at the row of openings to similar rooms. Perhaps he'd expected to be placed in a separate room. At Leesil's words, he appeared openly relieved and scrambled into the bunk above Chap.
Leesil pulled a blanket over the boy and added, "Hunters of the dead stay together at night."
With a grunt of acknowledgment, Vatz pulled the blanket under his chin and closed his eyes. Magiere wondered how often the boy was left on his own and what had happened to his parents.
After helping Magiere to settle the chest, Wynn placed her lantern on the table, sliding the one there closer. She removed its tin cap and frosted glass, and as she reached toward the exposed light, Magiere almost called out. The sage's slim fingers closed about it and were stopped firmly before pinching out the illumination. When she lifted her hand, the light came with it, perched between her fingertips.