He spotted his brother, screaming mad and covered in blood, laying about with that long, curved saber. Allen had kept his mount, and fought a desperate battle. His horse was one of the combat-trained Cultist mounts, and it lashed out with its hooves to kick anything that moved in its periphery. Allen tried to clear a space around him, but the confusion was too great.
D’Jenn was picking out random men in the shifting, dusty mass, and killing them in flashes of red light. Dormael didn’t know what sort of spell he was using, but D’Jenn’s methods were often mysterious. He let his horse spin and kick all she want, and instead of trying to calm her, he concentrated on laying about with his magic. Dormael could sense the furious storm of his cousin’s Kai, which was no doubt working on several things at once. D’Jenn still found the presence of mind to whip out with his morningstar from time to time, when one of the bandits got too close.
Since D’Jenn was occupied with the attackers, Dormael turned his attention to finding a way out of this ambush. He spun around until his eyes fell on the fallen tree, and fixed on it with his magic. Seizing it in his Kai, he started to lift the heavy thing from the ground.
Horse whinnied as Dormael’s weight began to increase. He cursed and distributed it around him instead, leveraging his power against the rocks on either side of the trail. The tree shifted and cracked, uttering groaning protests as it began to rise from the ground, trailing a shower of dirt and pine needles. Concentrating, he moved the tree off to the side, thinking to toss it into a group of their attackers.
Bethany’s hand tightening on his arm was all the warning he had.
Pain exploded on the back of his head, and everything went hazy. His world toppled end over end, and he slammed into the ground. A rushing, pounding noise drowned out his hearing. Dirt filled his mouth and nose, and his magic left him like a tide receding from the shore. The tree made an awful racket as it crashed to the ground nearby, and screams lifted in its wake.
Dormael tried to rise, but pain rushed from the back of his head all the way to his legs, and his muscles gave an involuntary spasm. He dug his fingers into the dirt with a silent gasp of pain, and tried again. This time his body responded, but his head swam with the effort. Blood ran from the top of his head down into his mouth, and he spat to the side.
“Grab her!” he heard a voice growl, and he forced his head up to see.
Two men were reaching up to Horse’s saddle, each trying to grab hold of Bethany. Horse spun, fighting to keep them away, but one of the men stepped into the horse’s side, and took hold of his reins. The other got a hand on Bethany’s ankle.
“No,” Dormael growled, trying again to get to his feet.
The man pulled her from the saddle, even against the girl’s flailing arms and legs. She landed on the ground in a whimpering heap, and tried to scoot away. The pounding hooves and stomping boots in the chaos, though, kept her rooted to the spot. She saw Dormael bleeding on the ground, and gave him a frightened look. Dormael’s heart wrenched in fear as he reached for his magic, but the power eluded him, running through his mental fingers like slippery oil.
“Kill the wizard, we carry the girl back to Jureus,” one of them said.
A black feeling took root in Dormael’s guts. His head was full of wool, and his skull was probably cracked. His magic wouldn’t respond to his frenzied commands, and Bethany was out of his reach. He saw a hand reach down to take Bethany by the hair, and he cried out. Bethany screamed, and then Dormael felt it—tingling along his arms and legs like a thousand spiders racing over his skin.
The girl had summoned her power.
Bethany threw up her hand in a gesture of pure instinct, shying away from the man who was reaching for her. A yellow light flickered over the girl’s body, down across the ground, and leapt onto the bandit like a critter made of shifting motes. He screamed and stumbled back, and Dormael watched in fascinated horror as the lights sank into his skin and began to crawl around beneath it. His body swelled, distended, and burst like an overripe melon in a shower of gore.
Bethany saw her handiwork, and her eyes went wide with fear. Pebbles began to dance along the ground as her emotions climbed to a fever pitch, her magic reacting with fury and fear. Dormael clenched his teeth again and fought to rise from the ground, this time getting to a knee. Another man grabbed Bethany from behind, but she fought free of his grip and scrambled away.
Dormael saw something in her face, saw her reach a breaking point. Her expression changed between one instant and the next—from abject terror to something cold, something determined. In the space of a single heartbeat, Bethany’s eyes alighted on the man pursuing her, and she concentrated. Dormael felt her magic—wild and unfocused only seconds before—move with deadly purpose.
The man was flung away from her in a spray of blood, making a wet smacking noise as if he’d been swatted by the hand of an invisible giant. His body flew into a nearby tree, cracking limbs on his way to the ground. Dormael watched in awe, then turned a surprised glare on his newly-adopted daughter. When he looked back at her, though, she was once again huddled into a ball.
Dormael hissed in pain as his body protested, and fought down a wave of nausea as he climbed to his feet. He stumbled over to where Bethany was crouched and put his arms around her, croaking in her ear that it would be alright. He’d never seen anything like that look on her face before, and couldn’t help but feel a chill run down his spine at the memory.
Another gurgling scream sounded from behind them. Turning, he saw Shawna pulling one of her blades from the throat of one dying man while stepping like an eel through the space between two others. As the first man fell in a spray of blood, she slashed open the thigh of a second. The third man had enough time to attack with a desperate slash at her face, but Shawna tapped his sword aside with contempt, and repaid him with a delicate cut across the eyes. He stumbled away, screaming in agony. Shawna turned as the three went down, looking for another enemy to come screaming out of the chaos. The woman must have abandoned her horse in favor of fighting on foot.
Dormael grabbed at Horse’s reins and pulled the beast around so he could plant Bethany in the saddle. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each thud coming with teeth-clenching pain. Once Bethany was perched on horseback, he struggled into the saddle behind her. His legs went weak as he climbed, and he almost pitched back into the dirt, but was able to right himself and get seated.
Dormael reached to the back of his head and probed at the wound, even as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had a cut, and a vicious, swollen bruise, but his skull was whole. Even as the dusty chaos raged around him, Dormael breathed a sigh of relief at that. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then tried once again to summon his magic.
Shawna’s scream ripped his concentration away, and he spun in her direction.
A crowd of men surrounded her, and one of them had tossed a net over her head. Shawna screamed in rage and hacked at the thing with her blades, but one of the bastards stepped forward and knocked her to the ground. Dormael tried to haul Horse around in Shawna’s direction, but he was too slow. Even as he watched, the men closed in and dragged her into the woods.
He reached again for his magic, but the damnable power slipped from his mind, leaving nothing but a dull pain in its wake. Dormael cursed, spurring Horse after the men who had taken Shawna. He headed for the side of the road, where a trail meandered into the woods. Growling, Dormael spurred Horse up the trail, after the cloud of dust and the retreating bandits.
Flames roared to life before him, appearing from nowhere to reach three times the height of a man. Dormael felt the sensation of magic being used—a tingling along his arms and legs—but he couldn’t hear the song without listening to his own power. He spent a confused moment wondering why in the Six Hells D’Jenn would prevent him from chasing their attackers before he realized the truth.
The bandits, whoever they were, had a wizard amongst them.
Dormael cursed and wheeled Horse b
ack out onto the trail. Only his brother, D’Jenn, and the corpses were left in the chaotic aftermath. He was astonished to see at least twenty men lying dead on the packed dirt, blood flung about in every direction.
Allen was covered in gore, his sword a dripping mess. He heaved out great breaths from atop his horse—a spotted chestnut he’d named Old Girl. Allen spun her in a circle, surveying the carnage around them. Dormael’s eyes went to the man whom Bethany had burst like an overripe melon, his remains nothing more than a splotch of blood and organs.
D’Jenn held his mace out to the side, spikes dripping onto the dirt. Dormael felt the pressure of his cousin’s magic along his skin, and resisted the urge to reach for his own. D’Jenn looked to Dormael, Allen, then glanced around in the fading dust, his eyes going wild.
“They took her,” Dormael said, guessing the direction of his thoughts. “They took Shawna.”
“They got away with her horse, and most of the remounts, too,” Allen said. “Let’s regroup, then we’ll get up that fucking trail and take them back!”
“Wait,” D’Jenn said. “Earlier, was that…I mean, I thought I heard—”
“Yes,” Dormael interrupted, guessing his thoughts again. “You’re right—they have a wizard.”
**
Maarkov watched the corpse of the sailor move about the beach, gathering up what little equipment Maaz wished to salvage from the wreck. Scattered detritus had washed up throughout the day—crates, cloth, bodies—but Maarkov knew that they would find little use in any of it. Maarkov could feel his lip curling in disgust at the sight of the strega, at the thought of it’s slimy, dead hands upon anything that Maarkov might later touch. The thing moved like a person—in fact, it was capable of moving better than a person. The strega could run until its legs rotted away, or were damaged in such a way that they could not function. The strega never tired, it performed to its utmost strength, it never asked questions, nor did it give protestations. Without some aspect of his brother’s will controlling it, however, it would simply stand and stare into the distance.
Maarkov hated the bloody things.
The sailor had formerly pulled Maarkov through the surging water, dragging him to shore in the dark. If Maarkov was alive, then he would have owed the man that life. When he had seen Maarkov’s face in the moonlight, and realized whom he had saved, he had tried to run. Maarkov had been fine to let the man go, but Maaz had already made it to shore. The sailor didn’t get ten staggering steps through the sand before Maaz had him.
The thing on the beach, though, was just the meat leftover when the man was gone.
“Why are you barefoot?” Maaz asked from behind him.
“Because my feet are wet, you idiot,” Maarkov spat. “My feet, my hands, and everything I gods-damned own is soaked. I don’t have magic to dry my clothing, so I have to do it the old fashioned way. Is there something you want?” Maarkov didn’t look up, but he could feel his brother’s irritation like heat just over his shoulder.
“We’ve been blown farther north than I had intended,” he said. “We’re near the easternmost foothills of these Runemian Mountains, and we’ve got a long way to go. Days of travel to make up. We’ll need to eat before we leave.”
Maarkov shuddered, his eyes shooting into the distance behind him, where a small group of lights could be seen in the fading sunlight—a village. They had washed up the night before, and had been on the beach the entire day since. Maarkov was surprised that no one had come from the village to the beach, but this didn’t look like a well-traveled area. People were there, though—and Maarkov knew what his brother planned on serving for dinner. Maarkov wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.
“The strega found your sword. It was tangled in some sailcloth, snagged on something that washed up. I thought you’d like to know. When your clothes dry out, we’re leaving. I want to be off this beach before midnight.”
“Too bad I don’t have my whetstone,” Maarkov said, a smile coming to his face before he could stop it. He felt Maaz’s presence at his back, and the air was pregnant with tension. Whatever it was he wished to say, however, he elected to keep it to himself. Maarkov didn’t turn to see where his brother went, he just listened to his fading footfalls.
Like the strega, Maarkov didn’t need to breathe, to sleep, to slow down. He could perform to the limit of his body’s ability, as well—given that he partook in his brother’s blood rite. If Maaz wanted to make up days of travel, then he would undoubtedly be pushing them to run, non-stop, to their destination.
Unless they had horses at this little village, which Maarkov hoped was true. The horses could be run until their hearts gave out, then his brother could animate them with his power—which granted them all the abilities of the strega. Maarkov hated the animated corpses, true, but he would ride one if it meant saving his boots. It was so hard to find a good pair of boots, and nothing about running through these foothills all the way to Ishamael sounded like a boot-healthy practice.
Sighing, Maarkov rose to make his way back down to the beach and collect his sword. He was thankful that the thing had washed up—finding a good sword was harder than finding a good pair of boots. He looked out over the surf, watching the waves roll in with the tide. The waves hid the rocks that had broken their ship apart in the bay. The rain had passed on, and the sunset was almost idyllic.
Then, the strega passed before his vision, and Maarkov spat into the dirt. He thought about grabbing his blade and slicing the thing’s head from its shoulders—that would certainly enrage his brother. If he dispatched the corpse, though, it would be Maarkov who was relegated to carrying and hauling. Plus, one more pair of hands meant a bit less killing for his own to do.
The gods knew there was plenty of that to come.
**
“They have the high ground,” Allen said, gesturing at the trail where the bandits had escaped. “If I were them, I’d set my camp somewhere I could post archers who could draw on a target long before it got up that trail. I’m willing to bet they’ve got people watching it for just that sort of assault.”
“How many men could they have left?” Dormael asked, gesturing at the twenty-two corpses they’d lined up along the side of the road. At least twenty-four had been killed—the one Bethany had splattered couldn’t be collected with the others, and the one she had thrown from the road had disappeared. “For that matter—why attack us in the first place?”
“Long remount train,” Allen pointed out. “Makes us look like rich traders.”
“Yes, but…something about this doesn’t make sense,” Dormael said, clenching his teeth. “First of all, this wizard with the bandits.”
“Why?”
“Think about it,” Dormael said. “A member of the Conclave would never turn to banditry. Your average Hedge Wizard is paid the least, and they enjoy a lavish lifestyle compared to your average highwayman.”
“Maybe they just enjoy a bit of rape and pillage.”
“Doubtful,” Dormael said. “If that’s the case, then they’re risking a lot doing it here. We’re at the summit of the Runemian Mountain range, practically overlooking the city of Ishamael—and well within reach of the Conclave. Whoever they are, they’re risking their very lives by demonstrating their power here. As soon as the Conclave caught wind of what was happening, the response would be swift and deadly. Whatever this is, it isn’t about loot.”
“They took Shawna,” Allen muttered, looking up the trail and working his jaw. “You think this was a kidnapping?”
“They tried to take Bethany, too,” Dormael said. “And they made every effort to kill the rest of us.”
“You think these are mercenaries more than highwaymen?”
Dormael shrugged. “Maybe just opportunists. The thing I’m chewing on is the identity of our magical friend up there.”
“Can he set traps—magical traps, like in the old hero stories?” Allen asked.
Dormael nodded down at where D’Jenn was sitting cr
oss-legged, scouting out the trail with Mind Flight.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
Bethany stood, clutching at the hem of his cloak and staring at the spot where she’d killed the two men. Dormael had one hand grasping the girl’s shoulder, trying to convey a sense of comfort. The look of cold determination on her face when she had killed the second man stuck in his memory like it had been nailed there. She had been learning rudimentary uses of her power, but to have used it to kill at such an early stage of development…Dormael didn’t know what to say to her. When this was over, he would find time to explain it all as best he could.
For now, though, they had to concentrate on getting Shawna back.
Dormael reached down into his boot and slipped out one of his smaller daggers—a double-sided blade with rounded quillons. He turned it over in his hands, flipped the blade into his fingers, and offered the hilt to Bethany. She accepted it, holding the dagger in both hands like a miniature sword. Dormael reached down and corrected her grip.
“Here, like this,” he said, pulling one of her hands away and closing her other around the hilt. “Stick the pointy end in the bad guy, got it?”
“Got it,” she nodded.
“Always keep good hold of that knife, and don’t let it fall out of your hands. Got it?”
“Got it,” she nodded again.
“And listen—always put the point in the softest bit you can find, right? Behind the knee, under the jaw, just over the collarbone,” he said, pointing out each area on the girl’s body with a quick little poke. “Never let your enemy see the blade coming. Savvy?”
“Savvy,” she breathed, keeping her eyes on the dagger.
The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2) Page 17