He took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze when she tried to look away.
“Every Sevenlander child gets a knife at a certain age,” he said. “You just earned yours, no matter how old you are. Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and never part with it if you can help it.”
Bethany nodded, and looked at the dagger with more reverence than before. The wild look of fear had left her eyes, though. It was the only thing he could dream up to try and take her mind from the killings. Besides—the girl had earned the knife, if ever a child had earned it. Perhaps now she could draw strength from this experience instead of being afraid of it.
Allen caught Dormael’s eyes, and nodded in approval.
D’Jenn stood up from where he’d been sitting, brushing the dust from his pants. He took the waterskin that Allen offered and drank, then handed it over to Dormael. Bethany clutched her knife and crowded in with the men, as if she were joining a command conference in some general’s tent. Dormael would have smiled if not for his deepening fear for Shawna.
“They’ve got a nice little spot up there,” D’Jenn said. “The trail winds a good way up the side of this peak, then turns upward onto a flat expanse of ground—that’s where the bastards have made their camp. The whole thing is surrounded by trees, and the entire approach is watched by archers they’ve got stationed at high places along the path.”
“Told you,” Allen said.
“What about the wizard?” Dormael asked.
“A Nelekan,” D’Jenn said. “The men all look like hire-outs—bounty hunters, back-stabbers, and sell-swords. They’re following his orders, but things are a little tense between them.”
“A Nelekan?” Dormael repeated. “He’s a long way from home. What in the Six Hells is a Nelekan wizard doing out here?”
“Maybe the empire has different ideas about magic than the rest of Alderak,” Allen said.
“No—using magic is a hanging offense in the Galanian Empire,” Dormael said. “Things keep getting stranger. Do you think he’s trained?”
“Not well,” D’Jenn said. “He had wards at different points along the road, but he set them up like a fool. I unraveled them one by one, and he doesn’t even know it’s been done. His workings are no better than a third-year Initiate at the Conclave.”
“And Shawna?” Dormael asked.
“They’re tying her to a post in their camp. She’s out cold, so nothing’s happened to her—yet,” D’Jenn said. “The quicker we get up there, the better.”
“You’ve seen the terrain,” Allen said, tapping D’Jenn on the chest. “Got a plan?”
D’Jenn gave Allen a crooked smile. “Can you still stalk a deer?”
Allen smiled. “Close enough to kiss the fucker.”
“Good. Dormael—your magic?” D’Jenn said.
“Hurts, but I can use it,” he grumbled. “I’ll have one bastard of a headache tomorrow.”
“Alright, then. Allen and I will go into the trees to either side of this trail they’re watching. We’ll take out the archers, and it’s knives only. I don’t want to alert the wizard that we’re getting close. Amateur or not, he’s dangerous.”
“Maybe more so because of that,” Dormael muttered, eliciting a nod of agreement from D’Jenn.
“Dormael—I want you in the air, drop in on their campsite and be ready to move. When people start dying, you go for this Nelekan wizard,” D’Jenn said.
“What about me?” Bethany asked, her tone and expression grave.
“I need you to find a good hiding spot,” D’Jenn said. “Somewhere on the other side of the pass, where you can see this trail. Watch for anyone leaving it, and don’t make a sound. We’ll need to know if anyone gets away.”
“And keep your knife close, don’t forget,” Dormael added, giving the girl a short, one-armed hug.
“I won’t,” she promised.
When the horses were seen to, and Bethany had scuttled across the road, the plan went into motion.
Dormael poured his magic inward and took his favorite form—the gyrfalcon. He pulled his way into the sky, fighting against the strange currents of air that always eddied around mountains. The wind howled through the passes, but once Dormael climbed out of it and spiraled over the trail, he stayed aloft with little effort.
He could see his brother and D’Jenn making their way through the shadows beneath the trees, ghostly forms in the blue and orange of quickening twilight. D’Jenn would be keeping his magic quiet, so as to avoid alerting the Nelekan wizard to his presence, and depending on their knife skills alone. Dormael ruffled his feathers at the pace, but there was nothing he could do.
Spotting the camp from the air was easy. Crawling about along the ground like some low-bellied lizard blinded one to the things surrounding them. The raptor, able to soar on the wind, saw everything. Even in the fading light, he picked out the campsite in stunning detail—in part because of the roaring bonfire that lit up one side of the hill like a miniature sunset.
The fools, he thought. Certainly they wouldn’t think to leave wizards alive behind them, and then display their position for anyone who cared to look?
What was going on here?
The camp was spread out over several hillsides, though one of them was full of tents and rigged shelters, with only a few men milling about between them. The large, central clearing that linked the rest of the campsite was where the bonfire raged, blaring its indifference to the night sky. A single, spare man stood before the flames, his narrow shoulders outlined by the light of the fire. He stared away from the bonfire, looking to where three men loitered around a stake that had been driven into the ground, and the girl who was tied to it.
Shawna!
She was slumped over, hair covering her face. Her hands were secured above her head, tied to a nail driven into the post. Another rope ran around her waist, and kept her back flat against the pole. The firelight reflected from her hair like molten copper. Dormael was careful to keep from silhouetting himself against the moonlight as he swung around for a landing. The bonfire would have blinded most of the fools in the clearing anyway, but it was always better to be thorough. Dormael found a suitable tree on the edge of the clearing, and clutched to a branch near the top, flapping his wings to stay upright.
He could go down there now. He could use the bonfire to roast the Nelekan—the short man standing next to it, Dormael guessed—and then kill the others with simple force. He’d have to hold off anyone else while he waited for D’Jenn and his brother to appear, but it might be possible. He itched to run to Shawna’s rescue.
It would be folly, though. Dormael had no idea what this Nelekan’s capabilities were, no matter what D’Jenn had said about him. He drew patience over his shoulders like a cold towel, and waited for bandits to start dying. He watched the clearing, and listened.
The three men standing around Shawna’s inert form were examining things in turn. One of them turned her swords around in his hands, staring open-mouthed at the craftsmanship. The second was snickering as he watched the third grope at Shawna’s breasts like an overeager adolescent. Dormael felt a surge of indignation at the sight, but forced himself to stay put.
“Karv!” the slim man called from near the bonfire.
Karv, who was four hands taller and twice as thick as the shorter man, straightened from his fondling with a baleful look on his face.
“The fuck you want, Jureus?” he rumbled.
Jureus, Dormael thought, a Nelekan name. He had been right—the short man was the wizard.
“Leave the girl be,” Jureus snarled, though Dormael couldn’t tell how much of his anger was pure bravado. “My Master wants her unharmed, and that means unsoiled by the likes of you. So stay away from her. You can bugger anything else you find out here, but not her.”
“That’s the thing, Jureus,” Karv rumbled, his meaty thumb flicking along the blade of an axe tucked into his belt. “There hasn’t been much come through here, has there? You promised u
s all a case full of silver marks, and all the pillage we wanted. Taking the cunny from what we catch is part of the deal. You haven’t paid us that case of silver marks yet, and the way I see it, I’m owed a piece.”
Grumbles issued up from around the camp, disembodied voices in the shadows.
“You had a girl just three nights back,” Jureus said, his voice cracking in the upper registers. “The drover’s daughter. I had to get rid of the body because you left it lying about, like a dog with its favorite chew toy. Like a fucking beast.”
So, Jureus was not a slight man, but closer to a boy. Karv’s attitude toward him, the slight frame, the cracking voice—how did a boy with Eindor’s Blessing get involved with this lot? The kid had balls, challenging a man like Karv, but he looked to be in over his head.
And who is this Master he’s talking about?
A few scattered laughs bubbled from the shadows at Jureus’s comments, and Karv shot a mistrustful glare around the camp. His hand tightened around the haft of his axe, but he paused just on the edge of drawing it. Kid or not, Jureus must have shown these men something in the way of dominance, else they wouldn’t follow his orders.
“The drover’s daughter was a bore,” Karv spat. “Just laid there the whole time, grunting like a pig.”
“That was you,” one of the men behind Karv said, and laughter burst out in the camp. Karv’s face darkened. He looked to be losing his little popularity contest, and he didn’t like it.
“Point is,” Karv shouted over the laughter, bringing the noise to a low murmur, “you ain’t paid us, kid. You owe us—you owe me, by the gods. This girl, she’s pretty. Noble. A man gets one chance all his life to fuck a girl like that, and I’m taking it.”
“No,” Jureus said, his voice shaking, “you’re not.”
Bits of flame, like roiling balls of liquid, blossomed from the fire and hovered behind Jureus, casting a flickering reflection in Karv’s eyes. The campsite tensed. A few moments passed in silence, and then Karv turned, spitting to the side.
“Fuck the girl, and fuck you, kid. I want my gods-damned money,” he said.
He stalked to the other side of the camp from Shawna, and Jureus turned to the men gathered at the edges of the firelight.
“All of you!” he called, holding his hands out. “If you’ve got any bright ideas about slitting my throat, or making a bold stand like our friend here, do it now! The fire needs blood before I can do my work, and yours will work as well as mine!”
Only silence answered him.
“Good,” he spat, turning back to the bonfire.
The fire needs blood before I can do my work?
Dormael watched, transfixed as Jureus began scrawling in the dirt. He held a stick out before him, as if he was an artist painting in broad strokes, and used the stick to direct a burning point of flame that charred lines through the rocky dirt. His Kai sang out into the night—a rough, unfocused melody that spoke of forced confidence and deep sorrow.
Jureus whipped a long dagger from his belt, and let his eyes linger on Karv for a moment, conveying a threat. When he was satisfied, he whipped the blade along his arm, drawing a bright line of blood. As it dripped onto his fingers, he flung it into the fire, accenting words he spat in a harsh, guttural language that Dormael had never heard. The blood, when it met the flames, sputtered away in little wisps of black smoke, screeching discordant tones as they were consumed. Dormael’s heart stopped when he realized what was happening.
The bastard was using necromancy!
Necromancy was a thing so rare and reviled that not much was known about it, even at the Conclave. Dormael tried to put his stunned mind in order, so that he could recall what little he had read on the subject. He knew that necromancy required blood, or bodies, in order to fuel the abilities it granted. Those abilities, though, were debated, and the only thing that Dormael could remember was an ability to control dead bodies.
“Master,” Jureus said, drawing Dormael’s attention back in his direction.
A new person was in the campsite, standing over a kneeling Jureus in a flowing black robe. The form hadn’t been there just seconds before, and Dormael realized what sort of spell Jureus had been casting. The robed figure was still, and though Dormael couldn’t see its face, something in the posture conveyed a disgust for its surroundings, a subtle hatred for whatever its gaze fell upon.
Jureus kept his face in the dirt. The rest of the camp had gone still as glass.
“Your report?” the form hissed, its voice like snakeskin sliding over sand.
“I have the woman, Master. Her belongings, too. I have succeeded in my mission,” Jureus said. Dormael could sense the sort of fervor in his voice reserved for religious awe.
“What of the child, Jureus?” the cloaked figure asked. “The wizards?”
“I…had the child, Master,” Jureus said, his voice faltering. “My men had her, but one of the wizards must have saved her. I couldn’t get to her in time. We had to make our escape—but we have the woman! I took her from those Sevenlanders, just as you instructed me.”
Wonderful, Dormael thought. Someone knows a great deal about us, and we know nothing of them.
The cloaked man stared at Jureus for a long moment, letting the silence fill the pregnant air between them. He moved then, pacing around the camp for a moment before turning his eyes on Shawna and stalking in her direction. The cloaked figure crouched, peered sideways at her, then rose to spin on Jureus.
“You have the right woman, but that’s the only thing you managed to get right, Jureus,” it hissed.
“Master, I don’t understand,” Jureus started, but the figure spoke again before Jureus could go on.
“Yes, you fool—you don’t understand. That is the problem exactly,” it said. “ Your orders were to secure the girl and woman together, and to bloody make sure you killed these two wizards. Do you remember that part of your orders, Jureus? Kill the wizards. Are you telling me that you’ve left them alive, and at your back?”
“Master, we have the high ground. The approach is watched. They cannot get within an arrow’s shot of my sentries without my knowing,” Jureus said. He probably would have straightened his back and clicked his heels together, were his face not planted in the rocky dirt.
“You demonstrate your folly with each word that tumbles from your idiot mouth,” the figure said, exasperation clear in its tone.
“Master, I don’t understand,” Jureus repeated.
“Clearly!” the cloaked man roared, stomping over to Jureus and hovering there, as if he was about to kick the prostrate boy. “Think, you buffoon. You’ve gone and stolen something precious from two Conclave-trained wizards, and then left them at your back. You will be lucky if you live out the night.”
“Master, I—”
“Silence,” the man said, holding up a single finger. Jureus obliged him, and clamped his jaws shut. “Luckily for you, your better is only a few days’ travel from you. You will do your best to hold your position until she arrives. Because the more likely outcome will be your death, you will cast a tracking spell on that armlet. I want to be able to find it after your corpse is cold.”
“Yes, Master,” Jureus grunted, straining his voice as if he was in pain.
“If you somehow survive what is coming, Jureus, I will be so surprised that I will give you an honor, and carve another of the Secrets into your flesh. If not, then go to the Void knowing that you are a fool, and I regret the lost chance to kill you myself,” the figure spat.
Then, without a sound, it was gone.
Jureus continued to lie prostrate for a few moments after the cloaked figure—or his shade, Dormael supposed—had departed. When he finally climbed slowly to his knees, he had a dark look on his face.
“Karv,” he said in a quiet, dangerous tone. “Go check the sentries.”
“I ain’t been paid today,” Karv grunted. “Fuck yourself, kid.”
Jureus turned a black look on Karv, his eyes expressing a warning
of violence. Jureus couldn’t stand that level of humiliation in front of these brutes and survive it, not without carrying out some display of his power. His age, and the berating he had just received, would work together to propel him down the most brutal path available. Dormael watched with apprehension.
Jureus reached out a hand and clenched it, as if he was grasping an apple from a tree.
Karv cried out in pain and rose from the ground, his arms and legs outspread. The other men who had been nearby scrambled away from him, cursing as they scattered. Karv let out a noise somewhere between a squeal of pain and a scream of rage as Jureus tightened his magic down upon him. The hulking sell-sword rose his own full height above the ground, and floated over the fire, close enough for the fur on his boots to curl from the heat. He struggled in tight, controlled spasms, but Jureus’s magic held him like an invisible fist of iron. The man could struggle all he wanted, but Jureus would feel none of it.
Dormael spread his wings and leapt from the branch, trying to glide down into the fringes of the camp, where the shadows were heaviest. Everyone was distracted by the show, and Jureus’s magic was employed—there was no better time to strike. If Allen and D’Jenn were in place, then they would know. If they were still making their way up the trail, then Dormael would have to hold his own until they arrived. His talons hit the dirt, and Dormael poured the magic back into himself. He felt the moment of change keenly, knowing that he was vulnerable. His heart beat in vicious thuds that marked every passing second with anxiety.
Then, it was over, and he was crouched in the dirt, teeth clenched as every eye in the camp turned in his direction. Jureus, hand still outstretched in Karv’s direction, went wide-eyed at the sight of him, and raised his second hand to point at Dormael. Dormael readied his magic, and rose to his feet.
“To arms!” Jureus shouted, but the camp was already in chaos.
Dormael heard startled cries from the direction of the trail, and the ring of steel on steel. He split his consciousness in two so that he could work two separate spells at once. It was the only way to fight another wizard—to have at least one attack hidden, or a defense readied to counter whatever spell your enemy might employ. Some wizards—D’Jenn, for instance—could split their minds into several compartments, each directing a separate thread of magic. Dormael could barely push four splits at once, and each of those needed to be simple. He rarely needed to push himself so far, though. Dormael had the brute strength in his Kai to compensate.
The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2) Page 18