by PMF Johnson
Shef Menesketh was nearly as good with magic, but had an honorable bent that likely would get him killed someday, if he stuck around a ruthless crew like this. Shef might hesitate a moment, but Rock would kill quick as a snake and with as little forethought.
As would the Preacher, but the Preacher would rather another did the deed. He wanted to be their leader, but that meant being out front, a position the Preacher abhorred.
As for the Owl... Arch realized he didn't see the Owl. Where was the man?
Arch quickly stooped down, beneath the height of the bushes around him. Then he slipped to his right so his silhouette would merge into the trunk of the tree beside him.
The Owl would be someplace close. Arch was sure of it. He knew the half-elven's reputation -- several tough men had died by his hand -- he was skilled beyond even many full elven at woodcraft. And a canny hunter. With the tumult of the storm, down here near the water, the conditions would be exactly to his liking. He had been living in the Magic for years.
Arch felt at home here too and knew his own skill, but could he possibly match the Owl, who used planar magic as one born to it and knew elemental magic too, if rumor be right? Arch must assume he did -- to be wrong would be to die.
The stream chuckled through the bracken. Arch's hair was standing on end from the energies of the gathering storm. He worked to keep his breath steady, keep calm.
A fist-sized ball of fire exploded with a thump, head-high, then vanished as quickly.
Silence. The Owl had thought Arch was farther to the right, and chanced a spell. Now he awaited Arch's response. But Arch made none.
That had been a fireball, elemental magic, but Owl's real dangerous skill was his planar magic -- his spells could change a man, physically, spiritually even, involuntarily. Rock used his will magic with brute force, overwhelming his opponent, but the Owl was more subtle and far more dangerous.
To cast a planar spell, the mage must apprehend his foe clearly by sight or other sense, then hit him with the power of his will. As with elemental magic and conjurations, planar magic required a preparatory phrase and a trigger word. The first phrase opened a Gateway to the Outside, setting up an imbalance of energies between this world and the Outside, then the trigger word called that energy into the body of the mage, where the mage's own will shaped it into power to affect others -- overwhelming foes by locking down their will, even forcing people to do what they would never choose.
Few mortals had the strength of will to stand up against the power of the elven, who, being immortal, lived for centuries, strengthening the will into an overwhelming force. Planar magic manifested as a ball of blue energy streaking from the caster to strike the victim, similar to the red-orange seed that triggered an elemental fireball. Except, if the mage saw his victim, planar magic did not miss.
To survive Arch must get off his own magic first, and be accurate. Against the Owl he better be.
The poplars gusted in the wind and the clouds started to glow faintly in violently shifting colors -- reds, cold blues, icy greens, ghastly browns. The brush grew thickest near the stream, but there were open spots here and there where a careful man might pass through.
Staying low, Arch worked his way through the undergrowth, seeking an advantage over his foe. Tree limbs creaked and knocked against each other and an eerie feeling pervaded -- faint auras of energy floated under the top most branches, crackling.
A fork of lightning lit the area.
In its eerie light, the two men spotted each other, a dozen paces separating them. By chance, the Owl had the advantage, being pointed straight at Arch.
Arch dove into the returning darkness, rolling and tucking to land half behind the trunk of a poplar, facing his enemy, his staff at the ready for the next stroke of lightning.
It came, a horrible, bloody red light revealing an empty clearing, a movement of branches on the far side.
Arch did what he never should, launching a spell at what he could not clearly see -- the fire seed leapt from his staff and exploded on the far side of the clearing. The sharp smell of lightning arose, from either the magic or the storm above.
Immediately, a blue ball of magic streaked at him from only a few paces away, struck him low and exploded. The whip of energy blazed through his body. He had been rising, but a wild twitch of his leg as he lost control of it drove him backwards, falling into the brush.
He fired another fire seed, then twisted and scrabbled further away into the brush on his stomach, his right leg a strange, heavy weight dragging behind, a casualty of the will magic. He fell into a tiny dip in the earth.
There he lay, in a sudden fight to control his own body, to overcome the power of the Owl's will, to regain his will over his own leg. And at the same time stay aware of his surroundings or be killed out of hand. He felt the mockery of the elven aimed at him, an emotion that came with planar magic.
A glowing blue pellet flew just overhead, then another a few steps over -- blindly seeking him. The storm was in full fury, and he had the weird impression that each surge in the storm was reflected in the glow of the pellets whipping past, that somehow the Owl used the very storm to increase his own magic in the hunt for Arch.
Arch used his staff to leverage himself up. He outwaited a rush of dizziness...then hobbled out into the night, using his staff as a crutch. He was badly wounded and could fight no longer, couldn't even trust his leg not to betray him -- who knew what Owl could do at a distance, with his will magic, now that he had a spell hooked into Arch?
Arch could feel the heaviness rolling forth from his leg, urging him to sit down, rest, that it was too hard to move, to keep on. That was the will magic, working on him.
Grimly he fought, will against will, using the years he had built up his toughness in the Magic and his core sense of who he was, what he intended with his life, to keep him continuing.
He had to get away. To survive.
He thought of his horse, and went that way. Deeb and Mara? Too far -- anyway, the Owl would expect him to retreat to them. He would not lead these men right to their prey.
So then where?
The Ruskiya.
#
Mara stood beside the wagon, listening in the night. Deeb and Galle held bows in their hands. Lok drifted overhead, ready. In the brush far up the creek a light flashed, followed by a hollow boom, then more lights, some flame-colored, some an unholy blue.
Mara gasped. "He's fighting them. Will he...can he survive?"
Deeb spoke to reassure her. "He might. I expect he will, honestly."
Lok began to dart from place to place, as though terrified, or maybe enraged by the magic. Those spells looked powerful enough to tear their imp apart.
Deeb called out a preparatory phrase, establishing a magical connection to Lok, then spoke an imperative, commanding the imp to return to him. Reluctantly the imp did so, but Deeb could feel the surge of power as the imp fought the command. He had never felt his old companion so agitated. It reminded him the imp was an alien being, at some level unknowable by any mortal.
He held the imp close, against his will, feeling the cruelty at the basis of any conjuration, but needing the imp now more than ever. Even in the midst of the storm, he could smell sweat -- the smell that arose from conjuration magic.
Deeb looked at his little family, and it struck him how vulnerable they were here. He must protect them the best he could. He could not wait for Arch. "We must go. Now."
Lightning flared in crazy colors overhead, lightning and something weirder, more dangerous, directed by unseen hands. Voices cried out in the wind, and the landscape at the edge of sight seemed to flow and change, black melting into black.
Deeb and Galle hitched up the mules, then as quickly as that they were traveling out into the darkness. Deeb pointed them away from everything, away from the creek, the brush, whatever had happened back there. His only thought was to get his family away, lose themselves in the Wilderlands under the cover of night.
The
mules went willingly, with eagerness even. The battle, or the night itself made them restless. As well it might. Lok traveled overhead, barely restrained, tugging at Deeb's will, tiring him. Determined, he slogged on.
They worked their way uphill in the darkness, but Mara felt as though the night itself flowed along with them, shunted them along, mingled with them, entering their souls somehow to turn them cold and wild. It was making the way easier, but guiding them as well -- to where?
They topped out on the prairie and Mara drew in her breath in surprise. The night was no longer dark -- gold, green, grey lights flowed and played in the heavens above them -- clouds glowed as though lit from within and everywhere in the sky were faces -- huge, misshapen, laughing with hate and glee, flinging bits of cloudy substance back and forth at each other as the wind raged and the rain came in sideways sheets, slapping their faces, stinging their eyes and cheeks. And the small wagon rolled along unprotected. The mules stumbled to a halt, overwhelmed. Mara had never felt so vulnerable.
Galle spoke over the wind. "Pa, I'll drive now."
As he spoke, Mara saw grey lights in swooping through the darkness, joining together in patterns around them, above Galle.
The whirligigs. They swirled around her son, not attacking, but in concert with him somehow, performing a strange, swift aerial dance. She did not understand, but she felt the tinge of awe. Her son belonged out here now, in a way her husband and she never would.
Lok ducked away from them, descended to hover just over Deeb's head, a pale form glowing in the black night, more clearly visible than she had ever known.
Deeb shifted aside, and Galle took the reins. He spoke softly and the swirling lights came down to hover ahead of them, showing the way. Their wagon moved forth into the night, guided and escorted by the whirligigs. The attention of the creatures in the sky turned away from them. Lightning crashed still, but never close and the colors seemed more brilliant than horrible now. They wended their way through the light show and passed into the night.
Yet even now, the mules labored, hauling the wagon through the heavy, wet grass, across the softening earth, making heavy work of it.
Mara felt how hard this was for them, and suddenly she was berating herself. How dare she endanger her husband and son this way for the sake of a few petty things? Stuff. What was important, after all? As soon as the opportunity arose she would have them dump the worst and heaviest of the things. But now was not the time to speak.
They rested in the night, stopping in place as the rain poured down and the wind blew. Galle faced the storm, his silvery skin faintly glowing, the same pale sheen as the whirligigs displayed. He said nothing and seemed almost as much of the storm as they were. But though her son's situation troubled her heart, she could do nothing about him, either.
"I'm afraid for Arch," she said.
"He'll make it through," answered Deeb.
"What if he's wounded?"
Deeb hesitated, then spoke slowly. "I fear for him as you do. But we can do nothing for him now. He will come after us as soon as he can."
He fought an awful sense of gladness that Arch was in trouble, fought the sense of cruelty he felt, an inevitable side effect of conjurations: magic always had a cost, one generally paid by a person's soul. He did feel sadness for Arch, did fear for the man. He would not deny his human self, his better nature.
They went on. Finally the rain lessened and the worst of the storm let up. As dawn turned the sky grey, Deeb kept an eye out for a place to rest. He was surprised at how happy he felt to see the land was no longer flat, here. Who could have known how much he would miss simple hills?
He looked back. Had the storm washed away their tracks? He thought it likely. Maybe none of them back there, not even Arch, would find them. That lightened his spirits enough so he considered why having Arch around might be bothering him. Not for Mara's sake -- she would stay true to him, as he would to her.
So was it just how foolish and clumsy he felt around the graceful mage? Arch moved with a compact certainty that Deeb could not match. He almost felt humiliated before his own family. After all, a woman wanted a man who could provide for her, take care of her and their children. It was a basic human instinct. Arch displayed that ability naturally, more so than Deeb.
Well, Deeb would just have to improve out here. He was already learning -- he had made the decision to leave, back there, and so they had done, and now they were farther away and somewhat safer. Acting, even without knowing exactly what to do, had resulted in this. His choices could turn out well if he backed them with action.
Ahead in the growing light, he saw a stand of timber down in a hollow. He turned the mules that way. They moved easily on the descent. He pulled them up not far from a small pool of water.
"Galle," he said, "go back up to the rim and keep watch for us, but stay hidden as you do. I'll water the stock here. They'll want something to eat, as we will ourselves, Mara."
Galle lingered a moment. "Why are we stopping in the middle of the day?"
"I want to start traveling at night. We can't outrun anyone, so let's out-hide them. The ground is rockier here, we'll be leaving fewer tracks. And the Magic itself will help us -- it's more chaotic here, the sky keeps changing, and even the ground has been shifting ahead and behind us. I've watched it. We won't be so easy to follow for a little while."
Galle nodded but stood awkwardly, as though steeling himself to admit something. "I see...through their eyes." He waved at a few whirligigs, nearby. "Took me time to understand what was happening. They mind me, a little. I can set them to watch for us."
Mara drew in her breath, surprised, then feeling a rush of tenderness for her son as Galle ducked his head, shy even before his parents. He was growing up.
Galle sent out the whirligigs in all directions to keep watch. Deeb did not intend to rely on the strange creatures entirely, not knowing what exactly would stir the little creatures to alarm. He had Lok stay close to protect them against any unexpected magical assault.
They rested, sleeping and watching by turns. The prairie was drier -- cactus mixed with wiry brush formed the ground cover. Out east the land was more barren. A soft mist descended throughout the afternoon. A small herd of tough-looking, antelope-like beasts moved past, cropping as they went. The whirligigs rose up restlessly at one point, but though Galle went on alert he saw nothing through their eyes, and after a time they calmed down. There was so much they did not know about this land, Deeb thought, not even all they needed to beware.
Lok had not reacted to whatever stirred the whirligigs, so Deeb had to assume it had been a physical danger -- a wolf, or big cat, perhaps -- since the imp should have responded to any magical threat.
Mara investigated the small dell where they had stopped, discovering the small pool was watered by a spring that arose at the base of a stone-faced hill. The hill had crumbled at one spot, leaving an opening into the hillside that fell just short of being a cave. The ground was sandy at that spot, and it was very quiet, peaceful even.
She returned to Deeb. "This is a good spot. We can leave my ancestors here."
"What?" Deeb was astounded. "I don’t understand."
"Help me start unloading the wagon," she said. "You and Arch are right, it's too heavy. My people will understand. I'll promise, when we can we will come back for them."
She brushed her tears away. Her loyalty had to be to the living. The dead must wait.
Chapter Ten
The Owl entered camp, the others rising to their feet in anticipation of his news. He went to the fire, poured rover's tea for himself from the battered tin pot. Rover's tea could be made from any of a number of plants. In this area, chicory and sweetroot gave the drink a nutty flavor. The Owl nodded in appreciation.
The Owl was broad-shouldered, more human than elven in appearance, not given much to talk, wearing a leather vest and shirt, cloth pants and a kerchief over his feathered head. His abbreviated wings stirred as he nursed his tea.
"What went on out there?" asked the Preacher with impatience.
"He's a fighter, that one," said the Owl. "From a-way back."
"You kilt him?"
"When it is light, I will go and find out."
"You didn't go after him? He could be creeping up on us right now."
The Owl dipped out stew from the shared pot, broke off a heel of bread. He looked up briefly at the Preacher. "If you are interested in seeing whether he is dead, I invite you to go out after him and find out. We shall all learn from your actions."
Rock snorted in disbelief. "Owl, there are times I might mistake you for being pure elven, no mortal in you at all."
The Owl showed no reaction to this comment, slighting as it was. He simply finished his stew and bread, cleaned his cup, dried it with a shake, put it away and went to his blankets. "He knows this land. If he has survived, he will return and someone will be killed."
"If he's wounded out there," Ulf said, his eye twitching, "I'll find him in the morning, and he'll wish he was dead."
#
Arch was in dire trouble. He found a heavy stick to use as a crutch, and with the force of his will battled the surges of magic rolling through his leg, keeping his staff in his right hand for a fight, using his crutch to move.
Fighting the will magic drained his strength. He went only a few dozen paces before he had to rest. Such magic left its own taint in the ether -- predators would follow his trail, knowing him to be wounded.
He encountered a rivulet rushing through the grass, and went into the water to throw off pursuit. The Owl would not be so easily tricked, but water blanketed magical emanations, and even with the Owl it might gain him a little time. After moving downstream, he found a rocky outcropping and used that to lever himself out of the water, leaving as little trail as possible. Rain came down steadily. Unpleasant as it felt, he welcomed any chance it would make his trail harder to follow. With the Owl behind him, he would need every edge.
He had to rest again. He leaned on his makeshift cane, aware of the flicker of a campfire only a few hundred paces away. Surely these were his enemies, who would be after him soon. He limped off, woozy, working to maintain his balance, trying to sense some feeling in his leg, to battle the numbing magic which constantly threatened to spread to his waist, his chest, to stop his heart.