North Star Guide Me Home

by Jo Spurrier

  ‘It’ll be alright,’ Cam said. ‘Trust me.’

  She would trust him with her life. And she wanted this, like a freezing man craving the warmth of a fire. In his arms lay respite from uncertainty, a safe harbour, if only for a few moments.

  No, she thought, longer than that. A lifetime. A family. A home. She had to stop second-guessing, stop thinking of what-ifs. Not for everything perhaps, but here, with the people she loved. Sooner or later, there must be some things she could take as certainties.

  She pulled her shirt off, and reached for the knot that bound her quilted breast-band. With a tug it came undone and Cam peeled it from her shoulders before stripping off his own shirt. His skin was darker than hers, bearing a golden tan even here near midwinter, and dusted with fine pale hairs.

  He stripped off his breeches and did the same to hers, and then bore her down to his sheepskin mattress pad, thick and soft. When he lowered himself onto her he was not an oppressive weight, pinning her down, but merely trusting that she could take it.

  She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him close, shifting beneath him, but as she wrapped her legs around him, Cam pulled back with a low chuckle. ‘What’s the rush? By the Black Sun, Sirri, you’re so impatient. There’s no need —’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she demanded. ‘How do you know what tomorrow holds? How do you know we won’t be driven apart again before the sun even rises? What if this is all the time we have?’

  He studied her from inches away, propped up on his elbows. His skin was so warm, a luxurious heat. His smile slowly faded, and he bowed his head to her. ‘Fair enough. You’re right, Sirri, and it’s unkind of me to tease. But you know, I don’t mean to live the rest of my life on a knife-edge like this. When we get back home, I’m going to build something that will last, a place where we can live, not just exist. One day, you’ll feel safe enough to think of the weeks and months ahead of us, and the years, too. I swear it.’

  Something in his words unsettled her, unnerving her enough to make her lip tremble, and Sierra caught it between her teeth. The thought of planning so far ahead struck her with a deep chill of unease, like committing herself to something that seemed doomed to failure.

  Cam kissed her, and Sierra returned it with desperation, trying to drive away the sudden fear. When she pulled him down, he made no protest, but only insisted on going slowly, slowly, until she gasped and shivered at every touch.

  Then, when at last her fears and her unease had fled, driven away by the echoed sensation from Cam’s every nerve and sliver of skin, there came a kind of tickle within her skull. Sierra closed her eyes with a small shake of her head. Oh, by the Black Sun, she thought. Why now?

  There was a shift of weight within her head, heralding a new presence. Oh, Rasten said. Am I interrupting something?

  Cam felt her go still and froze. ‘Sirri?’ he whispered.

  She screwed her eyes shut. Tigers take you, Rasten. After all I’ve been through, can I not have just a few moments of solace?

  He sounded genuinely contrite. My apologies, Sirri. I would have waited, but this is urgent.

  An apology. The words had come smoothly, too. That was new. He’d expressed regret in the past, but the words had been halting, hesitant. Sierra noted it with curiosity and then opened her eyes to find Cam staring down at her with concern.

  Gently, she pushed him off. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, ‘it’s Rasten. He says it’s urgent.’

  At the sound of his name Cam went tense. He pulled away, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on over his head. Then he reached for hers and passed it to her. What is it? she said as she pulled it on. What’s going on? And why have you broken your silence now?

  You thought the Akharians were planning an attack? Well, you were right. They’re out in force.

  She clenched her teeth. How many? And how far? Has the camp been alerted? And what are you doing there? We thought you were off to the north and west.

  I am. Isidro found a way through my shields. There’s something strange going on with him, Sirri, but there’s no time for it now. I’m looking out at them through his eyes.

  Issey … he’s up and alert? And what in the Fires Below is he doing at the enemy lines?

  Don’t worry about him, he’s got his wits about him for the moment.

  Really? If he’s gone out alone to look for the cursed Akharians I have my doubts about that. But how —

  Sirri, I told you, there’s no time. The base camp doesn’t know, and he has no way to reach them. You need to send word, and then get here fast.

  Sierra bit her lip, hard enough to make it sting. It was no easy distance back to the camp — if they’d been within range, Cam would have had them press on through the night. Rasten, I can’t reach Isidro. I’ve been trying.

  I know, Rasten said. I told you, there’s something odd there.

  Can you help them?

  If I can work through him, maybe. I’ll do everything I can. I haven’t freed these people only to see them slaughtered. Get the camp alerted and the new mages mobilised. For the rest … I’ll try to come up with something. In the meantime … it might be wise to get on with what I just interrupted. A bolt of power waiting to back us up might be useful.

  Sierra sighed and cast a glance at Cam. He’s not a beast trained to perform on cue, Rasten.

  No, I suppose not. I … I just hope he …

  Rasten tried to cut the thought off, but speaking mind-to-mind was not the same as speaking aloud. With tongue and lips one might cut off an unwise thought before it passed the lips, but in this manner of speech, talking and thinking were one and the same. Sierra heard what he meant to leave unsaid. I just hope he treats you well.

  Never mind, Rasten quickly said, a sudden flare of anger behind his words. Forget I spoke. No doubt he’s far better to you than I ever was.

  Don’t worry about that now, she told him. Just see to Isidro and the camp.

  I will, he said. I promise, I’ll think of something. He broke the contact with a wrench, leaving Sierra gasping on the furs as the tent spun around her. As she slumped, Cam steadied her, resting one hand on her shoulder. ‘Sirri, are you alright? What’s going on?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m fine, truly. But Cam …’ she broke off, scowling. By the Black Sun, where do I begin?

  Isidro lay on his belly in the wet grass, still watching the Akharian lines when Rasten returned. She’ll alert the camp, and send you some power if you need it. You should get back to camp —

  How far are they? Isidro asked.

  Too far to help. They might make it by mid-morning.

  These troops must have been in contact with the ones leading Cam’s people away, Isidro said. As soon as Cam broke off the chase, they mobilised.

  Seems likely, Rasten said.

  Isidro frowned down at the men and horses. The night was moonless, the sky choked with low clouds threatening rain. The Akharians were using mage-lights to guide their troops, so there was little chance he’d be spotted. They’re almost ready to move out, Isidro said.

  All the more reason to head back, Rasten replied.

  Isidro didn’t move. There’s nothing I can do there to help. It’d be better to attack, to throw them into disarray. It’s the only thing that will make any difference.

  Isidro felt Rasten consider his words. Rasten was no warrior, he had no mind for assaults and defences, and the ebb and flow of battle.

  You don’t have the power or the skill for that, Rasten said.

  No. But you do. And I’m a Blood-Mage, aren’t I? Isidro said. I may not have the training, but I have the tainted spark, the same as you do.

  I can’t teach you, Rasten said. Even if we had the time, I wouldn’t. I’ll never teach another soul what was taught to me. Not even if it means your death. I’d rather weather Sirri’s fury than make another creature like Kell.

  I understand, Isidro said. That’s not what I’m asking. Can you … can you do it through me?

  Another pause. Are you
sure that’s what you want?

  If we don’t act, there’ll be a slaughter. We don’t have much time.

  As he lay in the mud, Isidro felt very strange. He was soaked to the skin and should have been shivering with cold, but he felt utterly indifferent to the wet earth and the intermittent, pattering rain. He should have been outraged to be sharing his head with Rasten, but he just … didn’t seem to care. It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps Rasten was not the same creature who’d tortured him a year ago, but that still didn’t equate to this trust and acceptance. He hadn’t changed that much, surely … either of them. Don’t worry about it now, Isidro told himself. Your mind’s not working right. And it doesn’t matter, anyway — what matters is doing what we can to protect the camp.

  We have to strike them hard, Isidro said, sow chaos and confusion in their ranks and throw them into disarray to give the camp’s defenders an edge in repelling the attack. Can we do it?

  There was a long silence, long enough to make Isidro clench his teeth in frustration. Rasten! Answer me.

  You don’t know what you’re asking.

  We need to act. Can you do it? Yes or no.

  From Rasten he felt a sudden flush of panic. I … there has to be another way.

  He was afraid. It struck Isidro with a kind of shock. He wasn’t merely being reticent. He was petrified, and it wasn’t the fear of a young lad who’d never faced a fight before. No, this was the fear of a man who’d fought and suffered for it, who now recoiled with a visceral revulsion from the mere thought of stepping into the fray again.

  No, Isidro said softly. There’s no other way. Those people are depending on us, and they don’t even know it. You have to do this. It’s the only way.

  Sirri said it would be over when Kell died. She said I could leave the old ways behind. She said I would be free!

  She meant well, Isidro said, but none of us can know what the future will hold. Do you want to make up for the evil you’ve done? Isn’t that why you’ve been freeing the slaves, using the blood arts to bring on their power? It’ll be for nothing if you fail to protect those who need your help.

  I … I can’t. I don’t want to … I swore a vow.

  If you keep it, thousands will die. Is your vow worth more than their lives? You know the debt you owe. You’re not a coward, and here, after a decade of powerlessness, you have the opportunity to do the right thing. Do it, Rasten, you owe it to the world. You owe it to me.

  He felt Rasten draw a deep breath. I can do it. But you’re not going to like it.

  I can live with that. But if you keep these folk alive and free, I’ll like it just fine.

  You say that now … but you have no idea, Balorica. No idea at all. Don’t think you’ll get out of this unscathed because you’re only along for the ride.

  I realise that.

  You have no cursed idea what you’re talking about. But you will, soon enough. Just remember that this was your idea, and never say I didn’t warn you. Where are the mages?

  Isidro had identified them while Rasten was talking to Sierra. Three here, down in the centre. The same sense that led him here told him there were dozens of detachments spread through these hills. They’d have to move quickly if they were to do enough damage to make any difference.

  Only three? Rasten said. I suppose they must be running short. How much power do you have?

  As he asked the question, Rasten pushed further into Isidro’s head — and it was only then that the unease Isidro had been expecting finally broke through. But by then it was too late; Rasten had taken control, flexing the fingers of Isidro’s left hand, turning his head this way and that to orient himself. When he reached for the store of power wrapped around Isidro’s spine, he went still. Where did that come from?

  Took it from the men down there, I think.

  Hmm. Sirri always said you have a way of absorbing power. Like a hearthstone soaking up heat, she said.

  Something like that.

  Well, it’s enough to begin. Let’s move.

  Rasten pushed his borrowed body upwards, making no attempt at concealment.

  The men spotted him in moments, even through the rain and the darkness and the dim gleam of the lanterns, and within moments a dozen bows and spears were trained upon him.

  Rasten kept a steady pace, even when one of the officers barked an order to shoot, and in an instant every bow facing him was raised and pulled to full draw.

  He spun a shield, covering him like a veil woven from smoke, and when the arrows struck it they flashed to ash in an instant, the iron arrowheads melting to globs of molten iron that hissed and spat on the wet grass.

  A mutter of unease ran through the men, and from one of them a cry went up. ‘Mage,’ he called in Akharian. ‘Mage here!’

  The officer rapped out another order, and the men bunched in Isidro’s path fell back, wheeling their horses. Rasten let them go — conserving power, Isidro guessed.

  As the soldiers fell back, the mages gathered together to strike and loosed a crushing wave of force. Acting on instinct, Isidro spun a shield of his own, and as the combined blow struck he ducked under it, using the shield to deflect it just as he’d deflect a blow from a sword. This was not the way mage-crafted shields were supposed to work, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made the unfamiliar forces of power and mage-craft match his warrior’s training. Still, the strike fell with bruising impact, making him slip and stumble on the wet grass, his shield giving off a flash of light and spitting sparks. Isidro dropped, rolled and kept moving, forcing the mages to turn to keep him in view. Mages were supposed to fight like this, circling like knife-fighters, but Isidro saw his chance and darted forward. The nearest mage was shielded, and though the man flinched he didn’t truly retreat, trusting to his shield to keep his enemy at bay — but it was flawed, like Rasten’s. It seemed to be a sheer, unscalable wall, but it was an illusion, no more solid than a waterfall.

  With a spear of power, Isidro slipped through it like a needle through cloth. Rasten snatched control again, reaching for the knife at Isidro’s belt — but with the absent right hand. For an instant, Isidro felt his bewilderment — the discrepancy between mind and flesh so disorienting that it threatened to break his grip.

  The mage staggered back, and before he could recover, Isidro lunged and kicked him in the belly, following it up with a punch to the jaw.

  Then Rasten seized him again with a grip so tight Isidro knew he stood no hope of breaking it. He snatched at the knife with Isidro’s left hand and reached for the man with the stump of his right before breaking off with a wordless growl. That’s cursed annoying. He snatched for the mage with a lash of power, yanking him down into the mud and dropping to kneel on the back of his neck.

  Tell me about it.

  Don’t shift your weight, keep him pinned —

  I know, Isidro growled. He’d been learning how to fight hand-to-hand since before Kell had taken Rasten from his kin, but he bit back on the thought.

  Rasten cast another shield, turning the shouts around them faint and dim. How did you get through his shield?

  It looks solid, but it’s full of gaps, like the spaces between rocks in a stone wall. Once you know what to look for, it’s obvious.

  Kell’s the only one I’ve known who could do that, Rasten said. Alright, give me your hand. As Isidro shifted his weight Rasten seized the limb and traced a sigil into the mage’s back, burning through his clothes with the sudden reek of scorched wool, followed closely by the sickening scent of charred skin.

  Beneath Isidro’s knee, the man screamed, bucking with desperate strength.

  Power came in a sudden heady stream, filling Isidro’s head with a golden song. It was entrancing — washing over him and sweeping him away …

  Rasten was not caught by its siren call. Somehow he kept his attention on the prisoner pressed into the mud. He reached into the fresh rush of power, and with a bludgeon of shimmering, singing force he shattered the soldier’s femur. He did it aga
in on the other side, and then broke his arms one by one, crushing each elbow to splinters. Then, with one final blow he cracked the man’s pelvis, and then rose smoothly to his feet, turning his back on the crippled mage even as he keened a low moan of pain, breathless and broken in the mud.

  The rush of power hit Isidro with the first blow — it washed over him like a wave of acid, like fire in his veins, searing his nerves and wrapping around his bones with an acrid touch, washing over him as hot and fetid as a tiger’s breath.

  Rasten forced him to walk away. The mage’s scream reminded him of wounded horses on a battlefield, the beasts driven to madness in fear and pain. He kept trying to turn back, but Rasten would not lift his eyes from the other mages, each of them now hidden beneath shields so thick they were utterly opaque. Ignore it, Rasten told him. Focus on the task at hand. The one on the right next, he’s more powerful.

  But Isidro felt frozen, as though the power flowing in from the dying man was a poison, a paralytic. It felt like worms beneath his skin, like some foul parasite eating him from within.

  The other mages saw his hesitation and took their chance. Rasten’s next target backed away while the other circled around behind Isidro. The first sent a sheet of fire sweeping towards him, crackling like flames in dry grass and as hot as a blacksmith’s forge. Isidro cast a hasty shield to ward it off when he felt power flare above him, and glanced up to see a great bolt of flame poised overhead, ready to fall.

  He tried to throw himself aside, but the first mage seized him, locking him in place with bands of power. The construct above was curved like a tusk, as tall as a man and sculpted out of solid flame. It burned so hot that Isidro could feel the water in his jacket boiling into steam.

  All that power, so close, hanging above him like fruit from a vine, ready to be plucked … the bonds around him, too. All that power was as pure as flame, an antidote to the foulness that choked him — it was the sort he remembered from the old days, before Sierra had wounded and abandoned him.