“I’m not a witch,” Corrie protested. Her voice, coming from her abused throat, was a hoarse croak the men ignored.
The Norther backed a step to keep an eye on both soldiers. He didn’t look at her, but he said, “Don’t lie. Those eyes give you away.”
“You want the bounty. We can share it,” the first one offered. “Split it four ways.”
The Norther grinned. His eyes glimmered. “And wind up dead one night? Nah, just let this one go. You can find yourself a root-witch over toward the marsh. They’re stupid over there. Should be easy to grab one and get the cords on her—or him.”
“Magister Enstigorr wants this one. We’ll be taking her straight to him. He thinks something’s special about her blood. You can back off, and you can thank us in the morning for letting you live.” He drew his sword, his friend not far behind in bringing another blade to the ready. “Or you can die now. Your choice, Norther.”
The swordsman shrugged. He slowly pulled his sword from its shoulder scabbard. “When your soul gets to Niflheim, you be sure to tell Hela you had a choice.”
“Damned—.” Weir didn’t finish. He stepped forward, swinging his sword with a two-handed grip that gave added force.
Reigel jerked her. Corrie’s gaze snapped off the swordfight to him. He reached for the pack that Weir had lifted back onto the table.
Corrie threw her whole weight into the man. He staggered a step, enough for her to get a foot on a table leg and shove it—and the pack—further away. He cursed in her ear. She clawed at him, her broken nails too short to do more than scrape. She tried to get her teeth into him. Reigel twisted his grip on her throat until black once more edged her vision and her knees threatened to give out.
Getting out of his hold would need something drastic.
He eased off his throttling until she could lock her knees again, then he lifted her bodily, to shift her away from the table. She kicked backwards, but he ignored her soft boots. Her gaze darted madly.
Weir had stepped back from the swordfight, letting his partner and the Norther hack at each other. But Weir stood under the big wheel chandelier that lit this end of the taproom. A stout rope allowed it to be lowered for lighting then hoisted back into place.
Corrie couldn’t use power on the man holding her, but she could use it on the rope.
She flung a hand toward the rope. Lightning arced from her fingers to the twisted hemp.
Cursing, Reigel slapped her head, breaking the power stream. Her vision blackened then came back. Her gaze latched onto the rope.
That jolt of energy had been enough. In seconds the fire ate through the thick twisted hemp. The wheeled light shuddered then fell.
But Weir had dodged in time. Dammit.
The wood wheel with its glass-covered lamps crashed onto the floor. Oil spattered, and fire spattered with it.
Even as Reigel hauled her backwards toward the pack, she reached a hand to the fire—and poured power into it.
The fire flared, catching the wood planks beneath it. Flames surged up a supporting post. She powered another flame toward the leader, who had stepped back to rest while Weir had a go at the Norther. She poured the fire along the floor to him, sent tongues to encircle him, and before he noticed, she had the flames around him, eating fuel as it narrowed the circle.
He leaped the flames, but she kept them after him.
“Dammit, Reigel,” he shouted above the building roar of the fire, “get the cords on her before she brings the place down on top of us.”
Reigel moved. Corrie dragged her feet, still clawing at his throttling hand. He reached the table, reached for the pack—and she released that awful hand at her neck to seize upon the one reaching. She kicked him and again, kicked at the table. He’d have to let go of her to get the pack, and as soon as he loosed her, she’d punish him for choking her.
The crash of swords, the crackle of fire, smoke rising, someone cursing—Corrie ignored it all, focused on her own desperate battle. A battle she was losing. Her last kick shoved the table against the wall. She couldn’t kick it further away. Reigel dragged the pack closer as she watched futilely. Desperate, she grabbed his choking hand with both of hers. A little power, just a little. Burn him and get loose. Burn him—.
His fingers tightened mercilessly, cutting off all air. Then he sank, taking her down with him. He didn’t have the cords—but he was toppling. She could no more control his fall than she’d controlled his hands.
His body flattened her on the oiled planks. His hand slackened and fell away from her abused throat—but he still trapped her, his weight crushing her beneath him.
And the fire she’d started inched across the taproom.
Corrie didn’t realize she was silently screaming until someone pushed Reigel’s dead body off her. She struggled to get up, to get a good lungful of air—only to start coughing from the smoke.
Hands grasped her, lifted her, steadied her. When she looked around, she met the Norther’s glacial eyes. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek, more blood from his busted lip.
“Th-thank—.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
She saw then that he held the spell-bane cords. “Please,” she rasped, her bruised throat raw and painful. “Please let me go.”
“What’ve we got here?”
With the new voice came another premonition of trouble racing through her.
Corrie peered past the swordsman and saw soldiers just inside the taproom door. These men wore red tunics under chain mail. One man stood at point before them, a tall broad man.
“Captain,” Mirkell shouted. “Ranulf, where’s that bucket? Captain, this man just killed those three men. He set fire to my inn. And he’s trying to take my slave.”
But the troop captain ignored Mirkell. He stared at the Norther. “Sverr.”
“Guilliame,” the swordsman acknowledged. His right hand rested on the sword he had just sheathed. He held out his left hand to Corrie. The spell-binding cords dangled from it.
Corrie snatched the cords. The swordsman straightened and squared his shoulders, as if the power-negating spells in the braided leather and wire had sapped his strength. The drain from the cords threatened to buckle her knees. Corrie staggered for Weir’s pack, but her wary attention remained on the soldiers and—Sverr.
“I did bet that I’d be the one to catch up to you.”
“Glad you won the bet, Guilliame. Think you’ll live to collect?”
“You aren’t that good, Norther. I got a dozen men.”
As she stuffed the cords into the pack, Corrie coughed from the thickening smoke. She thought Sverr said, “I cut through more than that number to get to the chancellor-regent. How many troops are out?”
She was watching now, eyes watering from the smoke, half-holding her breath so she wouldn’t miss anything.
“Just three troops. Ours and two others.”
Sverr laughed. “You’re a good liar, but your men’s surprise gives you away. Can I guess five or six?”
“Five,” the captain confirmed. “We had a little confusion after you killed the chancellor-regent.” He glanced around at the spreading fire. “Why don’t we take this outside?”
“Where you’ll have the advantage?”
“I could let the inn burn around you.”
“Then you won’t collect on that bet—and your general won’t find out who paid me.”
Corrie didn’t see any signal, but two men stepped past the captain. They drew their swords then advanced on Sverr.
He glanced back at her. “Get out, and keep your damned head down.” Then he drew his sword and stepped forward.
She grabbed up Weir’s pack. Sverr had engaged both men before she reached the kitchen door.
Mirkell stood at the back door, shouting out to someone. “Damned boy. When’s he coming back with the bucket?”
Pagsey, her bulk planted on a chair, interrupted with “There she is.”
The tapster whirled on Corrie. “What in Hela’s name were
you doing setting fire to my inn? Get me a bucket.”
Corrie had no intention of helping him. He would have let those three men take her, and then he’d tried to claim she was his slave. She glared at the tapster. Then the resumed clash of swords drew her attention back to the taproom.
The other soldiers had fanned out, some trying to stomp out the flames licking their way across the floor. One of them had grabbed up a cloak and beat the fire climbing a post. The others waited, just as their captain did, watching one man fight two.
To Niflheim with watching.
Two soldiers stood close to the hearth. She threw power into the smoldering logs, and fire exploded outwards. It flamed over one, consuming him, and scorched the other. Their screams drowned the clash of swords.
Her forearm blazed as if also scorched. She stared at the naked skin, but she could see nothing to cause the pain.
The soldier closer to her shouted, “Witch!”
She flung power at him, pushing him off his feet. She could do more damage with things. She brought the other wheeled chandelier down and scattered its burning oils toward the soldiers. She drew a line of fire between herself and them, another line between Sverr and the men herded near the door. Then she slammed that door shut and charred the wood with instant fire. Any way they escaped would be through flames.
“The windows,” Guilliame snapped.
And Corrie winced, for the air would feed the flames.
Then she sensed something behind her, at the kitchen door. She ducked as she lashed out with more power. Something thudded to the floor.
Mirkell yelped as he staggered back. “Shite! Dammit, Corrie!”
She looked down. Pagsey’s iron skillet lay on the floor. He’d tried to brain her. She felt no guilt when she pushed him toward the hearth.
Pagsey barely caught him before he tumbled into the cooking fire.
Corrie headed for the unobstructed back door. With the taproom on fire, she had no time to climb all the way to the attic to retreive her few possessions and the pence she’d scraped together. New screams told her the opened windows had increased the flames. The soldiers would be risking the fire lines she’d drawn when they came to their senses.
She had her senses. She clutched Weir’s pack tighter and scurried for the door.
She hoped Sverr had his senses.
Then mail over a red tunic filled the doorway.
Corrie slid to a halt as the soldier came in, another behind him.
To her right, Mirkell and Pagsey had untangled and heaved off the floor.
She got shoved aside. She saw a flash of steel then blood. Sverr—in full possession of his senses—had taken the soldier’s arm off at the elbow. Using the first man to plow into the second, he toppled them both out the door.
He glanced at her, an eldritch light in his ice-blue eyes. “Coming?”
She followed, skidding a little on blood.
The night seemed afire. A cold north wind had seized the flames roaring out the taproom windows and sent them gusting up the inn’s walls. Fire blazed through the wood stacked against the foundation. Men still trapped in the taproom screamed as the fire consumed them. More screaming came from above: Chael hung out an upper-story window, too terrified to hear Ranulf shouting for her to go to the other side, where the flames hadn’t caught hold. Mirkell and Pagsey were cursing. Villagers crowding in to gawk, to offer suggestions, not one offering buckets. It was too late for buckets. From the moment she poured power into the flames, it was too late.
And yet more clash of swords.
Corrie dropped to her knees and covered her eyes. This she had done. This her father had warned her against. This she had spent a lifetime using drips and drops of power, all to prevent such out-of-control effects.
She bowed in on herself while fire consumed the inn.
A rough hand grabbed her. “They called you a witch. I wasn’t lying. I need a witch.”
Norther accent. Corrie looked up and up at the looming swordsman, his fingers curled over her shoulder. The dread she’d sensed all day lessened, but she still wasn’t tame to his hand. “I’m not a witch.”
“They claimed you are. Witch or wizard, you’ve got power. Power I need.”
“I’m neither witch nor wizard. I swear.”
“We’ll work that out later. Come with me now.”
She saw horses behind him, two saddled, two on lead lines. She let him haul her up, but when he started toward the horses, she dug in her heels. “No.”
“You staying? They’ll be looking for someone to blame for the inn burning down. You did bring down both light-wheels.”
“I did that to help you.”
“I appreciate it. I especially appreciate your help against the troop. I did see what you did there, with the hearth and those lines of fire. But the tapster saw it, too, and the locals, before the troop came in. You want to face a mob in the doorway?”
He tugged. She went, dragging behind him. When he gave her the reins to one of the saddled horses, she just stared at it.
“You can ride, can’t you?”
“Aye. But I don’t own a horse.”
“This belonged to one of the guards, like that pack you’re dragging. Give it to me.”
She gave Weir’s pack up without argument, but she still just stared at the horse.
Grunting with impatience, he grabbed her, steered her closer to the long-legged gelding, then hoisted her up. She swung her leg over the saddle then took the reins he handed her. Her gaze fastened on the blood dried on his hand. She saw again the way he’d cut that soldier’s arm off. She swallowed and grasped the saddle, fighting with her stomach.
He saw her struggle. His mouth twisted. He turned and flung himself onto the other horse. He dug his heels in. The unsaddled horses started up at the first tug on the lead reins.
One wild-eyed look at the burning inn, and Corrie followed the Norther.
Chapter 2
Coughing woke her.
Her chest hurt. Her throat burned. Her eyes stung and watered as she fought through the cough.
Corrie lay trembling after the spasm passed. She remembered the inn and the flames, the long ride by a half-moon’s light. The swordsman—Sverr—had pushed them far along the road then far beyond the road to make camp. Wrapped in the horse blanket for warmth, she had collapsed more than lay down to sleep. She probably stank of horse.
“Up, Lyse Oyne. Time to be moving.” A hand pulled her over. An arm levered her up. Cold metal touched her lips. “Drink. This will help your throat.”
She groaned. She didn’t realize what he’d done until she reached to steady the cup. Cords bound her wrists. Her eyes flashed open. Sleepiness vanished.
The spell-cords. He’d put the spell-binding cords on her.
Corrie jerked away. The water spilled, soaking her bodice. She tried to scramble away.
He stopped her easily. An arm around her waist, he hauled her back against his chest. She writhed, panting as she yanked her wrists, testing the cords. He dropped the empty cup and wrapped another arm around her, imprisoning her arms. She dug in her heels and shoved. He let them topple onto the horse blanket and used his weight to plant her. Corrie still struggled.
“Be still. Sh-h. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She clamped down on a childish whimper, but she refused to give up. She tried to roll, tried to kick.
“Be still.”
He loosed one arm to stroke the hair out of her face. She used the freedom to get him with her elbow.
“Shite.” He grabbed her again.
They ended up with her flattened beneath him, his arms clamped down on hers. He stopped her kicking by trapping her legs with his. After she head-butted him, he dropped his head beside hers, too close to get enough force to hurt him.
“Shite,” he cursed in her ear for more than the tenth time. “Be still, will you? I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Why?” she croaked. “Why did you put these on me?”
&nbs
p; “They work, do they? Sh-h, I’ll take them off. I promise.”
He repeated the promise until she heard it. By then she was back to angry and scared, instead of just scared.
“Why did you put these on me?”
“You ready to listen?”
“Take them off.”
“You have to listen first.”
“You said you’d take them off.”
“Shite, when I’m ready. When you’ve listened.”
“I’m ready to listen.”
“No, you’re not. You’re still mad.”
“Mad!” Her bark was more burning cough than bitter laugh. “Get off me.”
“You going to fight me?”
“With what? I can’t use magick. You’re bigger and stronger than me.”
“Faster, too,”
“Bragging now?”
“Truth.”
“Norther swine. Get. Off. Me.”
Strangely enough, he did. She stayed still as he unclasped his arms, waited a few seconds for her to lunge like a panicked animal, and when she stayed where he’d planted her, he peeled off completely.
Corrie waited until she heard him step away before she levered herself up. Without his heat, she was beginning to shiver in the morning’s cold, but she wouldn’t let him know that.
When she rolled to face him, Sverr was ogling her bared legs. She snatched her skirts into place, and he had the gall to push out his lower lip. “You’ve got pretty legs.”
She scowled, realized her mop of hair hid the best of her frown, and scraped it back to scowl more fiercely at him. “I’m ready to listen.”
“No, you’re not. Want some coffee, Lyse Oyne?”
Her fool of a stomach answered with a loud growl. She damned it. “I don’t want coffee. Take these off.”
“No.”
“No? Why?”
“Think.”
She started to protest, but he looked like frozen ice. She transferred her glare to the spell cords and felt the fire burn out of her righteous anger.
He had tied first one wrist then the other and then both together. She’d have to undo all three knots before she had any chance of using power. Hardraste’s guards, the ones who had first taken her, had tied only one knot, effective enough. That time Corrie had also been taken by a trick, although she’d been awake for that one. She’d thought the apothecary had been a friend. The charlatan had worked for the village elders. She had not considered that the elders worked for Lord Hardraste, who ruled Milstreigon and had a bounty for any witch or wizard.
More than a Wizard Page 2