Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  The old gnome seemed about to argue, but the seriousness of her tone must have stilled his tongue. He nodded and then rose in his seat and released a sharp whistle that made her ears ring before shouting, “All stop! All stop! Ten minute rest!”

  There was a small commotion as the caravan drew to a stop, several wondering at the abrupt call to halt, most thankful for an opportunity to rest. Three others joined Muraheim, Al and her husband, a human male, elven male, and gnome woman who seemed much younger than Muraheim, though Al found it difficult to tell, given the many wrinkles lining her face.

  The thin silence was broken by the human, Seedan, who had always been the most direct and least patient. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is … something wrong?” prompted the gnome woman in a tone that said she hoped Seedan was leaping to conclusions.

  “Yes,” answered Al. “There’s been evidence of others—”

  “Likely bandits,” interrupted Urk.

  “Likely bandits,” she agreed. “Ahead of us and likely preparing an ambush of some sort.”

  Al let that hang a moment so the leaders could digest. “We’re less than a day from Karden, so if they mean to do anything to us, it will happen soon.”

  “You are certain of this?” asked Muraheim.

  “As certain as I can be.”

  “But not absolutely,” pressed the elven man, whose name Al had never caught.

  “Nothing is absolute but death,” rumbled Urk. It was a phrase he said often and claimed was first spoken by some god of law.

  Al nodded. “If I am wrong, then preparations for conflict will be needless and you will be none the worse for it.”

  The elf nodded.

  “So, what do we do?” asked the gnome woman, Iilna, if Al had remembered correctly.

  “We form into a wedge. Children, water, women, and the old in the middle. Men, grains, and warriors on the outside. We push on hard, hope they haven’t set the trap, and we can get through to Karden.”

  “And if the trap is set?” asked Muraheim.

  “Then you trust us to get you through it,” answered Urk, slapping the thick wooden pole into his opposite hand for emphasis.

  “It sounds dangerous, foolish,” countered Seedan, looking more to the other leaders than to Al.

  “You could always turn back,” offered Al. “That would be safest.”

  The look of horror that crossed the faces of the Wayfarers was more akin to her suggesting they devour infants than turn around.

  “No, we go forward,” said Muraheim. “And we do so swiftly, as the centaur has suggested. Spread the word, get the caravans arranged, and we will perform the Trade of Toe and Hoof.”

  Al looked to her husband, who shrugged.

  The commotion of before paled in comparison to what occurred now. Carts were shuffled, people were moved into different wagons, and shields and long poles were pulled into the hands of the able-bodied men and a few of the older boys. Volunteers were called, a few lots were drawn, and soon there was a person, usually a man, standing beside every draft beast in the caravan, even the two oxen drawing her cart. Together they hummed and ate a long roll of what looked like grass and feed, some consumed by the people and then shared with the beasts. “What is going on?” she asked at last when Muraheim moved near.

  The gnome stopped. “The Trade of Toe and Hoof. A ritual passed from Mehrindai to her faithful, we Wayfarers. It allows one to share the stress of riding hard. This will allow the beasts to move at speed for much longer.”

  “And we didn’t do this earlier?” asked Al.

  “The stress is shared, not gone. If it runs to death, you may follow it.”

  “I see none of you are trading your toes for our hooves,” rumbled Urk.

  “The … ritual does not work with demi-humans.”

  Urk snorted; neither she nor her husband believed the old Wayfarer.

  Her silence made the old gnome shrink back and move swiftly on to finish preparations.

  Urk rested a comforting hand on her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek. “Worry not,” he assured, “they’re not the only ones who may draw upon divine favor. The gods are not so close-minded.”

  She nodded.

  Preparations complete, the low humming of the participants turned into a drifting song that seemed to caress the skin. A sweet aroma like wildflowers in spring permeated the air, and a thin haze like heat vapor bent the light as Muraheim’s voice rose in volume and pitch. Al didn’t understand the language the old gnome was speaking, and from what Urkjorman had taught her of divine magic, it was likely the gnome didn’t either. There was a moment when it felt like the air was drawn taut and then snapped back into place.

  The old gnome collapsed to one knee and was pulled back to his feet by Eihn, who used a damp cloth to wipe the old man’s brow before helping him onto his seat. “It is done,” noted Muraheim with a shallow nod.

  Al’rashal moved to the front of the wedge, facing the Wayfarers. “Your elder tells me this spell will ease the stress on your beasts.”

  A low circle of assent responded to her.

  “Good! Speed will be the best defense you have. So, try to keep up. Ride! Ride!”

  Chapter Five

  Ride On

  For what felt like the twelfth time, Eihn wiped the sand from his eyes and lifted the veil covering his mouth to spit a wad of dry phlegm into the wash of sand covering the earth. He turned to Muraheim beside him and watched as the wear of the journey sent a tremor of pain through his lips. Once more the boy lifted a skin of water to his master’s lips so he could drink. The gnome had taken the burden of both their draft horses, but he held the lead despite the strain. Almost held the lead, Eihn corrected himself. Al’rashal was in the lead, her body rippling like a golden wave, polearm held ahead, and shoulders set. Not once did she stumble or falter, and Eihn could only wonder at the centaur’s stamina. Did they have two sets of lungs to push so hard for so long?

  Of course, Urkjorman seemed to fare just the same. The minotaur was at the center of the formation, between the wagons carrying the men and the ones carrying the women and children. That Eihn was not with the other children meant either he was not considered a child, or they hadn’t enough men to do the job and he wasn’t sure which prospect scared him more.

  A sharp whistle split the air as Al signaled something. Eihn turned his gaze to his master but the old gnome either hadn’t heard or didn’t know the meaning of the signal. Clarity came rapidly, however, as Urk moved up, coming alongside the wagon to point ahead at several dark shapes on the horizon.

  “A roadblock,” shouted Muraheim over the noise of the rattling cart and stamping hooves.

  “A poor one,” rumbled Urk, his deep, thunderous voice carrying through the din with ease.

  “What do we…?”

  “Don’t stop. Pull the wagons in tight, side by side, but don’t stop.”

  Muraheim nodded, first to Urk, then to Eihn.

  For a moment, Eihn only wondered at the gesture but understood. Concentrating and feeling the wear of two draft animals, it fell to him to pass orders. He rose, hanging onto the side of the wagon as he shouted to Seedan, leading the wagon back and to their right. “Two lines! Two lines! Ride on! Ride on! Two lines!”

  Seedan nodded and repeated his words, the order jumping from lip to ear to lip again. The wagon beneath Eihn rocked, almost throwing him back as Muraheim, somehow, stoked the horses to run faster and bore the strain of their charge. Swiftly the line thinned, from wedge to row, wagons coming alongside each other and so close together that an adult might be able to stride from one to the other.

  Urk moved ahead, outpacing even the furious push of their cart, and came almost even with his wife. Eihn was sure he could hear Urk slap his wife’s behind, and the centaur sprang forward like a bow shot. Her golden flanks and obsidian mane were almost lost in the cloud of dust kicked up in her wake. Urk also picked up speed, though certainly not the equal of his wife. The minotaur almost looked small wit
h how far ahead he had pushed. So distracted by the incongruity of the vision was Eihn that he almost failed to see the haphazard barrier set across the road.

  It looked like loose timbers and the wreckage of other wagons had been dragged onto the path. Mounds of sand were heaped upon the wooden planks, and long poles like spears were arranged across it but it would be too sparse to stop skilled or determined riders. Still, it would be enough to stop the wagons. Fear poured ice down his spine, a fear that was magnified when he saw it mirrored on Muraheim’s face. The old gnome did not slow, did not call cease or even question the plan. Instead, he whipped the horses on, flinching as he pushed them harder.

  Dark specks cutting through the air was the only warning Eihn had before arrows appeared in the sands about them and the wooden planks of the wagon.

  “Shields,” croaked Muraheim.

  “Raise steel!” shouted Eihn. “Raise steel! Raise steel!” He pulled up his own shield, a heavy disk of steel almost large enough for both him and Muraheim to shelter under completely, in time for the second volley of arrows to fall from the sky. The first volley had been a ranging one; now the archers had some gauge of distance and speed, and as that gap closed, the accuracy would only increase. The next rain of arrows skittering off his shield felt like half a dozen men trying to hammer his arm to the ground. Behind him he heard a few cries of pain and a shout of alarm. Looking back, he saw a body tumbling along the earth, a moment later it was lost to sand and the fall of hooves. The horror of it must have shown on his face, for his master spoke.

  “Go on.” He groaned as though even saying the words was a supreme effort.

  Eihn could not believe he’d heard this.

  “Go. On.”

  Eihn nodded, then pulled the fear from his voice. “Ride!” he shouted through hot tears. “Ride on!”

  His gaze fell forward; he could no longer look back, not at the cloud behind them and the fallen left in their wake. Ahead he could see that Al’rashal was just upon the barrier. It was manned by several figures swathed in clothes the hue of the desert armed with bows. The centaur leapt the barrier falling upon the men beyond it like a golden comet. Bodies simply fell from sight like clay figures crushed in the hands of a child. She whirled, the long man-catcher lashing before her in an arc that sent helmets flying from their bodies and heads twisted at the wrong angles. Someone sprang at her from behind, instinctively Eihn called out a warning, even though she was too far away to hear him. But it didn’t matter. Her hind legs punched into the man’s chest and sent him hurtling through the air with a line of blood vomiting from his mouth.

  Then Urk arrived.

  The minotaur hit the barricade like an avalanche. Timber, sand, and bodies blasted into the air as though struck by a mighty explosion. He didn’t stop or even slow, instead charging on into a mass of brigands behind the barrier. Even from here, Eihn could see them scattering in terror with those too slow or too brave cast to the ground as the minotaur’s iron-studded shaft cut them down like wheat. He roared before grasping a fleeing man and pitching him across the road into a knot of swordsmen rushing his wife. Al trampled the fallen as she charged another nest of archers, and just like that, Eihn and the lead wagons past the barricade.

  “Ride on!” shouted Eihn.

  Muraheim nodded.

  “Ride on!” Eihn shouted again, something of a cheer suffusing his voice, echoed in the others who repeated the call down the line. When half the caravan was through, Al and Urk began racing again, the centaur on their left, the minotaur on the right.

  “Poles,” croaked Muraheim.

  Eihn looked about and saw what had alarmed the gnome. Riders on short, dark steeds bred for speed beared down on them from the left. “Poles left,” he called. “Poles left!”

  The riders came on, not breaking in their charge, and surged into the caravan. One was pitched off his stead by Al, one perhaps two more by the mass of wooden poles lifted by the pilgrims, but most slid through the wagon train, hacking at people with long, curved blades to leave crimson arcs across beige caravan sheets and blood pouring from torn arms and open throats. Urk cast two of the attackers from their steeds as they passed. Their losses, however, were small and the charge succeeded in slowing the caravan. They raced alongside the pilgrims for a moment, regrouping and turned to face them again.

  “Poles,” coughed Muraheim.

  However, Eihn had seen what the old man had not. “Shields! Shields right!”

  The riders fanned out, drew short bows, and fired as they neared. A withering storm of arrows punched through canvas, into sidewalls, and found their mark in too many pilgrims. A few of the wagons slowed, the drivers who had bonded with the animals having been felled, and now the beasts felt the full strain of their exertions. The raiders drew their bows again and let loose with another volley of arrows.

  Several, three it seemed, battered Eihn’s shield, almost driving him into his master and making his arms burn. It felt like these arrows hit harder than the ones before, or was that the wear of the fight dragging his arms down? More cries flew into the air, more bodies tumbled to the sands, and Eihn could see the wagons pulling further apart. The raiders drew again.

  Urkjorman roared. It wasn’t a natural thing, young as he was; even Eihn could tell that the minotaurs’ rage-fueled roar was edged in magic. It quaked like thunder and sent echoes of terror through his blood. For the horses he raged at, it was worse. Many threw their riders to flee, some lost control, and only the most disciplined held pace. The volley of arrows this time was thinner, and no one fell. Still, Eihn couldn’t believe they could hold this forever.

  “Ar … arr,” began Muraheim.

  Eihn understood. “Arrow! Arrow!” he cried. The lead wagons slowed to encompass the slower ones. Some brave pilgrims jumped to wagons with felled drivers to take the reins or lift shields. They were slower now, but now fewer wagons were vulnerable at once. Another volley of arrows flew into the side of the wagons and the satisfying crack of arrows breaking on shields rippled through the air, accompanied by a few cries of pain. The raiders seemed done with arrows now, though whether they were out of ammo or patience Eihn couldn’t tell. The bandits cast aside their bows, drew all manner of murderous weapons, and charged. “Poles! Poles!”

  A raider was pitched from their horse as they ran headlong into one of the wooden poles; another was sent tumbling to the earth with a broken arm as they passed too close to Urk, and a third was sent flying forward as a low pole tripped a horse and sent both man and beast crashing to the ground. It gave Eihn hope, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Three of perhaps twenty, perhaps more.

  Now the raiders did not race through the wedge of wagons but into them, slashing at wagon drivers and reins, stabbing at cowering women, and trying to pull children from their parents’ grasp. Almost too late, Eihn raised his shield as a raider attacked. The black crescent of a blade slid along his shield and sent a slash of pain across his scalp as it tore skin and hair above his eye. A cry of pain burst from Eihn’s lips, but he kept enough presence of mind to lift his shield again, and again to block the sword strikes. The blade rose for a fourth strike, but the man-catcher speared the raider in the throat, sending Eihn’s would-be attacker tumbling to the sand. He tried to thank Al’rashal, but by the time he had enough sense to, she’d moved on to another raider and shouldered him from the saddle.

  A low, warbling hum rose into the air, lying beneath the sounds of battle and tromping hooves that made Eihn’s teeth vibrate. Almost immediately, the raiders began whistling to each other and pulled away, some falling back to let the caravan race ahead as others returned to speeding horses.

  For a moment, Eihn thought it was some call to retreat, but as the tone grew in strength, he abandoned such hopes. Ahead, barely visible on the sands, was a line of raiders astride horses, barring their path, and at their head was a man holding a weapon that he was circling overhead to cause the bone-rattling noise. That, however, wasn’t the scary part. The scary part was t
he storm.

  The skies overhead had been almost clear, with only the thinnest traces of clouds to spoil the vast blue expanse. Now the clouds hung low and gray, with lightning dancing about them. The winds rose in strength and pitch, sounding like the angered cries of a banshee, and soon a wall of sand was barreling toward them. The wind struck them with such force it blunted their charge and tore at their flesh. Eihn’s eyes watered with pain, and he tried to spit out orders to stay near between mouthfuls of grit. Then droplets of water, almost ice cold in comparison to the desert heat fell upon them.

  At first, he was thankful to it for washing the sand from his eyes, but then he felt the wagon slow. The ground was turning into mud, and the draft animals found it more and more difficult to push on. Then there was a lurch, a wheeze of pain from Muraheim, and the wagon ground to a halt as the horses collapsed.

  Eihn grasped his master’s arm, trying to feel for a pulse. “Master! Mura …” But he got no further, as another wagon collided with their own, and another crashed into others somewhere in the blinding gale. The sound of breaking wood fought with the howl of the wind, but Eihn was barely aware of it as he rolled to the earth. The next few moments were only snatches of awareness. Sand. Rain. Pain. Crashing wood, and finally large gentle hands pulling him upright as the wind died down. Pushing back the pain between his ears and ignoring the blood in his eyes, he looked up to see he was in the hands of Urkjorman as the minotaur conversed with his wife.

  Chapter Six

  Lost On The Sand

  Urkjorman looked down at the child in his hands. Only one of the boy’s eyes was dilating, and his face was covered in blood, but his heartbeat was strong. The minotaur reasoned the child would be fine if they made it through this. The raiders drew closer in a wide horseshoe before the calamity of broken wood and people that remained of the caravan.