by Dorian Hart
He was in the woods now, slaloming through the trees and ruined foundations and keeping his quarry in sight and hearing the shouts of his friends behind him. Had they not seen Blue-face? They must have. He thought he was gaining.
Tor burst through a net of thick branches and into a small clearing, and there was the strange blue-faced person, and it was definitely a man, and it wasn’t paint, it was just the color of his skin, so maybe this was Abernathy’s monster? Something that powerful wouldn’t be running away, but maybe coming through the what-was-it-called time-stopping field had weakened him, and now was the perfect time to strike, maybe the only time!
He and Blue-face drew swords at the same time, and both from sheaths over their backs, which was pretty funny and so he smiled at the man even though it looked like they were about to do battle, but Blue-face didn’t smile back.
“We don’t have to fight,” said Tor. “We’re the good guys. I just want to know what—”
Blue-face rushed him, raising his elbow in a classic feint before swinging low to slash Tor’s leg, but Master Elgus had taught him that one; he blocked it, side-stepped, and aimed for Blue-face’s exposed wrist: numb the wrist, he drops the sword, fight over.
But Blue-face was too quick for that—Gods, but he was very quick, dancing out of the way and hopping back in a kind of tilted pirouette, landing in a perfectly balanced crouch. Tor wasn’t going to win on agility alone, but fortunately he was taller and stronger than Blue-face, and hadn’t Master Elgus always taught him, figure out your opponent’s strength and don’t let him play to it? He could turn this into a brawl with swords. He advanced. Who was this person? What was he? Not a human, exactly. Or maybe a human who had undergone some strange skin-dyeing ritual? Was it the dye that made him so quick? Could Abernathy or Aravia make them magic dyes so they’d be better in battle? Though if he had come through the blue field, maybe that accounted for his color.
“Why is your skin blue?” he asked, even as he took a ferocious overhand hack.
Blue-face didn’t answer but slipped gracefully out from Tor’s swing arc, spinning and springing up to his left. Tor jumped back to avoid a whip-quick slash at his midsection but wasn’t quite fast enough; his enemy’s blade sliced open the front of his shirt and drew a stinging red stripe across his abdomen.
“Hey!” shouted Tor. “I liked that shirt!”
It was possible that this person was a better fighter than he was, but Tor stayed confident. His failure in the Shadow Chaser was weighing on his mind, but that only meant that Blue-face here was the perfect opportunity for redemption, and during his sparring lessons at his father’s castle Tor had only practiced against other people, or man-sized dummies, so his style of fighting wasn’t well suited to swatting at one-eyed furry oranges that zipped about like dragonflies, but Blue-face was a foe he could figure out. And Tor always remembered what Master Elgus told him once as they toiled in the castle’s sparring yard. “Darien, you have more natural ability with a blade than any man I’ve seen in thirty long years of teaching swordplay. Your destiny may lie on a different path, but the moment you sit the throne of Forquelle, it will be a tragic waste of material.”
Waste of material. Of all the compliments Master Elgus had paid him during his childhood, that was the one he remembered most vividly, and from that day forward, every stultifying lecture from his tutor Master Cawvus about math, reading, heraldry and laws had withered his soul another fraction, every moment he sat listening to his tutor’s mind-numbing drone was a waste of his fantastic potential.
But look at him now! Dancing in the woods with an obvious enemy of the kingdom, making a difference, achieving that potential, and now would be a good time to strike, so he launched a violent flurry of diagonal blows, most of which Blue-face dodged or parried, but one of which sliced his enemy’s upper arm. Ha! Take that! Blue-face hissed and executed an amazing riposte maneuver, a kind of springing leap with a mid-air strike in there somewhere, and there was the painful heat of another cut, this one on his thigh, and deeper than the first one.
Could he be losing? Preposterous! Blue-face was panting a bit, which was good because Tor was in great physical condition and his enemy’s combat style looked exhausting, which meant he just had to survive long enough for that to become the deciding factor, maybe go on the defensive a bit while the strange man wore himself out. He crouched low, holding his sword before him, as Blue-face paced and circled, looking for an opening.
Quick as anything, Blue-face leaned forward and aimed a swing at Tor’s neck. Tor parried, counterattacked, missed as the man danced backward. His leg hurt.
“I see them, over there!”
It was Grey Wolf’s voice and not far away. Blue-face looked over Tor’s shoulder, finally smiled, and sprinted away into the woods. Tor instinctively gave chase but fell to one knee, the pain from his thigh bringing spots to his eyes. Maybe he should sit down. He already was sitting down. The woods down at ground level had a rich, leafy smell that he quite enjoyed. Too bad Blue-face got away. Next time he’d win.
Then his friends were standing over him. Ernie was wide-eyed with worry, and Grey Wolf berated him for running off like that on his own, while Dranko squatted next to him and examined his wounds.
“Good news, Tor.” Dranko pulled out some bandages and ointments from his pack. “Superficial cuts are my specialty. Bad news is, this stuff is going to make you itch something awful. Beats infection, though. Oh, and we should wait until tomorrow before letting you spend a full day walking.”
Tor sat quietly while Dranko cleaned his wounds, stitched them up, smeared on three different salves, and wrapped them up in cloths.
“Dammit, Tor,” said Grey Wolf while Dranko did his work. “You couldn’t have waited for the rest of us? We had the advantage of numbers, and you squandered it. After what happened to Ysabel, we need to think. We need to work as a team. Use your brain next time!”
Tor hung his head. Grey Wolf was right, as usual.
* * *
Horn’s Company spent the remainder of the day in Verdshane, helping Minya bury the remaining dead and clean up the Shadow Chaser. Dranko insisted that Tor rest and recover, which meant Kibi and Grey Wolf did most of the heavy labor. Grey Wolf had something funny happen to his stomach again like when they were on the way here, and Ernie was sure it wasn’t food poisoning, which made sense because none of the others were having any trouble. Grey Wolf described it a funny way, that it was like someone had tied a rope to his insides and was trying to lead him somewhere by it, but it was obviously uncomfortable, so Tor didn’t laugh at the image. Grey Wolf even said he felt faint, like everything was growing bright and translucent at the same time, and Dranko said he was probably dehydrated, so Minya got him a cup of water.
Tor had been certain Minya wouldn’t want to stay. Everyone else in the village had run away or been killed! Who would she talk to? Who would tend the local farms? But the innkeeper had insisted, telling them proudly how she had bought the Shadow Chaser almost twenty years ago and over time had transformed it from a dilapidated, filthy flophouse to a clean and thriving inn and restaurant, catering to just about every traveler traversing the Greatwood Road between Minok and Tal Killip. She wasn’t about to abandon her home and business. She could resupply from Minok, she said, and there’d still be just as many folk on the road needing food and lodging. Also, judging from the number of bodies they found in town, almost half of Verdshane’s population still was unaccounted for.
“If those that fled return, we’ll get this place goin’ again. And if you ever come back this way, food and beds’ll be on me.”
Morningstar had tried explaining what they had found in the ruins—that there were more gopher-bugs, and no guarantee they’d stay trapped in that magical light forever. But Minya had been adamant. “Tell you what,” she had said. “When you get back to Tal Hae, you tell ’em what happened here. With luck the mayor’ll send some soldiers to see what’s what and protect us from them flyin’ critters.�
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So they departed first thing the next morning, leaving Minya to fend for herself. Tor admired her bravery, and it was likely that things would turn out well for her. She was a survivor, and the world could always use more of those.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARAVIA ENJOYED THE quiet during the walk home; it was a somber journey, a funeral march, and so no one talked much. This gave her uninterrupted hours to ponder how one would set up a stasis field, and mentally compile a list of questions for Abernathy. From time to time she wondered when her own sadness would set in, but it never did.
Ernie went out of his way on several occasions to point out flowers or cloud formations Mrs. Horn would have liked, and cried himself to sleep more than once. Tor tried a couple of times to strike up actual conversations, but they faltered and went nowhere. Grey Wolf and Dranko stayed as far apart as possible. Still, Aravia was confident that the time on the road was blunting the sharp edge of the others’ grief. She worried about what would happen when they next talked to Abernathy, but she was also eager to share her hypotheses with him about what had been going on in the ruins.
They returned to Tal Hae after a week of travel, just an hour before sunset. The temperature had been dropping throughout the day, and a nettling sleet was falling as they reached the Greenhouse front door. The others dropped their packs in the foyer, then either slumped into the living room and fell into the couches, or headed upstairs for baths. But not Aravia.
“I’ll let Abernathy know we’re back.” She shed her damp boots and cloak, bounded up the stairs, and entered the room with the crystal ball. “I wish to speak with Abernathy.”
The ball fogged, and the face of Mister Golem appeared.
“Greetings! Abernathy is indisposed at the moment, but I would be pleased to convey your message to him.”
Drat. “Please tell Abernathy that we’re back, and have important news from Verdshane concerning his prison door. I’m sure he’ll want to talk with us right away.”
“I will convey your message to Abernathy at his earliest convenience. Is there anything else with which I can assist?”
“Yes. Please remind him that he has promised me access to his spellbooks, and also that I’d like him to see about having my cat, Pewter, delivered from Master Serpicore’s house.”
“I will convey that message also. Is there anything else with which I can assist?”
“No, that is all.”
She stared disconsolately at the empty crystal ball for a minute, then realized just how dead-weight weary she was. A bath in her magical hot water tub would do her good. She had herself a long soak and nearly fell asleep, but the smell of roasting meat roused her. She dressed and headed downstairs. Perhaps Abernathy was already there, ready to hear her report.
The others (without the archmage, alas) were all gathered by the fireplace; someone had dragged an extra sofa over so that everyone could bask in the fire’s warmth. Before preparing their dinner, Eddings had stacked their boots at the edge of the hearth to dry and had hung up all of their wet cloaks. He brought Aravia a mug of hot cider before she could even sit down.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, Mistress Aravia. I have used the Icebox for venison and cider, but am still preparing a vegetable soup upon the stove.” The butler’s voice was unusually somber and he looked crestfallen; it took Aravia a moment to figure out why. The others must have told him about Mrs. Horn while she was up having her bath. She gave him an encouraging smile, settled into a sofa, took a sip of cider, and wished Pewter were there to jump up on her lap.
Eddings turned to Dranko and removed an envelope from inside his jacket. “Master Blackhope, this arrived for you two days ago. My apologies for forgetting it until now.”
Dranko took the letter. “Maybe it’s a summons by another archmage. Gotta climb that ladder…” He tore the letter open and read, eyes scanning rapidly back and forth. It was a long letter, written across several small sheets of paper. His smile faded as he read, and by the time he finished, he was practically shaking.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted.
“What happened?” Aravia asked.
“Did your church send you a bad letter, like Morningstar’s?” asked Tor.
“No,” said Dranko. “I mean, yes. Well, in a way. Dammit!”
They all waited for him to continue. Even when Dranko stormed out after his tiff with Morningstar, he hadn’t been this upset.
“Back when I lived in the church, I had one measly friend. One! She was the only one who didn’t treat me like…like a goblin, and now she’s run away because she uncovered some corruption that Mokad was part of.”
“Who’s Mokad?” asked Aravia.
Dranko answered by pulling up his sleeves. “All these scars? On my arms, my face, my back, my legs, my…” He stopped and looked up at her. “And a few places I won’t mention with ladies present? Mokad is the one who put them there. It’s part of church discipline, and Mokad loves to dish it out.”
“Where is your friend now?” asked Morningstar.
“She didn’t want to say. She’s afraid for her life.”
“Can you read it out loud?” asked Tor. “Maybe there’s something we can do to help.”
Dranko stared at Tor for a second, but instead of delivering some unkind words about the suggestion, he hunched forward on the sofa, reshuffled the pages of the letter, and began:
Dear Dranko,
I’ve run away from the church. I think I didn’t have any choice, and there’s something really bad going on there. A couple months back Tomnic got sent off to Hae Charagan, and a bunch of others with him—you remember Wister and Palinaya, they never liked the scarbearers much. Mokad and his bunch have been having lots of secret meetings, so I snooped around Mokad’s bedroom and got caught which earned me seven scars and a week in the closet.
When I got out things were worse. A couple other scarbearers I don’t like got brought in from Minok and one day Sirus was gone, the nice old priest, and no one would say where he was. So this time I broke into Mokad’s office, which wasn’t easy because he always keeps it locked, but I still remember how you showed me to pick locks so I broke in while he was in morning prayers. Well, you know I was never as sneaky as you, and I got caught again, but I’m fast and slipped by and ran out of the church, and now I’m hiding and I can’t go back.
I found a bunch of papers in Mokad’s office and I was caught before I could read everything, but I still remember what was on some of them. It was weird. Some of it was gold crescent counts, and they were high, in the hundreds I think. There’s some kind of expensive project going on in the desert near Sand’s Edge that they think might go for weeks yet, but they’re not sure. Dozens of people are working on it. I guess they’re using church money for it, but then why are they making it all a secret and having sneaky meetings in Mokad’s room? And the papers mention something about the “Black Circle” a couple of times, like it’s something important, and there was a letter that was signed with a circle instead of a name. It’s weird, and I don’t know what it is.
I guess this means I might not ever be a full priestess, with me running away from the church before my elevation. You’re probably the only one who really understands how much that hurts. But if I learned something from all the teachings and sermons, it’s that Delioch will see me through as long as I’m doing the right thing, and I am.
You were always my best friend, Dranko, and I wish you’d have visited sometime. I don’t want to say where I am yet since this letter might get stolen. I’ll write again if I find out more, and maybe we can meet in person.
Your friend,
Praska Tellenhien
Aravia shook her head. “I’m sorry about your friend, but it’s not germane to our current assignment, is it? And it’s not terribly surprising. Master Serpicore always says that churches are rife with corruption, and questions why the Gods don’t do something about it.”
Ernie glared at her. “That’s awful, Dranko!”<
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“If we had a way to get in touch with her, she could stay here with us,” said Tor.
“She knows Dranko’s here,” said Aravia. “How else would she have known where to send her letter? Eddings, has Dranko’s friend come calling while we were gone?”
“She has not,” replied Eddings.
“The thing that gets me,” Dranko said, “is that if I hadn’t agreed to work for Abernathy, I could go try to find her, or go to Sand’s Edge to discover what Mokad is up to. Not that I mind all of your sparkling company, but now that we’ve done our job for Abernathy, maybe he can spare me for a couple of weeks.”
“That depends,” said Abernathy. “What exactly are you talking about?”
Aravia leapt to her feet, and everyone whirled to look toward the foyer. Abernathy stood in the entryway to the living room, bedecked in his white robe and outlined in the same azure glow as when he had visited her room and promised her access to his library. A gold chain hung around his neck, from which dangled a bright red ruby in a silver hoop. The wizard looked even older than he had the first time they had met, his back more bent, his face more creased, and his voice was tired, spent.
Abernathy took short shuffling steps toward them and leaned on his staff like a crutch. “I thought I owed you a visit. I understand you have some news from Verdshane.”
Eddings hurried forward and helped ease Abernathy into an armchair, then fetched him a mug of cider. The old wizard’s magical projection into the Greenhouse was fascinating. Somehow he was physically both in his tower and in the Greenhouse at the same time.