by Stephen Wolf
“So all this blood and death, and you did it because ‘it was a job’? For money? Experience? I can’t imagine it was worth it.”
He sort of had a point, Dariak thought, but it didn’t matter much, because he had work to do and he was still alive to do it. He clung to his mission as Gabrion finally kicked the horse to speed. They darted from the village after Gabrion gave it a final wave farewell.
Chapter 3
Foray in the Forest
“What’s our take so far?” Kitalla asked as she rummaged through her pack. She skimmed over a handful of trinkets and objects the others didn’t yet know about and pulled out a pair of matching crystal goblets. “I have these from last night.”
“Oh, boyfriend went all out, did he?” Bostian joked, then quickly dodged away as she lunged for him. “Okay, okay, nicely done. I’ve got these.” He brought forth a silver necklace and earrings.
“Well, at least you got them out of her ear this time, instead of taking half her head with you,” Kitalla retorted.
“Yeah, that was a real mess!” Jafflin added. “Stupid things kept quivering awhile.”
“Knock it off, all of you,” demanded Poltor. He was the shortest among the five, and he bore the most scars, many of them marring his face and arms. He reached around and claimed the treasures his rogues had collected, placing them into a satchel of his own. “This was a good grab, though,” he said admiringly. “Well done.”
“A compliment from the Mist,” Jafflin said conspiratorially, looking around as if no one was supposed to have heard. He wasn’t fast enough to move aside when Poltor smacked him on the head, but everyone else laughed. Jafflin was the only one who could tease Poltor at all, but then, they’d been working together since the beginning.
Kitalla sat back against a tree and looked up at the sky. “Smoke to the west.”
“Been there all morning,” Bostian agreed. “Something must have happened.”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.” She looked around at their band, which was missing only Heria, who was out scouting. She liked having Heria around more than Bostian. Not only was she another woman to talk to, her comments were less idiotic, though sometimes a little off in their own right.
Kitalla had been traveling with them for a few years now. It was a grander life than foraging in the woods or begging in the streets of a town. There was a fair share of danger, but she liked a good challenge, and thieving from the rich always made her feel a bit better. She pulled up a handful of grass and let the blades fall one by one, wishing she could rid the world of the rich and just spread the wealth around evenly. Her mother had been a servant in one of the northern manors, serving the mayor of the area, but when she refused to perform certain tasks, she wasn’t only dismissed from duty but sent to prison, and Kitalla was left to fend for herself for a time. Things grew worse after her mother was released, but Kitalla never dwelled on why. Hers certainly wasn’t a glorious beginning, but at least her life had stabilized now. This was a well-trained group of fighters and thieves, and they never wanted for long, if ever.
“Out with it, Kit,” Jafflin said, interrupting her thoughts. “You can’t sit there smiling to yourself and not share. You got something cooking?” Jafflin was another one who could irritate her at times, though he was extremely useful in a fight. For now, she ignored him and just kept grinning to herself.
Poltor intervened anyway. “Leave her be. She’s earned a bit of quiet. She had the most lucrative catch last night.”
Kitalla’s grin widened, and she reached her hands behind her head, relaxing in victory. Earning the day’s prize for best catch meant she would get first choice at dinner as well. It was a simple competition but effective. Poltor really knew how to manage this group of criminals. She once teased him that he shouldn’t call himself the Mist, because he never “missed” anything, and she learned quickly that he wasn’t one to be teased under any circumstances—except in small ways by Jafflin—even when laced with a compliment. She’d had bruises for days, but she’d also learned her lesson.
She turned her head to consider Bostian again. Though his inane comments could annoy her, he was a real powerhouse. Where Jafflin was quick, Bostian was strong. The bulky fighter preferred bludgeoning someone into submission rather than dealing with the situation tactfully. This didn’t always suit their operations, but his talents were an important addition to the group. Kitalla had once been caught while on the job, fetching an expensive-looking golden bracelet, and the only thing that had kept the guards from killing her on the spot was a bull rush from Bostian. He had barreled through, hammer swinging crazily from left to right, with just enough control not to crash it into Kitalla’s face. She would always be grateful to him for saving her life, and he’d done so several times.
She often wondered if she’d have survived those critical moments without Bostian. If she hadn’t known he was near, would she have been just a little more careful? Or would inspiration have struck and allowed her to craft a quick escape? Curious as she was, she didn’t actually want the chance to find out.
As she cast her thoughts in another direction, Heria returned from scouting. Kitalla had always regarded her as a younger sister. She was only fifteen, but she had been hardened by a tragic childhood, and sometimes went into wild rampages. Poltor had tamed her somewhat, but a wild fire lit her eyes at times, and on those occasions, everyone in the group gave her a wide berth.
Today was not such a day, and she bounced back into camp as if coming to a joyous festival with the best of friends. “Travelers coming,” she announced, long blond hair swinging behind her with each lively step. “On a king’s war steed, no less. Not in too much of a hurry. Two aboard the mount. Should be here in about an hour.”
“An hour?” Jafflin asked in awe. “How high up in the trees did you climb to see them that far off?”
Heria focused her eyes deep into his and grinned maliciously. He paled and scrambled to do something else for a while. She sighed and turned to Poltor. “The plan?”
While he considered for a moment, Bostian piped up, “Lost family in need of food?”
Heria frowned. “Boring. Beleaguered jesters traveling to the castle?”
Jafflin shook his head. “Nothing to juggle. How about the hag and the handmaiden?”
At this, Kitalla groaned. “Why don’t we just tie you to a tree and have you call out for help when they pass?”
Poltor spoke at last. “No, it’s been a while since we’ve done the hag and the handmaiden.”
Kitalla pulled a face and shot Jafflin an angry look. Though the farce would work and always had, it meant she needed to rub ash into her rich brown hair and wrap it up in a bun, then powder her face with dirt and grime, because Heria matched the role of handmaiden much better than she did. She glanced over at Heria, hoping she would try to talk Poltor out of this scenario, but then she remembered that it was one of Heria’s favorite acts, which was probably why Jafflin had suggested it.
She didn’t even bother to argue. She had already earned first choice at dinner. Maybe this would give her a free pass for tomorrow’s catch as well. An hour was much more time than they needed for preparations, but it didn’t pay to risk missing the passersby. At once, the quintet went to work.
Leaving Savvron was harder on Gabrion than he thought it would be. He had been away from home before, sometimes with his family or friends and a few times on his own. This felt completely different. He wouldn’t be returning to a safe haven anymore. His home felt tainted now that Hathren forces had ravaged it. He kept his anger in check, for the horse beneath him would just as likely start bucking with his frustration as bolt ahead on its own when he wasn’t ready. He had ridden Tumbler before, and he had been thrown from the saddle the first few tries. Andron had at least taken care to train Gabrion in a hay-laden area, so the falls were less painful. It wasn’t even that he was inexperienced on horses; he’d rid
den them most of his life. But farm horses and war-horses were remarkably different, in size, power, handling, training, and temperament. This horse was so strong that the added weight of the mage didn’t even seem to faze the beast.
Gabrion considered the mage for a moment. All he could see was the tangle of jet-black hair. Not once had the mage made any sudden movements to test his bindings. He didn’t even try smashing his head back to break Gabrion’s nose. It had happened once to Andron, so he’d already warned all his pupils to be alert for such a move.
Gabrion didn’t like feeling suspicious all the time. He was much more of a jovial sort, but the recent events were too disheartening. He wondered at the mage’s cooperation and whether he was missing key details that a more experienced warrior would see. Perhaps the mage was calm because he had been working his hands free, or maybe he had managed to work the gag out of his mouth, or both. It was an unsettling thought, so Gabrion decided to check. He called Tumbler to a halt and dismounted.
Gabrion decided that immediately checking the mage’s bonds would show a lack of confidence in his ability, so he instead pulled a canteen and took a few drags of water. The mage must be terribly thirsty as well.
“Water?” he asked. The mage nodded eagerly. “Fine. I’ll let you stretch your legs and such.” He unbuckled the leg straps and then loosened the wrist bindings. He reached up and pulled the mage off the horse, but the man’s hands were still linked to the saddle. He lowered the gag from the mage’s mouth and gently poured in some water.
“Thank you,” the mage croaked. After a few more sips, his throat felt much better. He wondered if it was worth trying a spell but decided that it wasn’t the right time. He hadn’t yet perfected the technique of casting without hand motions. “Any chance I could—you know—have some alone time in the woods?”
Gabrion had wondered about that complication. He didn’t exactly need to watch someone else in that capacity, but he couldn’t release his charge either. Pulling a rope from a saddlebag, he tied a line around the mage’s neck, snug enough that it wouldn’t fit over his head but not enough to choke him, and then he wrapped the other end around his own arm. “Sure, but I won’t be far away.” He realized belatedly that the mage would likely need his hands for the process. He unwrapped the bindings completely from the saddle, then asked, “Right hand or left?”
“Right, if you don’t mind.”
It could be either a ruse or an honest request. Either way, freeing a mage’s hand was risky. He opted to remove the right glove and hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. He had the mage bend his left hand behind his back, and he used the leather strap to secure it to his torso. Then they marched off the path slightly, until the mage had some privacy in the shrubbery, with Gabrion holding the rope a few yards away.
Though Dariak did indeed heed nature’s call, he also made good use of his time. He hadn’t swallowed since his last statement, and now he spat into the dirt, creating a tiny pool of mud. “Jalicorith grienan!” he whispered quietly, curling his right hand like a corkscrew. Normally, this would produce a lubricating gel, but with the use of only one hand and being required to whisper, the mud barely congealed. He reached back and shoved as much of the mud up the left-hand glove as he could. He hoped it would stay moist awhile longer. Since his hands were sweating inside the gloves anyway, it seemed a good prospect. The mud would help him pull his hands free if the moment arose. At least, he hoped it would.
The rope tugged on his neck, and he knew his time was up. He responded promptly and sauntered back to the horse. A few minutes later, he was fully bound again, and they were back on the road.
The journey was quiet, with only the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves competing for attention with the horse’s hooves. Any other day and Gabrion would have lavished in the calmness of it all and the freshness of the afternoon air. And instead of an imprisoned mage, Mira would have been with him.
Although Gabrion was honestly troubled by the events in Savvron, maintaining an angry demeanor was exhausting. He let his thoughts drift awhile, relishing in the remembered scent of Mira’s hair, the glow of her eyes, the grace in her step. She was everything he had ever wanted. The only thing he was grateful to the invaders for was that they had kidnapped her and not killed her. That was hardly a worthy concession, but it was the only glimmer of hope left to him.
Suddenly the mage wriggled back and forth to get Gabrion’s attention. He looked over the mage’s shoulder and saw an elderly woman huddled on the ground, with a gnarled branch beside her, and a weeping handmaiden trying to help the old woman rise.
“C’mon, m’ma, we gotta keep goin’,” the girl said in exasperation. “’Tis only a bit farther.”
The hunched woman rocked back and forth gently, nursing weary bones. “I cannae. Lemme rest a bit, lass.”
Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. “Bu’ nigh’ will be ’ere soon. Then beasties. C’mon. Please!”
Gabrion slowed the horse down and noticed that the mage shook his head in warning. But he couldn’t just leave them there on their own. “Ho there, do you ladies need help?”
The young girl looked up with large eyes. “Oh, sir, please. It’s me ma. He’p us!”
Gabrion hesitated for a moment and then made his decision. His father had cautioned him not to lose himself, and any other day he would have just pitched in to assist them without delay. Hopping down from the horse, he walked over to them, seeing the mage shake his head again from the corner of his eye.
“What’s wrong? What can I do?” Gabrion asked.
He didn’t even see the girl draw her dagger, but there it was, pressed against his chest. “Your money, oaf.”
Gabrion heard the mage heave an exasperated sigh through his gag.
“Your money,” the girl yelled after his hesitation.
“Yes, now,” added the hag, who didn’t look so old now that he saw her up close.
Gabrion firmed his jaw and reached down for his money pouch, then rocked back on his feet and rolled over and away from the two women. He pounced and drew his sword swiftly, holding it before them. “I have no quarrel with you, ladies. Be off with you.”
The girl, still brandishing the dagger, summoned more tears to her eyes, letting them drain sadly down her face. Gabrion felt completely awkward. It was hard to pull his gaze away from her eyes to focus on the dagger. Something compelled him to keep staring at those watery eyes.
He noticed movement in his periphery. The not-so-old hag was on her feet, moving in a strange cadence. It was a subtle type of dance, and he instinctively knew that although it wasn’t true magic, it still had an effect on him. Something about the rhythmic movements was captivating in an odd way. He strained to fight against it, calling forth his need to save Mira to give him the strength of will he needed. At last, he broke free of the enchantment, and the woman muttered a curse.
His victory didn’t last long, as suddenly they were joined by three men, each holding weapons of his own. The largest of them walked up to the mage, peering at him like he wasn’t sure what it was.
“No, Bostian,” warned Poltor. “That’s no toy for you.”
“Your lucky day,” Bostian said to the mage before turning to Gabrion.
“But not yours,” Poltor said to Gabrion. “Your belongings. Now. You don’t stand a chance against us.” He jerked his head toward the mage. “And it doesn’t look like your ‘companion’ will be much help to you either.”
“I’m on an important mission,” Gabrion announced. “I am taking this prisoner to the king. Do not interfere.”
“We already have,” Jafflin replied. He stepped up to Gabrion’s sword and quickly snapped it out of his hand and examined it. “Cute blade. Not worth much though.”
Shocked at the man’s speed, Gabrion reached for the sword, but the man just laughed and backed away with it.
“See, now you’re unarmed too,
” Poltor taunted. “It is time to end this.”
“The odds are against you,” the girl said.
“The odds have been against me all day,” Gabrion said. His voice was calm, but even the rogues sensed a dark storm brewing within. “I’m not relying on odds anymore. Give me back my sword, and go on your way.”
“It’s five to one,” Bostian pointed out. “You can’t really expect to beat us.” For emphasis, he pounded his war hammer into his hand with a loud smack.
Gabrion brought his hand up to his face, as if to wipe his brow, but instead he stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled sharply. Tumbler, the horse, knew just what to do and reacted by biting the nearest person. Bostian screamed in agony, and the brawl was on.
Everyone was startled by the scream, and Gabrion was able to snatch his sword back and start attacking. He had no idea how he would defend against the rest of the bandits, but he didn’t have much choice now. Jafflin’s hands whirled around rapidly, and Gabrion had no hope of seeing where the man’s weapon was. The apparent leader was suddenly nowhere to be seen, as if he had just vanished completely, but Gabrion knew he had to be around. The younger girl looked happier now that a fight was on in earnest, while the hag threw off her ragged shawl and picked up the gnarled branch at her feet.
There was only one option, really. Gabrion pounced for the horse, hoping to climb it and ride off before he was killed, but the horse was trampling about, trying to bite other foes. It knew the scents of Gabrion and the mage, so they were relatively safe from its attacks, but the thrashing beast was impossible to mount.
Dariak was jostled about fiercely as the horse rampaged, kicking its back legs out and then snapping its jaws forward. He immediately started tugging his left hand from the iron-and-leather glove, hoping the ensorcelled mud would give him just enough leverage to be able to pull his hand out. He couldn’t tell if the powerful thrusts of the horse under him were helpful or not, but his only goal now was to free himself.