Star of Sakova

by Richard S. Tuttle

  “I don’t need any,” Goral reiterated, “but I have been ordered to requisition them anyway.”

  Goral’s huge hand ruffled Jostin’s red mop as he stopped and stared at the chokas. Goral shuddered at the thought of the small boy tending the ten-foot tall warbirds. The choka was a wingless bird, which stood upright with long legs and small forelegs, each ending in razor sharp talons. The birds were meat eaters and their beaks had a sharp tip, which could easily puncture a shield. The early Sakovans used to raise and race them, but their numbers had dwindled swiftly after the Sakovans withdrew into the stronghold. For generations now, the choka had been trained as warbirds, an occupation that fitted them well.

  A large choka came over and lowered its head and nudged Goral and he reached and ran his large hand gently down its neck.

  “I guess you will want Bertha for yourself?” Jostin murmured. “She really likes you.”

  “Yes,” Goral sighed. “Sorry, girl, but you are the only one big enough and stupid enough to let me ride you.”

  “How come you don’t like to ride chokas?” inquired Jostin. “The rest of the stronghold clamors for a chance to take them out.”

  Goral stood and stared at Jostin for a while, seemingly deep in thought. Eventually, he stooped down and looked Jostin in the eye. “When I go off to fight for Sakova, it is because I have chosen to,” he explained. “I know that I may fall in battle and I have already weighed the risks in mind before I accepted the call to fight. Bertha has no choice in the matter. She goes to fight whenever we want her to. I do not like imposing my risks on her without her agreeing.”

  “But she was born to fight,” objected Jostin.

  “Yes she was,” agreed Goral, “but that was not her choice either.”

  Jostin stared back into Goral’s eyes. “You are wrong, Goral,” the little boy declared. “The chokas enjoy fighting. It is what they live for. You may ride them into battle, but I get to stay with those left behind. I know their moods and the rejected ones are disappointed, the returning warbirds are the happy ones.”

  Goral raised one eyebrow and stroked his beard as he looked from Jostin to Bertha and back again. Silently, he rose and walked out of the pen.

  Chapter 10

  Magic Lesson

  Lyra sighed as she tried to concentrate on the bobbing text. All day she had been browsing through one of the books she had grabbed from Master Malafar’s study and when she finally found the spell she wished to learn, the terrain had gotten rougher. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the page she had been reading. She had used this trick before to recall information she needed for tests at the Academy and she had been very successful at picturing the image of information she could not remember otherwise. This time, however, the trick failed. All she pictured was a blur and she opened her eyes in frustration.

  Antello was still leading them through the sevemor forest, just as Syman had yesterday. She enjoyed this forest much better than the dark fargi woods they had left behind. Animal life was plentiful here and the birds sang out from early morning to dusk. They had even managed to kill a couple of rabbits yesterday for dinner. The trip was much more peaceful without having to worry about pursuit by the invaders, although Lyra still had the nagging suspicion that they were always being watched by something. Only Syman believed that the invaders were still behind and about to catch up to them. At least she was sure they were really heading eastward now. The sun was easily seen through the sevemor trees and she was delighted as well to see the sunlight dance upon the forest floor once again.

  Lyra opened the magic book again and tried once more to reread the spell instructions for the Fireball Spell. She knew that some offensive magic would come in handy if the invaders ever bothered to pursue them again. She allowed her body to move with the motion of the horse and held the book a little farther away from her. Perhaps the resting of her eyes helped slightly because she was able to read most of the instructions.

  Fairly simple, she thought to herself, smiling as she mentally practiced the formation of the fiery projectile. Of course only practice would allow the caster to increase its intensity and the speed with which she could create them, but she thought she could now at least cast the spell. She looked eagerly around for something to practice on that would not start a forest fire. Disappointment seeped through her when she found no suitable target and she closed the book and returned it to the pack.

  Lyra ran her fingers through her short blond hair and thought how nice a bath would feel. Her hair was gritty and she was sure the rest of her was as well. Still, she was feeling pretty good after a decent night’s sleep, decent except for the dream. She thought about the strange dream she had last night and the night before. She had never had the same dream twice before and it bothered her. Rhodella was standing over her sleeping body, hands on her hips as she always did when she was about to lecture on something that Lyra had done wrong. But instead of lecturing Lyra on some failing, Rhodella kept asking her why she was here. Why had she come to these woods? Where was she going? Where did she get the ring? Why were there people following her? Who were the two boys with her?

  Questions, questions, questions. It didn’t make any sense at all. Rhodella knew where she was going and who the boys were and it had been her mother who gave her the ring. It was just a nonsense dream and yet she had it two nights in a row. Was it her subconscious trying to tell her that she was making a mistake? Was she feeling badly about having given her mother a bad time while Rhodella was alive? No matter how many times she tried to analyze the dream, it just made no sense to her.

  The sound of running water brought Lyra out of her thoughts and she looked expectantly ahead for the stream or river, the perfect place to practice her first fireball. Excitement rippled through her body as the sound intensified and she walked through the steps of the spell again. Trying to calm herself slightly, she mentally cautioned herself to have reasonable expectations. Her first fireball would not be a thing of greatness, rather it would probably be no more powerful than her fire lighting spell. The excitement threatened to overwhelm her again as she realized that while it wouldn’t be very powerful, it would move through the air in any direction she wished it to.

  She always got excited when using a new spell and she momentarily thought of how proud her father would be to see her cast the spell perfectly the first time. Her excitement immediately died as she realized that Master Malafar would be horrified to see her cast an offensive spell. It wasn’t fair, she pouted. She had loved her brother, Alfred, as much as anyone, but she did not blame the spell that killed him for his death. By her reasoning, it could have been a spear or a thrown knife that killed him. Would her father then have forbid the using of a knife? Magic was neither good nor evil. It was a tool the same as a sword or knife, no more, no less. She was starting to feel guilty about her plan to learn offensive magic, despite her belief that it was not at fault for Alfred’s death, when the stream came into view. Her excitement level rose dramatically as Antello signaled a halt to water the horses.

  Lyra sprang off her horse, handing her reins to Syman, and ran upstream so her experiment would not startle the horses. Finding a large rock protruding into the stream, Lyra scampered upon it and straightened her body, scouting for the perfect spot to unleash her first deadly missile. Selecting a pool formed by the swirling waters caught by a log, she inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh, sweet aroma of the sevemor forest.

  Holding her arm bent at the elbow, she started casting the spell and felt the warmth of the magic as it started build. The exhilaration of the power building within her body swept through her as her fingertips began to produce tiny sparks. The heat of the magic within her hand increased and she knew it was almost time to unleash the missile into the water. Swiftly, her mind dashed back to the mental image of the book to make sure she knew how to direct the fireball. The distraction destroyed her concentration and her hand burst into flames. Screaming hysterically, Lyra looked at her burning hand in shock a
nd was paralyzed to act. Suddenly, her body was falling through the air and everything went black.

  Lyra awoke feeling chilled all over, everywhere except her hand, which was burning hot. She opened her eyes and looked up into Syman’s face.

  “I thought I had killed you,” Syman sighed. “Let me see your hand.”

  Lyra held up her hand between them and saw the big puffy blisters that covered it. Quickly she lowered it back into the stream where the cooling water soothed it enough to dull the pain.

  “What happened Lyra?” he asked. “Why was your hand burning?”

  The pain brought tears to Lyra’s eyes and she gasped, “Magic. I tried a new spell. Foolish.”

  “It was a good thing Syman pushed you into the stream,” Antello interjected. “The water put the fire out.”

  “Yes, but I thought you had hit your head on the bottom and died,” Syman shook. “I swear I didn’t even think you were breathing when I dragged you to shore.”

  “How long?” Lyra croaked.

  “Just seconds,” Syman answered. “It was just a moment ago. I was coming to see what you were doing going off on your own like that. I heard you scream and saw your hand burning. I didn’t think. I just ran and threw myself at you and we both flew into the stream.”

  “Good thing you didn’t stop to think,” commented Antello. “Those blisters look bad, but they will heal quickly. Much more burning though and you would probably have lost your hand. Keep it in the water while I go get a salve to put on it.”

  Lyra cried as she felt the current rippling over her tender hand. Each tiny movement of water striking the flesh brought a sting of pain, but the coolness helped the feeling that the hand was still burning. She struggled to sit up while keeping her hand suspended in the water and Syman, seeing what she was trying to do, grabbed her shoulders and rotated her into a sitting position. She stared down at her ruined hand through the clear running water. The movement of the water distorted the image, but the blisters were clearly evident and the blackened, scorched ring on her finger was visible. She thought about getting the ring off, but that finger was blistered so badly that she knew she would be unable to remove it.

  Antello returned with salve and bandages. He sat a bit away from Syman and her and Lyra realized that they were still in the stream. Syman must have dragged her to the shore and just held her until she awoke. Antello liberally covered the bandages with salve and extended them to Syman.

  “Wrap each finger separately and then the whole hand,” Antello instructed. “I saw the physician do this when one of Master Caulder’s men got burned by an oil lamp. His hand was blistered worse than yours, Lyra, and he recovered in no time.”

  Lyra tried to smile as she lifted her hand clear of the water for Syman to wrap, but the burning feeling of the air prevented anything other than a grimace. Syman was gentle but swift. In just a few moments, he had wrapped each finger and then covered her entire hand. The salve was cool and without the movement of the stream water to sting her, the pain was soon at a bearable level. She thought momentarily of casting a healing spell on herself and quickly dismissed it. She had had enough magic for one day, maybe forever, and she wasn’t sure she even could cast it upon herself. Perhaps the pain would be a reminder of how stupid and arrogant she had been.

  Syman rose and picked Lyra up, carrying her off to a shady area of level grass and laid her down. Antello brought a blanket and covered her up to her chin. He said something to her, but her mind was fighting for release of the pain and she passed out without ever hearing what he said.

  Antello joined Syman at the stream and started unpacking the horses. “Despite what I said,” Antello whispered, “I am worried about her hand. It is much worse than Master Caulder’s man was and he still didn’t have full use of his hand after three years.”

  “I know,” agreed Syman. “I know the man you are talking about. I would be surprised if Lyra didn’t know him as well.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” admitted Antello. “I doubt she will even be able to hold the reins. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Syman frowned. “We need to keep moving or the invaders will catch up to us, but she is in no condition to go anywhere. I think we have to spend the night here and hope they have lost our trail.”

  “I am sure that we lost them,” encouraged Antello. After a moments pause he continued, “That thing is still tracking us though. I haven’t seen it again, but I know it is following us.”

  “I know,” agreed Syman, “but I think you are wrong about the invaders. They are not going to give up. You heard Klaarg threaten them. They are dead if they return without her. No, I am sure they are behind us somewhere. The only thing that surprises me is that they haven’t caught up to us yet.”

  “Well at least we can use this time to get some food,” Antello offered. “I will rig up a fishing line and try my luck in the stream. Why don’t you go hunting?”

  “Okay,” Syman nodded as he picked up his bow and decided which direction to head off in search of game. Hunting might very well take his mind off things, he thought. It seems he spent all of his waking time thinking about the invaders catching up to them or that thing out there finally coming down and eating them. And on top of all that, even his sleep was disturbed with the strange dream he had had the last two nights. All in all, he didn’t care for the Sakova very much and the sooner they got out of it, the better.

  MistyTrail lay on the hillside watching the scene unfold below her. She shook her head in dismay as she watched the young girl nearly burn herself up with that foolish attempt at magic. Whoever taught that girl magic should have known better. It was a perfect display of too much power and too little sense. MistyTrail was no mage, but she knew enough magic to understand the fundamentals. Of course, the girl didn’t know that the Ring would interfere with the spell, but that was a poor excuse for lack of caution.

  MistyTrail sat up and watched the tall dark boy head into the woods with his bow. The blond one seemed intent to do some fishing and she wondered if she should escalate her plan. The sleep talking had so far yielded nothing and she was running out of time. She still did not know who they were or why they were here. Tomorrow it wouldn’t matter because they would have to die. The thought didn’t sit well with the small Sakovan and she quickly decided to risk exposing herself. With the two boys out of the way, she could approach the girl and reason with her. If she failed there was a good chance that the boys would think the young girl was delirious and ignore her account of what happened. There was even the possibility the girl would dismiss it herself. Besides, she should use what little magic she did know to ease the suffering of the girl in the same manner she would for any wounded animal.

  MistyTrail followed the progress of the dark boy to make sure she knew where he was going to be. She figured that the fisherboy would present no problem with the noise of the stream blocking out any sounds she might make.

  MistyTrail crept down off the hillside and over to where the young girl was sleeping. Silently, she pulled back the blanket, keeping her eyes focused on the girl’s face for any signs of waking. Gently she reached for the girl’s injured hand and gingerly felt around it for the start of the bandage. Never letting her eyes leave the girl’s face, MistyTrail unwound the bandage and discarded it. The girl’s eyes twitched as the bandage touched the blisters as it was being removed, but she remained asleep. Holding the girl’s ruined hand in one of her own, MistyTrail used her other hand to shake the girl’s other arm until the youngster’s eyes opened.

  “Say nothing yet,” MistyTrail warned. “I came to heal your hand, but I will leave if you make any loud noises. Your hand will be crippled if I do not heal it soon. Do you understand?”

  Lyra’s eyes opened wide with fear and her mouthed try to form words, but her voice was lost in shock, so she nodded.

  “Good,” MistyTrail smiled. “I can make your hand better, but I have some questions that require answers in payment for my services. D
o you promise to answer my questions?”

  Lyra nodded again as she tried to work the lump out of her throat. She wondered if this was another dream, or nightmare. It was still daylight out and the boys were not here. Could this woman have eaten them already? Was Lyra next on the creature’s menu? If so, why was she playing this question game with her? What did she want to know?

  The woman, or creature she corrected for she had never seen ears so pointed before in a human, was holding her hand and Lyra’s pain was starting anew. She gritted her teeth as the woman started applying pressure to the blisters. Two arms and two legs. Looks like a person, but very short for a mature woman. Can’t be a monster. Must be a dream.

  “This will hurt just a bit. Make sure you do not scream.”

  Lyra felt a strange tingling running through her hand and flashes of hot and cold at various parts of it. Sweat beaded up on the small person’s brow as she appeared to concentrate and suddenly the pain was gone.

  “Good as new,” MistyTrail smiled. “Take a look.”

  Lyra lifted her hand before her eyes and saw that the blisters were gone. A trick she thought, but then she saw the blackened ring and her senses registered no pain in the hand.

  “Who are you?” Lyra asked, finally recovering her voice. “Am I dreaming?”

  “No you are not dreaming,” chuckled MistyTrail, thinking to herself that she had already tried that. “You may call me Misty, but that is your last question. You agreed to answer mine though and I have a few, like who are you and why are you here?”

  “Misty,” Lyra repeated. “A nice name for a … a what?” Seeing the scowl on Misty’s face, Lyra quickly recovered. “I am sorry. Where are my manners? Just everything is so strange. I am called Lyra and I am from the Academy of Magic, somewhere north of Gatong. My father was the Master of the Academy before the raid. I am traveling to Alamar.”

  “You have chosen a strange path to Alamar,” MistyTrail commented. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you about the dangers within the Sakova?”