by James Lowder
For her part, Magda sat in the midst of the carnage and mourned-though for whom, she could not really tell. Herself, she supposed. Gore-spattered and aching, she watched Soth clean his blade on one of the fallen ogres. A wyvern waited patiently for the death knight to be done with the corpse before it began to tear apart the prize. Even Sabak joined in the feasting.
A chill that penetrated even her numbed soul told Magda that Soth was near. She looked up into the gathering darkness and found the death knight standing over her. He was staring at something near the Sithican end of the bridge. Without a word, Soth drew his blade again and walked off. Magda levered herself to her feet and followed.
As she neared the death knight, Magda was able to see what had drawn his attention. In the midst of several dismembered soldiers, so gore-soaked that he had been discounted as a corpse himself, knelt the half-elf. How he had escaped the melee was anyone’s guess.
“The battle is over,” Soth said.
The half-elf held out empty hands. “I have no weapon,” he said piteously. “Please.”
Soth studied the half-elf for a moment. Then a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. “Tanis Half-Elven,” he said venomously.
“No, my lord,” replied the half-elf. “Stefan of Mal-Erek.”
“Flee then, Stefan of Mal-Erek. You are unarmed, and I follow the Measure even now.” Soth’s voice chilled the blood-heated air. “Carry your disgrace with you as you leave this land.”
The half-elf staggered across the bridge and over the chunks of ice from the felled wall. Magda could almost feel the death knight’s disdain for the youth. She asked him about it, though his reply was cryptic.
“I knew one like him on Krynn,” Soth said. “His kind was never suited to the sword.”
From across the bridge, touched by the final, fading light of day, Malocchio Aderre called out. “This,” he cried, indicating the carnage with a broad sweep of his arm, “this means nothing.”
Without moving, Soth replied, “You are correct, child lord. I swept aside this attack as if it were nothing. So, too, with any other annoyances you send against me.” He sheathed his sword. “We can agree to end this now, since 1 have no further time for such foolishness.”
Malocchio ordered his remaining troops to mount. He lingered a moment longer, though, his black-clad form indistinguishable from the gathering gloom of night.
“You’re correct, Soth,” he said at last. “For now, you have more pressing problems than me, bogey men under your bed with prior claim. But you, Vistana-” again Malocchio Aderre warded himself “-I am your worst fear. I am your only fear.”
With those words hanging in the air, Malocchio Aderre vanished. To their credit, the soldiers held their ground for almost ten seconds before fleeing headlong down the road.
“You are under my protection,” was all Soth said as he turned and strode away from the bridge.
Magda Kulchevich found, some comfort in those words, but not nearly enough.
Six
There was a dank coolness to the vardo that comforted Inza. The wagon’s high shutters were open, which Magda never tolerated so late in the year, and the curtains were drawn tight to keep out even the starlight. The ashes were cold in the stove.
Magda was not there to object. Not two days after her encounter with Lord Aderre, she’d taken to the road, only Sabak by her side. The sudden leave-taking had surprised her troupe; though Inza and the others sometimes traveled for weeks on their own, Magda rarely spent more than a few hours away from the Wanderers. This time, though, she had been gone for eight days. The troupe still had no idea what quest had prompted her to abandon them so soon after Malocchio’s threats and a battle that had clearly left her shaken.
Inza didn’t really care why her mother had gone, only hoped that her business kept her for a while longer. Not too long, of course, but time enough for the girl to enjoy some privacy.
Except for the time it had taken to handle one minor task she could trust to no one else, Inza hadn’t left the vardo for more than a few moments in the past eight days. Much of her time had been spent admiring the intricately carved wooden chest she’d retrieved from Ambrose. The box still held salt, payment for the other goods they’d traded to the mine store. Soon enough, though, the troupe would journey to the border and turn the salt into gold or wine or some other commodity with more value in Sithicus. When they had done so, she would have the chest for her treasures.
There was something hypnotic about the patterns on the chest’s lid. Now, as she had done each night since her mother’s departure, Inza carefully withdrew the chest from beneath her cot. She ran her fingers over the tangled vines. Not even the deep scratches left by some clumsy oaf at Ambrose’s shop could diminish their appeal.
She might have spent hours contemplating those twisting, twining vines, had not a shrill cry from the camp disturbed her meditation.
“By Nuitari’s black glow, who has done this?”
It was her mother’s voice. Better that she’s returned, Inza noted silently. Better that we get this unpleasantness over with.
The girl sighed, pushed herself to her feet, and brushed the dust from her scarlet skirt. Carefully, so as not to disturb any of the junk her mother so prized, she made her way to the entrance. Flinging aside the jewel-spangled cloth that served as the vardo’s door, Inza stepped out into the night.
Magda stood beside the communal fire, her travel pack at her feet. Dust caked her boots and legs. Her cloak hung in tatters from her shoulders.
“Why, Mother,” Inza said sweetly, “I’m glad you’ve come back to us. I was worried.”
Inza danced down the wagon’s steps and entangled her mother in a hug not all that dissimilar from the clinging embrace of the carved vines she so admired. “You must be exhausted,” the girl said, still hanging from Magda’s neck. “Rest by the fire and let me fix you something warm.”
Magda was indeed tired, and a drink would have done much to improve her spirits, but she disentangled herself from her daughter’s embrace and waved away her offers of hospitality. “I told you to look after him,” she said. Her face flushed with anger.
Inza batted her lashes. “I don’t know what you mean, Mother. Have I failed you somehow?”
“Don’t play the cherub with me,” Magda shouted, words hotter than the roaring fire. “You’re too old for that role.”
The raunie hefted her small travel pack and tossed it onto the vardo’s steps. She walked slowly to stand over a bald Vistana, who was rolling in the dirt nearby. It was Bratu. The burly man seemed oblivious to everything around him save his tightly bandaged hands.
From the instant Magda branded Bratu an Oathbreaker, his mind had begun to fray at the edges. He had punctured his eardrums in hopes of silencing the Whispering Beast. When that did not hush the mysterious creature’s voice, he tore off his own ears. Still Bratu heard the mutterings of his unseen accuser. Slowly, the sporadic murmuring became a constant litany. Every lie, every broken promise and dark deed, was chanted over and over, a never-ending recital of every crime and trespass. Day and night the accusations continued, until the man’s mind unraveled completely.
Such was the possible fate of any Sithican caught betraying an oath. Elf or Vistani, peasant or nobleman, breaking one’s word might draw the most unwelcome attention of the Whispering Beast down upon you. He did not stalk every liar, which made some dismiss the “Whispering Madness” as nothing more than the ravings of guilt-racked consciences. It was true, too, that some who had never been caught at their deception were driven mad by fearful anticipation, wondering when the whispering would start.
Only the Wanderers knew that the Beast’s ire was always drawn to those who broke an oath publicly sworn, their betrayal publicly revealed. Magda had realized full well what the brand of Oathbreaker had meant to Bratu. The burly gypsy, too, had known of the risks when he breached the communal vow he’d sworn to her.
Magda detested meting out such cruel punishments, but
she knew they were necessary if the Wanderers were to survive in Sithicus. In the wake of her harsh verdict, though, she also insisted that the troupe continue to care for Bratu. His fate was now in the hands of the Beast; his fellows would do nothing to make his life any harder.
As she stared down at the man, it was clear to the raunie that someone had disobeyed her. Bratu’s mouth was caked with blood. His tongue had been torn out at the roots. Only one of her tribe would be so bold.
Magda turned to her daughter. “You did this,” she rumbled.
“No!” Inza gaped in shock. “He did it himself.”
“Through these?” Magda knelt and gently took one of the man’s hands in hers. Thick bandages bound the fingers together. After Bratu had injured his ears the second time, the raunie herself had ordered his hands swaddled so. “You are a poor liar.”
When Magda stood, all the anger was gone from her face. Her voice had no more emotion than Soth’s. “I want to know why, Inza. Sit with me. Speak to me of reasons.”
The Wanderers had learned to fear that command. Magda used it only when she herself could see no reason to allow a Vistana to stay with the tribe.
Inza decided there was no point in maintaining the facade of innocence any longer, so she settled on one of the chairs that had been drawn to the fire. As her mother saw to it that Bratu was bathed and his wounds given fresh dressings, the girl surveyed the camp. The remaining fifteen Wanderers had suddenly heard the urgent call of tasks inside their vardos and fled to them. Inza thought them cowards, but secretly wished she might run off as well. Her mother had reacted all out of proportion to her crimes, and Inza really didn’t have the patience to coddle the old woman tonight.
Inza didn’t wait to be asked again for her reasons. “You’ve been gone,” the girl said before her mother had even sat down opposite her. “You haven’t had to listen to the awful things he’s been saying. He rants night and day-about you, Mother, and the others. Even me. The things he says are terrible, obscene!”
“He is ill,” Magda said simply. “Where is your compassion?”
Inza lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The others were ready to kill him for what he said. What I did was compassionate compared to what they had planned.”
“The others will have to answer to me, as well, one by one. First, child, I have your fate to decide.”
Inza bristled at the word “child.” Her mother caught the indignant flare in her eyes and corrected herself.
“You’re right,” Magda sighed, “you haven’t been that for a long time.”
“For which you should be thanking me,” replied Inza. “We have no captain in this caravan. You wouldn’t think of sharing that much of your power with any man. I’m left to be your second.”
She was warming to the topic now, her passion fanned by her mother’s silence. “The others know that you’ve trained me to use Gard, shown me the secrets of the shadow play. So when you and that-that mutt disappear for a week on some secret journey, they trust me to keep the troupe together. That is all I did.”
“What you did was monstrous.” Magda shook her head. “There was a time not so long ago when Bratu would have done anything for you. Don’t try to deny it. The camp’s not so big that anyone could miss the way he trailed after you.”
Inza shot to her feet. “More reason for me to hate the old letch,” she snapped. “We’d be smart to rig up a cage for him and show him off at Veidrava as a lesson for any other lying sod who takes after little girls,”
“Enough,” Magda said coldly. “The Wanderers will never display their own as sideshow freaks.”
Inza gawked in amazement. “Was calling the Beast down upon Bratu not a show for Soth’s benefit, a demonstration of our loyalty to him? At least the giorgios at the mine would pay for such a spectacle.”
“If you think Soth offers us an empty hand, go to the Widow’s Bridge and count the corpses of our enemies. We need him, Daughter. Do not forget that.”
“I will not forget that you value a dead man’s opinion of you more than you value your own people.”
The slap caught Inza completely by surprise. No tears rose in her eyes, only a writhing, curling fury. The girl grabbed for the dagger in her boot. The blade had just cleared her boot top when Sabak’s jaws locked onto her hand. His warning growl sent tremors all the way up to her shoulder.
“Let her go,” Magda said, seizing the hound by the scruff of his neck. But Sabak held tight until Inza dropped the weapon into the dirt.
The dagger’s thin blade reflected the firelight like a mirror. The radiance was almost blinding. Even the leather-wrapped handle seemed to glow.
“I don’t remember giving you this,” Magda said.
“Not everything I own came from you.”
Ignoring her daughter’s peevish reply, the rau-nie reached down for the dagger. She drew her hand back quickly when she nicked her finger on the blade’s point. “Ai, that’s sharp. Where did you get it?”
“A trade,” Inza said sullenly. “A very good trade.” Eyeing Sabak, she warily slipped the weapon back into the sheath she’d sewn into her boot. “In some things you taught me very well, Mother.”
Inza turned her back on Magda and disappeared into the woods. She hadn’t been dismissed, but the raunie knew it would be pointless to force the issue. At best, she might make her daughter acknowledge her power. At worst, she would be left shouting after the disobedient girl while the rest of the troupe listened from within their vardos.
Exhaustion settled over her like a shroud, and Magda sank back down before the fire. Sabak slipped his head under her arm. After a moment, he nudged it up a little.
“So,” Magda said as she stroked his head, “even you make demands of me this evening, eh?” His tail thumped agreeably.
The raunie stoked the fire and sank into deep thought. She had no idea what she was going to do about Inza. The girl was impetuous, hot tempered, and willful. Very much like her mother at that age, Magda recalled ruefully.
But there was a viciousness in the girl that Magda could not comprehend. It was as if she’d taken in all the destructiveness of the storm that shook Gundarak on the night she was born. The unearthly tempest had followed hard upon Duke Gundar’s death. Some said it was the land itself mourning his demise. If so, it was all the grieving Gundar would get; his subjects marked the occasion with more festive displays of emotion. Perhaps that storm had damaged the newborn’s soul somehow.
Magda ran a hand through her hair and winced as she brushed against a raw patch of scalp. The wounds she’d received at the bridge had been slow in healing. Her hiss of pain made Sabak glance up at her, canine worry in his eyes.
“Don’t mind me, boy,” she soothed, scrubbing him behind one ear. “My mood will brighten with the sunrise.”
Her smile drifted away, and she gazed into the fire. It had been some time since she had tried to use her powers of precognition. Up until the day Soth rose from his throne, events had been unfolding as they should, in ways she could predict even without resorting to foresight. Things were different now. She could scarcely imagine what the morning would bring, let alone the coming months. The incidents at the bridge still preyed heavily upon her mind, but more unsettling still were the secrets she had uncovered on her journey.
One part of Malocchio’s rant had been correct-forces more ancient, more relentless than the lord of Invidia were stalking Soth. Magda had seen their faces. Soth would, too, before long. But what horrors would that long-delayed reunion unleash upon the Wanderers, upon all of Sithicus?
Magda focused on the fire. She tried to open her mind to the future, looking for its pattern in the flames. Flashes of white and red, curls of black smoke, filled her vision. They expanded into roses that burst into bloom, then withered. None held the field for long. Each overpowered another, only to be overwhelmed itself a moment later.
The raunie tried to turn her sight to the tribe’s future. As she did, the fire roared up and filled the n
ight with crimson light. Gone were the roses, drowned in a red sea-a sea of blood.
Magda pulled back sharply, forcing herself from the trance. At her side, Sabak growled softly. Magda thought the hound had sensed her discomfort at the vision’s grim theme until she realized his attention was focused on something lurking by the vardos.
Magda turned to the semicircle of barrel-topped wagons. Shadows swayed over the brightly painted side of her vardo. They warped into unbelievable shapes, slithered and flowed down along the spoked wheels and onto the ground. Magda rubbed her eyes. Shadows played across the other wagons, too, but they were faint, fleeting things compared to the dark silhouettes creeping across hers. Nothing lay between the fire and her wagon to cast such weird shapes there.
Magda was on her feet the instant that thought was complete, a moment before the telltale saline reek reached her. “Salt shadows!” she screamed.
At the cry of recognition, the shadows retreated a little. For all that they were deadly, they were cowardly things more used to ambush than battle.
Muffled shouts sounded from inside the vardos, and Magda’s warning was echoed and re-echoed. “‘Ware,” the others hollered. “Shadows! Shadows!” The Wanderers burst from their homes, armed with whatever weapons were at hand. The mundane swords and knives would do no good against the animate darkness, but the Vistani hoped that they might distract the things long enough for their raunie to deal with them.
As the gypsies surrounded the dozen or so shadows, Magda held out her hand and summoned Gard. The cudgel had been carved by her ancestor, Kulchek the Wanderer, from the tree at the top of the world. The enchantments upon the weapon were strong. Its wood was unbreakable, able to turn back steel or stone with ease. Normal weapons might not be able to touch the salt shadows, but Gard could surely do them harm.
Since she had first unlocked the weapon’s secrets, Magda had only to think of Gard and the cudgel would appear in her hand. This time, though, she closed her fingers on empty air. She could feel the club’s reassuring weight in her hand, but it had no substance.