Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “You flatter us.”

  “I did not intend to.”

  “Quiet, both of you,” Hettie snapped. “It worries me that they found our shore trail as quickly as they did. I had hoped for a longer lead. I did not think they would catch up to us after only a day.”

  “The Arch-Rike can afford the best Finders, my love. Better than you. We lead them on a merry chase. But they will not stay far behind us.”

  “Then we should be going,” she said impatiently, starting to stand.

  Kiranrao tugged her back down rudely. “Caution says wait. They may not all have traveled in a mass. Patience.”

  Paedrin wanted to break his arm. He wanted to stab Kiranrao’s eyes with his fingers, chop his throat to make him choke, and slam him face-first into the nearest tree trunk. He watched covertly as Hettie rubbed her wrist. Pain was a teacher. Kiranrao was overdue a lesson himself.

  In the dark stillness, they waited. The line of soldiers had long vanished into the night. Still they waited. Then two more men, walking side by side, could be heard; they hastened to join the others. Had they left the hilltop, they would have been exposed in the plains.

  Kiranrao tapped his nose, smiling smugly.

  Paedrin gritted his teeth, admiring the man’s keen senses but also hating him at the same time. When the final two had passed, the three rose from their hiding place and continued westward, toward Silvandom.

  Kiranrao vanished into a shadowy mist, leaving the two of them alone again. For all they knew, he could have been walking right next to them. He had some sort of magic imbued in his sword that gave him the abilities beyond ordinary men.

  “Explain to me again why he is with us,” Paedrin said in a low voice. “I know you said it before, but every time he opens his mouth, I seem to forget it.”

  “He wants the blade, Paedrin. He will barter with my uncle for it. The stones for the blade.”

  “But you found the stones. He would not have been able to get them on his own, by what you told me. It was as if the tree gave them to you.”

  “There is a Romani saying, Paedrin. Let your bargain suit your purpose.”

  He sighed. “And that means?”

  “When he found me at the temple, I was going to lose the stones anyway. A man like him can just take what he wants. So I made a bargain with him to free you, in exchange for the stones, knowing that he would try and bargain with Tyrus for the blade. Of the two, I think Tyrus is far more clever.”

  “How did you know he would accept your bargain?”

  She gave him a wrinkled-brow look that reminded him of a disdainful cat. “You can be such a fool, Paedrin.”

  “Yes, I know. But humor me anyway.”

  “He relishes a challenge. He is the only man known to have stolen from the Arch-Rike’s palace and lived to boast of the deed. Stealing a prisoner from the dungeon is just the sort of thing that appeals to him. Romani love a challenge. They thrive on risk.”

  “It probably didn’t hurt that he knows how much I loathe him. That made the risk all the sweeter.”

  Hettie nodded. “He is always trying to gain leverage over someone. A way to turn them to his will. Once he could see that I cared…” She clamped her mouth shut, frowning fiercely at the word that had slipped from her mouth.

  Paedrin’s heart shuddered at the slip. He wasn’t sure how to take it, and the silence became awkward and fraught with energy. Well, it should not surprise him that she cared. He had saved her life, after all. Their long talks had been something he had enjoyed much himself. He cared for her, with no doubt. Probably much more than she did him, but he would never have admitted it openly like that.

  “Well, I am grateful that you did rescue me,” he said, coughing into his fist. He showed her the Kishion ring. “I hope your uncle can find a way to remove this. I would not want to use goose grease on it every day. But better than the alternative of having no control over myself.”

  She said nothing, and an icy silence fell between them.

  The wind was mild that night. They walked firmly, keeping a strong pace to pass the time. To the south, light glimmered on a hill, many leagues away.

  “Is that a town?” Paedrin wondered.

  “Minon,” Hettie replied. “It is a border village between Kenatos and Wayland. A walled place where shipments are protected. We are approaching the road.”

  “Have you ever been…?”

  The sound of baying hounds trumpeted in the distance behind them.

  Hettie frowned. “They found our trail too quickly. I hid our tracks very well. The only thing that would have made it better was to kill a skunk to completely mask our scent.”

  The sound of horns filled the air next.

  “Persistent,” Paedrin said.

  “They are calling to Minon to box us in. We should probably run. If we can clear the other side of the road, it will get easier. How did they find us so quickly?”

  Paedrin frowned and started to jog. “Maybe they can track my ring?”

  Hettie shook her head. “If that were so, they would not have missed us at the hill.”

  “Their Finder must be better than you thought.”

  Hettie was quiet a moment. “But how can they track us? Is someone following us? Can you see?”

  Paedrin looked back the way they came and could not see anyone in the distance. Not even the lantern was visible yet. A shape flittered past his vision up above, startling him. Looking up, he realized the sky was circling with birds.

  “What sort of bird flies at night?” he asked aloud. “I thought only bats did.”

  Hettie looked up and let out a sharp breath. “Owls! Of course, I should have thought of that. They can track us better at night than during the day. Owls have great vision in the dark. We are being followed from above.”

  Just then a snapping sound struck nearby, the small rumbling sound of thunder. They recognized it immediately, for the same sound preceded the Kishion’s arrival. Paedrin grabbed Hettie’s arm and pulled her to a halt.

  Three men appeared.

  They were Aeduan, by the look of them. Each wore a black jacket buttoned down the front with a small white ruff at the collar. Each also wore an intricate gold chain around his neck with a multifaceted gem embedded in a medallion. White ruffles appeared at their wrists too.

  “Paracelsus,” Hettie said.

  The three men said nothing, but as one they touched the medallions and a streak of red light shone from each, connecting the three medallions in a triangle of light, trapping the two of them inside.

  Paedrin rushed toward the nearest one. As he approached, he felt a rush of air shove him backward. The air in front of the man was hot and jarring, forming some sort of force that prevented him from approaching the man. His ears rang with pain, and he backed away. The pain lessened.

  “We have you caged, Bhikhu,” one of them said. He had a short gray beard, cropped close to his jawline. He motioned for the other two with his free hand. “Close ranks.”

  The other two Paracelsus each took a step forward, shrinking the size of the triangle.

  Hettie whipped out her bow and quickly nocked an arrow.

  “Hettie, no!” Paedrin warned.

  She loosed the shaft at the lead man. The arrow raced toward him, only to be repelled right back at her. She managed to sidestep it in time, but the three men continued to close on them.

  Paedrin felt the force looming, pushing at him from three sides. If they got too near, he knew he would be immobilized. Being captured again by the Arch-Rike was not something he intended to let happen.

  He took a forceful stride forward, sucking in his breath. His body lifted in the air, soaring up past the streaks of red light. The cage, he discovered, did not have a top.

  “Stop him! Use the ring charms!”

  As Paedrin hovered in the air a moment, he watched a blade emerge from the leader’s chest as Kiranrao appeared in smoke-like coalescence. The look on the man’s face was contorted with agony as he slumped to
his knees and then pitched forward.

  The streams of red light winked out.

  Paedrin exhaled and landed with a thud. He vaulted at the nearest Paracelsus, watching the man’s sudden panicked eyes as he brought up a ring and aimed the crystal at Paedrin’s chest. The Bhikhu did a forward roll as a blast of white energy emerged from the ring, zooming over him. Rolling up, he caught the man’s outstretched arm, jerking it up and high so that the ring blasted its white light into the sky. He struck sensitive parts of the man’s underarm and ribs, and then crippled him with a blow to his kneecap.

  The man’s face was ravaged with suffering, and the only sound he could make was a guttural moan.

  He turned, watching as Kiranrao stalked the final Paracelsus, who struck at him with his ring. The blasts of white light missed him. The Romani moved closer and closer, teasing at him with the tip of his blade. Then he whirled around and threw his sword, the blade impaling the Paracelsus and knocking him down. The Paracelsus’s body convulsed, and he withdrew a cylinder from his cloak. He seemed to touch the end of it before he vanished, disappearing into the night.

  As Paedrin turned, he found Hettie near the empty clothes of the first Paracelsus, taking the jewelry up and stuffing them in her pack. The one Paedrin had disarmed was writhing in the long grass.

  “Take his magic,” Kiranrao said. “It will help shield you from his kind in the future.” A wicked grin twisted his mouth. “You must be worth more to the Arch-Rike than I thought. Or maybe it is me that he wants so badly.”

  Paedrin stared at him, feeling nothing but anger and loathing in his heart. How quickly he had dispatched the other two. There was no lesson in death. These men had studied their craft for decades. Their knowledge was now lost forever. It was a pitiful waste of existence.

  “Do not kill when we can only harm,” Paedrin said in a low voice. “It should be the final resort.”

  “Spare me your sentiments, Bhikhu.”

  “Spare me your callousness, Romani.” He shook his head. “I will not travel with you. I will not go a step farther with you. We part ways this instant unless you swear you will not kill.”

  Kiranrao looked at him in disbelief. “I swear to no man. I owe you nothing, Bhikhu.”

  “Then find Tyrus Paracelsus on your own.”

  “Paedrin,” Hettie said, her voice low with warning. “You cannot expect a Romani to…”

  “Keep his word? I had not thought of that. Even if you did swear it, I could not believe it.” He stepped away from the fallen Paracelsus and began circling Kiranrao to the left.

  Kiranrao began circling to the right, hand still clutching the sword hilt.

  “You wish to fight me?” Kiranrao said in a low voice. He sounded amused.

  “Maybe we are brothers,” Paedrin replied sardonically, feeling his entire body focus and harden. “Separated from birth and raised in two different orphanages. Are you my brother? Are you truly Vaettir-born? You mock everything we stand for.”

  “Every bird relishes his own voice.”

  It was the sound of the hounds that interrupted them.

  “There are enemies enough surrounding us!” Hettie said sharply. “Please! For pity sake, will both of you be silent!”

  Kiranrao stopped circling. His eyes filled with menace. “You are an insignificant whelp. I value no life but my own. If you wish to school me in pain, trust me when I say that it is you who will be the learner. You are not even a second-order Bhikhu. You know nothing. I come and go as I choose. I do as I please. It is through my mercy that you are even here.” He paused, smiling again. “Is that clear, lad? Or do I kill you now?”

  “The King of Wayland controls a vast breadth of land that is used to farm the wheat and grain that is shipped to other kingdoms. Each of the main farms is governed by a Duke. Each Duke is required by the king to provide riders to patrol the borders of Wayland and prevent other kingdoms from stealing crops or herds. These mounted soldiers roam the frontier and are called Outriders. It is understood that the laws of Wayland do not apply to these Outriders. When I travel to Wayland, I always bring a purse with sufficient ducats so that I may go my way in peace.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  There were many things Paedrin wanted to say. An equal number of gibes and threats bubbled up into his mouth. But it was the look of horror on Hettie’s face that stayed his hands. It was a look of abject terror, a look that said she knew what Kiranrao could do to a man. He felt slightly dizzy, as if he had stopped at the edge of a precipice with a foot poised to take another step.

  Patience. Wisdom. Know your enemy. Learn his weaknesses.

  He could almost hear Master Shivu clucking his tongue at his foolishness.

  Kiranrao cocked his eyebrow.

  “The hounds,” Paedrin said. “They are chasing us now.”

  “Take the boy on ahead,” Kiranrao said to Hettie. “Leave those who follow to me.”

  Hettie reached tentatively for Paedrin’s sleeve. She tugged him away from Kiranrao, and he allowed himself to be led, his skin clammy, his stomach clenching with fear.

  Hettie pulled him into a brisk walk and left the scene behind. Paedrin glanced back, noticing Kiranrao approach the wounded Paracelsus. He turned his gaze, unable to watch the murder. The barking of the hounds and the braying of the horns muffled it.

  It was not far from the scene before Hettie began scolding him. “You are the world’s biggest fool, Paedrin Bhikhu. The biggest. I warned you about him. I told you that he is dangerous. If I pointed to a rattlesnake in a field, you’d probably tease it with a stick.”

  Paedrin almost enjoyed the shrill sound of her voice. His stomach knotted with dread, recognizing he had come very close to dying that night. His honor and overconfidence had blinded him to mortal danger.

  “How do you know him?” Paedrin asked huskily, trying to get the taste of fear out of his mouth.

  “Every Romani knows of him,” Hettie said impatiently. “There are stories about him that would blister your ears. He is known among all of my people. I heard stories about him as a child. I never thought I would meet him, though.” She glanced back worriedly into the darkness. “We must run.”

  “Tell me one,” Paedrin asked.

  “What?”

  “Tell me one of the stories.”

  “We should really start running.”

  He could hear the sound of the approaching soldiers. “Just one story. Please.”

  “Very well, but only one. He was a young man, caught thieving in Kenatos, they say. He was held in a cell and warned the guards that he would kill them all if they tried to hang him. Of course they laughed and spat at him. Some said it would be difficult to hang a Vaettir-born; they promised to tie a sack of stones around his ankles to keep him from floating. He warned them again that each man would die if they tried to hang him.

  “The day came. He was marched to the gallows. A crowd gathered in the streets to watch him die. There were jeers and mocking shouts. His hands were tied with ropes behind his back. A cord was knotted around his ankles. They were just about to put the noose around his neck when suddenly the hangman himself had been hanged. The trapdoor was sprung and two more were bashed against the edges, falling in. The crowd panicked. By the time the Bhikhu arrived to restore the peace, all twelve of the officers were dangling from the gallows.” She gave him a serious look. “That is the man you insulted in Havenrook. And again tonight. Now run!”

  They ran as fast as the wind. Hettie easily kept up with him, and he deliberately tried to outrun her. This was her terrain, and he could tell she had spent many a night sleeping under the stars. The sound of the horns burst through the air behind them. Torches appeared from the way ahead. They were mounted on horseback.

  “Outriders!” Hettie called. “Waylander army!”

  Paedrin did not slow his stride. He was running from himself, it felt. Running from the past. His heart hammered in his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. Sweat
streaked down his body, freeing him, loosening his muscles.

  “Paedrin!” Hettie warned, starting to lose him in his sprint. “They have crossbows! We should try to go around them!”

  He ignored her, running straight for them. His legs pounded into the meadow grass. He saw the horses begin to converge from the road. He made no attempt to hide his approach.

  “Hold there!” someone warned, thrusting the torch forward. “Hold!”

  Paedrin ran even faster, rushing toward the leader, rushing straight at them.

  “Shoot him!”

  He watched the crossbows lower. He saw the light of the torches spatter their faces.

  “Paedrin!”

  The Outriders shot at him from five sides.

  He sucked in his breath instantly and rose into the air, taking flight like some eagle above a lake. The bolts all hissed and zoomed beneath him as he rose higher and higher, moving forward. His momentum carried him to them quickly, and he would have sailed over their heads, except for a sudden exhale of breath that brought him straight down on the leader and toppled him from the saddle.

  It was chaos.

  Horses whinnied and shrieked. Men were half-blinded by their own torch fire. He struck man and beast in a frenzy, causing mayhem with every blow. He darted between the horses, running and gasping to gain height, rising up enough to kick an Outrider in the face, toppling him from the saddle. He moved haphazardly between them, changing his focus of attack from one moment to the next. Every fallen man received a sharp blow to the neck or ribs, hard enough to crack the bones. Paedrin whirled around as two tried to trample him with their steeds. He jumped straight up, sucking in his breath, and allowed the beasts to collide with each other. He floated down and struck both men in the noses simultaneously.

  The fight thrilled him. He struck each man down deliberately, aiming to injure but not to kill. He broke arms. He dislocated shoulders. He took some pity on the beasts but did not refuse to yank at their bridles or jerk the bits to cause them pain and make them rear back violently, throwing the riders from their backs.