Mystic: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  “Still, I hope it will make a good story,” she said out loud, her words swallowed by the night. “A better one if I survive, I suppose.”

  Loren drew near the hill’s crest and walked more carefully, not bending so much as a blade of grass nor making a sound. She surveyed the tents below, observing the torches making their way amongst the lines.

  The mercenaries would have sentries, and she would have to find some way to slip through them. Darkness might provide her the cover she needed, but then again it might not—there was no way to know until she saw how many there were, and how far apart.

  Loren lay in the grass, trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes, but soon grew impatient, knowing that dawn was nearing. Her eyelids grew heavy, and once or twice her head drooped. She reached up and pinched her cheek, hard enough to make her eyes water.

  “You will not fall asleep,” she growled to herself. “What an inglorious end to my tale that would make: then she drowsed off atop the hill, and the next thing she knew a spear prodded her awake as the soldiers attacked. Her friends would have mourned her death had they not been too busy laughing at her foolishness.”

  Just as Loren wondered if the army had posted sentries after all, she caught a glint of starlight on metal. After a moment she made out the shape of a man in a grey cloak sitting against a fallen log.

  In an instant, she realized her mistake and how crafty the mercenaries had been. Sentries on this side of the road stood under the hills’ shadows, where the brighter southern moon could not shine its silver light upon them. Only luck had given Loren a glimpse of the man—the pale northern moon catching the steel of his pommel. He was close to her, much closer than she would have thought possible, and her heart skipped as she imagined herself crawling ignorant down the hillside into his waiting arms.

  Her drowsiness fled with all thoughts of sleep. Now that Loren knew what to look for, she crawled west along the hillside with a keen eye for the next sentry. This one she spotted without much trouble, not far from the first. Loren thought that mayhap she might sneak between them, but it would be a dangerous business indeed. Even the slightest noise might give her away, and once she passed from the shadows she would not be hard to spot in the moonslight.

  Loren would have to create a distraction. She wished for Xain. The wizard could have sent a bolt of lightning below, and in the sentries’ shock she might have slipped by. But Loren feared she had not the time to fetch him and was mayhap worse off with such a plan, anyway. For then the camp would be roused and impede her chances of leaving unscathed.

  Loren thought of her dagger but dismissed the idea immediately. Sheer luck had made it useful thus far, and she did not like the odds that one of these men might know and respect the Mystics who dealt with such weapons. She would have to draw them out but in such a way that they determined there was nothing worth alerting the camp about.

  An idea struck her. It seemed risky and might raise the alarm, but Loren had little time to think of anything else. South of the hills, close to the river, the grass had been lush and green. Here, beside the road, it was dry and cracked with summer’s heat. Such scrub caught fire easily and could quickly spread to an inferno. Loren had never seen a forest fire but had heard tales from droughts in days past, when swaths of the forest could catch ablaze at once. Every forest dweller’s greatest fear.

  What were the odds that the sentries might know this? Fair, she supposed, especially if they came from lands where woods were common and crackled in summer. A small fire, then, hardly more than wisps of smoke, might draw them out.

  Quickly, she leapt into action, pulling several dried scrub brushes and branches together. To make it look like an old campfire, she gathered a few small stones and arranged them in a circle. She pulled flint and tinder from her pouch. She struck once, twice, thrice, until a few small sparks licked the tinder. Within a moment, a little flame lit the grass. Loren waited as long as she could and then stole away.

  Her first instinct was to run from the sentries while waiting for them to see the fire. Then she realized that would only put her outside their ring, where eyes would be turned more watchfully outward. Instead, she ran halfway down the hillside towards a boulder and dropped down beside it. She pressed her face into the grass and threw her cloak overhead, then curled her legs up to rest beneath the hem.

  It was not long before she heard a cry farther down the hill and feet running up the slope, along with the jingle of chainmail.

  “What is it?” called a voice.

  “A light!” The sentry’s voice sounded as though it were right on top of Loren. “Someone has started a fire!”

  A set of footsteps passed and receded to silence up the hillside. Then another, and another. At last, all fell quiet, and Loren could hear nothing but her thundering pulse.

  “It looks a campfire,” said one of the men. His voice was distant, and Loren had to strain to hear the words.

  “Aye, but no one’s around,” said another.

  “That only means they are wandering about in the darkness,” said the first. “Run back to camp, and alert one of the officers. The men must be roused.”

  Loren’s heart stopped, and then:

  “Hold that order,” a third voice said. “In summer, an ember may lurk unseen for days before sparking to life. This could have been set a week ago, or more.”

  “Or tonight,” said the first man. “We should send word.”

  “And risk the morrow’s march? For an old campfire, long dead? I will not risk it, for if we rouse the men and find nothing, the commander’s wrath will fall upon us.”

  “Yet if we say nothing and are attacked . . .”

  “By a lone wanderer, mayhap lost in the darkness? It could be no greater force, for who would be so foolish as to light a fire to announce their coming? At worst, this is some moonslight traveler who fled as soon as they saw our approach.”

  Loren needed hear no more. She peeked under the edge of her cowl. Three large shapes were illuminated against the night sky. She rose to her hands and knees, and crawled around the rock. Then she stood and ran, bent to make herself small, her eyes scanning the path as she dashed on ahead.

  No other sentries stood near, so in silence and shadow Loren crept amongst the tents of the sellsword camp.

  thirty-six

  LIKE A WRAITH SHE MOVED, steps soft as the wind. Loren took no great trouble to avoid footprints—the grass had been trampled by many hundreds of feet, and one set of boot prints looked much like another, especially in moonslight.

  She avoided the campfires, for any man or woman nearby would no doubt raise the alarm. Jordel could pass for a mercenary, but Loren’s fine cloak and lack of armor would give her away in an instant. She had to avoid being seen, or all was lost.

  The camp had been thrown together, with uneven rows and no clear lanes to move through. Sometimes, this was a blessing—easier to slip around in a different direction and hide herself from a wandering guard. But Loren soon found that it could work against her as well. She picked her way between two tents—a rustling and grunting coming from one. Loren paused, afraid she had been heard. As she stood frozen, listening, a guard stepped out from around the tent. The light from his torch nearly blinded her. She turned and stumbled around the edge, but her foot hit a stake and her knee struck the ground as she fell. She gasped in pain.

  “What was that?”

  Loren heard the hiss of drawn steel.

  Blinking hard to rid herself of the white spot in her eyes, she crept around the tent in haste, hobbled by her knee. The guard was faster, bootsteps pounding as he rounded the tent. In a moment he would catch her.

  “Quiet out there!” cried a voice—it came from the same tent where Loren had first heard the noise. She heard the slapping of a tent flap in the night air. “Who is that bumbling about?”

  “Back to your bedroll,” said the guard. “I thought I heard a noise.”

  “Aye, so did I—when you kicked my tent.”

  �
��I didn’t kick your tent, I—“

  “Then why are you standing by its uprooted stake?”

  Loren thanked the sky above and melted back into the darkness. Quarreling voices faded behind her.

  Ever more careful, she tried to peek around the corner of each tent before moving by.

  Soon, she reached the horses gathered in the camp’s midst though not at its center. A scattering of tents was just south of the mounts, which she could ride through in moments.

  Loren had planned to find a horse and lead it out by the reins, hiding behind its bulk in her cloak. If spotted, she would have to risk climbing the mount and riding for her life. But her hopes were dashed as she surveyed the line of pickets.

  A ring of guards was watching the horses. Loren thought she might slip inside their watchful circle but could not imagine escaping it with a horse. Moreover, these mounts had no saddles, so her little skill at riding would be even more useless.

  Who posts guards just for horses?

  Think. What would Mennet do?

  But that was no help. No doubt Mennet would place a charm of sleep upon the guards and ride out unopposed. Or mount a horse and cloak it in shadow, with no one to hear him as he rode silently through the tent lines. But Loren was not Mennet and had none of his magic. She had only a black cloak and a dagger.

  A dagger. Her fingers sank into her cloak to caress its hilt. “You have often been my salvation in danger,” she muttered. “If you have any power of your own, show me what to do. For I am lost.”

  Mayhap it heard her, for a scheme sprang to Loren’s mind. A mad plan, to be sure, and if she could have explained it to Annis or Xain they would have thought her a fool and laughed in her face. But they were not here. And the horses were bound to pickets with leather ties—no wooden fence to constrain them.

  I suppose if Xain can do his part to alleviate the siege of Wellmont, Nightblade can do no less.

  She smiled in the darkness, giddy from the madness of her plan.

  First, though, she would have to get past the guards. Loren crept ever closer until a single tent remained between her and the horses. Before her was a man, and his nearest companions were many yards off. Loren stooped and found a small rock at her feet. From behind the tent, out of view, she reached back and flung the stone towards the horses, away to the right. She heard a sharp thunk followed by a mare’s frightened bray. Like lightning, Loren stuck from her hiding place, and as the guard turned towards the sound, she ran behind his back and vanished amongst the horses.

  Loren remembered something Bracken had once told her: Sometimes, simple tricks are best. But now she would have to be careful if she hoped to stay alive.

  The horses had been neatly lined, unlike the tents, with rows so close that even if a horse pulled free of its tether, it could not escape the press of other mounts. Loren would have to work from the inside out.

  She pressed between the beasts’ heavy, sweating flanks until she was near their center and knelt to untie a tether. But the knot was well worked, and her fingers fumbled in the darkness.

  Loren drew her dagger and slashed at the leather. Her fine blade split it, and the tether fell away. The horse nickered but could hardly move, so close were the other mounts.

  She did the same with the horses on either side, then all the ones in front and behind. She went in a circle, spiraling outward until the freed mounts were many. Some whinnied, and a few champed at her, but they were disciplined beasts and did not try hard to move.

  Soon, Loren was but a few ranks from the pickets’ edges. She stopped and surveyed the steeds. One caught her eye: a slender but shapely beast of midnight black, like Loren’s cloak, excepting a star of white fur on its forehead, which practically shone in the moonslight.

  She went to it and the horse beside it, a larger specimen of chestnut brown. Their tethers hung from their bridles, each almost as long as Loren was tall. She tied their ends together, hoping the leather would not make the beasts collide.

  The black horse pressed its nose at Loren, and she took its muzzle into her hands. It did not bite, and she took that as a good sign. She reached up and scratched its ears. The horse pressed its nose into her chest.

  “If we escape from this, and I do not lose you in the flight, I will give you a name,” she whispered. “But I will not risk our luck by doing so now. The world itself has ears and hates the prideful.”

  The horse nickered and stooped to pull free a mouthful of grass.

  Now came the affair’s most dangerous part, and Loren hesitated. But she had come too far to stop. Again she drew her dagger, and went to the horse beside the one she had chosen.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “But it will only be a small cut.”

  With that she slashed the blade across the horse’s flank, and in the same moment she gave a great cry. Then she whirled and seized her mount’s neck and jumped, swinging around and clinging to its back for dear life.

  The cut horse reared in terror and gave a great whinny of fright. Then it set off careening into the horses around it.

  The beasts went berserk in a panicked mass, screaming and fighting to flee each other, bolting in every direction and crashing every which way. Few could fall over—they were too tightly packed—so the mass merely undulated in fear. But the commotion spread swiftly to the edges, and when the scent of fear reached the farthest horses, they reared and bucked and tore at their tethers.

  Up and down the rows Loren saw the horses break free, and they galloped off into the night, many right into the tents.

  The camp was in chaos. Men emerged wide-eyed from their tents and dove out of the way as horses ran through the lines. Many horses ran south into open land beyond, but some galloped into the camp’s now-swiftly beating heart.

  Loren heard a great cry and an erupting tumult. Guards with torches ran for their lives.

  Her steed galloped south, followed by the great chestnut horse. Together, they ran, keeping pace as if they had been trained in a harness together, while she gripped her mount’s neck and begged the sky above to spare her life.

  They burst free as part of the stampede, off into the night. Horses fell away on either side, running west and east, but Loren’s kept south, riding until the camp was a memory.

  thirty-seven

  THE SKY HAD GROWN GREY in the east. They crested the southern hills and came swiftly down the other side. Only then did Loren raise her head and try to regain control of her galloping mount. She reached out and seized the tether holding the horses together. But their bucking heads ripped it from her grasp and nearly pitched her from the back.

  She reached for the black steed’s bridle and pulled. Its head reared back, and it began to slow. Soon, the chestnut horse felt its tether tug and slowed as well. Eventually, both horses came to a stop, chests heaving with deep and ragged breaths. Lather had formed on their flanks.

  “Well done,” Loren whispered and reached up to scratch the black horse’s ears. She could still hear the braying steeds amidst panicked shouting and hoped that no one had been seriously hurt in their flight—she had not thought so many would charge into camp.

  But she had lost track of her whereabouts. Surveying her surroundings, Loren found herself far to the west of where she had left Annis and Xain. She slid down from her horse’s back and with a slash of her dagger parted the tethers that held them together. Then she climbed back up, holding onto the black horse’s tether as a rein with one hand while tugging on the chestnut’s so it might follow. ’Twas awkward, and she was unused to sitting upon a horse with no saddle, but somehow Loren got them both going east. Their tread was slow, and Loren grew ever more nervous as sunrise drew nearer.

  The sky was blushing by the time she spotted the dell tucked between two hills. She nudged her heels into the steed’s sides and rode towards the hollow space in the rocks.

  At first, it seemed empty, and Loren’s stomach tumbled in her gut. Then she spotted a small shape in the dim light, and the back of Annis’s n
ew cloak. For a heart-stopping moment, Loren feared the worst until she saw Annis wriggling at her approach and heard a few muffled grunts as the girl fought to roll over.

  “Annis!” Loren jumped from her horse and ran to the girl’s side, forgetting to hobble the steeds in her haste. She seized her shoulder and rolled the girl over. Her wrists were bound and she was gagged with cloth torn from her cloak.

  Loren ripped the gag free and slashed the bonds. Annis gasped and spit in the early morning air. “Where is he?”

  “You mean Xain? I know not. Who took him? What did they do to you?”

  Fury lit in Annis’s eyes. “No one took him, Loren. He did this. The wizard trussed me up and fled the moment you left.”

  The ground was gone beneath her. “What? No. Why would he . . .”

  Annis parted her cloak, and Loren saw her empty interior pocket. “He took the magestones. All of them. That conniving, double-faced, forked-tongued . . .”

  Annis fell silent, too angry for words. Loren sank back on her heels and sat hard on the ground. She felt lost and alone, practically freezing despite the summer morning air. Those stones were all they had. Without them, their dreams were finished. No longer could she promise Annis and Gem a good life in the outland kingdoms. A thief she might be, but Loren did not wish to scrape a meager living robbing pennies from tradesmen. Those magestones could have let her become something more, something great.

  Anger and sorrow washed through her, and then they were gone. In their place Loren felt something else—an icy burning, a raging fire that yet left her cold. Her pulse thundered, this time without fear.

  “He cannot do this again,” she said, almost to herself. “To leave me alone and unaided upon the King’s road is one thing. But I will not let him steal my fortune.”

  “There are few words for men such as he,” agreed Annis. “But at least he has gone. I had hopes for those stones as well, but mayhap we are well quit if it means that the wizard is gone with them.”