There were tears in her eyes as she confessed it, as if survival were a sin. “I’ve never had that feeling, Min. When we were fighting goblins, that was pure terror and panic, a struggle to stay alive. But this,” she said, shaking her head, “this was me being angry, more angry than I’ve ever been. Angry enough to kill a man, even after he wasn’t a threat to me anymore. It was a feeling I’ve never had before.”
“Don’t be ashamed of it,” I advised her, gently. “Your hand was stayed, you warned before you wounded. And that man did want to hurt you, or at least threaten to. I’m very, very happy that you have that capacity to protect yourself and our child, but I’m also sad that you had to.”
“I will adapt,” she promised. “I suppose all mothers learn what lengths they’ll go to protect their children. For me, at least, stabbing is not out of the question,” she said, smiling through her tears. “I just . . . I never felt that way before. It was a shock, like a cold bath.”
“Well,” I said, rubbing her arm, “I’ve warded the camp as tightly as I could, without drawing undue attention. These lands are not wild, precisely, but they are remote and sparsely peopled, for a Riverlands domain. There could be bandits and worse about. But with the wards, and Twilight at hand, not to mention a former warmage with incredibly good prospects, I’d say that you are as safe as in a castle, my lady.”
“I feel safe,” she said, putting her hand over mind. “No, I want to feel safe. I feel safer. I know you’ll do everything to protect me – us – but I just can’t get over . . .”
“Let’s have a sip of something strong before bed,” I counseled. “For medicinal purposes.” And if that didn’t work, there were calming spells I could use.
“I shall be fine,” she sighed. “I just wanted to talk about it.”
“And I just wanted to listen,” I countered. “You did a brave, brave thing, Alya. And brave deeds always arise out of dark circumstances.”
“I feel no need to be brave,” she said, sullenly. “But I suppose I had better learn.”
“You’re about to dice with the gods for the life of our child, and yours as well,” I pointed out. “Every mother is brave.”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “I may vomit.”
We were not attacked in the night, thankfully, though it was not particularly restful for me. Ithalia’s vague warning did little more than make me paranoid. I rose three or four times to inspect the wards, patrol the camp, and scry the surroundings against attackers. Not the best way to spend your honeymoon nights.
Alya seemed in much better spirits in the morning, especially when I started carrying my mageblade on my belt. I tried to be calm and smile and kiss her the way she wanted while trying to keep a constant eye out for danger. After breakfast at dawn, we left as quickly as the team could be harnessed and my bride made ready to depart.
“Why so early?” she asked, yawning. “I thought we had plenty of time.”
“I don’t want to dawdle,” I explained, reasonably. “I have a fairly good idea where this ruined gate is, but I don’t want to miss it, then have to backtrack in the dark. Besides, I enjoy a lovely morning where I can take in the scenery without actually using my legs.”
“It is beautiful,” she agreed, smiling at the barren hardwoods, the bright green evergreens, and the flaccid, shriveled trunks of the corwoods as we rolled through the countryside. The fields we’d seen were planted with winter wheat, or had the remnants of oats or corn, but more often they were overgrown into meadows or pastures. Goats, not cows, seemed to be the livestock of choice. “I’ve always loved winter. Oh, how I wish it would snow – I’ve always loved snow.”
“I’m partial to it myself,” I agreed, “when I don’t have to be in it.”
“Do you think Sevendor will be this pretty?”
“If not, I’ll make it prettier,” I promised. “The records say the winters are mild, just three or four snows a year.”
“That would be enough,” she decided. “And if it isn’t, I’ll just have you make more.”
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I snickered, lustfully. “I’m going to perch on the roof for a bit, take a look around. Would you like to join me?”
“And fall off like a watermelon? No, thank you,” she said, holding the thick clay bottle of hot tea she’d prepared before we’d broken camp, “I’m comfortable. If I move, I’ll have to pee.”
“An excellent point,” I said, kissing her and climbing up the side of the carriage.
The dull young man we’d hired to drive the team looked surprised that I’d joined him, but then he’d looked even more surprised in the morning when I was suddenly wearing a sword on my hip. He and his fellow each bore a stout belt knife, as most peasants carry, but they were otherwise unarmed . . . and clearly hadn’t expected the possibility of trouble. A trip to Sarthawood was counted as easy work for these lads.
I scryed the area, saw nothing to concern me, and then I did it again a few minutes later. I considered contacting Pentandra, mind-to-mind, or even one of my apprentices, but I had little idea what I would say to them, or what I could ask them to do to help. I was on my own, out here in the woods.
So I spent the next hour quietly hanging combat spells while Alya napped.
My vantage point did help us make the proper turn, from the miserably ill-repaired road we had been on to a wretched rut that pretended to be a road. Then a trail through the woods. I was starting to get anxious about how close the trees were growing when the path opened up into a meadow.
I had scryed the area, of course, but the three figures who stood in the middle of the clearing did not show as threats. With simple magesight, however, they were abundantly powerful manifestations of . . . something.
At first they seemed to be three man-tall stalks of some sort, shiny and smooth on the outside, but with fronds or branches or something spreading in a tight coil from their trunks.
Then they were suddenly three heavily-armed human infantrymen, with hard steel cuirasses and shiny steel helms, each dressed in a surcoat of green. And swords. And shields. And axes.
It was a cheap conjuring trick, of course – make three trees look like three knights to scare away the peasants? That was basic warmagic. I was about to order the drover to ride around when the damn things started to move. March, even. Toward us.
“Halt,” I ordered the man, and then climbed down from the perch, Twilight loose in the scabbard on my hip.
“Alya, stay in the carriage,” I instructed, and was gratified to see her nod while she drew her new dagger.
“Gentlemen,” I called out to the fake knights, “could you direct us toward the famous baths of Sartha Wood? My bride is sorely—”
“This road is forbidden to you,” one of the saplings-at-arms grunted in perfect Narasi. “Turn back, now.”
“On whose authority?” I asked. The knights stood silent. “All right, then why should I listen to you?”
“You will be in jeopardy if you continue along this way,” another one said in the same flat voice.
“I like a little excitement,” I promised.
“This road is forbidden for you,” the first one repeated.
“We will not permit you to go further,” the third one said.
“And why is that?”
“This road is forbidden to you,” the first one repeated, again.
“I understand that,” I reasoned, “but I need to know who forbade it. And is it me, specifically, or just anyone?”
“We will not permit you to go further,” the third one repeated, with an air of finality.
“I see,” I sighed. “All right, one at a time, or is this going to be interesting?” They began advancing toward me, preparing their weapons. Not vey talkative fellows, these green knights.
I drew Twilight and held it in both hands. Forged by Master Cormoran, one of the finest weaponsmiths in the duchies, the steel was as light as feathers and as strong as a mother’s condemnation. It was a slender, leaf-shaped
blade chased with runes and sigils. The interior spaces at the end of the blade had been fitted with thaumaturgic glass and other goodies, giving the weapon a wide range of implicit powers.
“We will not permit you to go further,” Number Three said, advancing first with a two-handed, double-bladed axe.
“I suppose we’ll have to contest that, then,” I said, murmuring a command. The tip of Twilight exploded in a sheaf of bright orange flame. The knight erupted at once, but kept marching forward until the heat of the blaze overcame him.
The other two continued without noticing their fellow. Number One cocked his shield and began a fairly-standard close attack, pushing that green, woody shield into my face to bind up my weapon . . . which is the exact proper way to engage a man without one. But Twilight was no ordinary weapon. Unencumbered by armor, I was able to roll along the edge of his shield, drop my blade as I twisted, and managed a nasty off-handed slash that took a good third of his head off. Instead of blood, bone and brain, however, Twilight’s razor sharp edge felt like it was cutting through a huge, tough lettuce.
As effective as the move was, it threw me off-balance, which allowed Number Two a shot at me. I don’t know where the Alka Alon grow these guys, but visual acuity is not one of their strengths, I realized, when he missed with his greatsword. I didn’t wait for him to correct – I raised my left hand and uttered another spell. It was basic, but effective in this case. It was designed to debilitate a man by drawing the water out of his body. For these green knights, however, the effect was far more dramatic. The fake human dried to a husk in seconds.
Sir Husk and Sir Ash were still quivering, but Sir Stalk was beginning to recover from his wound. That is, he continued to fight, albeit poorly. I had plenty of time to scramble to my feet, take careful position, and carve him into salad.
“Let’s move,” I commanded, as I swung back on to the carriage. “No telling how many more of them are around here!”
“My lord!” squeaked the drover in disbelief. “My lord, were those –?”
“Challenging? A bit,” I admitted. “But magic and steel beats aggressive foliage. Just keep us moving, and I’ll keep the danger at bay!”
After that our morning was spent rolling past one shadowy figure through the trees after another. Twice they got close enough for me to lob a spell toward, but no one else attacked us directly.
The closest settlement to the wood was a tiny hamlet of woodcutters, a cluster of huts surrounding a stone hall that served as workshop and storehouse. A silver penny bought us lunch, and another got us explicit directions to the Elf’s Gate.
“Nay, but you won’t find your way within, my lord, not unless the Lady of the wood wishes,” the toothless old graybeard who ran the hamlet told us with a smile. “Mists, my lord, as thick as mud, and howling fell beasts, reeking fens and flies as big as my hand, my lord, as big as my hand!”
When questioned more carefully, however, it was easy to determine that folklore, not experience, informed his opinion. The closest the woodcutters would get to the fabled wood was the Elf’s Gate, and no further. The gate was less than a mile away, but they never felled a tree within sight of it.
“We’ll continue from here on foot,” I decided, after lunch. “We can go slow, enjoy the day. And that way the carriage won’t be a hindrance.”
“I could do with some exercise,” Alya agreed. “Between the barge and the carriage, I haven’t stretched my legs in days. But what if we run into more tree-knights?” she asked, concerned.
“Then we have salad for dinner,” I said, confidently. “Don’t worry, my wife.”
She didn’t say anything, but I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad.
We set out with a pack of supplies and a blanket along with our heavy winter mantles. The temperature was just above freezing, and the sky clear of clouds. It was a lovely day, and despite the anxiety I felt about being exposed to yet more unknown dangers, I wasn’t about to let that corrupt my honeymoon.
Stopping only once to rest, we saw the first glimpse of the Elf’s Gate early that afternoon. Calling it a gate is a misnomer. It’s actually the remains of some massive complex that had encountered a force greater than mere catapult stones. The pale rock that had made up the building had been blasted into a wide field of rubble. The “gate” was a single arched portal that had escaped the devastation, surrounded by a patchwork of walls and columns and other ruins. They were overgrown with vines and underbrush, but there was something about them . . .
“Oh, that’s pretty!” Alya said, gasping when she saw the full stretch of the ruin. I activated magesight. Suddenly it didn’t seem so pretty.
There was a barrier, invisible to the human eye, that spread on either side of the gate. It was indistinct even with magesight, but you could not disguise the tremendous power behind it. Indeed, it felt as if it was a live, responsive creature. And it wasn’t inclined to let casual passers-by pass by . . . at all.
“Oh, my,” I breathed. “That’s the barrier Ithalia spoke of. I haven’t seen anything like that . . . not since I went to the edge of the Umbra,” I reminded myself. “This . . . this is more complex, structurally-speaking. More like an elemental than a mere force. There’s a kind of consciousness there. Kind of like a perpetually-awake guard dog.”
“And we’re supposed to get past that?” Alya asked, quietly.
“That’s what I’m told,” I agreed. “Ithalia said that she would tell us more on the morrow – which is today. I suppose we just have to wait here until she contacts us.”
Alya shivered a bit. “In the cold?”
“I’ll build a fire,” I decided. I could have made her warmer magically, but I didn’t want to attract undue attention this close to the barrier. I had already scryed the area, and had set up very basic wards to warn me of others, but I didn’t want to be too lavish with power, not so soon after my duel with the green knights.
“Don’t,” she countered. “I’m warm enough, I suppose. And I don’t want to attract any more attention, if we don’t need to.”
“Alya, there’s no telling how long it will take for Ithalia to contact us,” I warned.
“So I reserve the right to change my mind about the fire,” she grinned, shyly. “But let’s hold off.”
“So . . . what should we do to stay warm then?” I asked, mischievously.
An hour later we snuggled up under both of our cloaks, sipping a sweet spirit and smoking one of the milder blends from my pouch, musing idly on our future lives as lord and lady, when suddenly someone set off my wards. I stood quickly, summoning the spell and drawing my blade. Unfortunately, Alya was quite entangled with me and I ended up spilling her.
“Hey!” she protested.
“Quiet!” I commanded, looking around intently. “Someone is nearby.”
“What should I do?” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“Get under that cloak and pretend to be a rock. I’m serious!” I said, when she looked at me quizzically. “Don’t move until I tell you to.” She bit her lip, but she complied. It was a brown travel cloak, lined with rabbit fur, the kind any tradesman’s wife might wear on the road. It didn’t quite disguise her, I decided, but from five steps away it became difficult to even see her. I took ten steps toward the intruder, then two sideways, and waited.
My spells didn’t tell me much, save that there was but one variable, and that it wasn’t human. I used a couple of augmentations to try to both see and hear the approaching . . . whatever it was, and re-checked the spells I’d hung.
Presently there was a rustle through the trees, one that extended to the treetops – whatever it was, it was big. I found a slightly better spot to make a stand upon, making use of a table-sized boulder in the midst of an outcropping, and started activating my defensive spells.
A few moments later my guest lumbered through the trees. A big guest. A troll.
Not a regular troll – that would be too easy. Trolls are a type of Alon, a really big and stupid type. Th
ey were bred by the Alka Alon in their glory days as a brute labor force for construction and such. They look kind of like a goblin, only much broader, proportionately, and five to ten times larger. The Dead God had recruited or bred plenty of them. They had fought at every major battle of the war. Big, dumb, and taking direction well were all the requirements for membership in Sharuel’s troll corps. Usually they wore bits and pieces of armor or mantles or breechclouts of some sort, or went entirely naked (not a pretty sight – trolls grow less hair than goblins, and it tends to be patchy). When they fought, they used trees or logs as clubs, or put together crude hammers.
This one looked like the classy, uptown version. He wore armor, for one thing. A black coat-of-plates the size of a tournament pavilion, but clearly made for him. There was a thick iron cap on the top of his head, and his broad feet were stuffed into iron hobbed boots the size of a washtub. His armor was banded by a broad leather belt, a hideous-looking face as its buckle, and from it dangled a nasty-looking morning star. Worse, there was a spear the size of a ship’s mast in his great gnarled fist, the head of which was as long as my mageblade.
“Oh, Duin’s dirty champerpot,” I swore, my heart sinking. This was no more a “real” troll than the knights had been. He was far better armed than a troll had reason to be. And I had a feeling he was smarter than the average troll.
The Spellmonger's Honeymoon: A Spellmonger Novella (The Spellmonger Series) Page 10