He had only gone a short distance when Angus’s mind grew calm, and then he increased his speed yet again. He was careful, though; there was no sense in being careless. He had waited over a millennia to be freed, and he could easily tolerate another week in this horrid world. But Angus was badly injured, and he needed tending to quickly. How could he get him to Iscara? He couldn’t fly into the city proper while carrying Angus; there were too many wizards about. He would be seen, and that would not go well for him or for Angus. But he couldn’t take Angus through his secret passage to Argyle’s lair the way he had carried Typhus, either; the sequence of his tasks were quite clear: Iscara’s healing first, and then to Argyle with the key.
Perhaps he could bring Iscara to him? Sardach pondered the problem as he flew. He had plenty of time to make a plan; it would be a two day flight to Tyrag. He would arrive late at night, when most people were sleeping, and that would simplify things….
9
Angus jolted awake as a jarring pain ran through his left foot, shot up his knee, and sprouted into an agonizing scream that could have been heard for miles. Then he was flying again, and the pain eased to an intolerable throb.
Angus? Sardach queried, but Angus was too distraught to answer. His foot was worse—far worse—than it had been when he had fallen asleep. If it weren’t for the bandages holding the flesh in place, he was sure it would be slipping off the bones. And now the rot had spread to his knee and was creeping upward. The stench was horrid.
Still the mind, Angus thought in desperation. Still the body. Still the mind. Still the body.
Sardach cradled him in his tentacle as if he was an octopus wrapping its arms around its prey, and then, as if he were a baby being gently lain down to sleep in its box, Sardach set him on the cool, hard earth. The stubble from last year’s grain sagged under his weight, giving him a little cushioning as Sardach entered him.
It was a horrid sensation, like swallowing a torch that kept smoldering. Sardach wasn’t burning him, of course—his robe saw to that—but the taste was atrocious and it smelled like when he had burned himself in the Angst temple.
The pain eased, and his mind grew still. His body….
I will sustain you, Sardach thought.
Angus frowned, and shook his head. I cannot walk on this foot.
The tendrils enveloping him shifted to smoke—all but one; it gradually transformed its shape until it became a walking staff. It positioned itself in his left hand and gripped his fingers. The rest of Sardach slithered under his robe and wrapped itself around him. I must not be seen, Sardach said, the warmth of his body challenging the robe’s magic, feeding on it, growing stronger. Then Sardach lifted him from the ground and held him upright, the staff-like tentacle jabbing into the ground like an anchor. I will walk for you.
No, Angus said. I cannot walk. The weight—
—will be mine to bear, Sardach finished as he moved Angus’s right leg forward. He cringed as his weight shifted to his left foot—but he felt none of it. The burden of that weight fell on the staff, not the foot, and a moment later, his left foot moved forward. It was a strange sensation to have something else moving his legs, and Angus fought against it, trying to regain control of his own movements. His body stopped, and Sardach thought, Let me be your legs. We must hurry. When we get to the gates, you must gain entry. I cannot speak for you. Then he was walking again, and Angus fought against the urge to stop his legs.
The fires of the city were shining brightly on the horizon and gradually came into focus as they approached it. They were two large fires, one each on either side of the city’s main gate, which was closed and barred. Several soldiers stood guard at the gate, and a small group of people sat on the ground beside the road not far from the gate. Why hadn’t the guards let them inside? Why were they waiting to enter the city? Would the guards allow him to enter the city? What could he do to convince them to do it? Any more delay could be deadly.
He hobbled forward—Sardach hobbled forward—and came to a stop in front of a soldier who held up his hand and demanded, “Who are you and what business have you in Tyrag?”
There were three other guardsmen standing just a few feet behind the first and off to the side. Angus dismissed them and faced the one who had challenged him. “My name is Angus, and I seek ingress,” he said. “My business is my own.”
“Ingress?” the guardsman repeated as he turned to the others. “Any of you know of this fellow, Ingress?”
The others milled around, but before they could answer, Angus sighed and shook his head. “Ingress is but another word for entry. I wish to enter Tyrag.”
The guardsman scowled at him. “The gates are closed. You must wait until dawn and be inspected.”
Angus frowned and shook his head. “I must gain entry at once,” he said. “I—” the soldier was scowling at him and Angus paused. What would convince—
“Forgive me,” Angus said, “I am weary and did not properly identify myself. My name is Angus the Mage. I am a member of the Banner—” he smiled at the irony “—of the Wounded Hand. I seek entry to Tyrag for I am in dire need of the services of the healer Iscara. I daresay I may not last until morning without them.”
The guardsman looked at him shrewdly for a few seconds but said nothing. Instead he turned and nodded to his men and one of them scurried off toward the main gate.
Angus didn’t wait for him to return. Instead, he said the words that were supposed to grant him the same privileges of the guardsman standing before him. “I demand my banner rights be respected. My need is urgent.”
The guardsman waved him off and asked, “Where is the rest of your Banner?” His tone was skeptical, as if he doubted Angus’s claim. “Surely they are with you?”
Angus frowned and shook his head. “They are on their way to Hellsbreath on urgent business,” he said. “My injuries were too severe for me to join them.” He paused and took a long breath, then added, “My magic is exhausted, and so am I.” Let me have my body, he thought to Sardach, placing as much of his weight as he could on his right leg and gripping the staff tightly in his left hand. “I cannot,” he winced in pain and lifted his left foot from the ground. He leaned heavily on Sardach to keep from falling, and took a deep breath. “I cannot last much longer without her aid,” he half-whispered as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he looked up again, the pain was crawling over his face as he grimaced and asked, his voice harsh, “Surely you have heard of her talents?”
The guardsman shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he scowled at Angus. But he said nothing for a long moment, and then his indecision was saved by the return of his subordinate.
“Sir?” the guardsman prompted as he approached.
The leader turned and snapped, “Well?”
His subordinate came to a rigid stop. “There is such a banner, Sir. It was formed by one named Hogbart—” He stopped as Angus laughed and shook his head.
“It is pronounced Hobart,” he said, his voice shaking nearly as much as his left arm and right leg. If they didn’t make a decision soon, he would collapse—unless he let Sardach support him again.
The guardsman glanced at him, shook his head, and returned his attention to his superior. “There is a wizard named Angus, and this one resembles him closely. There are some differences, but they could easily be accounted for and are well within the expected tolerances for such descriptions.” He paused and suggested, “Perhaps if he told us who else—”
“Ortis, a Triad, and Giorge,” Angus said, his voice clipped as if he were barely restraining his anger. “I replaced Teffles, who replaced Ribaldo. I’m sure the records also indicate that I was temporarily banned from Hellsbreath for improper use of magic, but such ban was lifted upon paying restitution.” He lifted his head—it was difficult to keep from falling over—and glared at them. “Would you like me to show you how it happened?”
The guardsman who had gone to get the information paled and shook his head. “No, no,”
he said, turning quickly to his superior. “It won’t be necessary, will it, Sir? He put a hole in their wall….”
The guardsman in charge turned toward Angus and his scowl was gone, but it hadn’t been replaced with a welcoming smile. Instead, he sized Angus up again and asked, “What healing do you need?”
Angus glared and said, “Will you grant me entry or not?”
The guardsman continued to contemplate him—
—and Angus’s arm gave out. His elbow bent and he sagged forward, sliding down Sardach’s make-shift staff. His shin hit the surface of the road, and he screamed in agony. Then he collapsed, his grip held firm to the staff by the staff.
The guardsman was surprisingly swift to act. He moved forward and gently rolled Angus onto his back. After a quick glance at the arm splinted under his robe, he turned to the legs and lifted the hem of his robe. He stared for a long moment, and then turned to his men. “Stretcher, now. Send word to Iscara that her skills are needed. Make haste. He may be one of us.”
Angus glared at the soldier for a long moment, and then, through clenched teeth, he said, “I should have told you the King’s Shield was dented. That would have been quicker.” Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and focused on the mantra. It was fairly easy to do; Sardach was still inside him, giving him what aid he could.
A few minutes later, they gently—very gently—placed him on a stretcher and four of the men carried him slowly to the gate. He clutched the staff to his chest, and refused to let them take his backpack. They could have done it anyway, if they wanted to—he was too weak to prevent it—but they didn’t. As they went, the guardsman in charge leaned down and asked, his tone drenched in concern, “Were you serious about the King’s Shield? We’ve heard rumors….”
Angus continued reciting the mantra as he considered his response. “Perhaps,” he said at last, his voice weak. “There may be fish on the wind,” he added, “but not here.” He closed his eyes and struggled to keep from losing consciousness. When he opened them again, he wasn’t sure if he had succeeded. He was already on a wagon trundling through the streets of Tyrag. The leader of the guard was at his side, and his men were riding along beside it. It was a harrowing experience; each bump in the road jostled his shoulder, rubbing the shattered bones together. Fortunately, it didn’t last long before he faded into unconsciousness and stayed there.
10
Hobart woke slowly, and the remnants of a bizarre dream lingered like the fuzziness of a hangover. He had been riding Leslie into battle against a dozen fishmen armed with axes made by dwarves. They had surrounded him, and the fishmen had been chipping away at his armor. Bits and pieces of it flew off with each blow, and then one of the fishmen threw its axe at his head. He had ducked too late, and the hollow clang echoed in his ears like thunder smashing through his wits. Then his helmet slipped from his brow, taking his senses with it as it tumbled to the ground.
Leslie was standing over him, snorting and pawing at the ground and snapping at the dwarves with her vicious teeth. They were funny-looking dwarves, though; they were black as smoke and just as fluffy. Their eyes were like raging embers full of restrained flame, but they weren’t looking at him. They were looking at the other dwarves forming ranks on Leslie’s other side. Those were strange dwarves, too; they were white as snow and just as thick-headed. Their eyes were pale blue pools of hostility. A horn sounded a rigid thunderclap, and the smoke-colored ones charged the icy ones. He was stuck in the middle of the battle, trying to avoid Leslie’s hooves as she reared and kicked at them. But the dwarves ignored her; their gaseous bodies flowed around the hooves as they passed and then coalesced with a clang as their weapons met the ice picks of the frozen dwarves. Sparks and ice chips flew, and when they landed on him they felt like cinders crawling on his skin. He tried to roll out of the way, tried to bury his face in the snow, but he couldn’t move. Leather straps had sprouted from the ground to pin his naked arms to the frozen earth.
Where was his armor? His head jerked up, and he found himself back in the smithy’s shop in Tyrag. He was a young man, barely through his training and ripe for a commission. The smithy had his armor ready, and it was time to pick it up. He had saved his pay for two years to buy it, and now—
Hobart blinked. He was on his back again, staring up at the morning sky. The pine trees were draped in snow, but it was melting. Icicles dangled from their boughs, dropping with a muffled thud or splash. The horses sloshed as they plodded through the slush. It was a chill day, and he felt naked as the breeze rustled the blankets draped over him. He stared at the sky for a long time before he turned his head. Ortis was riding along beside him, a bit ahead of him, but his gaze was elsewhere. He was looking for something up ahead. Dwarves, perhaps?
I’m awake, aren’t I? Hobart wandered, deciding he was too exhausted to lift himself up to find out. There was a battle, wasn’t there? he wondered. I was injured, wasn’t I?
It didn’t matter. He had survived, and Ortis would watch over him.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.
11
Iscara woke to a sharp, insipient, unrelenting screech of “Owie! Owie! Owie!” She tried to ignore it, tried to fall back asleep, but it wouldn’t stop. She rolled over and groaned. Someone in need of healing was pulling on the rope. Why can’t they come during the day? she wondered.
The screeching stopped, and Iscara sat up, rubbed her eyes, and waited. If it was a simple matter, Karas would deal with it. He was the one on night duty, and he was more than able enough to deal with cuts and bruises. He could even set a broken limb. If the injuries or illness was too serious for him to deal with, he would come get her. She stretched and yawned, and shifted position until her feet were on the floor. Then, still wrapped in her coverlet, she slid down to the end of the bed near the table. The candle was out, but she saw it clearly in the blue luminescence filling the room. She half-turned and said, “You’d best hide yourself before Karas sees you.”
Typhus didn’t move until there was a light tap on her door and Karas softly called, “Iscara?” Then he pulled the coverlet from her and draped it over himself, leaving Iscara shivering in the darkness.
“What is it, Karas?” she called, standing up and moving up to the door.
“The guard,” Karas said, his voice barely carrying through the door. “They’ve asked for you by name.”
Iscara frowned. What could the guard want? They had their own healers to tend to battle wounds, and there hadn’t been any of those for months. There were training accidents, but their healers dealt with them, too. “What do they want?” she asked as she moved to her wardrobe. Of all the things about being a healer that she hated, being woken up in the middle of the night was the worst.
“A man at the gate asked for you by name,” Karas said.
Iscara opened the wardrobe and asked, “What was the man’s name?”
“I’ll ask,” Karas said, and there were rapid footsteps up the stairs.
By the time Karas returned, Iscara had donned one of the half dozen healer’s gowns from her wardrobe. It was made from a coarse, tightly woven, white fabric reinforced with magic to keep blood and other body fluids off her skin. It was effective but boring. She never wore anything else, and that made her feel boring, too. One day, she would have to get something with color that conformed to the curves of her body and wear that instead. “Well?” she demanded as she opened the door.
Karas had a lantern in his hand, and held it off to the side. “His name is Angus,” he said. “He’s from one of the banners.”
There was a gasp from her bed, and Karas turned his attention toward it, but Iscara moved in front of him to block his view. A banner man, Iscara thought, her curiosity piqued. It had been a long time since she had treated someone from a banner, and the last time had been at least interesting. A disease from the Death Swamps had lingered in him for a long time before it struck. Could this be something like that? “Did they say what he needed?” she asked, stepping to t
he side to retrieve her bag.
“Injuries,” Karas said, his gaze directed toward her bed. He backed up quickly as she stepped through the door and shut it, and then they hurried up the stairs side by side. “Bad ones from the sound of it,” he continued. “They’re bringing him on a wagon. He should be here in a few minutes.”
Iscara sighed; if he was on a wagon, it had to be bad. But why hadn’t the guard’s healers taken care of him? She stopped at the top of the stair long enough to cast a simple refreshment spell that tweaked the magic within herself until she was fully alert. It wasn’t as good as sleep, but it would do for the time being. Then she turned to follow Karas and paused. What was the man’s name again? Aggles?
Uggles? she wondered. Wasn’t that who Typhus had said had the key Argyle wanted? Maybe Argyle had sent him to her? She hurried after Karas. If this was the same Argus, then maybe she would find the key and get back on Argyle’s good side? If Argyle had a good side….
“Get the table ready,” Iscara said when they were in the main room.
Karas nodded. He was a good-looking young man with a boyish face and figure, and she’d had a little fun with him a few times. But he was too nice, too gentle, for her tastes, and she’d quickly grown bored with him. But he was a quick learner when it came to healing, and after a few more years of instruction he would make a good healer. A better one than herself, in fact; he had a passion for it. But he still had a lot to learn. If it were a disease, it would be a good case for him to study. If not….
Karas pushed aside the tapestry separating the main room of the shop from the infirmary where they tended to the more serious cases, and then he stepped through the wide opening. A large glass sphere was dangling just above the table, and he quickly cast the Glow Ball spell on it. When he was done, he went to the wall and pulled on a cord to raise the light over the table. As it rose, the light reflected from mirrors until the room was as bright as a noonday sun. By the time he finished, the wagon was approaching, accompanied by the sound of several horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestones.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 26