By the time the dust settled, Argyle had already agreed to Angus’s terms, and ten minutes later Sardach was escorting Angus through the tunnels to the Grain Street entrance.
15
Embril landed in the clearing and waited for Lieutenant Jarhad to land. She watched him clumsily orienting himself to avoid the trees—dipping too sharply, rising too quickly—and shook her head. He was horrendous at flying, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least when they were high in the air it didn’t matter much if he made absentminded gestures that rapidly, radically changed his orientation and sent him into a panic. But landing required finesse and concentration. And experience. She had tried to explain it to him, but some of the movements relied upon subtle knot-tying motions that he knew nothing about. Worse, she couldn’t even show him those movements because of the Concealment spell making them look like puffy white clouds floating in the air. She had ultimately had to float in next to him and move his hands for him, and even then, he was only able to do the maneuvers in broad strokes. That was fine when they were high in the air and weren’t going to run into anything, but landing required a more delicate touch.
She watched and waited as Lieutenant Jarhad struggled to stay inside the clearing and lower himself toward the ground. He was supposed to come straight down and land on his feet so she could release the strand of air magic holding the Flying spell together, but he wasn’t coming straight down; he was shooting sideways or forward or backward and would have crashed into the trees if he hadn’t shot rapidly upward to avoid them. She sighed and waited for him to try again, wondering if she should go back up, wrap herself around him, and bring him down that way. It’s what the Masters did when their students lost control or panicked, but those students were trained to hang limp and release their own spells in that situation. Lieutenant Jarhad wasn’t. Besides, his flying was erratic, and she didn’t think she could get close enough to him for that maneuver. So, she waited.
It took six tries before Lieutenant Jarhad finally struck the ground. But he alit too firmly and stumbled to his knees. He might have been seriously injured, but he rolled and bounced up into the air again. He hovered there for a long second before Embril released the strand holding their spells together, and then he dropped about five feet to the ground, flapping his arms as if he was still trying to fly. He landed hard on the soggy grass, and then struggled to his feet.
“Where are you?” he demanded as he limped in a tight circle. “Where are the horses?”
“I am here,” Embril said as she moved toward him.
He whirled on her and said, “Why’d you drop me like that?”
Embril shrugged and said, “I thought it was safer than letting you land on your own.” Then she whinnied softly and an answering whinny came from just outside the clearing. A few seconds later, she saw the magical outline of the horses as they walked toward them. The magic around them was pulsing, throbbing as it struggled against the knots and the stronger strands were already breaking free. Hours, then, she thought. They had spent too much time investigating the fires—the Lieutenant was not satisfied with seeing one fire with a dwarf sitting next to it; he had to see dozens of them—and they were going to have difficulty making the rendezvous. “We need to hurry,” she said. “The spells are breaking free. Soft Passage is already gone. Hear that? The mud clinging to their hooves as they walk? It won’t be long before the Swiftness and Concealment spells also collapse.”
“Right,” he said. “We’ll ride as long as we dare and hope we don’t meet up with any fishmen before we rejoin the men.”
We won’t, Embril thought. There aren’t any fishmen up here. If there were, we would have seen them by now.
“Why do you think the dwarves are making the Tween Effect?” Embril asked as they were edging their way out of the clearing.
“Strategy,” Lieutenant Jarhad said at once. “The Tween is the border between Tyr and their mountains. The Tween Effect keeps us out of it, and if we were to send a large patrol or army into The Tween, they would be in no shape to fight the dwarves by the time they reached their tunnels. I’m glad it’s them and not the fishmen. The dwarves keep to themselves.” Before she could ask another question, they were on the road and he said, “Ride as hard as you can. We need to get as far as possible before this spell of yours runs out. Unless you have another one handy?”
Embril shook her head and said, “No. The books are in my chest.”
“Make haste, then,” Lieutenant Jarhad said, spurring his steed to a hard gallop, the harsh clatter of his horse’s hooves alerting everything nearby of their passage. She shook her head and fell in behind him, trying to remember how the Soft Passage spell was tied together. But for some reason, she was having difficulty concentrating and the mantra was not helping. Neither was her backside….
16
Hobart stretched and yawned. He shook himself and sat up in the bed. It was a bit short for him, but he had gotten used to that long ago. Most inns didn’t have beds that were long enough for him, and Dagremon’s was no different. He put his feet flat on the cold wood floor and stood up. He stretched again, relishing how normal it felt. The fatigue was gone, and he couldn’t remember feeling as well-rested as he was now.
He lifted his sword from the table and held it easily in one hand. He smiled, gripped the hilt firmly, and twirled it around him in a series of quick parries, thrusts, and slashes. It had been too long since he had done these exercises when he first woke up, and it felt wonderful to get the blood pumping without worrying about it sapping his energy.
After a few minutes, he set the sword back on the table and started the routine sequence of calisthenics that had been drilled into him when he had gone through his training. He had kept at them whenever he was able, but it had been nearly three weeks since he had done them. They had been a long three weeks, filled with fatigue and sleep and exhaustion and sorrow.
He stepped around in a tight circle, bending as he went and thrusting out one leg and arm, then the other. He went more quickly, testing his limits until he began to sweat and breathe a bit more heavily. Still his muscles didn’t ache, didn’t protest. Was the poison finally out of his body? Was it time for them to leave? But where was he to go?
He frowned. He would have to decide today. They had spent far longer at Dagremon’s than they should have, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. He was still a banner captain, and he had duties to fulfill. But which duty? Should he go to Hellsbreath and report in? Commander Garret had expected him to return in time to go with the patrol, and it had the weight of an order. It hadn’t been an order—if it had been, he wouldn’t have let Giorge talk him into hunting for fletching eggs—but it had sounded like one. Commanders could give those kind of orders to banner captains, but he hadn’t said it was an order. He had only said, “I would like you to go with the patrol and show them what you found.” That was a request, wasn’t it?
Yes, he should go back to Hellsbreath and report in. He needed to update the banner records to show the loss of personnel, and he needed to find out if Angus had returned. Was that what was keeping him at Dagremon’s longer than he should have stayed? Was he trying to give Angus more time to get to Hellsbreath? They should have left Dagremon’s three days ago….
We should go to the Lake of Scales, he thought. Angus said he thought the fishmen were there. If they are there and I return to Hellsbreath with that news, it would go a long way to easing Commander Garret’s anger for not making it back in time to join the patrol. But what if Angus was wrong? What if the fishmen aren’t there? It would further delay our return to Hellsbreath and add to Commander Garret’s anger. He frowned. Commander Garret had sent men after them to find out where they had gone. He wouldn’t have done that if it hadn’t been an order.
Sweat dripped from his long blonde tangles as he shifted to an extensive drill. He should be doing it in his armor, but he wasn’t ready to get dressed yet. He was going to take a well-deserved bath, first. Dagremon had ins
isted that it would help his muscles recover from the yiffrim poison, and he had begun to enjoy the routine of a long, warm morning bath. But it was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and he needed to remember that. In a day or two, he would be riding again, and bathing would be a memory. Still, it seemed to be helping him recover, and he was going to take advantage of it for as long as possible.
He was in the middle of a complicated series of feints when someone pounded on his door. It wasn’t a polite tap or even a soft thump; it was like the hammer-fisted rattle of one of the lieutenants he had served under when he was being trained. He stopped in mid-thrust and turned to the door. He paused to breathe, and then softly walked up to stand next to it. He held his sword high, and asked, “Who is it?”
There was a brief pause, and then a man with a gruff, gangly voice said, “Patrol. We seek Hobart of the Banner of the Wounded Hand. We will have words with him.”
Hobart frowned. Why would a patrol be looking for him here? “To what end?” he asked.
The man hesitated, lowered his voice, and said, “It is a matter of some delicacy. It is not wise to discuss it in hallways where other ears can hear it.”
Hobart frowned. Matters of delicacy were always annoying; they usually meant that he would be doing something dangerous. But he didn’t have to worry about that any longer; he was going to disband the banner when he got to Hellsbreath, and there was nothing they could do about it. But he hadn’t reached Hellsbreath yet, and they still had a right to call upon him and his banner if they were needed. He sighed and opened the door far enough to see out.
The soldier on the other side was dressed in the familiar brown of a Tyrian patrol, and he had the markings and rank of a veteran. There was a small scar above his right eye, and another on his cheek. His straggly beard tried to cover that scar with its thick, kinky, gray shag, but it was too pronounced for it to be completely hidden. His eyes were steady, dark, and brooding as he tried to step forward and stopped. “Will you let me in?” he grumbled.
Hobart hesitated until the soldier made the recognition sign with his left hand before stepping aside and letting him into the room. The top of the old soldier’s head was balding, but the sides were a gray tonsure that dangled halfway down his back. He was at least a foot shorter than Hobart, but he carried himself like a coiled snake ready to strike. Hobart closed the door and turned to him, his sword resting lightly on his sweaty shoulder. He returned to his practice and asked, “What is this delicate matter that you wish to see me about?”
The old soldier didn’t blink as the tip of the sword stabbed the air not far from his ear, nor did he make any move to draw his own blade. Instead, he said, “I have news of one of your banner. A wizard named Angus sought healing in Tyrag.”
Hobart’s blade quivered as he stopped in mid-thrust and turned to the old soldier. “Angus?” he repeated. “He’s alive?” Could it be possible? Could Angus have survived? But how? He had told Ortis he had a plan—
“Yes,” the old soldier said. “He was severely injured, but the healer was able to mend him. I do not know the details. I am here because of what he told the guard when he arrived. He said he thought the fishmen were at the Lake of Scales.” The old soldier paused, studying Hobart for his reaction before he demanded, “What do you know of this?”
Hobart stared at the old soldier and asked, “What is your name? Who sent you here?”
“I am called Ogden, and I am here at the behest of Commander Garret.”
“Well, Ogden,” Hobart began, “I know no more than you do. Angus had suspicions about the fishmen being at the Lake of Scales, but there was no evidence to corroborate them.”
Ogden’s lips compressed, and then he asked, “Did you not investigate his suspicions?”
Hobart frowned and shook his head. “No,” he said. “They didn’t warrant it at the time.” That wasn’t true and he knew it. Angus had overheard enough and had told Hobart enough of what he had overheard to warrant an investigation. But Giorge…. “He had overhead a patrol from the valley talking about something that led him to think the fishmen were there, but they hadn’t mentioned the fishmen or described anything remotely resembling them. Since we had other tasks to attend to, we didn’t investigate it at the time.”
The old man nodded, and asked, “What business was it?”
Hobart frowned and shook his head. “It is of no affair of yours or the Commander’s.”
The old man scowled and shook his head. “It delayed your return, and Commander Garret was most displeased when you were unable to lead that patrol to where you had seen the fishmen. He is eagerly awaiting your return so you can explain yourself.”
Hobart shrugged. “Then I will explain it to him, not you.”
Ogden shrugged and said, “Very well. I only stopped long enough to find out what you know before heading into the valley to see if the fishmen are there. Is there anything more that you can tell me?”
Hobart thought for a moment and then nodded. “Avoid the patrols down there; they don’t want anyone to know what’s happening. Whatever it was that came out of the mountains hasn’t attacked them, and they want to keep it that way.”
Ogden waited for more, but there was nothing else that Hobart could tell him. Angus had very little information to support his suspicions, and the argument he had made had been shaky. It was plausible, like most of Angus’s arguments, but not very likely. Then again, he had thought Angus was dead and he wasn’t. Maybe there was more to this than Hobart thought? “All right then,” Ogden said, moving quickly to the door.
“Wait,” Hobart said as Ogden opened the door. “Give us an hour and we’ll come with you.”
Ogden shook his head and said, “No. Commander Garret is waiting for your return.” He turned and stepped out of the room, and then he paused to look back at Hobart. “I would not tax his patience any longer than is needed. He may be a forgiving commander, but his generosity has limits. I wouldn’t test them if I were you.” Then he turned and hurried down the hall as Hobart shut the door.
After Ogden was gone, Hobart hurried to put on his armor and made his way to Ortis’s room. Ortis was already awake, and he quickly recounted the encounter with Ogden.
“So,” Ortis said, “Angus has survived.” His tone was flat, as if it didn’t matter to him that Angus wasn’t dead. But it mattered to Hobart, and he was a bit put off by Ortis’s cavalier attitude. What was wrong with him, anyway? He should be happy about it—or at least relieved.
“Yes,” Hobart said, his tone a bit defensive. “He’ll be on his way to Hellsbreath now, and we need to get back there. We’ll leave after breakfast.” He turned to leave, but Ortis put a hand out to stop him.
“Hobart,” Ortis said, “I am leaving the banner.”
Hobart turned and stared at Ortis for a long moment. He had just reconciled himself to continuing the banner when he found out Angus was alive, and now Ortis was leaving. “Why?” he asked. “We’ve been together for a long time.”
Ortis nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it has been long enough. It’s time for me to find my people again.”
“I thought they were all dead,” Hobart said. “When you came out the Death Swamps, you said you could never go back again.”
Ortis nodded. “I couldn’t then,” he agreed. “But now that the Death Swamps are free of the fishmen, I want to try. There may have been other survivors.”
Hobart stared into Ortis’s orange-tinted eyes and saw the many battles they had fought together reflected back at him. How many times had they spent in contemplation next to each other by the campfire? He slowly nodded and said, “All right.” There was nothing else he could say. Ortis was free to quit the banner whenever he liked, and he knew him well enough to know that Ortis had thought about his decision for a long time before he had made it. Still, he was reluctant to let him go, so he said, “I’ll go with you.”
Ortis smiled and put his arm on his shoulder. “Thank you, Hobart, but we both know you can’t do that. Yo
u know what will happen when you go into the Death Swamps.”
Ortis was right; He couldn’t go with him into those dark, fetid bogs; they made it almost impossible for him to breathe. “No,” Hobart reluctantly agreed, “but I can go with you that far.”
Ortis shook his head. “No, Hobart,” he said. “You have a duty to Giorge to fulfill.”
Hobart frowned, took a long breath, and then let it out as a sigh. “I was thinking of ending the banner, anyway,” he said. “But when I found out Angus was still alive,” Hobart shook his head. “It’s decided, then. When we get to Hellsbreath, I’ll report that we have disbanded. I’ll head west to find this Auntie Fie, and you can head north to the Death Swamps. I’ll leave word of the decision for Angus if he doesn’t reach Hellsbreath before we depart.”
Ortis nodded, squeezed Hobart’s shoulder, and let his hand fall to his side. “I’ll get ready to leave,” he said. “We’ll be going to Hellsbreath today, won’t we?”
Hobart reluctantly nodded and turned away. Once he was in the hallway, his shoulders sagged as he realized how close he was to the end of his banner and he began to wonder what he would do once he had delivered Giorge’s message to Auntie Fie.
17
We agreed, Sardach thought. I am to take you to Hellsbreath. We are not yet there.
Yes, Angus thought back. But you can’t fly me through their protective barrier. The wizards will notice and take it as a threat. They will defend themselves.
Sardach considered this for a long moment, and then conceded the point. Where, then?
On the road near the lift to the south, he thought, where it is still dark. I will walk from there, and you will be free to go.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 35