by J. L. Doty
NickoLot stood by the window in her room looking out at the castle yard below. She watched DaNoel gather with several other young men. They each took up a practice sword, stretched and warmed up for a bit, then three pairs of contestants squared off and began trading blows. DaNoel stood among the other young men watching from the sidelines.
As word had spread through the family that they believed Rhianne was Valso’s captive in Durin, there had been quite a range of reactions. Roland had expressed sorrow and sadness, and wondered if they could ransom her. The moment Tulellcoe heard, as expected he immediately began making preparations with Cort to go there, and did not need to be asked. JohnEngine wanted to gather an army and start a war, while Brandon wanted more details—Brandon, always the careful planner. But DaNoel hadn’t reacted at all, had just said, “Oh yes,” and gone about his daily routine, almost as if he’d already known. All of NickoLot’s suspicions had boiled back to the surface, reminding her that she had yet to get to the bottom of his deceits.
Several times now she’d watched DaNoel join the young men for practice. Those watching from the sidelines, and not participating, might slip away for a few moments to do something, but they always returned. However, the contestants exercising their skills were committed, and would fight on until the matches ended. Old Beckett, the weapons master, timed each match with a small hourglass, so she had a good idea how much time she’d have.
DaNoel did not participate in the next round of matches, and Nicki’s impatience fueled her nervousness. Not until the third round did DaNoel square off with an opponent. Nicki allowed the contest to proceed for a bit, waited until he was well into it before turning and walking out of her room, trying to keep her pace even and calm.
DaNoel had locked the door to his room with a simple spell. She’d gone through this same exercise two days ago simply for the purpose of carefully analyzing the lock spell. She would have no difficulty merely circumventing it, but when she finished she needed to restore it. He mustn’t know someone had searched his room; he’d probably guess who.
She’d prepared a charm in advance, and used it now to open the lock without deactivating it. She stepped into the room and closed the door, then began carefully searching. To her delight she found a horse-hair brush with several strands of hair. She carefully plucked them free and wrapped them in a small silk handkerchief she’d recently had laundered; it wouldn’t do to contaminate them. Working with nothing but hair limited the type and strength of the spell she might craft. With nail clippings, saliva, or even bits of dandruff, she could tie it to him much more intimately. But she dare not take the time to thoroughly search his room, and a cursory search of his clothing turned up nothing more that might aid her.
She opened the door a crack, checked to make sure the hall was empty, then stepped out. She closed the door and used the charm to reset DaNoel’s lock. Again, she forced herself not to hurry.
Back in her room she closed the door and set her own arcane lock, one much more powerful than DaNoel could summon. She sat down at her writing table, unwrapped the handkerchief and looked at her small bonanza. She counted more than 20 hairs.
After plucking some of her own hair, she braided two of DaNoel’s hairs with one of hers. Working slowly, she produced five braids, then applied a bit of saliva to each. While the saliva was still wet she fed power into the braids and chanted, “Let the deceiver be deceived, and the deceived enlightened.” Repeating that seven times for each braid, she closed off her power and set the spell.
The next time DaNoel joined the other young men for sword practice, she’d place these charms in and around his room. She wasn’t sure what she might accomplish, didn’t know what these spells would reveal, but she had to try.
••••
Morgin reined Mortiss off the game trail they’d been following, let her pick her own way a dozen paces through dense brush, then pulled her to a halt and dismounted. He dropped a deep shadow about them both, then sheathed his sword, pulled his belt knife and cut a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic. Using it as a makeshift bandage, he bound the cut on his forearm.
Twice now he’d waited in ambush for the jackals with his bow strung and a nocked arrow. Each time, as they charged up the trail, he shot one arrow when they came into view, killing a single jackal. But his purpose had not been to kill jackals; he needed to make them wary, and the occasional arrow encouraged them to move slowly, buying Rafaellen time. Now it was time to change tactics, for he’d be a fool to attempt the same type of ambush three times.
The forest gave him an uncanny sense of Rhiannead’s location. She and Rafaellen had turned due north, while the jackals had to ride east for some distance to regain the trail before they could do likewise. If he could cut diagonally toward Rhiannead, he could get ahead of the jackals and have enough time to prepare a real ambush.
He turned north, hoping to find a game trail leading that way, and the forest opened up before him. Branches moved aside and underbrush withered as he looked on, leaving a trail that matched his need perfectly. He mounted up and spurred Mortiss forward, and as they travelled up the trail it closed behind him.
The Living Forest! He’d forgotten it had a will of its own.
••••
Morgin pushed Mortiss hard for about two leagues, and the game trail the forest had opened up for him led him unerringly to the trail Rafaellen and Rhiannead followed, the trail up which the jackals would have to come. From the forest he sensed Rhiannead two or three leagues north, but he didn’t have a similar sense of the jackals to guide him, didn’t know if they’d come charging up the trail in the next instant, or if he could plan his ambush at his leisure. At best he hoped he’d hear their hoof beats a few hundred paces before they arrived.
On impulse he whispered, “Soann’Daeth’Daeye, are you near?”
The wraiths coalesced out of the shadows of the forest, and all knelt on one knee before him, their shapeless heads bowed. Their leader spoke, its words no more than a whisper of thought brushing across Morgin’s mind, We are always near, my king.
“Send someone north to Captain Rafaellen,” he said. “Warn him that I’m only a few leagues behind him, and that I’m going to ambush the jackals.”
Yes, Your Majesty.
“And I know you can’t sense the intruders, but if I draw my sword, you know I am among them. Shield me if you can.”
The shadowwraiths dissipated into the forest.
Morgin retrieved a length of rope from his saddlebags, then chose a spot in the trail where it narrowed a bit. He tied the rope to two tree trunks so it spanned the trail about knee high. The shadows of the forest canopy hid it only a little. An intelligent rider would see it easily, pull up and not blunder into it. But Morgin added his own shadows to the rope, hopefully turning it into a deadly trap. Either they’d see it anyway and pull up, which would give him good targets, or they wouldn’t, and he’d have even better targets.
The faint rumble of hoof beats in the distance broke the silence of the forest as he unstrapped his quiver and bow from Mortiss saddle. He only had six arrows, but that would have to do. He swatted Mortiss on the rump and said, “Hide. And do what you can to help.”
As the sound of the hoof beats grew from a faint rumble to an approaching roar, he sprinted up the trail about 30 paces, found a safe spot behind the trunk of a large tree, strung his bow, and waited.
He had an unobstructed view for about a hundred paces down the trail, easily saw the jackals as they came into view, the jackal captain in their lead. But about half way to the rope the jackal raised the bandaged stump of his right arm, and reining in his horse he shouted, “Halt—halt.”
The jackal troop bunched up, but they were disciplined soldiers, and to Morgin’s disappointment they stopped just short of the rope. Morgin nocked an arrow as the jackal captain nudged his horse forward the few remaining paces to the trap, leaned out of his saddle and looked down at it. He threw his head back and laughed. Moving as slowly and silently as possible,
Morgin drew back the bow string.
The jackal captain barked, “It almost worked, man of shadows. But we know to watch for shadows that exist where none should.”
Since the rope trap hadn’t worked, Morgin might take down one or two jackals at most, but he’d need to escape, and where had Mortiss gone?
At that moment a dark shadow stepped out onto the trail behind the jackals. Mortiss no longer needed to charge into the jackal troop to create chaos, she merely brayed angrily to let their horses know she was there. The jackal mounts realized the demon horse was near and panicked, even though she did nothing but stand calmly in the trail and watch them, stomping her hooves a bit to encourage them. The horses in the rear neighed and whinnied and bucked against those in front of them, forcing the entire troop forward. The captain’s mount was the first to hit the rope and trip, bringing the horse down and sending him sprawling. Three more horses followed him.
Morgin heard snapping limbs and braying jackals as he stepped out into the trail, raised his bow and shot an arrow. He loosed all of his arrows in rapid succession, recalled doing the same as Morddon against a bunch of Kulls in a distant past.
One of the jackals carrying a lance spurred his horse into a leap over the rope, dodged around the twisted pile of horses and dogs, lowered the lance and charged up the trail. Morgin tossed his bow aside, drew his sword, and a cloud of shadowwraiths enveloped him completely, obscuring the entire trail, and likely saving his life. He dodged to the side as the jackal rode past, struck out with his sword in a desperate attempt to deflect the lance, landing on his side in the trail.
He scrambled to his feet, but heard another set of hooves charging toward him, turned and found Mortiss bearing down on him. She slowed enough for him to grab her saddle horn as she raced past; he yanked himself into her saddle, but went a bit too far and almost fell off the other side, though he at least managed to keep hold of his sword. A blade hissed past his face as he tried to right himself. He struck out blindly as Mortiss kicked and screamed. She reared high and crushed a jackal’s skull with her hooves, charged and slammed into another’s horse, knocking animal and rider into the brush. Then she broke free and charged up the trail.
Morgin finally righted himself in Mortiss’ saddle. He sensed several steel-tipped arrows arcing his way, and with his steel magic swatted them aside like annoying flies on a hot summer afternoon. He thanked the gods he’d escaped relatively unscathed. He was thanking them wholeheartedly with the wind in his face when the arrow slammed into his back. It felt as if he’d been stabbed with a red-hot poker, and pain washed through him with such intensity he couldn’t even cry out. He looked down, saw a hand’s breadth of arrow shaft protruding from his chest, its obsidian warhead glistening with his blood. It was off-center to the left, so he hoped it hadn’t damaged any vital organs. But it had punched clean through him, through ribs and muscle, a grave wound, perhaps a mortal wound.
He swooned forward in the saddle, barely managed to hold onto consciousness as behind him he heard the jackal captain shout, “Damn you, shadow fighter. Damn you to the ninth hell.”
14
Sabian
Chrisainne rolled off Lewendis, her bare breasts heaving as she lay on her back catching her breath. “That was quite . . . enjoyable, darling.”
He sat up next to her, leaned over and kissed her cheek, then her neck. After she got rid of Theandrin, ErrinCastle, BlakeDown and her husband, she’d keep Lewendis around. As he kissed her breasts she became aroused again. But she had work to do, so she pushed him away, doing so gently so he’d not feel rejected. “Let me catch my breath, darling.”
Leaning over her he said, “When I’m near you I can think of nothing else.”
She ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “My husband is far from here—hunting, I think—so we have all night. I just have to return to my own room before the servants awake. We mustn’t fuel their gossip.”
She slipped out of bed and stood, purposefully didn’t cover herself because it kept him in a constant state of distraction. She crossed the room to a small table, poured two goblets of chilled, summer wine. As she returned he couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts, and even after she held one of the goblets out to him, it took him a heartbeat to pull his eyes off them and focus on the goblet. He took it from her and gulped at the wine.
She needed to get him talking about the border situation. “Before you . . . distracted me, you were angry at one of the Elhiynes.” Always best to play dumb and let him lead her into it.
“Not just one of the Elhiynes,” he said. “All of them. They’re arrogant, and they look down their noses at me.”
Valso wanted her to escalate the situation. She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I haven’t met too many Elhiynes, but the few times I have, I’ve seen that myself. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
She knew he particularly disliked an Elhiyne named DaNoel. She’d never met the fellow, so she lied. “I met Lord DaNoel once, and I found him quite egotistical.”
Lewendis’ face reddened with anger. He gulped the last of his wine, stood, crossed the room and poured more. He returned to her, saying, “He’s an arrogant bastard. When we meet on the border he doesn’t even acknowledge my nobility.”
Lewendis could barely make claim to nobility; if Valso hadn’t enriched her dowry, she’d have had to marry someone like him. She put on a show of anger as she said, “You shouldn’t put up with that. The next time he slights you, you should show him that you’re a man to be reckoned with, bloody his nose a bit, give him something to think on.”
“Yes,” he said, almost growling the word like a beast. “Yes, I will.”
She reached out and caressed his manhood. “I think I’ve caught my breath.”
He grinned, took her goblet and returned both to the table. Talking about DaNoel had gotten his blood up, and he proved to be quite energetic.
When they finished, Lewendis fell into an exhausted sleep. Chrisainne lay awake beside him, and when certain she could get away with it, she cast a small spell to deepen his sleep. She slipped out of bed, felt her way to her clothing, retrieved Valso’s coin from a pocket in her cloak. She kissed it, returned the coin to the cloak, then slipped under the sheets to wait.
Chrisainne, my dear. You’ve done as I asked?
Yes, Your Majesty. I don’t think he’ll kill DaNoel, but he’ll certainly start something.
Excellent! We’ll have—
Chrisainne felt a spell activate, felt Valso’s connection to her snap like a twig breaking, and her heart went cold. She took one heartbeat to understand what she could of the spell, sensed only that it tasted of Theandrin.
She climbed out of bed, bundled up her gown, underclothes and slippers, merely threw on the cloak and didn’t bother to dress. She opened the door to Lewendis’ room just a crack, saw no one out in the hall, stepped out, closed the door behind her and rushed toward her own room. At each intersection she stopped, peered around the corner first, then continued on. Not until she closed the door to her own room, stuffed her clothing underneath her bed, then climbed beneath the sheets, not until then did her heart stop racing.
••••
Theandrin marched down the hallway carrying the new charm she’d made. Her inquiries had yielded no Vodah spies lurking about, at least none who’d been inside the castle walls at the right moment. And yet her wards had been triggered repeatedly. So she’d modified her special ward, increased its sensitivity and added this charm to it, which she hoped would give her some sense of location.
She paused at the intersection of two halls, thought for a moment she saw someone disappear around the far corner to the right, but realized she was jumping at shadows. She closed her eyes, let the charm guide her to the left.
She turned and walked more carefully since she was getting close. Half way down the hall the charm pulled her unerringly to a single door. She stopped outside it, and glanced about to orient herself.
That certainly added up. If Valso wanted to see war between Penda and Elhiyne, what better way than to have a hot-head spy put in charge of a border patrol. From now on she would keep a close eye on young Lord Lewendis. She really should know a lot more about the man, especially with Chrisainne spreading her legs for the fellow.
It occurred to her she hadn’t really gotten that much information from Chrisainne, just bits and pieces, and frequently something she already knew. Time to have a talk with that girl, lite a fire under her. But that would have to wait for morning.
••••
Morgin managed to hold onto his sword and sit up in the saddle long enough to sheath it. He turned slightly so the arrow’s obsidian warhead wouldn’t stab Mortiss in the neck, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Try to catch up with Rafaellen,” he said, though saying even that much cost him dearly.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, trusted that he could stay in the saddle, trusted that she would continue up the trail and stay ahead of the jackals. Hopefully, she and he had done enough damage to them that they’d have to lick their wounds a bit before following.
When he slammed into the ground the pain came on so intently he rolled onto his side and vomited. He lay there for several heartbeats, didn’t have the strength to sit up.
Mortiss nudged his ear with her muzzle and snorted loudly. Get up, fool.
“Ya, I know,” he said. “I know.” He rolled onto his stomach, rolled onto the arrow shaft protruding from his chest and heard it snap. The pain that came with that sent him back into unconsciousness.
Another loud snort in his ear. I said get up, fool.
But he couldn’t get up so he ignored her, drifted off to a place with no pain . . .