by Pam Uphoff
He kept glancing back at the troops, wondering what they were going to do with the mages, with the mage wives and children. He unharnessed the horses and led them over to where the crumbling foot of the ashstone ridge supported some small trees, and tied them in the shade. Then walked back to the troops to find out.
Lily Parsons nodded to him. "We're camping here, while I send some messages. Probably we'll all go to Southern Hell and find a judge tomorrow. How about you? Back to Rip Crossing?"
"Yes. I need to . . . would you like me to send the Archmage down here? He can free Marcus, if you want him out. And probably control him."
"Good idea."
Wink happily carried him back to Southern Hell, and through corridors to Rip Crossing. He was relieved to leave it all in the Army's hands. They could do whatever they wished with Marcus. He didn't want to speak of his encounter with the blonde woman. Finding the Gold Gang was their job, not his. They needed to catch the woman. He'd given them a good visual of her and her current Auchel Ibrah.
He needed to go home.
He stared at the big inn. All the crazy people who lived here. I fit in. It is home.
He slid off Wink as the doors flew open and Grace raced out.
"What happened! Everyone's gone! Max is horribly hurt, but Lady Gisele just tsks and says she'll fix him up, and Dobs . . . and . . . get in here." She was crying.
Falco wrapped her up in a hug. "I have to take care of Wink. And . . . "
"And we'll do just that." One of the Farmer girls took the reins, and he didn't bother counting how many redheads were taking the horse away.
Inside, there was a lack of highly magical people.
"I reverse bubbled Marcus. The Army has him. The others . . . they didn't commit any crimes . . . except maybe against Val and Drei. And Paul. I don't know what to do about Paul . . . " By which time Grace had hauled him into the honeymoon suite.
Dobs leaped up from a chair and hugged him, but his appalled attention was all on Max. Well swathed in bandages, but his head turned toward them.
Falco swallowed. "Oh no. Don't tell me mummy wrappings are in style now!"
A faint snort from the mummy.
On the other side of the bed, a stern look from the little old crone was ruined by the amused twinkle in the Goddess's eyes.
Falco repeated his news. "I figure the Army can do with Marcus as they wish. The others . . . I figured they're the business of Archmage Ras. They repudiated Marcus, wouldn't stand with him. Even Paul."
Max managed a thumbs up for that.
Grace hugged him harder. "Everybody's out looking for Marcus. Umm . . . " She got a bit absentminded looking for a moment. "All right. I told Rustle, she'll find Ras. Now sit down, you look like you're about to fall over."
"Oh, yeah. I did a whole lot of hiding behind shields knowing I was about to die, when he walked right up to me . . . and there was a bubble, right there. So I reversed it and threw it over him. Give me a week to think it over, and I'll dress it up all heroic, with no mention of gibbering terror."
That got the finger from Max.
"Huh, you're pretty good at expressing yourself, for a guy who can't talk." Falco thumped down in the chair. "So . . . another few months before we can head out gold mining, eh?"
The old crone cackled. "Maybe a bit more. Not that I should discourage someone with so much faith in me. But eyes are complicated things to get right."
Rather like all our family relationships. But we'll get it, if not right, then at least as well as we can.
About the Author
I was born and raised in California, and have lived more than half my life, now, in Texas.
Wonderful place. I caught almost the first bachelor I met here, and we’re coming up on our thirty-sixth anniversary.
My degree is in Geology. After working for an oil company for almost ten years as a geophysicist, I “retired” to raise children. As they grew, I added oil painting, sculpting and throwing clay, breeding horses, volunteering in libraries and for the Boy Scouts, and treasurer for a friend’s political campaign. Sometime in those busy years, I turned a love of science fiction into a part time job reading slush, unsolicited manuscripts, for Baen Books (Mom? Someone is paying you to read??!!)
I've always written, published a few short stories. But now that the kids have flown the nest, I'm calling writing a full time job.
Email [email protected] to join the mailing list and receive notifications of new releases
Other Titles by the Author
The Wine of the Gods
An unusual science fiction and fantasy series by Pam Uphoff
It started with genetic engineering . . . and ended in magic.
Outcasts and Gods
Exiles and Gods (Three Novellas)
The Black Goats
Explorers
Spy Wars
Comet Fall
A Taste of Wine (Seven Tales)
Dark Lady
Growing Up Magic (Four Novellas)
Young Warriors
God of Assassins
Empire of the One
Warriors of the One
Dancer
Earth Gate
The Lawyers of Mars
Fancy Free
Writing as Zoey Ivers
YA Cyberpunk Adventures:
The Barton Street Gym
Chicago
Atlantis (2016)
Fantasy:
Demi God
Excerpt From an Upcoming Release
Sea Wolves
Pam Uphoff
Chapter One
Late Fall 1395
Andes Mountains, Organtes
Kara Kitha had stopped shivering. She vaguely knew this was bad, and her little horse was limping. They were closing in on her, and the record book she'd shoved down her bodice for lack of any other storage was going to be returned to the Sea Wolves.
She hadn't been ready, had assumed it would take months of patient work to find evidence that traitors in the Cove Islands' Navy were working with both the Sea Wolves and the Organtes government. Then the proof of it had fallen into her lap, almost literally, and she'd run with it. Not far enough, nor fast enough. She didn't even know if she was still on the road that climbed to the Alfashir Gap. She hadn't been ready for an unseasonally cold and brutal storm, either.
Pretty Feet slipped, stumbled, stopped on three legs. She must get off, must try . . . her brain wasn't working in the cold. Her feet felt warm though. She giggled. At least the Sea Wolves wouldn't get her. Pity about the book. "Umm God of Spies, sorry, sorry. Too cold. I'm usually better prepared . . ." Mom's silly stories and made up gods, there's no . . . She felt the shock of hitting the ground, or rather the snow. Blinked at the dark and snowy figure that loomed over her and smiled as she gave in and slept.
She was warm. All snuggled up in a blanket and sheepskin with the toasty embers of a low fire in front of her and a warm body spooned around . . . she stiffened in terror. The body that was wrapped around her stirred. A hand reached past her face to the fire and pulled a little pot closer.
"Drink this, I suspect you're pretty dehydrated." The warm deep voice reassured her. Then the perfect Cove Island cadence registered. One of the traitors.
She was awake enough to realize that she was still dressed except for shoes, and the male body was on the other side of the blanket she was wrapped in. The record book . . .
"It's right here." The hand released the pot and tapped something just above her head.
She sighed and drank the pot of hot water. The warmth soaked all the way to her toes. She curled back into the blanket, and nearly protested when the man eased over her and out from under the sheepskin, admitting too much cold air despite his care.
She forced herself to pay attention, to view her surroundings, make plans. Old Gods! With that accent he had to be one of the Sea Wolf officers. A traitor. Playing with her.
The man stepped into boots, pulled on a jacket of a black material that reflec
ted the colors around him, nearly fooling the eye into thinking there was nothing there but the floating head. He unlashed something, a frigid wind blew in, and he returned with the pot heaped with snow. It went into the embers, and a handful of twigs from a pile nearby were added. The light flared, showing the man's shaggy hair and dark eyes, slight arch to the nose, squarish jaw. He didn't look like an Islander. A clink pulled her head around to find a horse dozing, unfettered and rather close for comfort. A stallion. Definitely too close. Her little Pretty Feet was beyond him, tied and also dozing. The man plunked something in the pot. Returned a metal tin to a saddle bag. She spotted two saddles on the ground. The nearest was her own.
The man picked up the other one, and a black saddle blanket, and stepped to the big horse. The firelight gleamed red and gold off the stallion's fine chiseled head as he looked at the man, and then down at her. The man didn't even bother with a bridle.
"I've gotten you to the Gap. The rest is up to you. Don't let yourself be caught so unprepared again." He mounted keeping his head and shoulders down to avoid the roof, and both man and horse disappeared.
She sat up startled.
Gone.
If they'd ever been there. But she was still wrapped and warm in a blanket and sheep skin. The pot was still on the fire, smelling of soup, and the saddlebags were still on the ground by the record book.
She sipped the warm broth while she inventoried the man's saddle bags, and changed into his clothes. Both shirts, and the dark sweater. A pair of wool slacks over her riding jophers, belted to not fall off. A thick pair of socks before she unlaced her boots to pull them on. Gloves. She tucked the book into the saddlebags, and used a bit of the tough line to tie it to her cinch straps. I need a saddle that looks lady-like but has rings for a saddle bag. Another length of the line went across the blanket and sheepskin before she rolled them, tied the straps that kept them rolled, then tied the roll to her saddle on top of the saddle bags. She saddled and bridled Pretty Feet, stowed the now cool pot, and looked at the oil cloth across the shed's opening. It had a familiar looking line through grommets at each corner tying it to nails in the logs. Dark in color, on this side, the other side seemed to reflect the snow in the early dawn. If she wrapped it around herself , she could let it drape over the mare's hind quarters and keep both of them a bit warmer in this freezing windy dawn.
Pretty Feet would much rather have stayed in the nice warm shed, but duty called. She had the records of payments to Officers of the Board from the Organtes Government and the Sea Wolves. With this, the Sea King could purge his government of traitors, and ready the Islands for the coming war.
The rising sun showed her the road through the blown snow drifts and they headed down the mountain.