“My people have never sworn allegiance to any king, so the kings and their soldiers have never trusted us.” Illarion shrugged. “We follow our own ways. We’re traders, tinkers, peddlers, and entertainers.” His eyes flashed. “Regardless of what some say, we are not thieves.”
“You said that Zaryae’s dreams brought you to Riker’s Ferry,” Verran said. “How is it that her gift still functions when magic failed?”
“My gift is much less powerful than it once was,” Zaryae said quietly. “I received visions when I was awake, while now the power of the wild storms burns through me when I sleep. I have no magic that I can control, as I once did.” She sighed. “When I touch an object, I no longer see its past. Yet I’m attuned to the storms, and it’s as if I can see glimpses in the whirlwind.”
“Your people aren’t known for welcoming strangers,” Verran said. “Can we thank your dreams for that as well?”
“My dreams have been troubled for many weeks.” Zaryae’s voice was quiet. “Since the Great Fire, the images are disjointed, difficult to read. But when we found the disk, the dreams grew clearer.”
“What have your dreams told you?” Blaine asked.
Zaryae smiled, but the look in her dark eyes was distant. “Our paths wind together, for now.”
“We’ve got company!” Borya called down from where he sat atop one of the wagons on watch. “Eight riders, coming this way.”
Piran scrambled atop the other wagon so that he and Borya had an advantage as archers. Blaine, Desya, Kestel, and Illarion mounted their horses, while Zaryae and Kata went to secure the livestock. Verran gathered rocks and took shelter behind one of the wagons. When the riders drew closer, Blaine could see the armed men.
Blaine and the others rode out a bit from the camp to present themselves as a line to be crossed. Their weapons were drawn and ready.
The riders stopped a few paces in front of them. Their swords flashed, ready for action. Cloaks covered any uniforms that might have identified them. A broad-shouldered man with dark hair in a military cut gave a cold smile in greeting.
“We’re willing to make this easy,” the rider said. “Give us Blaine McFadden and we’ll leave you in peace.”
“Go to Raka,” Desya snapped.
“We’re not looking for a fight,” Blaine said. “But that’s what you’ll get if you don’t turn around right now.”
The dark-haired man chuckled. “You hire street rabble to fight for you? Be a man. Give yourself up and we won’t kill your friends.”
There was a silver flash, and one of the cloaked riders stiffened in his saddle with the pommel of one of Kestel’s throwing knives protruding from his chest. For a breath, he kept his seat and then he slowly toppled to the ground as his horse reared and fled. An instant later, the twang of bow strings sounded and arrows downed two more of the riders from their mounts.
With a howl of rage, the dark-haired man spurred his horse forward, sword raised, riding straight for Blaine. One of his companions rode for Kestel, making the mistake of thinking her an easy mark. Two of the others took on Illarion and Desya, while the fifth man teamed up with the first attacker against Blaine.
Piran cursed as one of his shots ripped through the shoulder of an attacker’s cloak without damaging more than fabric. Borya’s shot opened a slice along the temple of one of the other attackers but missed its mark. A well-aimed rock struck the nearest attacker’s mount on the flank, giving Illarion an instant’s advantage. Blaine caught just a glimpse of Verran as he dodged back between the wagons.
Two opponents left Blaine no time to worry about how his companions fared. He had both his blades in hand. Up close, he could see the bloodlust in his attackers’ eyes. Shouts and curses filled the air along with the sound of hoofbeats and the rough breathing of their mounts.
The two opponents circled and Blaine moved as well, doing his best to keep either from getting behind him. The attackers intended to work in tandem, and Blaine wondered how long he could keep both at bay. He scored a gash on the first attacker’s thigh, but the second man managed to nick Blaine’s forearm.
Another arrow sang through the air, and this time it caught one of Blaine’s opponents in the right bicep. Before the man could recover, Blaine thrust with his sword, driving it deep between the man’s ribs as the attacker slipped from his horse. Blood gushed from the wound, and the man fell to the ground as his mount bolted.
Blaine’s victory came at the cost of a deep cut to his own left shoulder as the second man seized the advantage of his momentary distraction. Blaine cursed under his breath as he turned to face his remaining attacker. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Kestel holding her own with her surprised opponent, while Illarion and his attacker seemed well matched enough to be at a stalemate. Desya was giving his foe more of a battle than the man seemed prepared to fight, driving him back with pounding blows. Verran lobbed rocks whenever the fight came within range of his hiding place, sparing neither horses nor riders.
Borya and Piran continued to fire at the attackers when they could get a clear shot, but the quick movements of the fighters made it difficult to shoot the enemy without endangering their own side. The man fighting Illarion yelped in pain and twisted in his saddle as an arrow sank deep into his thigh. Illarion seized the advantage, tossing his perfectly balanced sword into the air as if it were part of his juggling act but angling the blade to slash his opponent across the throat.
What Kestel lacked in power she made up for in speed and style. She had the sword-fighting skill of a trained duelist and the dirty tricks of an assassin. Blaine saw that she was gradually drawing her opponent to reach beyond his balance, and when the man realized his mistake, Kestel took the offensive, bringing her sword down hard enough on his wrist to nearly sever the hand. The fight had taken them into range of Verran’s rocks, and a rock the size of a man’s fist flew through the air, striking Kestel’s opponent squarely in the temple.
Blaine tried to maneuver his attacker closer to the archers, but the man would not be drawn into the trap. Illarion had gone to Borya’s aid, and out of the corner of Blaine’s eye he could see that together they were making short work of their opponent.
“You’re the last man left,” Blaine said, dodging a hard strike. Despite the odds, the man continued his single-minded assault. “Who sent you?”
“Do you have to ask?” the man replied through gritted teeth, swinging his sword in a two-handed grip. Blaine blocked the blow but had to brace himself to keep from being swept off his horse.
“Surrender and I’ll spare your life,” Blaine said, delivering a pounding blow of his own that the man nearly did not block. “I’ve got a message I’d like to send Lord Pollard.”
“I have my orders,” the soldier grated, readying for another swing. “Succeed or die.”
Blaine got under the man’s guard, twisting out of the way of his sword and driving his own point deep into the man’s belly just as his opponent gasped and stiffened with Kestel’s knife between his shoulder blades. His mouth worked soundlessly like a hooked fish, his eyes wide with pain, and then he fell sideways from his horse, leaving his mount covered with his blood. With their riders dead, the horses bolted. Borya and Desya rode after them, returning with four prime geldings.
“Good horses are hard to find,” Desya said with a grin.
Breathing hard, Blaine looked around. Illarion and Desya each bore several gashes, but they looked no worse than he imagined he appeared. Kestel was flushed with the fight and sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cold wind. While blood spattered her clothing, none of it was her own. Piran had jumped down from his perch and was walking among the downed enemy fighters, his crossbow cocked to dispatch them if they were not already dead. Borya remained atop the wagon, watching the horizon for threats.
They regrouped near the wagons. Zaryae was singing a song in praise of Esthrane for their deliverance, and Kestel joined in with quiet fervor. Kata looked confused and alarmed, but Zaryae patted her a
rm and murmured something the others could not hear. Kata brightened and went back to sit in the wagon, humming to herself.
“Do you think they were working with the assassin in Riker’s Ferry?” Kestel asked, dropping to a seat next to the fire.
“Probably,” Blaine replied. “Maybe they were the insurance in case the first attack failed. Pollard may just be casting his net wide and hoping he gets lucky.”
“He may know about the lyceum,” Kestel said quietly, “especially if he figured out why we were at Mirdalur.” She met Blaine’s gaze. “If he didn’t suspect before that you were trying to restore the magic, that must have tipped our hand.”
Before Blaine could reply, Zaryae took hold of him by his uninjured arm. “Sit down. I’ve put on hot water to make poultices. You’re hurt.” She leveled her gaze at Piran, Illarion, and Desya. “All of you. Sit.”
Kestel chuckled as the men did as Zaryae bid them. Zaryae’s mouth twitched a bit at the edges, satisfied. Then she turned to Kestel. “If you’re as undamaged as you appear, come help me.” She bustled back toward the fire. “Once we patch you up, I’ve got raisin cakes for breakfast. Figured you’d want to eat while we rode.”
To Blaine’s relief, none of the injuries were serious, and once their wounds were treated with Zaryae’s poultices and bound up, they broke camp quickly, eager to be on their way. Zaryae and Illarion drove one of the wagons; Kata and Desya drove the other. Borya took up a position in the back of one of the wagons where he could keep an eye out behind them. Blaine and his group rode their horses alongside the wagons. Kata was singing one of the songs from the performance, and her clear, pleasant voice carried back to where they rode.
Kestel brought her horse up to ride next to Blaine’s, while Piran and Verran took their turn as the rear guard. “Did you expect them to travel with us to the lyceum?”
Blaine shook his head. “Then again, I didn’t expect them to come to our rescue.”
“Do you believe Zaryae? That her dreams foretold our coming?”
Blaine shrugged. “You’re talking to someone who sailed from the edge of the world to try to bring back magic. Apparently, I’ll believe anything.”
Kestel grinned. “You’re no one’s fool, Mick.”
Blaine sighed. “I felt a little more certain of that before Mirdalur. Now…” His voice drifted off.
“We still don’t have any word from Penhallow,” Kestel replied.
“I wish we had Connor’s map,” Blaine replied. “The tracing you did is some help, but now that we’ve gotten another disk, I’d like to see if we could make anything more from the markings on the map – or from that book Grimur gave you. I have the awful feeling that we’re running out of time.”
“What do you expect to find at the lyceum?” Kestel asked.
Blaine shook his head. “I don’t know. A book, a map, maybe another disk. Maybe someone who could translate the marks on the map, or on the disks. I believe Quintrel is out there. I think he’s left clues for the right people to find him. We just have to put the pieces together.”
After a few candlemarks’ ride, the bridge over the Pelaran River was visible in the distance. Blaine let his gaze stray past it into the foothills, where the old map indicated there was a spot where magic once was exceptionally strong. Ancient mages believed that invisible lines, meridians, were where the wild visithara magic was naturally strongest and built their important buildings along those lines to tap into that power.
“Look there!” Piran pointed to the sky. In the distance, off to the right of the Pelaran bridge, Blaine could see dark shapes circling.
“Vultures,” Blaine guessed. “So?”
Piran shook his head. “Too far away. Vultures wouldn’t look so big from this distance. Problem is, I can’t think of anything that could be so big and that far away.”
“They’re gryps,” Borya said, and Blaine could hear an undercurrent of worry in the acrobat’s voice. Borya stood and turned toward the front of the wagon. “Gryps!” he shouted.
Abruptly the two wagons halted. Desya leaped down from his perch, and Borya opened one of the wagons. From it they withdrew two crossbows, two large quivers of quarrels tipped with razor-sharp blades and wrapped, just above the tips, with blackened rags. Verran hesitated for a moment, then jumped down from his horse and began collecting an arsenal of rocks for throwing and slipping them into a bag. Blaine caught a strong whiff of what smelled like pitch.
“What in Raka is going on?” Piran demanded. “What are gryps?”
“Bad news,” Borya answered, keeping his eye on the circling forms. “We think they came out of the magic storms. From where, I don’t know. They’ve got bodies the size of a man, with leathery wings that stretch, tip to tip, a good eight feet, and very sharp teeth. They’re fast, and they hunt in packs.”
Piran let out a particularly potent string of curses. “Oh, that’s just great. And let me guess: They eat people.”
Borya shrugged. “They eat anything that moves, and some things that don’t.”
“How do we keep them at bay?” Kestel asked.
Desya held up his crossbow and bucket. “Fire. Flaming arrows.” He angled his head toward the tree line on the opposite side of the river. “If we can get to cover, we may be safe. They only hunt in the open, and only during the day.”
“Give me some of your arrows.” Piran had dismounted and walked over to where the brothers stood. He cradled the modified crossbow Dawe had made for him. “I can ride and shoot.”
Desya dug in the wagon for more arrows. He also brought a lit oil lantern, so that Piran could set the pitch-soaked tips ablaze. “Borya and I can shoot from atop the wagons. We might get lucky, and the gryps will be busy with whatever they’re circling. But if they notice us, we can only hold them off so long. We’ve got to make it to the forest.”
Blaine nodded. “Understood.”
Borya eyed the horses Blaine and his friends rode. “Put your group between our wagons. You’ll be safest that way.” Once more, he cast a wary glance toward the circling gryps. “Let’s get moving.”
They rearranged their riding order and set off at a brisk pace. Borya and Desya had fastened themselves to the tops of the wagons. They strapped themselves so that they lay flat on their backs in harnesses, with their oil lanterns clipped firmly beside them. With hats drawn low to shield against the sun, they were in position to ward off an aerial attack. Piran had lashed his lantern to the pommel of his saddle with a few straps of leather. He rode with his crossbow cocked and ready, the horse’s reins clenched between his teeth. They set off at a gallop, desperate to cross the bridge before the gryps noticed them.
Within a few minutes, they were close enough to the bridge to see that it was an old, arched span made with massive stones. Beneath it, the Pelaran River flowed, deep, swift, and dangerous. Beyond the bridge, the forest nearly came down to the shoreline, and Blaine could just make out a road that might take them farther up the mountains to the lyceum in Durantha.
A shriek like the sound of steel on stone split the air.
“Here they come!” Borya shouted.
Blaine chanced a look toward the sky. The dark shapes had left off circling and were heading toward them like a jagged black line against the gray winter sky. Another shriek, closer now, spooked the horses so that they were running, wild-eyed.
They were nearly to the Pelaran Bridge. Its stone sides came as high as the horses’ haunches and were blackened with age. Beneath it, the waters of the Pelaran rumbled by, gray and cold, with white hunks of ice swept along by its current.
One of the creatures was nearly upon them. It gave an earsplitting screech and dove for the horses. Desya launched an arrow. The flaming quarrel blazed through the air, tearing through the gryp’s right wing. The gryp screamed in pain and frustration, its wing dripping a dark ichor.
Piran sent another burning quarrel into the air, and this one took the gryp at the base of its throat. The flying predator was close enough that Blaine c
ould see the gryp’s long, bony neck and narrow, scaled head. As it shrieked, he could see the rows of needle-sharp teeth and its black, cold eyes.
Twisting and writhing to free itself of the quarrels, the first gryp gyred off to the side and landed, bleeding, on the ground. Three of its companions, smelling blood, veered to attack. Four more gryps followed the humans, easily keeping pace even with the horses running at full gallop.
The first wagon clattered onto the bridge’s stone bed, and the horses’ hooves quickly pounded behind it. Yet now, on the bridge’s length, Blaine and the others were exposed to the gryps, and the huge beasts circled over the river, diving and weaving above and under the bridge, their wings barely skimming the roiling waves below, then propelling them high into the sky so they could dive once more.
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